𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

40 | Seagarden

CHAPTER FORTY
S E A G A R D E N

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Jorah Mallister is a stern-featured lord, who sits on his wooden chair, head tilt, and speaks with the surety of a man who has weathered more than one storm.

He is fairly young, Viserra thinks to herself, though perhaps the weight of duty has aged him. Faint creases have formed between his brows and small ashen streaks line his mousy hair. Yet despite the quiet erosion of time on his face, there is a sharpness to him—a clarity in the eyes that settles her somewhat. The years have not touched his pride.

"I trust the march was not too harrowing."

Viserra eyes him curiously, her finger entangling behind her back.

It is Cregan who answers first, his tone even.

"The road is what it must be."

"They will not become easier, as you know," Lord Mallister comments. "Though our lands are gentle enough, you may find your welcome among the riverlords less so."

Cregan lifts his chin. "And what of your welcome, my lord?" he asks. "Does it differ from the message we received on the road?"

There is no edge to his voice, but the weight of his words is unmistakable.

Lord Mallister hums, the sound almost appreciative, whilst he leans back in his seat.

"Certainly not," he answers, his tone calm, assured. "I am a man of my word. I honour the requests of any righteous host, should it come under the banners of duty and justice." He lets the words drift, his gaze slipping between Cregan and Viserra, "But I am also lord of a port, seated at the threshold of tides both treacherous and true. I must be wary of storms—both of sea and of men."

"There is no need to be wary of us, my lord," Viserra speaks up at last, meeting his gaze. "We come as envoys."

"Envoys with an army of northmen in their yoke."

"An army that intends to face the Lannisters," Cregan interjects. "Of whom you hold no love for, I'm sure."

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Viserra stills, her eyes darting over to Cregan, almost warily.

But then, an amused glint lingers in Lord Mallister's eye, in knowing earnestness. Lord Mallister inclines his head slightly, the faintest trace of a smile brushing the corners of his mouth.

She watches him rise from his chair, his movements slow and measured. He takes a step forward, still watching them both, his expression tinted with slight intrigue. There is something quite disarming in his inspections, she thinks, as his focus settles solely on her. There is nothing crude in his expression, nothing untoward. Something else looms there.

"I received word of your passing of the Twins," he begins. "They say Lord Frey agreed to your terms and bent the knee."

His words seem directed her way, a sudden sway in them that she struggles to identify.

"Lord Frey honoured his oath and pledged his men to the rightful ruler of the Realm," she tells him. "As is expected of any noble lord."

A sudden chuckle escapes him at her words, to both her surprise and dismay. The noise resounds within the hall, echoing against thick beams arching overhead, tapestries old and threadbare with salt-damp, yet still bearing the silver eagle proudly.

"Lord Frey would swear fealty to a wooden post if it promised richer spoils," he amends with a wry grin. "He bends for coin, not for kings or causes."

Viserra's lips part, but before she can answer, Cregan steps forward, placing a steady hand on the pommel of his sword. "House Frey's loyalty or avarice matters little here. We ride for the South and for the Crown. Our cause is just."