𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

46 | Leverage and Loyalty

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
L E V E R A G E A N D L O Y A L T Y

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For the first time in a long while, Viserra felt a ruse of incentive rushing through her.

The realisation of her situation— of what it meant and foretold— felt like a sudden relief from whatever solemnity had tethered her thus far.

A plan. A purpose.

She walks through the crowded encampment. Far above the sun rises high, casting a golden-grey hue over the stamped ground. The camp is alive with clamour once more—sparring steel, men laughing, horses restless in their pens. The scent of charred meat mingles with the damp air, twisting into something both hearty and foul.

Viserra glides through it all, and for once, her steps have direction.

In her mind, Veron's words ring like the bells of a Sept. Like iron striking stone.

Dalton holds no love for dragons and their kin.

He would rather see the realm put to the torch than become someone's dog to heed.

She knows now the war is larger than what the northmen think. Larger even than Cregan's measured justice, or the grudges sewn by lords long dead. Alliances shift like sand. If the Greyjoys have spurned the green, then the war is still unbalanced, still winnable. If the Lannisters dare bleed their coffers, then the realm itself grows brittle, vulnerable to fracture.

Enough gold will make for the strangers of bedfellows.

Viserra quickens her step, the mud cracking faintly underfoot as she nears the command tent.

She has tired of indifference. Has tired of solemnity. Her days spent here have meant little and less to whatever purpose she had hoped to fulfill when she came north. She pondered and lingered and kept her words carefully to herself— hoping yet she might find some hidden solution to her surly impatience.

Before, whenever she found some inkling, some thread to hold onto, an aid to her cause— it was lost on her, swept away, stolen. It meant nothing if she could not claim it as her own.

But Viserra will not allow this truth, this succour, to be taken from her. This time her intention will follow through. This time she will not be forfeited.

Dalton Greyjoy is a man who chooses his wars like storms upon the sea, sailing where the winds were fiercest, never tethered to another's mast. That was his strength, and his curse.

If the usurpers sought to entice him, it meant desperation had already begun to creep into their gold-lined halls. Their coffers were vast, but not infinite. If the kraken could be lured with talk of allyship, then perhaps he could be lured by something else.

Viserra has no gold to give him.

But she has a brother.

She stops before the large tent, the wolf-banner of the North flapping in the steady wind. A young soldier lingers nearby, sharpening a dirk against a whetstone, but he lowers his gaze at once when she passes. She pulls the flap open without pause.

Inside, Cregan sits upon a low stool. He is slightly bent forward, his greatsword laid across his knees whilst he cleans it with steady strokes. His head lifts when she enters.

"You rise early," he observes. His tone is plain, yet there's a flicker in his eyes that speaks of curiosity.

"I spoke to one of the prisoners last night," she says without preamble.