𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

49 | A handful of Bread

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
A  H A N D F U L  O F  B R E A D

-

"Harlaw is nearest. But then again... what is even there?"

The morning is heavy with mist. It rolls in thick from the sea, dampening their cloaks and curling around the horse's legs like smoke.

Viserra lifts her head, her gaze weary as it peels itself onto the knight beside her.

"And Pyke?" she asks.

"Lord Dalton will be there no doubt. His seat and his pride both tethered to it," Medrick glances over his shoulder. "Isn't that so, bastard?"

Torwyn rides tethered behind him, head bowed, his hair matted with dew. His chin grazes his chest, the breath leaving him in slow, shallow draws. It is hard to tell if he's awake or if the motion of the horse simply keeps his body swaying like a corpse in rhythm.

Viserra does not look at him. Instead, her eyes remain fixed on the horizon, where the mist blurs into the slate line of the sea. The world is little more than shifting veils of grey, the morning air biting with the chill of brine and rain. She draws her cloak tighter, the weight of it damp and cold upon her shoulders.

"This place is unearthly," she murmurs, eyes darting around their surroundings.

Medrick huffs wryly.

"It is only the weather."

Viserra lets the words hang in the damp air, but she knows better than to be comforted. The fog clings to everything, swallowing the shapes of cliffs and boulders, the edges of the path itself.

"We should have waited, then," she tells him. "Until the fog settled."

He turns slightly, offering her a brief, sleek glance.

"I thought you wanted to be quick."

His response seems to amuse him, for the ends of his mouth tilt faintly.

She doesn't answer him— doesn't get the time to— before he speaks up again.

"You are a skittish one."

She shifts in her saddle, the leather groaning beneath her, as the remark settles over her.

"I am only careful," she tells him.

"Don't worry," he quickly replies, unstirred and brazen. "I'm glad of it. It is why I'm here."

"I did not bring you to chide me," she says, a thin edge to her voice.

"No," Medrick agrees, a strange softness in the word. "You brought me to help you with your bargain. Which I have done."

His horse snorts, stamping once against the slick shale before pressing forward again. Torwyn's body shrugs with the movement, obedient only by the rope bound taut around his wrists. The prisoner's breaths are faint; each exhale clouds weakly before dissolving into the chill.

Viserra keeps her gaze pinned ahead, her jaw set, though all she can truly see is whiteness— rolling and roiling like a restless spirit.

"We should veer closer to the cliffside," she tells him.

Medrick only shakes his head.

"Too many roots. The horses will slip."

-

They move further away from the shore, and soon enough, the sea-line is no longer visible, swallowed beneath forested landscapes and rolling grey stone. The scent of salt and algae grows distant once more. The directions are no longer so clear, any signs of navigation long gone. Even the sun sits tethered and covert, hidden behind clusters of grey clouds.