𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

18 | Testament

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
T E S T A M E N T

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In the shadows of her room, she waits, her bare knees digging into the cold ground beneath her.

By the time the fireplace had been alighted in her room, dusk had already settled on Dragonstone. Not far away, a window stands open, but it does not provide much other than the occasional wind entering. From this window, one might see a glimpse of the sky, which is no longer so clear, but instead, exists within that strange moment before dusk when the world is bleached of all its colours.

The castle seems devoid of life.

Her mother grieves silently in her room whilst the men of her small council peril for influence— stewards and knights and leal lords alike, all eager to utter their wants.

They have not yet realised the severity of the situation. Have not yet realised what it means to rule. Their loud voices echo in the far distance, almost chant-like, without means to an end.

Viserra has not found it within herself to attend such meetings, even though she probably should.

She does not desire to sully herself further with the grievances of men who yearn only for more blood. She must wait first. She must bide her time. Soon, a time will come for her to act. But not yet.

Cregan asked her to wait, and had promised her much and more for it.

She had not listened at first, but part of her thinks she must listen now.

This war is not hers. It is a thing far more colossal and abominable than any of them. To act on her own accord would be near sinful, no matter its significance.

Her time will come. Soon.

Soon.

Daemon left court earlier that day, but no one knows where.

'He is only vexed. Caraxes will hopefully mend the worst of him,' Jace told her when she asked about it, though his tone lacked the assurance needed. 'He'll be back before dawn.'

Now, Viserra sits with her face towards the fireside, her hair falling into braids down her back.

Daemon has not yet returned. Though it uneases her, she attempts to ignore the thoughts of suspicion plaguing her mind.

She stays close to what's before her, and yet, the lion warmth still doesn't seem to reach her.

Not even when she leans forward— carefully dipping her fingertips into the flames.

It is a game she sometimes played alone as a child; testing to see how long she could last with her hand in the heat. How long she could remain until eventually gave in.

Her fingers twist and turn slowly, but she has yet to find the point of breakage across her skin. She fondles the flames between her fingers. It feels so very real— like caressing a dragon's warm stomach.

She stares into the deep red, patiently, for many minutes, smiling gently against the purifying warmth. Turning her palm, she observes her fingers gently stretch outwards. There is a slight redness there, but it does not hurt. It is only warm.

Her eyes deepen with precision. Even after many years, it still doesn't make any sense to her. It should not occur. It should be a natural thing.

Still, part of it delights her, like some forbidden desire. Because despite her wayward appearance and deep dark eyes– this act proves something. If not to anyone else, then at least to herself.