𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

39 | Kith and Kin

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
K I T H A N D K I N

-

It has been a week. Mayhaps more.

Viserra feels her legs aching stiffly from all this time spent on horseback, her eyes dazed and weary as they drape over the heavily forested lands surrounding them. The retinue moves slowly through muddied terrain, its wagons creaking under the strain of their provisions, and the soft thud of hooves muffled by sodden earth and leaf rot.

The Riverlands are wet with sorrow, steeped in it. A land that remembers every wrong done upon it, and whispers back with each gust of wind. Crows perch low in bare branches overhead, watching, waiting. The sky remains dim, the sun barely cutting through the shroud of grey that lingers above like breath on glass. Her fingers tighten faintly around the reins, the leather biting softly against her gloves.

She has trickled slightly behind, no longer keeping up with the steadfast pace of the frontier line made up of Cregan and his closest vassals. It is a fleeting comfort, in its own, estranged way. She enjoys not feeling the weight of his scrutinising gaze on her. The one he dawns upon her when he thinks she's not looking. She also enjoys the quiet, and being relieved from the constant plotting and coordinating which seems to plague the minds of the bannermen every second of the day.

Viserra tilts her up slightly, attempting to make out the length of the moving army in front of her, but struggling to grasp anything definite. The host of men and horses seems to go on forever.

She knows Karnax is out there somewhere, trailing their movements. Sometimes, she sees something akin to his silhouette looming in the far distance, cutting smoothly through the weighty air, casting only a brief shadow in his wake. He follows the garrison carefully, slowly, from a far distance, like a wild animal stalking its prey. Except there is no hidden terror or underlying threat in his quiet approach— only an eerie reminder of her true reason for being here.

Viserra's eyes flicker skyward, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of him again, but the mist hangs thick between the branches, casting everything in damp obscurity. There is no silhouette today. Only the knowledge that he is near.

She shifts in her saddle, feeling the ache in her lower back pulse dully with the movement. The grey cloak drawn over her shoulders clings damply to her arms. She draws it tighter, as if it might shield her from more than the wind.

"You'll fall behind, my lady."

Her attention strays away from the sky and onto a knight before her. The man, middle-aged and pale-eyed, has halted his horse slightly, slowing it down, so as to settle at her side.

Viserra eyes him curiously. She does not know who he is, only that he was one of many northern bannermen encircling the table during the council meetings. She recognises something in him, some hidden inclination in his features, but is unable to name it. The only concrete thing she is able to identify is the coat of arms gracing his forearm; a silver fist on scarlet. The sigil of House Glover.

She glances back forward, her tone soft as she speaks. "There are another five thousand northmen behind me, my Lord. I'm certain I won't get lost."

His smile is faint. "Perhaps Lord Stark will grow wary when he does not see you ride with the vanguard."

"I daresay Lord Stark is wary of many things," she says, somewhat amused. "He may add my placement in the column to the list."

She feels his gaze on her, still. An immersive, assessing thing.

"Then perhaps you do not mind if I ride with you for the time being?"

Viserra considers for a breath. The part of her that seeks solitude tenses, tired of formality and courteous exchanges. But another part—smaller, more frayed—relents. "I do not mind."