𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

17 | Promise

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
P R O M I S E

-

Viserra sits very still. The feast unfolds before her with uncaring grace, but she is stone.

Her fingers linger in her lap, pulling nervously. The skin there is warm to the touch.

The shadow of another, she thinks, almost shamefully, almost longingly.

Loud voices echo in her ears, chanting and humming and laughing.

A large assembly has gathered within the Great Hall of Winterfell this supper— all wishing to catch sight of the young princess before her departure from the North. Their eyes follow her figure curiously, wary of her quiet disposition. Perhaps recollecting. Perhaps awaiting.

Despite having been in this position countless times before, Viserra still feels wary. There must be something in this that reminds her of her own solitude. The solitude of a young girl in front of a large court.

Cregan had convinced her to allow for a feast before her leave.

'If only to preserve some sense of normality', he had said, earning a faint smile from her.

The young Lord now sits next to her, equally silent.

He hears his finger tapping against the edge of the table, plagued by some unnamed burden whilst he stares out into the busy hall.

Viserra leans forward and brings a goblet to her lips. The taste of wine lingers on her tongue. Strong and bitter and dry. Her jaw tightens.

She wishes she were drunk. If only to be done with this farce.

Still, she cannot help but revel in this newly-found sensation in her chest. So sweet it aches. An everlasting, ancient want to remain in this storm of thought forever.

The skin on her neck is warm, where his hand had been moments before. She lifts a finger, almost mindlessly, and faintly draws it against her jaw, imagining girlish follies that cannot be made real.

It is horrible, feverish excitement. The excitement of violation. A strange understanding that comes when your body is not your own anymore. Familiar, and yet, also entirely different from anything she has ever known before.

She doesn't mind it. She doesn't mind anything.

She ought to feel ashamed, she thinks. If only to display some meagre inclination of virtue, as befits her station.

Instead, Viserra feels a tremendous love of nothingness.

And perhaps the nothingness loves her back.

She senses the presence beside her growing nearer, smelling of shame and ardour.

"They might ask you to speak," his warm voice erupts her reverie.

If she had expected words from him, it surely wouldn't be those.

She feels tempted to look at him, but cannot find it within herself to try.

"I've done enough speeches," she says instead, her voice a low murmur.

"It wouldn't be a speech."

Viserra retrieves her hand from the cup, allowing it to sit neatly before her. Her finger entangle in her lap once more. Her gaze broadens, staring out into the crowded mass. Table after table. Man after man.

Her hand twitches in her lap, the remnants of a tremor she does not wish to acknowledge. She can feel Cregan beside her. He looms large even when seated, his presence a dark, steady shadow she's grown used to