𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

38 | The Oak and the Ember

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
T H E  O A K  A N D  T H E  E M B E R

-

"On our honour as rivermen, on our honour as Freys, our word is bound."

Lord Frey's voice runs clear, contrasting against the cool stone of the Crossing. The air is sodden, heavy with the scent of wet stone and muddied earth. Cloaks flutter damply behind noble shoulders— the river beyond churns on, indifferent.

The older man nudges his head forward, his knees only half-bent. Behind him, his men stand in stiff, uneasy rows— their brooding gazes taking her in.

Viserra stands before them, cloaked in pale grey, the silver clasp at her throat glinting faintly in the morning light. Her eyes are steady, unreadable, though the tightness of her posture betrays the fatigue worn into her bones. Her gaze sweeps over the sons of Frey—some lean and sharp-faced, others wide and jowled, all bearing that same pinched look of uncertainty beneath their cloaks. They seem no more eager than their father.

"Sworn and sealed. Let it be witnessed."

The words, clean and timeworn, enter her like a hollow sentence. Viserra stands unmoved.

"It has," she replies, tone clipped. "Let it be remembered, too."

Only the shuddering rush of the river seems to find her, the rustling of damp flags, and the caw of a lone raven circling above the towers of the Twins. Lord Frey straightens with a visible rigidity, the age in his bones no longer masked by posture or pride. His eyes flick to hers once more, small and pale beneath sagging lids, searching for something.

Viserra glances over her shoulder, her eyes landing on Lord Karstark.

"See to the men," she murmurs.

He offers a stiff nod, muttering a quiet 'm'lady' beneath his hoarse breath. Behind him, banners stir as the northern bannermen begin to bark orders, their voices cutting against the grey mist. Riders are mounted. Lines are re-formed. The army begins to move.

She remains unstirred, though her focus returns forward. With it, Lord Frey takes a step forward, a stiff courteousness gracing his features.

"You'll see to your promise, Princess?" he says, his hands folding over his stomach.

Viserra hums. "So long as you do yours, my Lord."

"We have sent word to our vassals," he mutters, "and raised the arms we hold ourselves. Within a few days, they will be ready to march."

She inclines her head just slightly, the cold morning air catching in the folds of her cloak. "A noble premise," she murmurs. "One I trust in tasking you."

"As is your right."

The words hang between them, heavy and unyielding. Viserra allows herself a brief glance downward, then steels her expression, lifting her eyes again to meet his. "Then may this crossing be the beginning of something more than just promises and cautious bargains."

Lord Frey's gaze lowers. "And may the gods grant us strength for what is to come."

She does not answer. Instead, her gaze drifts toward the horizon— toward the rising storm clouds that seem to echo the turmoil of the realm itself. In this moment, the fragile peace held at the Crossing feels less like an end and more like the eye of a gathering tempest.

-

The parchment feels coarse between her fingers. Viserra's eyes trace the carefully inked letters once again, as though searching for some hidden response, within the message as well as in herself.