𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

45 | Prisoners

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
P R I S O N E R S

-

The camp is unusually spirited when they arrive, alive with a kind of urgency that seems to swell in the very air. The sight of men assembling, their movements brisk and voices breathy, rushing with half-formed orders and crude jokes, quickly fills her vision. Viserra glances around, shifting slightly in her seat whilst Torrhen and Medrick remain at her side, seemingly unstirred.

The soldiers move swiftly between tents, steel catching what little light there is and glinting in restless hands. Banners tug hard in the gusts overhead, snapping like beasts straining against their leashes, as though eager to break free of the poles that held them prisoner. A sound carries across the camp, harsh and abrupt, bouncing from canvas to canvas. At first, Viserra takes it for the bark of angered chides, some quarrel brewing in the distance, but then it swells into something rougher, louder, far less restrained. It is laughter—raucous and unrefined, bellowing from the throats of men gathered in tight knots, their voices blending with the clatter of boots and the hammering of blades being sharpened.

"What's happened?" Viserra asks, her tone edged with wary curiosity.

Medrick doesn't look at her. Rather, he keeps his eyes set forward, the ends of his mouth tugging upwards in ceaseless enjoyment. A brazen-like mirth.

"They are eager to catch sight of today's quarry."

She turns slightly towards him, her arms set at her sides. "What do you mean?"

"Lannister men," he replies smoothly. "A batch of scouts who won't be reporting back to Lord Jason anytime soon. Or ever."

Faint surprise passes over her features, her lips parting.

"Just now?"

Young Ser Torrhen hums dryly.

"You were gone for quite a while, princess."

-

The group of men lay slumped over on the muddied ground, badly beaten and tied together. Some have been taken further back, huddling in the corner of their enclosure, their heads rolled back and their faces sunken with blood and bruising.

Despite it being day, Viserra can barely make out their faces as they are, half-hidden in shadow. The make-shift canopy overhead cast a heavy shroud, thick as tar, bathing their bodies in an eerie sheen. The men shift slightly, groaning against their binds, but none dare raise their heads. One spits blood into the dirt, the sound sharp and wet in the hush of the enclosure. Another coughs, the ragged sound rattling from deep within his chest, before subsiding into silence once more.

Viserra lingers alone at the threshold, her skirts brushing faintly over the packed earth. She presses her lips thin.

These men are not in shape for interrogation.

Not for some time at least.

She turns away with a sigh.

"They deserve no less."

The voice behind her doesn't startle her.

It doesn't even make her turn around.

"How did you find them?" she asks, eyes still set on the shrouded scenery, as though hoping for her sight to adjust to the dark.

The sound of a few, slow steps rattles in her ear before the figure settles at her side.

Cregan's shadow arrives before he does.