𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

05 | Old Gods and New

CHAPTER FIVE
O L D   G O D S   A N D   N E W

-

The trails within the Wolfswood are long and narrow. Ancient trees— thick and gnarled with age— loom overhead, their branches forming a natural canopy that filters the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor. The air is cool and filled with the earthy scent of moss and fallen leaves. Birds call out from hidden perches, their songs a constant background to the rustle of underbrush as small animals dart away from the approaching hunters.

Viserra guides her horse carefully along the winding path, the mare's hooves making soft thuds on the packed earth.

Before her, clusters of men ride ahead, their dark cloaks donned with longswords and heavy pelts. She observes the movement of their herd and their advance through the forest. It runs smoothly. Almost rhythmically, as though they were part of the roaming earth themselves.

She has been mostly quiet during the early hours of the excursion, allowing herself to trace the path in watchful silence.

In truth, she is unfamiliar with outings such as these. There have been few events of similar grandiosity held during her years spent on Dragonstone. Perhaps such jaunts belong better in the capital; where flattery and precedence are still regarded with high esteem.

However, Viserra does not really think of the Northerners as similar to the courtiers of King's Landing.

At least she can find some solidarity in that.

Her eyes lift from the reins within her clutch and settle onto the Lord of Winterfell. Cregan is only a few metres in front of her, riding a horse of his own. His face is turned away from her, whilst he speaks with the man at his side– a somewhat older, burly man, clad in a matted cloak, embroidered with dark red heraldry.

Despite their continuous conversation– she gathers little from it, except for some words here and there. A meaningless venture.

And so, Viserra clicks her heel gently against her horse's side, urging it on. Soon, the rhythmic sound of hooves on the trail became a comforting backdrop, a steady cadence that contrasted with the whispers of the forest.

"Princess," a familiar voice greets her.

She turns her head towards Cregan and forces a courteous expression onto her face.

"My Lord."

He shifts, his dark gaze flickering towards the man at his side.

"Allow me to present the Castellan of Last Hearth, Lord Umber."

The older man lowers his head somewhat, an uneven smile forming on his face.

She sees him more clearly now, and he is both gaunt and narrow-faced, with a dark, thick beard and hair loose past his ears.

"Princess Viserra," he greets her. "You bring winter with you."

His eyes dart upwards, where sprinkles of light snow dwindle between the treetops.

"So it seems," she muses, the light from above reflecting in her eyes.

"A fitting welcome, I'd say," he says, almost delighted.

She observes his features, wondering if she'll find some hint of scorn there. His voice is gruff but not unkind, and he bears the same undaunted nuance she's noticed many Northerners are fond of.

She inclines her head slightly, acknowledging his words with a faint smile. "It appears the North has its own ways of making one feel at home."

Despite the unavoidable honeyed cadence of her words— it is not a false claim. At least she does not think it is.