𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

07 | The Price

CHAPTER SEVEN
T H E P R I C E

-

"I heard there will be a feast," Viserra's voice ushers in the wind.

Cregan, riding beside her, nods slightly, his eyes scanning the trees around them.

"It is customary. To celebrate the event," he begins. "To celebrate you."

She turns towards him, tempted to say something, but remains quiet.

And he, wary of her disposition, settles his gaze onto her once more.

"But only if you wish it," he tells her, causing her to chuckle.

"I don't mind," she assures him. 

Cregan nods once more, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before returning to the path ahead.

They ride in silence, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the forest floor and the distant baying of hounds the only sounds filling the morning air. The northern woods, ancient and sprawling, cradle the riders within their shadowy embrace. Viserra's mind wanders, thoughts intertwining with the rhythm of every step.

The North is the largest out of the seven kingdoms. Still, the magnitude of these lands always seems to astound her. There will be no end to it, it seems. Even with a dragon within her yoke.

"Who will come?" she asks then.

Cregan glances at her, as if to gauge the reason behind her question.

"Those of importance," he tells her. "My vassal lords, my bannermen."

"A lengthy ride for many of them," she murmurs, imagining the many days of travel.

"Well, most men need little reason to drink."

She laughs at his words, and the merry sound drifts through the trees, mingling with the rustling leaves and distant calls of birds.

"They will come," he continues, a kindly expression befalling his features. "If only to see the Princess of Dragonstone herself."

"Don't say that."

"Well, you are a curiosity to them."

She feels tempted to laugh once more. The excessiveness of his words is a brazen suggestion, almost mocking.

Were it true, those men must surely grow disappointed at the sight of her; a plain-featured girl— dark-eyed and unadorned— with limited eminence to her ways.

She has little and less to her. Only her name.

Though perhaps not even that.

"A curiosity?" she repeats, tilting her head with a bemused expression. "And here I thought I was a guest."

"Both mayhaps," Cregan concedes.

Viserra considers his words, her gaze shifting to the forest around them, where sunlight filters through the dense canopy, creating patches of golden warmth on the cool ground. The forest is serene, yet the path ahead feels laden with anticipation.

"I suppose it matters little what I am," she says then.

"I think it matters a great deal."

Her eyebrows furrow— a look of uncertainty displayed across her features.

"I am only a messenger," she says, candidly.

Her words seem to amuse him.

"Were that true, then you might as well have sent a raven in your stead," he tells her, and there's almost something disarming about his conviction.