𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

43 | Cobblestones

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
C O B B L E S T O N E S

-

At first, she thought nothing would come of it.

The night seemed to succumb to a startling serenity, where she stood, shrouded by the eerie dark. It had been quiet, so very quiet, that she had thought perhaps the excursion had been in vain. Resting against the rugged wooden post, her body had felt heavy, limp, reduced to stillness. At her side was Cregan, still, his figure quiet and unmoving, like a monument carved from stone.

But then it came, like a hymn in the night; festering voices, creeping in on them from the far distance.

Cregan says nothing, his demeanour as still as before, making her wonder that perhaps it is only in her mind. But then it came closer, like a running tide—and this time, she sees the shift in him, too. His head tilted just slightly, catching the same murmur on the wind. Voices. Men's voices, clipped and low, laden with the kind of laughter that strained to be quiet. Too purposeful to be drunken.

It is two men, she sees as last, clad in cloaks and crimson-coloured tunics. They linger by the door of the tavern, a few paces away, their eyes shrouded and leery yet their voices calm.

She finds herself glancing away once more, not taking much more notice of them. She exhales with a sigh, her shoulders slumping further against the wooden post.

"Any spare coin?"

It is yet another voice, though younger and more tempered. It is not directed towards her, but rather spoken in the faraway distance.

"It is late, lad," one of the men replies from the entrance of the tavern, his tone gruff and coarse. "Don't you have a mother to return to?"

A small figure lingers in the corner of her vision, wrapped in a threadbare cloak that hangs off his shoulders like shed skin. The half-moon paints him like an obscured, serene creature.

"I do," the boy answers, voice small, but not meek. "She waits at home."

"Then you'd best get on," the second man mutters. "These streets are no place for strays."

A beat of silence follows, but there is no sound of footsteps indicating the young beggar's leave.

Viserra feels a curl of something strange beneath her ribs. A faint twinge of solemn apprehension, like a harp string pulled taut and left to quiver. She casts a glance at the young lord beside her, but his focus seems elsewhere.

"The Father above is said to reward munificence."

The man huffs faintly, his voice reverberating cooly in the distance, almost imperceptible. "Ah, well, the Father above might find more use for mercy than coin in these parts."

"Then may the gods see fit to show it."

A heavy sigh surpasses the still air. "Save your sermon for another, lad."

"I will," the young voice replies, "...in exchange for a coin."

There is silence once more, and for a moment Viserra thinks it might last forever. But then, the man grunts, muttering something inaudible, and reaches for his satchel.

The flick of a coin echoes weakly, falling into the beggar's wooden bowl with a faint clunk.

Something else is spoken between the boy and the cloaked men, but the exchange remains too far away for Viserra to hear it. Her head tilts, her face at last turning towards the scene. Her expression is calm, as indifferent as before, her eyes trickling over their surroundings but at last settling on the young boy.