𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

01 | White Harbor

CHAPTER ONE
W H I T E   H A R B O R

-

"I suppose you want me to join them as well."

Daemon watches her through narrowed eyes. His expression does not falter. It is a look Viserra had seen countless times before. Though, one she can never quite decipher

He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture straightening. He is an imposing man, she cannot help but think. Coarse and assured. Admirable in his own, estranged way. She almost envies him.

"It is your duty," he tells her, his voice as unwavering as his gaze, though he allows his eyes to momentarily wander.

"And why the North?" she asks, her expression arching.

"You remember what Lord Bartimos said."

Viserra purses her lips. She does remember.

'There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath', the old man had ushered to those gathered around the painted table. 'And with House Stark— the North will follow.'

"And what of Karnax?" Her voice lightens, almost wistful. "The last time Targaryens flew North– their dragons refused."

"It will not be that far," he dismisses her quickly, his tone lacking the assurance needed. "You need only to pass by White Harbor, and then follow suit to Winterfell."

Viserra remains quiet, her lips pressed into a thin line. The prospect of becoming an envoy of war is a daunting one, a role she had never envisioned for herself, even when her brother had first proposed the idea to their mother.

'Send us', he had inclined, his voice ringing the same eager and serene cadence it always managed to obtain.

Viserra had observed him through watchful eyes, feeling neither stoic nor keen.

She accepted her duty, even when she did not have to.

"The North is a hard and unforgiving place," she says at last, her dark eyes settling onto her step-father once more.

Daemon takes a step closer. "Well, you'll fit right in then."

She knows to take his words for what they are; no more than a taunt. A senseless show of pride.

Her jaw tightens, a ripple of silent resolve passing through her.

And who did I get that from, I wonder? she feels tempted to ask.

But the words remain unspoken.

-

Karnax's dark scales move smoothly under her fingers. The sensation feels tender against her skin– warm and familiar.

The dragon coils against the hard stone, allowing its enlarged limbs to settle gently. She lets go of her faint grip and takes a step back, observing the dark giant as it hovers before her.

Its wings— broad and heavy— move like shadows on each side, creating a demeaning image. She does not feel fear, even whilst standing in front of it. The creature before her is strangely beautiful, she thinks.

Dragons will always be beautiful in their riders' eyes, someone once explained to her. Despite what they are to the world.

Karnax does not share the slightness and fragility of her brothers' dragons. Instead, he bears a hardened and majestic quality— something those hatched in the cradle often lack. With deep emerald eyes and dark scales, black as the night sky, he looks like Old Valyria born again.