𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

41 | Weight of Vigilance

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
W E I G H T   O F   V I G I L A N C E

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She returns to the camp within an hour, her steps light as she graces through the makeshift lanes between tents.

By now, the sky has turned a reluctant grey, streaks of low clouds chasing each other eastward like wraiths. Around her, the sodden air thrums with low talk and fire smoke. The men, still busy with their tasks, trickle around her without paying her much mind— sharpening blades, unloading wagons and tending to their horses. It does not feel much different than from before.

She walks slowly, clutching her cloak tightly around herself. The wetness of her smallclothes has leaked through the other fabrics, dampening her other garments, causing the linen to stick to her limbs.

Her mind feels heavy with thought, the recounting of memories returning to her.

Perhaps she shouldn't have ventured so far away. But then again, what difference does such speculation make now?

She needed to get a taste of the town, needed to place herself in its midst, and watch what could only be seen by her own eyes. The water had felt so very sharp and cold against the trembling skin. So sharp and cold and freeing. It had awoken yet another sentiment in her, making her sly and willful in her measures.

She has learnt she must be more vigilant in her pursuits once in a while. She must allow the things before her to take their course, before acting herself. There is a part of the war that must be fought with blood and steel, but there is another part that must be handled differently. She had first seen it in Harrenhal— the subtle plotting and scheming of the court, brought forth only by word, and not by violence. Her stepfather had known it well, in his own way, though his own pursuits were stained by self-interest.

Perhaps this was different. Or perhaps it wasn't different at all.

Lord Mallister had said it himself; Seagard is thrumming with enemies, eager to undermine their cause, and such matters cannot be ignored.

But how might she face it– how might she proceed– if she can barely differentiate friend from foe?

"Princess."

The voice is soft but clear. She turns her head to find Cregan approaching, his cloak drawn close against the wind.

"You were gone longer than expected."

She watches him, his face half-hidden in the growing dark. His gruff voice bears the same rigidity it always manages to obtain. The same goes for the irresolute indifference in his eye, which she has learned to not pay much mind to.

"I needed some air," she tells him.

His eyes search hers briefly before flickering over her unusual disposition, taking in the sight of her wet hair and clothes, only slightly dried by the laden wind. There is nothing subtle in his inspection, but also nothing untoward.

A small crease forms between his brows.

"There's air here," he huffs.

She allows a faint, humourless smile, though she does not why she should feel the need to.

"Not the kind I needed."

He stares at her dully, taking a step forward. "You do have the tendency towards wandering off," he mutters, more so to himself.

Perhaps it is meant as a jest— or worse, mocking— but nothing in his expression reveals it truly.

She could, perhaps, defend herself. But what might she gain from denying it?