𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

47 | Courage

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
C O U R A G E

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The wind is cool and sharp, cutting into her skin.

The early dawn ignites restless suspense, but she is stone. Her time of feeling is past, and she has not uttered a single word since they brought the prisoners, tethered and wildered, into the centre of the camp.

Now that the verdict has been drawn, there is nothing left to protest.

"All men are born to die. We carry it with us, always."

Part of her knew it would come to this. She has always known that the thirst for vengeance is a heavy thing, sinkable, dangerous to leave under pressure, where most things have been left.

There is a bitter bliss to it.

"We stand today before gods and before men, to witness justice be made."

It is Cregan, his tone low and even, ringing past her like the bells of a sept.

"These before you were not taken in honest battle, but found standing with the false claimant who would see our kingdom torn apart. They raised steel against their rightful queen, and in doing so, brought death to their own brothers and ruin to the land."

She does not look at him. She does not know why she would.

Instead, she glances over towards the northern soldiers, assembled into crowded clusters, overseeing the event.

Despite their stillness, Viserra notices the faint intrigue passing over their weary faces. A certain, yet removed kind of want— like hunger, like desire, a jolt of ember catching alight. Flashing like wildfire, thawing at their joints and setting them burning once more.

It will give them courage, she thinks to herself. To bear witness to the ruination of the men they have been brought up against. To partake in their undoing, as though it might salvage their own.

And who will give me courage? she cannot help but wonder, yet keeps her silence and makes herself look forward, barefaced and solemn.

The young Lord of Winterfell steps further forward, his shadow pooling across the half-frosted ground beneath him.

The prisoners are brought down to their knees before the gathered crowd. Chains rattle; breath steams against the air. Viserra keeps her hands clasped tightly at her front, though her nails bite into her palms.

The taste of copper on her tongue is not her own.

"By the laws of gods and men, traitors are condemned to die," Cregan's voice carries once more, deep as the earth and unyielding as its roots. "I have therefore chosen myself to send you as an advanced party to those seven hells of yours, for the considerable number of hightower soldiers that will soon be needing to find space there."

The words ripple across the camp, finding eager ears and hardened hearts alike. His hand rests upon his greatsword, though he has yet to draw it. For a heartbeat, silence reigns, all eyes fixed on him. So many of them are waiting—wanting—the execution. They need it, perhaps even more than they need food or fire. Blood is a balm to soldiers when wounds of spirit fester.

Then, Cregan unsheathes his sword, resting at his hip, and holds it firmly before him. Viserra watches him tilt the blade of the longsword slowly, allowing it to grace the muddied ground with an almost graceful precision.

He moves forward into the centre of the yard. The steel whispers free in his hand, its edge glinting in the meagre light.

Meanwhile, she holds herself still, a statue among breathing men, as if the act of silence alone might grant her distance.