𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

48 | Mothers and Fathers

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
M O T H E R S A N D F A T H E R S

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She sits on a gnarled root, the fabrics of her dress pooling like heavy petals around her. The moon looms far above, casting its sheen across the thin tree-tops. It bathes them in a matted, silver glow— one not even the fireplace might overshadow.

Medrick is not so far away, seated against a tree trunk, legs crossed with his sword beside him. His pale, viridescent eyes are half-lidded, only glancing across his surroundings every now and then.

Perhaps he is half-asleep. Or perhaps he is only listening.

Their prisoner sits, too, by a tree, his hands and feet tied. Compared to his male counterpart, he does not seem able to rest so easily. Despite the hours that pass, his gaze remains open, flickering about quietly. There is something aged, something weary, in the way his pupils pass over her.

It is not like when Medrick stares at her, his eyes peeling away at her until she is bare and unmoored. At this point she has rehearsed those kinds of inspections, and finds herself feeling quite statuesque, quite unstirred, whilst displayed before him.

But in Torwyn's gaze there is nothing lewd. Nothing untoward.

He watches her with a kind of startled curiosity. As though he hasn't quite figured out what she is.

When his eyes linger too long, she finds herself turning away, pretending to study the trees, the slow coil of mist rising between them. A gull cries far off— a ghostly sound, thin as the edge of a knife.

In her lap lies a broken off piece of bread, hardened by the time that has passed since they left for their journey along the coast. She breaks the bread absently between her fingers, the crumbs spilling like pale dust against her cloak. The smell of salt and damp wood hangs over them, mingling with the faint smoke of their small, dwindling fire.

Before she might think more of it, she rises to her feet.

The ground beneath her boots is soft with pine needles, muffling her steps as she crosses to the bound man. He watches her approach without flinching, though his shoulders tense slightly when she crouches before him.

Viserra hesitates before lifting her fingers and carefully prying away the cloth bound around his mouth.

Despite the time spent in his presence, the close proximity of his appearance continues to unsettle her. His face is still swollen and battered, making him nearly unrecognisable to the first time she had laid eyes on him inside the Seagard tavern. He had not been as striking as his brother, nor so quick with his smile, but there had been something alert in his gaze then. Now that spark had guttered out, replaced by the dull resignation of a man waiting to be spent.

She studies him for a breath. His lips are cracked, and his tongue flicks out to wet them once the cloth falls away.

"I'll help you," she murmurs at last, plucking a bite-sized piece of bread and lifting it to his mouth.

Torwyn stares at the bread, at the small, uneven edge of it, before his eyes rise to meet hers. They are sea-washed eyes, grey and deep and rimmed with red. For a moment, she thinks he won't do anything, but then, slowly, he parts his lips and takes the bread between them.

He chews with effort, each movement deliberate, almost laboured. When he swallows, she offers another piece, smaller this time.

There is nothing wild or fearsome about him, she thinks. Nothing cold or grey or cruel. He is not what the ironborn are made out to be. Whatever salt had once burned in his blood had long been rinsed away by hunger and defeat. What sat before her now was not of salt-spawn, but a man left hollow by the tides, robbed of propriety and decorum, bound and gagged like a pest.