𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

37 | Where Honour Bends

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
W H E R E   H O N O U R   B E N D S

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Viserra glances about the great hall.

Outside, the rain falls as heavily as before, but within the Twins the air is thick and tepid. A fire roars in the hearth and rows of torches burn smokily from iron sconces on the walls. Frey banners hang limp from the beams, and a long table is set with food and ale, accompanied by rows of men.

She sits at the high end of the table, a cup of harbour red clutched in her hand. Beside her is Lord and Lady Frey, their pale eyes trickling over to her, wary but calm.

There is something about this place which seems strangely discernible. Familiar, yet uncanny— not related to the surroundings themselves— but in her own attendance there. She feels perturbed and ill at ease, as though something is being revealed to her. As though something has been revealed to her.

She did not feel it before, not until she stepped inside.

Viserra sips from her cup and lowers it slowly, setting it down before her. Her hair is still wet from the journey here, though drawn away from her face and webbed into a plated braid. Still, small droplets trickle down her flushed skin, seething into the fabric of her wool dress. She brings up a hand and wipes her neck faintly, her eyes set, as though distracted by some hidden gesture.

At last, Lord Frey speaks, his voice laced with peevish courtesy.

"I trust you and your men find our hall a suitable refuge from the storm."

Viserra's fingers lower, opting instead to trace the rim of her cup absently— a slow, deliberate motion.

"Of course," she murmurs, meeting his gaze and forcing a certain benignity to settle over her features.

He smiles thinly, observing her closely, as though intrigued yet dubiously guarded. "You must forgive the shortcomings of my house," he tells her. "We are not so grand as Winterfell... nor King's Landing for that matter."

She hums, taking another small fill and looking out towards the hall.

"Nonetheless," Lord Frey continues, "hospitality is a sacred custom. Even in times such as these."

She inclines her head, the look in her eye straining somewhat. "Especially in times such as these."

"Certainly," Lady Frey injects, her tone terse despite the kindliness she wishes to portray. "And your presence here is a boon to our house. We are honoured."

Viserra does not return the smile, but nods slightly, her fingers now resting still on the base of her cup.

Lord Frey hums, placing his hands onto the table before him, and straightening in the chair. The fire pops sharply in the hearth behind them, and for a moment, the hall falls into a murmur of clinking plates and hushed voices.

She quietly observes the table further ahead, her eyes travelling over the men who accompanied her here. They seem undisturbed in their pursuits, speaking in low tones and pouring hefty cups of mead for themselves. Even Cregan seems settled, seated further down the hall alongside Lord Dustin and Lord Karstark. His hands clutch together into fists before him, yet his gaze remains unfocused, staring out into the open air. Indifferent once more.

Despite her best efforts, Viserra feels a looming uncertainty— doubt even— in her, gnawing at her senses. An unnerving sensation. Fleeting, yet tauntingly stagnant. Like a memory. Or a dream.