𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

03 | A Winter Council

CHAPTER THREE
A W I N T E R C O U N C I L

-

She rests her face in her palms, exhaling heavily.

The days should be tranquil now that she's arrived in Winterfell, and yet, something feels unfinished.

There is an impatience in her now– a restless sense of intrigue. The tides of war creep further along the crevices of her mind, an uncanny reminder, refusing to surrender.

Her fears have resurfaced, and she now understands the finality of her situation.

The Greens will rise, and with them, the realm will be reduced to an endless abyss of bloodshed.

Viserra's mother must exceed her grief. Must exceed her reminiscence.

There is only one way to win a war, after all.

The Targaryens ought to understand that better than most.

She huddles in her small clothes– a plain, white linen hanging loosely atop her limbs. Her hair is loose. A child of storm, made of dark, wavy hair and brown eyes.

She was offered a room inside the Great Keep of the castle, where servants lit the fireplace and laid out heavy rugs for her. The warmth of the bedchamber was a welcomed reprieve; an undisturbed oasis, where she's allowed a moment of rest.

Still, Viserra is unable to sleep. She clutches the thick furs between her fingers and listens quietly to the distant wind, whistling outside her window.

Perhaps she'll learn to find the beauty in these estranged lands.

Perhaps she has no choice but to.

Though the northerners are far from crass or ill-mannered, they are heedful of foreigners. They take pride in their endurance, and care little for those unable to obtain it.

She had sensed their scrutiny from the moment she crossed the threshold of the castle gates. Whispers followed her steps, murmurs of Targaryens and their ceaseless ways. She is a living emblem of the strife that once threatened to consume them all.

Yet, Viserra knows better than to let it unsettle her.

She has been bred for diplomacy, in her own way.

Now, she needs only to show House Stark the true meaning of loyalty.

-

It is eerily quiet inside the Great Hall.

Compared to White Harbor, few of the Stark men are eager to voice their concerns. Instead, they remain mute, watching only her. Their heavy, burdened gazes bore holes in her shallow frame.

Viserra feels bare-eyed and open before them. Like a deer, dissected by wary huntsmen.

Before her, across the long, hard-wood table, sits the Lord of Winterfell himself. His gaze is no less bothersome.

Cregan leans back in his chair, resting his hands before him. The great hearth behind him roars with fire, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Still, the fiery warmth does not seem to reach him.

"What is your Mother's standing?"

His question seems neither heartened nor dismissive. A measured tranquillity.

Viserra stares at him, taken aback somewhat. Her lips part

"Her standing?" she asks, feebly.

"What houses have pledged their loyalty?" he clarifies.