𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

04 | The Black Dread

CHAPTER FOUR
T H E B L A C K D R E A D

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When Viserra was younger, her father would take her sailing along the coast of Blackwater Bay.

With the ends of her skirts spoiled by mud and wind, and her hair dampened by the humid breeze— she would lean away from the railing of the boat, and allow her slight fingers to drift atop of the surfacing waves. She delighted in the stingy sensation, biting into her skin, and laughed as Ser Laenor lifted her into the air.

Little fish, he would call her, in both taunt and tribute.

Viserra did not mind his jests. Perhaps she even felt drawn to his endless wit and unruly ways. He was a sense of neutrality. Something safe. Something warm.

Despite the rumours and insinuations floating around court, their bond remained kindly. A familiarity that went beyond blood.

She was his daughter— despite what she was to the world.

Viserra's brothers did not adhere well to the sea, despite their father and grandsire's efforts. They much preferred the dry land and the security it brought with it. Compared to Viserra, they had their hatchlings there; small, veiny creatures that clung to their legs and spouted small flickers of flame through their noses. That was their security, she supposes.

Mother preferred the Keep as well, despite the gossip and disagreement which plagued its halls and nipped at her heels. She grew up there, after all. The Red Keep was her home, long before the schemings of House Hightower ever took root in its walls.

It has been many years now since Viserra neared the sea.

Perhaps the death of Ser Laenor created a distaste for it. Some new sense of aversion within her that she refuses to surpass. The taste of salty winds becomes bitter on her tongue, and the cool wind only succeeds at raising the hairs on her skin.

Its presence in her life has become barren. A meaningless endeavour.

Her familiarity with the name Velaryon— if it ever mounted any true legitimacy at all— died with her father, and she feels little loyalty to it anymore.

Sometimes, she wonders if she could even recall what he looked like.

In her mind, all his features seem to turn obscure and wary– blurred and removed. As though he never existed in the first place.

Only his voice seems to remain adamant in her memories; a melodic cadence, filled with laughter and mirth.

Little fish, his words would ring in her mind. A tormenting echo.

Perhaps it is only the ways of life. Perhaps it is what the gods intended. Nevertheless, the sense of loss chants in her chest, once in a while; a gaping wound, refusing to scar over.

'Crows feast upon lords and beggars alike,' someone once told her and perhaps it was true.

Perhaps she must continue. Perhaps she must endure.

She will have to remember Ser Laenor for longer than she ever knew him.

However long she yet might live

-

Despite the warmth exceeding from the hearth inside her room, the cold roams near. There is a stiffness in her limbs. An unfamiliar sensation creeping past her bones.