𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

12 | Rumours

CHAPTER TWELVE
R U M O U R S

-

It has been four days.

Viserra stares into the dark abyss.

She hasn't lit any candles. She hasn't opened the drapes.

She enjoys the absence of light. The absence of everything.

It is quiet. There is only her and her aching bereavement.

The world around her is written in scorn and pain, but she is still. Her time of feeling is past, and she has not shed a tear since news arrived that the one-eyed prince had taken her brother's life.

There is nothing more to mourn, now that her worst fears have surfaced into the light.

Karnax has gone somewhere. Unnerved and frightful as he is.

A steward supposedly saw him crossing the sky above Winterfell some days ago, and no one has seen him since.

Viserra has not sought after him.

He has not sought after her.

Who does he mourn for?

The wind outside her window echoes a mournful hymn, whipping the snow into swirling gusts. It pierces the stillness of her room, each gust a reminder of the world beyond her sombre confines.

She remains motionless, her gaze fixed on the swirling tempest outside. Her fingers curl together into fists, pressing into her skin, creating moon-like crevices in her palms.

Marra had put bandages around her hands when she and Cregan arrived back a few days ago, but Viserra eventually discarded them after some time. She did not enjoy the sensation. It had felt sensitive and ticklish against her raw skin.

No other maids have arrived at her door after that. Rather she has been left to dwell alone.

Part of her wonders if it is wariness which has caused their aversion.

The evening light wanes, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Viserra's chamber is a desolate sanctuary, untouched by the warmth of the hearth.

She rises from her seat, the cold floor biting at her bare feet as she crosses the room. The darkness seems to close in around her, but she does not mind. She does not want to see. She does not want to be seen.

She reaches the window, pulling away the drapes and settling her hand against the cool stone. The chill seeps into her skin, and outside, the snow swirls wildly. For a moment, she imagines herself out there, lost in the storm, carried away by the wind until there is nothing left of her.

She does not move. She does not think herself capable. The cold beneath her fingertips is grounding, a tether to the surroundings she feels slipping away from her grasp.

-

When she was little, Viserra would join the festivities hosted by her grandsire.

Viserys liked hunts. He liked tourneys.

The men of the realm would arrive in King's Landing with their kin and kith, and gladly offer their servitude to the crown. High lords and fearsome knights crowded the halls of the Keep, displaying rich banners and colourful drapes, the sound of their barking laughter a constant echo.

Viserra, still young and brisk and adamant with intent, enjoyed the gleeful chaos. She tugged on her brothers and leaned her small body against the wooden railings of the busy tourney-stands. She would peek through the wooden fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ongoing spectacle, her deep brown eyes filled with fierce curiosity.