𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

08 | A Northern Feast

CHAPTER EIGHT
A N O R T H E R N F E A S T

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"The young princess has taken to our lands and ways, hasn't she?"

Cregan turns his head towards the voice and trains his eyes on the young man standing there.

Ser Medrick stands tall and restless. The turquoise mantle donning his shoulders brushes neatly against the ceramic floor, whilst he crosses his arms over his chest.

Standing before the high table, next to Cregan, he shifts impatiently, his wandering gaze searching through the room.

A northerner, dark-haired and long-faced, though made more of sea than snow.

Before them, the great hall has come alive. Cregan turns his watchful gaze forward, to the middle of the crowded room, where colourfully draped bodies bathe in the candlelight— twisting and writhing into a contorted combination of flesh.

Music plays, loud and clear, echoing atop their heads with thrumming intent.

He shifts his jaw.

"She is a diplomat," he says at last. "It is her duty."

"Though no easy defeat," Ser Medrick chuckles, turning his body towards the young lord further. He leans back slightly, a contented look befalling his rakish features. "Have you spoken much to her?"

Cregan's eyes follow the constant movement of the folkmass— where people sing and dance and drink— intently searching for a singular face amongst the chaos.

"Some," he replies, his voice laced with disinterest, and little attempt to hide it.

The young knight at his side eyes him curiously.

"She's a reserved thing, isn't she?" he says. "Even after a few days spent in White Harbor, I never got around to knowing what she was thinking."

"Perhaps that was her intent."

This causes Medrick to chuckle once more, taking a step closer, and leaning towards Cregan slightly.

"It would not surprise me."

Before them, the scene unravels furthermore. Men and women engage in lively dances— their laughter echoing brazenly along the ceiling. The absence of serenity bears a beauty to it. A neutrality that so scarcely comes forth.

The music swells, filling the room with an almost intoxicating energy. Cregan's eyes finally catch sight of Viserra, walking along the outer edges of the hall. With her, she draws eager eyes and thoughtful observants— all taking her in.

"The jewel of Dragonstone, they call her," Medrick says then, smirking as he brings his cup to his lips. "Did you know that?"

Perhaps he sees her as well.

Surely he must.

Cregan only tilts his head slightly, his eyes following the young Princess without much discretion.

A jewel, the words seem to repeat in his mind, awfully soft. A jewel.

Viserra arrives quickly at the high table of the hall, meeting both of their eyes in quiet resolve. She wears a dark blue dress, lined with fur and embroidery.

One of his sister's, surely— though still startlingly fair. 

"And there she is," Ser Medrick's voice ushers, drawing her eyes onto him with his words. "Princess."