Comforting Memories In Winter
starter with @edrickofwinterfell
"Thank you," Cregan nodded his head politely towards the maid who he had ordered to bring him reports of his brother's ailment. Even as he ruled over Winterfell; his family was just as important. Cregan had always known that; even from a young age.
The loss of his parents is still heavily influencing him even now, which is why he kept most at a distance. Still, it had took Cregan longer than he would ever admit to finally come to his brother's chambers.
As ever, Cregan did not knock. It was a habit that many would argue was not a good one. "Brother," the Lord of Winterfell whispered out as the candles flickered in the dimly lit room. The cold breeze making its presence known as the wind howled like the sigil of their house.
He fought the urge not to be reminded of his first wife; his steps nearly faltering. Alas, he was a grown man and had been for a while now. The heavy boots of his echoed in the chambers as he stepped further.
Edrick’s voice cut through the chamber, sharp and indignant. “I said extra blankets, you daft woman! Does this look like extra blankets to you?” His pale hand shot out from beneath the furs, gesturing angrily at the modest pile the maid had managed to scrounge together. His fever-bright eyes glared at her, though there was no real malice in them—just the impatience of a young man who had been sick his entire life and had long since abandoned the pleasantries of suffering in silence.
The poor girl stammered out an apology, clutching at her skirts as she hesitated by the bedside. Edrick groaned, shifting uncomfortably, his body aching from too many days confined to the same damn mattress. He knew he was being unreasonable, but the frustration bubbling inside him needed somewhere to go. And if he couldn't hurl his misery at the gods who had cursed him with this wretched body, then a maid with weak nerves would have to do.
“Go,” he snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “Or better yet, freeze out in the yard for an hour so you understand why I need the damn blankets– and tell someone to get me some broth and I swear if you bring a cold bowl.” The maid practically fled, and Edrick let out a ragged breath, pressing the heel of his palm against his burning forehead.
Then he heard the boots. Heavy, deliberate. His lips curled into a sneer before he even turned his head. “Ah. So you do remember your baby brother,” he drawled, voice hoarse but laced with sharpness. “I was beginning to think you'd only come to pay your respects when I was a corpse.”
The familiar sound of his brother's voice was welcomed, even with the piercing words he spoke. He was glad to see strength was returning to Edrick, but if Cregan was honest - it had always been there. Still, it took the Lord of Winterfell longer than he would ever admit to finally set eyes on the boy before him. "I see you have not lost your spirit." Cregan finally spoke; completely ignoring his brother's words.
Just as he ignored the situation during most days. Rightly or wrongly, he would become too distracted with his Lordship duties. Still, Cregan wondered if they were just excuses as he stepped closer to the bed. His larger hand reached for the fallen wooden carved wolf; one he remembered creating himself for his brother many years ago. Cregan had thought at the time such prayers could help Edrick. But he was wrong. About many things if he was honest.
In silence, Cregan reached for the goblet of water and began to refill it. "Have you been eating?" The Lord of Winterfell already knew the answer, but he could not think of anything else to say. It was a well known fact that the young Lord was a quiet man. Too quiet, some would say.
Cregan's attention moved to the window; he could never look at his brother for too long. The sound of birdsong moving into the room before those dark eyes of his finally locked onto his baby brother. A moment of silence passed once more before the young Lord brought the large, wooden chair closer to the bedside - committing to staying beside Edrick, for now, at least.
Edrick let out a slow, measured breath, trying to temper the irritation that always simmered just beneath his skin. It wasn’t Cregan’s fault that he was sick, nor was it his fault that Edrick had spent more days in this room than out of it. And yet, the sight of his brother—tall, broad, unshaken as ever—was enough to send a bitter taste crawling up his throat.
It had taken Cregan long enough to come. Long enough that Edrick had convinced himself he wouldn’t.
"Have I been eating?" He repeated, his voice dry as the wind blowing outside. "What do you think, Cregan? Between the fever and the endless supply of broth and soup that tastes like warmed-up ditch water, I’m practically feasting." He tilted his head slightly, watching his brother with sharp, knowing eyes.
His fingers twitched where they rested on the thin furs. He thought, briefly, about reaching for the carving in Cregan’s hands. Thought about holding it again, like he had when he was a small boy.
His brother always had a way of avoiding confrontation, as if pretending it didn’t exist would make everything better. He reached for the goblet instead, but his hand trembled as he lifted it. He stilled, pride keeping him from letting Cregan see the weakness in his fingers. He let the goblet rest against his chest, as if it had been his intention all along.
Silence stretched between them, thick as the northern snowdrifts. Edrick turned his head toward the window, following Cregan’s gaze. The sky outside was an endless gray, the wind still howling against the stone walls. “You don’t have to sit there looking like a scolded hound,” he muttered, though the sharpness had dulled. “It doesn’t suit you and I don't need your damn pity.”
Let the damn man play nursemaid if he so wished, but it wasn’t as if Edrick wanted to be babied by him.
