A Union of Ice and Stone | Cregan Stark — prologue
pt i (next)
Synopsis: As the war between Targaryen kin looms, the young Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, marches in favour of rightful heir, Queen Rhaenyra, gathering men for his army. His path leads him to the foot of House Arryn’s door and the Lady Lysara Arryn.
Content Warning(s): adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content.
inspiration playlist
word count: 3.4k
Lysara's heart pounded in her chest, each step a struggle against the slick, rain-soaked earth. Her cloak, heavy with water, clung to her frame as she sprinted through the open field, heading south of her house, blinded by the unforgiving dusk that did nothing for her vision as she blindly navigated the grass by memory; she knew these fields like the back of her hand, every tree and bush, every dip in the ground that threatened to trip her as she bolted.
The high grass whipped at her skin, her dress drenched and weighing down her movements as she struggled for air, her lungs screaming for adequate oxygen that she was not successful in sucking in with each deep gasp she inhaled; suddenly she regret all those years of not joining her brothers as they trained in the yards, building their stamina, as her limbs burned with exhaustion but she could not afford to slow down as she was still within sight of the Arryn men who patrolled the boundaries of their land should they have come this way at any given moment — her head twisted to look behind her as she readjusted her tight hold on the skirts of her dress as the the fabric dipped momentarily, her eyes wide and terrified as she stumbled a step in the process when her toes caught the hem — if she had been caught now, surely that would be it. Her head would be on a spike somewhere on the gates of the Eyrie, on display for all those who cast their eyes upon it, both a warning and a promise — a show of strength from her cousin who did not need to try to succeed. Her reputation never failed to precede her. The thought of being caught now, when she was so close made her nauseous and sick at the thought of being dragged back — her arms flailed out in front of her in an effort to steady herself as her right foot shot out as she threatened to fall forwards, the pain radiating up her ankle and into her knee as her weight slammed into it, eliciting a gasp.
Despite the radiating pain that caused her now to limp, she continued to run.
The storm's fury mirrored the turmoil inside her, each thunderclap a reminder of the risk and imminent danger her current position placed her in. She had prayed that the rain would hold off, the clouds rolling in as she had retreated to her rooms for the night after dinner, but as some cruel reminder of how little control she possessed, it had downpoured the moment she had snuck out of the gates; scarcely sneaking past the guards that were planted at the front -- it had only taken her weeks of being practically held captive inside to bribe her way out, wanting to crawl out of her skin as she made promises she was not proud of -- but anything was better than staring at the plain walls of her room for several weeks again.
She had tried for weeks to get out, but Jeyne seemed to keep on her heels as best she could, and if it was not her; it was one of her men -- one of her personal guards who hovered close every waking hour, always watching her from some corner of the room, ensuring she did not step out of line or try anything that she had not already been warned about time and time again. She was already treading thin ice, but there was nothing worse than being held captive in your own home; considered something of a traitor by your own people and no longer possessing the trust of your kin. She heard the whispers and saw the looks, she wasn’t stupid by any means -- but worst of all, she knew her father would have been disappointed had he been able to see her now.
A loud burst of thunder sounded from above her as she tumbled forwards, her stocking becoming soaked by the grass that brushed her legs with each step as she neared the river that separated her from the only place she had ever known peace these past three years; a little patch amidst the dense forestry, concealed from prying eyes and shielded by the trees from the rain. She was so close…
Lysara's breath hitched as she reached the edge of the river, the torrent of water mirroring her frantic heart. The cold seeped through her soaked garments, chilling her to the bone, but she hardly noticed. All she could think of was Gareth, waiting for her on the other side, hidden amongst the thick underbrush where they had spent countless stolen moments together. The thought of his warm embrace, his whispered promises of love, gave her the strength to press on.
With a determined push, Lysara waded into the river, the icy water biting at her ankles. Each step was a battle as the current tugged at her, threatening to sweep her away, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself forward. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she refused to yield. She couldn’t afford to.
Finally, she reached the other side, stumbling onto the bank with a cry of relief and clawing her way up onto the riverbank with desperate hands, the soil embedding itself under her nails. She didn’t pause to catch her breath, instead, she plunged into the forest, her steps faltering as the pain in her ankle flared anew. The branches snagged at her cloak, leaves brushing against her face as she pushed deeper into the woods. She could hear the river behind her, the rushing water almost drowning out the sound of her own heartbeat. Almost.
“Gareth!” she called out, her voice barely a whisper above the storm. Panic gripped her when there was no immediate answer. What if something had happened to him? What if Jeyne had found out and set a trap?
But then, from the shadows, he emerged. Tall and broad-shouldered, Gareth stepped into view, his dark eyes filled with concern as he rushed to her side and dragged her into the trees, whilst his eyes quickly swept the bushes behind her.
“Lysara, what happened? You’re hurt,” he said, his hands immediately going to her arm, steadying her as she swayed on her feet.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, though the pain in her ankle told a different story, “I don’t have much time.”
She heard the unbelieving scoff as he knelt by her side, pulling the hem of her dress up enough to snake his hand underneath the fabric and gently brush his fingers along her ankle -- the soft gesture elicited a sharp hiss, flinching in pain as she leaned into him with a hand planted on his shoulder, “You need to be seen by the maester,” He scolded as he looked up at her.
Her eyes widened, “Come, I can carry you back,” Gareth insisted, standing and beginning to wrap an arm around her waist to support her against him, “We can tell her I found you between the borders, I was on patrol and you were there…”
Lysara shook her head, “No, you can’t.”
“She’d understand, surely”
“She’s not stupid, Gareth,” She snapped, her voice panicked as she attempted to tear from his hold, “Why do you think it took me so long to come back? She’ll kill me this time-- if not worse, she would have you killed on the spot.”
“If that is what it must come to, then I am willing to face it with a stiff lip-- but I will not allow you to stumble back like this, not in this weather.” He muttered, attempting to crouch to sweep her off her feet; an arm coming behind her knees.
“Lysara Arryn!” The shout echoed through the trees, carrying over the wind and pinning the couple where they stood; frozen in fear. The colour drained from her face as she quickly shoved his hands away, pushing him in the direction of the bushes that concealed them; an effort to hide his presence, “Come out! You are found, girl!” Ser Harrold called.
“Go!” She harshly whispered, eyes wide in fear as Gareth stumbled to his feet, “You cannot be found, hide!”
Her hands planted against his chest, shoving him so hard he nearly fell into the bush head first, still reaching for her -- she could hear as the heavy hooves of his horse trampled through the trees; the leaves crunching under the stead’s weight, “We know you are here, as does Lady Jeyne! There is no use hiding!”
His eyes continued to peer out at her as he ducked into the shrubbery; using her body to shield him then as her back pressed against the bush, whipping around as Ser Harrold and his men burst through the trees and into the clearing. He stood in front of the men who rushed forward to surround her, her breath heavy and panting, eyes wide and flushed cheeks as her fingers touched the leaves of the bush that concealed the man only a mere inches away from her, “Where is the boy?” He asked, approaching her.
“What boy?” She quickly replied, feigning an innocent confusion.
“Do not play me for a fool,” Harrold warned.
A silence passed through them as she snapped her mouth shut, her bones tense with anxiety and clenching her jaw to keep from shaking as she spoke, “I know nought of what you speak.”
“The Royce boy!” He finally snapped, “Where has he gone?”
She lifted her chin, her fists balling at her sides, “Nowhere, I have not seen…”
“Enough with the lies!” He interrupted her, dismounting his horse that whinnied. He released its reins to close the small gap that separated them, his gloved hand closing around her upper arm and jerking her towards him, “It has never been your strong suit, Lysara, so let’s cut the messing about.”
She writhed against him, trying to free herself as he then tugged her upright and on her feet, earning a yelp as a jolt of pain tore through her shoulder, “I have not seen him, he did not show! I am alone, please!” She insisted.
His grip tightened, sure enough to leave bruises as he let out a frustrated sigh; dragging her through the dirt and towards his horse, “You probably hid him and gave him a head start, he is probably too far gone and back over the boundaries of his own land by now, you ungrateful little girl.” He grumbled, forcing her against the horse, her hands flying out to stop herself from going face first against its side, “Your cousin has tirelessly defended you time and time again and you continue to defy her but no more. You know, you are lucky it has been her who has handled you, should it have been my choice--”
His hands closed around her waist, hoisting her up and forcing her over the saddle of the white horse that stumbled underneath her sudden weight; the rein pressing into her ribs uncomfortably, hardly allowing her a chance to swing a leg over and mounting in behind her -- she wanted to be sick and gag as he pulled her flush against him; his chest pressed to her shoulders as he tightly gripped the the reins in his hands, “You can’t threaten me, how dare you!” She exclaimed.
His breath fanned d against the back of her neck, every hair standing in alert as she cringed away from the feeling only to be drawn back by a hand that gripped her nape and brought her back into him, “You are hardly a respectable woman, much less a daughter of Arryn— your father would be disappointed to see you’ve taken after your brother’s stupidity.” He said, releasing her neck with a shove forward.
With a sharp jerk on the reins, the horse launched forward and turned, rushing back out towards where she had come from only moments prior — with a last glance behind her, her eyes settled on the bush where she knew Gareth remained; growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared from view. Only then did she relax, the feeling of dread finally sinking in as she leaned into the horse, her arms wrapping around its neck and closing her eyes.
The journey back to the Eyrie was a blur. The rain continued to pour, soaking through her already drenched clothes, but Lysara felt numb to the cold. Her thoughts were consumed by the dread of what awaited her. Jeyne Arryn was not a woman known for her mercy. Lysara had defied her one too many times, and she knew that this time, the punishment would be severe.
As they reached the gates of the Eyrie, Lysara felt the weight of her situation settle on her shoulders like a leaden cloak. The men dragged her through the courtyard, up the stairs, and into the main hall where Jeyne awaited her. The Lady of the Eyrie sat on her high-backed chair, her expression unreadable as she watched Lysara being brought before her.
For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by the sound of the rain against the windows. Then, Jeyne spoke, her voice quiet and calm but her eyes bordered rage as she stared at her, “Have you no shame?” She asked, standing from her seat, “No honour? I spare your life, despite pleas to disinherit and banish you and this is how you repay me? Have I not been merciful in your favour?”
“I am grateful, Jeyne,” She insisted, stepping forward as she tugged herself free from Herrold’s grip, “I am. I do not know what your men have told you, but I promise you, I have done nothing to imply otherwise…you and our house are where my loyalties have always been.”
Her expression remained blank, but there, at the corner of her mouth, was a twitch of a frown, “Do you think so lowly of me as to be that stupid?”
She stilled, her mouth hanging open and unable to respond, like a terrified animal as she stared back at her cousin, wide-eyed and stammering, “N-no, of course not!”
“Then do not treat me as such,” She snapped, beginning to approach her, “Do you think I do not hear the whispers of where you disappear to? That you have disappeared off into the woods with that Royce boy, for hours on end, alone?”
She stopped a mere inches away from her, a frown etched deep into her sharp features as paused to scan her cousin’s features and trying to gauge the guilty expression that tugged at her brow; silent and unable to protest, “You sully yourself for a boy who cannot provide for you-- for some second-born bastard who only seeks to use you as cover from his reputation like some sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. You are not a stupid girl, Lysara.”
“I am not,” She echoed, her voice small among the room.
“Then do not behave as though you are,” She argued. “I cannot protect you much longer-- the council grows restless every day and continues to press for me to wash our hands of you, every day, do you understand that?”
Lysara lifted her chin, meeting her cousin’s gaze with as much defiance as she could muster, though inside, she was trembling. She knew there would be no forgiveness this time, “Then why haven’t you?”
“Because you are my kin!” She finally exclaimed, exasperated as she spun away from her for a moment to regain composure -- Jeyne pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes squeezing shut and taking a few deep breaths before she turned to look at her again, “We have been close since our youth, I have even considered you to be a sister all these years, and even as I honour that, you continue to stomp your pretty little foot all over that. As though that has no value, as though that means nothing to you.”
“It has not stopped you before-- from slaughtering your own kin in order to protect your name, so do with me as you will. Imprison me, kill me-- whatever you see fit, just as you did my brother then,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her. “But know this: nothing you do will make me regret loving him.”
Jeyne’s eyes flashed with anger, but she said nothing for a long moment. Then, with a flick of her hand, she dismissed her men, leaving the two women alone in the hall.
“Maybe you are a fool, Lysara,” Jeyne said quietly, the weight of her words heavy with disappointment. “But you are still my blood. I will not have you put to death, though you have earned it.”
Lysara’s breath caught in her throat, relief washing over her in a dizzying wave. But Jeyne wasn’t finished.
“You will be confined to your chambers until I decide what to do with you,” Jeyne continued. “And as for that Royce boy…he will be found and dealt with accordingly.”
“No!” Lysara gasped, stepping forward, but Jeyne’s glare stopped her in her tracks.
“This is not up for debate, Lysara,” Jeyne said, her tone final. “You have made your choice. Now, you will live with the consequences. Now go clean yourself, you smell of the fields like some smallfolk.” She spat, her eyes scanning up and down to take in her full appearance -- disheveled, wet, and muddy up to her knees. She refused to move yet, watching as her cousin turned to retreat back towards her seat.
As Lysara stood in the center of the hall, drenched and defeated, the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the room creaked open. A cold draft swept through, sending a shiver down her spine causing Jeyne to pause and glance toward the entrance, her brows knitting together in surprise.
A young knight hurried into the room, his armor clanking with each step. He looked flustered, his eyes wide as he approached the Lady of the Eyrie. “My lady,” he began, his voice betraying his nerves, “I must report—Lord Cregan Stark has arrived at the Eyrie. He… he’s demanding an audience with you.”
Lysara’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Cregan Stark, sharing her cousin’s visible confusion. What was he doing here? Her mind raced, a mix of fear and hope fluttering in her chest. Perhaps this was a twist of fate, an unexpected ally in her dire situation. But as she looked at Jeyne, she saw no relief in her cousin’s eyes. Instead, there was only tension.
Jeyne’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hand smoothing along the side of her skirts. “Cregan Stark,” she repeated slowly, as if weighing the significance of the name. “He is a long way from Winterfell. What brings him to the Eyrie unannounced?”
The knight shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “He didn’t say, my lady. Only that it is a matter of great importance and that he must speak with you immediately.”
Jeyne’s eyes flickered toward Lysara , and for a brief moment, their gazes met. She felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Jeyne was no fool; she would have already started to piece together the implications of Cregan Stark’s sudden arrival.
“Very well,” Jeyne said at last, her voice clipped. “Escort Lord Stark to the Great Hall. I will meet him shortly.”
The knight bowed and hurried out of the room, leaving Lysara and Jeyne alone once more. The silence that followed was thick with tension and unease.
She could see the storm brewing in her cousin’s eyes, a mix of calculation and concern as her jaw tensed, clenching and unclenching. Jeyne turned to her, her expression unreadable, but there was an edge to her voice as she spoke. “It seems our conversation will have to wait but rest assured, this matter with Gareth Royce is far from over.”
Before Lysara could respond, her mouth opening to speak, Jeyne swept out of the room; her long skirts swishing as she moved. She was left standing there, her mind spinning with questions and a growing sense of unease. Cregan Stark’s arrival was unexpected.
As she was escorted back to her chambers by two guards, Lysara couldn’t shake the feeling that this unexpected visit would either be her salvation or her undoing. And with Jeyne Arryn at the helm, she feared it would be the latter.
Synopsis: “I hope to be able to establish a union between our houses, one between the East and North. Our fathers were friends in their youth, even closer in their later years…they would have wanted for us to be friends, too.”
Content Warning(s): adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content.
A/N: it’s here and I don’t even know what to tell yall 🤺
Word count: 8.3k
inspiration playlist
She had never met him.
She had heard the stories, of course, the whispers and telltale's of Stark men and their fierceness and prowess in battle. She had heard stories as a girl of the young Cregan Stark, who had ascended to lordship at the tender age of ten-and-three and though his reign had been slow to come into effect after a lengthy power struggle against his uncle, he had risen fully to power just a few years later -- she had heard of his reputation as a stoic, stern man who was the very embodiment of Northernmen.
Her father had spoken of him on several occasions in front of her to her brother, fascinated by him and the stories that followed his reign in the north. She recalled the roll of eyes her brother gave every time his name came up at the dinner table, eager to change the topic and deflect to something more worthy of his attention; anything that did not include the boy he had complained he was certain their father would have preferred as a son. Arrnold was never quite as gifted in swordsmanship and had never had a way with the horses -- he managed to just get by with a dagger, but not much else -- nor was he great with people and did not do well in positions of power as he was easily tipped into an internal battle between his pride and ego. It was not as though their father was disappointed in him, but Lysara assumed that just as any father would have preferred, he would have liked for him to share more similarities to that of the young Stark.
She had sank into the scalding hot water of her bath as soon as it was poured despite the outcry from her handmaiden who insisted she wait until it had cooled enough to her liking, wincing as she stepped into it and brushed her off; her skin reddening upon submerging into the water that reflected the flames of the fire that was carefully tended to by house staff to ensure the room was kept to a tolerable temperature. Every nerve stung and screamed for mercy as she had sunk in until the water lapped at her shoulders, her hair sticking to her spine as she had sat upright and scrubbed at her skin until she no longer could and cried out at how sensitive and raw every inch had become -- her face scrunched up and tossing the cloth out of the tub to the floor with a wet splosh. It was only once the water had grown cold did she remove herself, seeking her robes and allowing her handmaiden, Ophelia, to comb out her hair and braid it down her back; the long ends of her hair resting at the base of her spine.
“My lady,” Ophelia gasped, her fingers gently touching her shoulder that peaked out from beneath the fabric of her robe as she sat in the stool in front of her, “What have you done to yourself?” She asked, her voice laced with concern.
She did not reply, rather she frowned and brought a hand up quickly, touching to the same spot and wincing, “I…I suppose I was a bit heavy-handed.” She confessed, her voice quiet.
She heard a soft ‘tsk’ of her tongue, grateful that despite her confinement, Jeyne had at least spared Ophelia's presence -- the only thing she had that tied her to the outside world two days later, “Shall I have the Maester bring firemilk to soothe them?” Ophelia asked, her voice soft and sweet.
“You needn’t worry, Ophelia,” She assured, gently pushing her hand away when the girl attempted to scan the back of her neck by moving the smooth silk away, “It is only a little scratch…it will be fine in the morning.”
“It is more than a scratch,” She stated, releasing the fabric, “here, disrobe— I can take a look, Ser Alfred can summon the maester…”
“Please do not fret, Ophelia, it is fine,” She quickly said, pulling away from her abruptly and standing; her hand covering the back of her neck, “We mustn't give Lady Jeyne any more reason to worry than she already does.”
Her hand slid from her nape, resisting the urge to wince at how sensitive the skin had become and reaching for Ophelia’s hand with a tight smile, “I promise you I will be fine,” She quietly lied, “She has enough to deal with as is, yes?”
Ophelia’s light eyes reflected her scepticism, narrowing and visibly still wary as she slowly nodded after a moment — she could see through her after several years of working one-on-one with Lysara; Ophelia knew her better than most. She knew when she was being sincere, and she knew when she was lying, not that she was any good at it — she knew how to pick up on the tone and the way she chewed the inside of her cheek, clenched her fists behind her back, and grit her teeth until it physically pained her whenever she was stressed; there was no hiding anything from her, Lysara knew that. However, Ophelia knew her limits and did not push.
“Tell me, is Lord Stark still here?” Lysara asked, stepping closer and lowering her voice to a whisper. Her eyes darted towards the door while her chin lowered, where she knew one of Ser Herrold’s men was posted at all times — there seemed to be no hour where there wasn’t someone hovering over her these days, someone’s gaze on her. It was suffocating and slowly, with each passing day that she was confined to these walls, she found her sanity ticking away bit by bit, leaving only a thread remaining.
Ophelia stuttered for a moment, her frown deepening, “I…I don’t think I am supposed to speak to you about that, my lady.”
“By whose order?”
Her eyes lowered, “Lady Jeyne…she worries it will only further distress you and add to your condition,” She explained, eyeing their conjoined hands.
Her words resembled a rehearsed script, as though she had been specifically instructed on the matter in the event that she asked. She had to suppress the twitch of her eyebrow, feeling the little muscle beneath it beginning to give way to her annoyance as she brought her hand to gently massage it with a fingertip, “And what condition might that be?” She asked, drawing out the word for emphasis.
Again, she stammered, evidently confused as it seemed to dawn on her that the gap had not been filled during her conversation with her Lady cousin, “I…I’m not sure, I suppose.”
She forced another tight smile, “Ophelia, I appreciate your worry but you needn’t fret over me. I am not some delicate flower that needs protecting,” She reassured, her hand giving hers a gentle squeeze. The two women were quiet, the silence between them only filled by the faint sound of orders from men being barked across the court and the restless whinny of horses that trotted in with supply. Her eyes drifted towards the windows that had been left open to let some air in, a cool, spring breeze wafting through the room; a commodity she was grateful for as she drew in a deep breath and exhaled it, her shoulders rising and falling with that very breath. Her eyes closed briefly, releasing Ophelia’s hand to draw back toward herself.
“Is there any truth to them?” She asked suddenly, her eyes lowering again and avoiding hers as though she feared she had overstepped as Lysara looked at her, “Were you with Gareth Royce?”
She blinked rapidly twice, hesitating, “He is merely a childhood friend,” She answered.
Again, there was a look in her eye that suggested she knew the truth -- she knew she was lying, but was not bold enough to say anything more on the subject. Ophelia sighed, her shoulders slouching with the action and looking towards the door for a moment, “He is still here,” She admitted.
“Your cousin has him set up in the west wing of the keep,” She quietly muttered, looking up at her, “He left yesterday before dawn with some men, I'm not sure for what…but he is due to return today. There have been meetings for the past two days regarding his presence.”
She frowned, “Is there any word yet of his reason for coming?”
She shook her head quickly, “Not yet, but I heard the young squire boy, Tommen, speaking…there has been word of Criston Cole’s men heading west, slaughtering lords and their men,” She explained, words rushed with anxiety, “I suppose he assumes if he threatens violence, it will turn support in favour of Aegon II. His men have been spotted near Rook’s Rest…”
“Open the gates!”
Her head whipped towards the window, the two women exchanging a look of wide eyes and a confused curiosity as they rushed towards the overlook — the gates creaked, echoing throughout the yard as they were slowly pulled open by the guards who stood post, the two women leaning over the ledge to watch from the balcony that overlooked. A few men stumbled in first on their horses, a series of shouts following them as they ordered their horses in thick accents that Lysara struggled to understand — she had heard the northernmen speak once before as a young girl but it had been several years since. She strained to catch a glimpse, bent at the waist and gripping the railing with a tight grip, scanning the men that poured through the gates. It felt as though there was more than ‘some’ men, but then again, her companion had not specific to the number — she watched the two dozen men come hurling through the gates, followed by the massive slab of a man who was enveloped in furs, his mouth moving in a low order that she was begging to hear.
Her eyes narrowed, shielding her eyes from the sun that blurred her vision as she scanned the yards. She assumed as much that this was the man she’d heard whispers of throughout her childhood — that this was the imposing Warden of Winterfell, hardly a man grown but already possessing such power and influence it surprised her.
He appeared much younger than she had envisioned.
His horse moved forward a few more paces toward the front steps before halting, his hands raising in a sharp jerk on the reins to pull back as she suddenly noticed that he was greeted by the imposing presence of her cousin. Jeyne waited patiently, allowing him an opportunity to dismount before descending the stairs and approaching him. Her eyes had turned to focus on the large blade that was strapped to his back, swinging with each movement as he sauntered towards her, his hand coming up to steady it by the strap and coming to a halt in front of her cousin. The interaction was brief and tense despite his civilities to lower his head in a curt bow before exchanging what she assumed were short pleasantries of his journey and welcoming him back — it stunned her that despite the striking appearance that was hard to miss, Lysara did not understand how she had missed him the first time he arrived.
She watched as they spoke, turning to sweep their gaze across the gardens that made up the front yards, Jeyne gesturing for him to follow her lead down the path and away from the doors — she leaned into the railing with her hip, turning to face them fully and lifting her chin, “We shouldn’t be here,” Ophelia suddenly said in a harsh whisper.
“Just…one more moment,” she said, her head turning slightly to glance at the girl beside her. She looked down again, eyes following the path they took.
He appeared as distant as ever, his expression blank and unreadable as he looked at her cousin briefly before turning to look ahead with disinterest; he did not look as though he wanted to be there, and under ideal circumstances, Lysara assumed he wouldn’t have been. His presence this far south perplexed her — the vale and the north had long shared similar values and beliefs, loyal to their oaths and how they served their people; but she saw little reason and could not conjure up any rational explanation that would bring him to their door — though the war had left the entire realm in stuck in a place of fear and uncertainty, forcing everyone’s hand into unusual positions that they normally would not have found themselves in. She could only imagine how warm he was underneath the thick layers of pelt this far south.
His head nodded in response to something Jeyne said, stopping then and facing her — his mouth moved again and if she strained enough, she could hear the low mutter, but his words still did not reach her, “I believe he has a son,” Ophelia quietly confessed, “a young tot.”
“He’s married?” She asked, looking back at her.
She hesitated, mouth pursing, “His wife died in childbirth, my lady.”
She withdrew a sharp breath, lips parting and lifting her chin, “Oh…that’s rather unfortunate,” she muttered.
She paused, an uncomfortable feeling settling over her at the news that she reeled from, her head turning reluctantly to look down again. His head moved to look right as they spoke, circling the garden and absentmindedly taking in the view and turning it into a one-sided conversation, while his attention focused on watching his men round up their horses, his gaze briefly glazing over some house staff that offered assistance. He looked out of place among the green of the vale.
She could vaguely make out the purse of his mouth, a grimace-like smile as he nodded to a young maid who stepped out of their way, a basket in her hands filled to the brim with herbs. The girl’s head lowered as they passed, only lifting again to resume her brisk walk through the yard once they were a foot away and even then, her head turned to look back over her shoulder to give them a final glance. Lysara found it fascinating how easily he could draw attention to himself without even trying, muchless without being aware of it. She couldn’t blame them — the servants, the councilmen, who ogled him like he was some fascinating, yet terrifying creature — he truly was a sight to behold; the embodiment of Northerners, adorned in furs and self-assured as he carried himself with confidence. He seemed to exist in his own world, paying little mind to the one that surrounded him as his head turned to look ahead.
She rocked back on her heels, pushing away from the window finally and retreating towards the step that approached the balcony a few feet behind them. Ophelia stood over her as she slowly sat on the floor, watching as she folded her hands into her lap and restlessly fidgeted with her fingers, picking at her nails — her hands clasped together, her eyes resting on a freckle between the knuckle of her forefinger and middle.
Ophelia watched her cautiously before stepping closer, her voice gentle but firm, “My lady, you shouldn’t dwell on this,” She glanced between Lysara’s fidgeting hands and her downcast gaze, worry etching into her expression.
Lysara’s lips thinned, her thoughts in turmoil. Her mind should have been fixed on Gareth, on the risk she’d taken, sneaking off to meet him and defying her cousin's orders. But now, her attention drifted to the presence of Cregan Stark—the cold, stoic Warden of the North—whose sudden arrival cast a shadow over everything. His disinterest in the south was obvious, yet here he was. His mere existence raised questions that begged answers, and it gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.
She looked back at Ophelia, her voice steady but tight, “I know, but I want to understand why he is here,” Her gaze flickered toward the doors again that opened to the balcony, catching the glimpse of his broad shoulders as he moved out of view, his figure towering over Jeyne’s slight frame, “Does it not frighten you?”
Ophelia shifted uneasily, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her skirts, "Perhaps it's for a matter of alliances," she ventured, lowering her voice, "The war has changed everything... people are seeking security where they can find it."
Lysara nodded slowly, her eyebrows arching with a dismissive flick, though the pit in her stomach told her there was more to it than just alliances. Her cousin was ambitious, calculating—and the way Jeyne had prevented her involvement in matters was something that left her both wary and furious. Lysara’s gut told her that whatever had brought Cregan Stark to the Eyrie was bigger than just a simple visit, a thought alone that made her nauseous with anxiety as she stood up; her hands brushing over her thighs and smoothing out the robe that fell to her ankles.
“That does not answer my question,” She said, turning her head to look at her, “are you not frightened by this war? With your own brother already put to death in battle…”
Ophelia’s mouth had opened, ready to reply but hesitating, a pained look crossing her features. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes casting downwards as she seemed to weigh the question — she did not want to rehash old wounds, but rather, prove a point. His presence was not one to be taken lightly — however, her expression caused a wave of guilt to wash over her as she sighed, stepping toward her and dropping her hands to her sides, “I’m sorry, I do not mean to remind you of what has been lost and use your grief as a pawn of my own use,” she quietly said.
Ophelia stilled, stiff as she forced a tight smile in her direction with glossy eyes, blinking rapidly to suppress the tears that welled in the corners of her eyes, “I know.”
She did not know how to further express her apologies in a way that would mean something. She felt she had already stepped too far, in the direction of reopening a wound that had yet to heal, unintentionally inflicting her pain. Instead, she moved forward, taking a step to close the space between them and bringing her hands to her cheeks, a bold gesture as she held her face between her palms; her thumbs brushing her cheeks. Ophelia forced a pained smile, her gaze lowering as she leaned forward and pressed a light, comforting kiss to her right temple.
She lingered there for a moment, only withdrawing as their silence was disturbed by the harsh, unwelcomed sound of her door slamming open suddenly. Her hands pulled back, still hung in the space that Ophelia created between them as she stepped back quickly, their heads both turning to find as Ser Herrold emerged from the doorway — his expression a look of confused wariness, his eyes landing on her outstretched hands. It was then that his expression morphed into something of disgust, a second young knight at his side, “By gods, what are you up to now?” He asked, walking forward and further into her room, his left hand at his sword on his waist, “Must you stain this Houses’ reputation further by fraternising with not one, but two traitorous commoners?”
Ophelia stumbled back, Lysara’s head turning to watch as she steadied herself against the bench that knocked the back of her knees with a clatter. She tugged the robe around her to fix it as Ophelia quickly shuffled forward to use her body to shield hers, her back to her front as she moved in between them, “You really shouldn’t barge in on a lady as she dresses,” She snapped, dismissing his comment, “It’s rude and improper.”
A second quiet handmaiden entered the room with her head down as she approached the two women, beginning to gather her dress and hold it up in front of her as an effort to providing her modesty despite the circumstances, “Hardly anything you haven’t already flaunted for all of the realm,” He spat.
“You would do well to remember your place, Ser Herrold,” She shot back, hands tugging the robes off her shoulders and smoothing out her shift. The two women quickly worked to slide the dress over her head and on, anxiously glancing back towards the knight who had yet to remove himself from the confines of her room, “What do you want?” She snapped suddenly, growing increasingly uncomfortable with his presence.
“Your cousin requested your presence for supper,” He finally said, his words stiff as though he was physically pained by the suggestion.
“How kind,” She quipped, scoffing a bitter laugh.
Ophelia worked to pull the dress down her legs, straightening the skirts and doing up the lace behind her neck as Lysara turned around and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, “It is, considering the council would rather you be locked away for the rest of your life like your traitorous brother,” he explained, fist clenching at his side, “I among them.”
The final comment had been a mutter — as though he meant to show some degree of restraint and quiet himself; as though he had remembered himself suddenly but it did not stop the improper gaze that bore into her shoulders, silent as she fumbled to fix the bust of her dress and adjust her hair down her spine, the two women at her feet fixing the dress around her feet. Her head turned to look at him from the corner of her eye.
“Must you hover and watch everything I do?”
“If you could be trusted, we would not be here,” He readily snapped, “I will be escorting you down to the hall to meet Lady Jeyne and Lord Stark.”
She could feel the hair on the back of her neck rise at the idea, rigid as she hesitated in her movements as she gave one last tug on her neckline, “I’m sure one of your men could handle a single woman just fine,” She huffed, withdrawing from the coverage her women provided. She fixed her sleeves as she approached him, ready to brush past and out the door, but his hand found her upper arm and yanked her back towards his side, “I can walk just fine.”
Ophelia had attempted to follow at her heels but was stopped by his sharp stare, holding up his free hand at her, “Ah-ah, not you— you are to stay here.”
They shared a brief look, Lysara’s head slowly turning to look up at him, “Do you think I would have you bolt off and lie to my men again?” He asked, his head lowering to speak so closely she flinched at the feeling of his breath on her neck, “I will not have you making false promises, seducing my men like the witch you are.”
Of all the knights in the Eyrie, Lysara had found his presence to be the most unsettling — ever since she had been a child, she could recall memories of the utter terror he had instilled in her; terrified and cowering behind her father’s back whenever he had entered a room. She recalled a brief moment in her youth when she had felt comfortable with him, enough that as a child, she had almost considered him to be a friend — but in her adolescence, she had noticed a sudden shift. A new hostility that had appeared overnight, and suddenly he was no longer a sense of comfort, but rather something she tried her absolute best to avoid — she felt as though it was the opposite for him, however, seeking her out instead to look down upon her and belittle her at every turn or opportunity he could find the excuse of. And yet again, she found herself being manhandled by him, dragging her like a spoiled child on display through the halls as she was pulled out of the room quickly before she could even process the movement; her eyes anxiously glancing around her to watch as the house staff lowered their eyes as they passed. Her face burned in embarrassment as she grabbed her skirt to lift it out of her path, barely avoiding tripping over her own feet in attempt to keep up with his pace — despite her obvious struggle to match his pace, he jerked her forward when she fell behind a few steps too many, stumbling onto the first step of the stairs that descended towards the front entrance.
She’d yet to see anyone of importance, neither her cousin nor the Lord Stark himself despite her prayers that one would appear before them in that moment and intervene like some saviour sent by the gods, her eyes briefly lifting from her feet to scan the entrance, lit by the midday sun that streamed in through the front doors. It would have been a beautiful day, with the soft breeze, and the gentle chirp of birds that filled the fields. Lysara would have spent her day in the yard, reading, and basking in the day until the early signs of dusk began to blanket the Eyrie — she would remain out of the way of the council and guards who hovered, away from trouble and otherwise distracted from the worrying thoughts about Gareth that had haunted her for two nights. But instead, she was forced towards the grand hall where the only noise was the soft hum of chatter between her cousin and the stranger she had only heard of through stories, their voices slipping under the doors as she caught her breath.
The doors were soon opened upon her arrival, her head turning to look back towards the room that stood, towering before her, “My Lady,” Ser Herrold announced in greeting, releasing her arm with a subtle shove forward, “Lady Lysara, as you requested.”
Jeyne remained seated, staring at her with a slow blink, her expression blank. To her right, Cregan stood to greet her, hands planted against the table as they all fell silent.
Lysara froze under her cousin’s gaze, heaving for air as her head quickly dipped with the curtsy she offered, her eyes pinned to the floor at the edge of her shoes, “Thank you, Ser Herrold,” Jeyne said after a beat, “Come, join us.”
She turned to look behind her where the second knight who had been quiet stood, his eyes catching hers for a moment. His head lowered in a single subtle nod, averting his gaze.
Her eyes timidly lifted back in front of her, standing upright and blinking rapidly. She could feel his eyes on her even without turning to face him, bearing into her as he sat back in his chair — Ser Herrold’s feet shuffled from behind her, following closely behind as she reluctantly entered and approached the seat closest to her cousin; the hair on the back of her neck prickling with anxiety as she let out a quiet sigh, each of his steps masking the sound of hers with the heavy clank of his armour, “Tell me, Lady Jeyne,” Cregan suddenly said, his voice a smooth, low rumble that was thick with accent, “Do your men make a habit of manhandling women like children do toys?” He asked, his index finger tapping against his chalice as his gaze had darted towards her.
Her gaze had followed their movements as Lysara approached, hearing as the knight came to an abrupt stop, “No,” She stiffly replied. Her hand lifted in a subtle wave to dismiss the knight who scowled, begrudgingly backing towards the furthest corner he could hide himself in, “Ser Herrold is just an overly cautious man.”
She noted the evident edge to her tone, her eyes fixed on him with a narrowing of her eyes -- she wanted for her to see his behaviour and acknowledge it for what it was. See him for the bully he was and say something; offer some sort of punishment or scolding, but she was silent. Her mouth twitched, like words were on the tip of her tongue and threatening to breach the surface as her chin lifted, glancing between him and Lysara once -- somewhere, she knew she could have pieced it together. She could see something. But instead, she was silent and lowered her chin.
Lysara looked over her shoulder as she leaned into her chair by her hands, sliding it out enough to slip into it and sit, her eyes finding the annoyed expression of the knight. Her attention only shifted at the sound of his chalice being set down from across the table after a slow sip, “He’s a funny way of showing it,” Cregan muttered.
Her hands smoothed over the lap of her dress, allowing a servant to bring forward a flagon of wine and offering it to the cup in front of her — she nodded encouragingly as her nerves seem to ramp up, rearing its ugly head in her face as her stomach churned, the room silent aside from the sound of the drink being poured, “Thank you,” Lysara quietly said, dismissing the girl who had come forth.
“Lady Lysara has a history of sneaking off and getting herself into trouble, My Lord,” Ser Herrold said aloud.
Her eyes lifted, her hands stuck to her lap as she met his gaze; a shade that resembled the stormy grey skies that hung over the Eyrie in the spring, his expression plain of any trace of emotion — utterly still as he stared across at her, unflinching and unwavering as his eyes flickered in the direction of the man who spoke.
“I was not speaking to you,” He said, his head turning just enough to crane his attention towards him with his sharp tone, looking at him from the corner of his eye.
She felt a swell of self-satisfaction for once as his mouth snapped shut, stunned and humiliated as his face flushed, “My sincere apologies, my lord, I only meant…”
“And yet you continue,” Cregan interrupted.
Lysara reached for her cup, bringing it to her mouth to conceal the smile that threatened to make its appearance, smug as the guard cleared his throat and nodded with his head lowered, “She is a woman, not a war criminal, Ser Herrold.”
She noted the subtle irritation in his voice as he reached towards his plate, picking a grape that had been placed there and plucking it from the dish — he eyed it for a moment, “Do you care for more wine, Lord Stark?” Jeyne asked, her right hand rising to wave forward the girl who hovered with the flagon, watching as she hurried forward readily to refill his cup.
He dropped the grape back on the plate and covered his cup to stop her, his mouth pursing into something that could have resembled a stiff smile in the direction of the girl who meekly nodded and withdrew again. The silence that befell them again was one of tension that could have been cut through with a knife, her gaze darting to her cousin. She swallowed.
“Lord Stark here was just telling me about his journey here,” Her cousin suddenly said, reaching for her knife and fork, beginning to cut into the duck on her plate. Her cousin shared a look with her, looking between her and the Lord who was quiet, her head slightly turning as a young servant boy brought forward a plate of duck for Lysara.
“Might I too ask, to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?” She softly asked, her voice hoarse as she absentmindedly picked at her nails in her lap. The thought of food was nauseating, her left hand lifting to cover her mouth for a moment, suppressing the shudder that fought to rip through her.
“He marches towards the West I believe,” Jeyne answered.
“Oh?”
His gaze had flickered towards her cousin, mouth pressed into a thin line that was a telltale of his annoyance — irritated by the trend of speaking above or for him, “On behalf of the heir to the iron throne, Rhaenyra Targaryen— I have two thousand men who will soon go to battle under her command along the Lakeshore. I only mean to lead them there in three days' time,” he quietly explained, looking at her, “there they will meet the Kingmaker and his men, at which time I plan to return to Winterfell, where my duties are.”
Lysara’s breath caught in her throat as she met Cregan's gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. The room seemed to shrink, the tension building like the thick storm clouds gathering outside. Jeyne, ever composed, set down her utensils, a calculating look crossing her face.
“The Kingmaker,” Lysara repeated slowly, the name spoken with a mix of reverence and disdain, “You speak of Criston Cole, yes?”
Cregan nodded, his eyes still locked on hers, “Yes, my lady.”
Jeyne leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes observing the subtle exchange between them. “And so you come to the Eyrie for what, Lord Stark? To gather more men? To seek counsel?”
Cregan’s gaze finally broke away from Lysara, shifting to Jeyne, “I come to ensure that the Vale remains loyal to its oaths. To remind House Arryn of its duty to the realm and to secure safe passage through your lands.”
Jeyne's lips curled into a faint smile, her tone measured, “The Vale is loyal, Lord Stark. You need not worry about that.”
Lysara dropped her hand to her lap, feeling the undercurrents of power play between them. She could sense Jeyne’s mind working, considering the implications of Cregan’s words. The Vale’s loyalty was unwavering, but it was not without its own interests.
“I trust that it is,” Cregan replied, his voice steady, though his eyes flicked back to Lysara, as if searching for something in her expression, “But it is not only loyalty that concerns me.”
Jeyne raised an eyebrow, “Oh? And what else?”
Her gaze lowered to the dish in front of her, the scent of its content wafting towards her nose as she let out a slow, steady breath through parted lips. In the edge of her vision, she watched as his hand clenched into a fist, relaxing after a moment, “You and I share commonalities — both in our loyalty to our houses’ and duties, the way we lead,” he said, words short and clipped, “I hope to be able to establish a union between our houses, one between the East and North, one that could benefit us both.”
She reached out to collect her fork and knife as she listened, one ear attentive to his every word and slowly cutting into the meal in front of her. The pause in his statement prompted her to glance towards her cousin who had taken a break from her task, seemingly weighing his words.
“Despite the circumstances of my visit, I hope that my presence is the first step in that very direction,” He added.
Her gaze lingered, trying to gauge her reaction as she took a piece of the duck between her teeth, watching as the corner of her mouth twitched. She let out a short hum, forcing a thin smile in his direction and lifting her chin, a breath being exhaled through her nose as Jeyne gave him a nod, “We would be greatly honoured to be allied alongside your house, Lord Stark.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
She had dreaded the moment supper was done — as soon as it was over, she knew she would be back within the walls of her room for however long, until things blew over and Jeyne had forgiven her, and finally allowed her to return to being a contributing member of society. She would go insane, memorising every crack in the wall, every chip in the floor, and only come out for the necessities.
Dinner came and went quickly, silent enough that she could hear every drag of Jeyne’s utensils against the plate as she ate, setting her nerves on edge. Every so often, she caught a pair of eyes on her, grey and bored as he occasionally picked at the fruit on his plate — she assumed the only reason he stayed as long as he had was for the sake of respect and decency, only excusing himself once Jeyne was finished.
She walked behind them, close on their heels as they departed the hall, her hands folded in front of her and flicking her attention between them. There was a low hum of discussion that passed between them, polite pleasantries regarding dinner and ensuring Cregan was comfortable with his accommodations; despite her cool demeanour, Jeyne never failed to play the hospitable host. She had taken after her father that way. Gracious enough to treat her guests with warmth and open arms, but cautious and calculated enough to always be a step ahead.
“I do hope House Arryn is as much home to you as Winterfell while you are with us,” Jeyne said with a finality to her words, ceasing her walk as they neared the hall that split between the stairs to their wing and the west hall. Her hands clasped in front of her, “Should there be anything you require, please…I would like to see to it that you have everything you need.”
His head turned to look down the hallway, giving her a slow nod in reply. Jeyne’s shoulder nudged hers as she let out a breath, turning to look at her and raising her eyebrows, “We will let you get settled then, Lord Stark. Lysara?”
Her eyes flickered between him and her cousin once, watching as she was dismissed with a subtle tilt of her cousin’s head, Ser Herrold’s hand readily prepared to pull her back to her chambers — his fingers wrapped around her elbow as she gave a curt nod to her cousin.
Cregan turned his head back, “Actually…” He said, his eyes falling to Herrold’s hand, “I was hoping Lady Lysara and I might go for a walk.”
As his eyes lifted to meet hers, she noted the lack of room for objection as he spoke, his tone lacking something of suggestion and rather, an order that she felt no reason to argue against. She saw the look of confusion in her cousin’s eyes as she stepped away from Herrold’s grasp with a slow, drawn out breath, “Of course,” She replied. It was then that the thought crossed her mind to look at her cousin again, gathering her skirts and imploring her approval, “unless you require my presence, cousin…” Her words were slow and cautious, her voice soft as Cregan extended an elbow to her.
Jeyne hesitated, her left eye twitching, “No, I do not.”
She accepted his elbow, her hand sliding around it as she stepped toward him; the heat of Ser Herrold’s presence still radiating from behind her. She heard him step forward as Jeyne turned and began to ascend the stairs, while he instead followed her steps, Cregan’s head turning just enough to eye him from the corner of his eye, “We do not require a chaperone.”
His mouth opened, prepared to argue, but silenced as Jeyne spoke from the stairs, “Ser Herrold,” She firmly called to him, “I think we shall see Lady Lysara and Lord Stark first thing in the morrow, yes?”
She could see his annoyance, clear as ever in his face as he let out a huff, staring at the pair of them; though even she looked closely, in his eyes, she could see a twinkle of fear when he found Cregan’s cool gaze, wavering for a moment. Her male companion, in contrast, was calm and collected, unfazed as he held his stare for a moment before Ser Herrrold broke it by turning away. His feet carried him up the stairs ahead of Jeyne, her own softer ones following his after one last glance to Lysara, her stare sharp with an unspoken warning.
A silence befell the hall as she retreated, her men at her side and following her up the stairs, giving them not one last look before they disappeared from view, leaving her alone in his presence. It was then that she finally exhaled a breath, a sigh of relief and relaxed, her head lowering to look down at her feet, “We do not have to go anywhere, if you do not wish it,” Cregan quietly stated.
She looked up at him, startled by the softness of his voice, “If you would rather be abed, I will not force you to keep me company.”
His eyes darted to look over her head and up the stairs where her cousin had retreated only moments earlier, before looking down at her again. She frowned in obvious confusion, “Do you not wish to walk?”
His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile at the left corner as his lips parted, a low breathy sound that resembled a laugh leaving him. His eyes lowered, “Only if you wish,” He said, lifting his gaze.
“If you did not wish to walk, then what…” She asked, her voice drifting off, “what did you want?”
“To be rid of Ser Herrold,” Cregan plainly admitted.
Lysara blinked, digesting Cregan’s words. For a moment, her confusion melted into something warmer—an unexpected sense of freedom. Her hand remained loosely tucked around his arm as they stood there, the hall’s silence pressing down on them.
“You wanted to be rid of him?” she repeated, half in disbelief.
Cregan’s lips twitched again, a flicker of amusement, “Aye. His hovering becomes tiresome. I’d hoped for a moment without his shadow looming over us.”
Lysara’s gaze flicked toward the stairs where her cousin had disappeared. The subtle pulse of power in his voice caught her off guard, reminding her that Cregan Stark wasn’t just any northern lord.
“I see,” she finally said, her voice steady, “Well, you’ve succeeded. Ser Herrold won’t trouble us tonight.”
There was a pause, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Lysara found herself searching Cregan’s expression, but his face remained impassive, save for the glint in his eyes. She felt the cool air settle around them, and the moment stretched longer than either expected.
“Shall we walk, then?” she asked, feeling the weight of his gaze on her.
Cregan inclined his head slightly, “Only if you wish, my lady.”
Lysara hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded, gently tugging at his arm. Together, they turned and began to walk, their footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor. The tension lingered in the air, but there was something else too—a quiet understanding, forged in the absence of prying eyes. The court was silent beyond the soft rustle of her skirts and the echo of his boots as they paced the halls, lit by the sinking sun that was slowly retreating behind the horizon, her eyes turned out over the fields that seemed to stretch on forever -- her mind had wandered in the silence, reflecting on the past few days, her fingers pressing into his forearm.
She was grateful he did not force conversation, or feel the need to fill the space between them with meaningless conversation. For the first time in days, she was comforted by the silence that allowed her to sort through her thoughts without any unnecessary interruptions.
Her thoughts wandered to Gareth, the image of his face burned into her memory as she forced him into the bush. His look of despair, helpless as he crouched and waited -- she wondered how long he was trapped in the bush before it was safe. Had he followed them? Or had he turned and sprinted back to his house as soon as it was clear? Had he tried to write to her since? Her injured ankle throbbed at the thought.
She hoped that he was safe at the very least.
“I apologise if my visit has caused some tension between you and your lady cousin,” He stated.
A cool breeze blew through the windows of the corridor, her mouth turning up in a melancholic smile as she turned her head away from him. Her right hand swung beside her side, brushing along the skirt of her dress as she let out a deep sigh, “It is not your presence, you need not apologise.”
There was a pause in their conversation, his eyes following hers to the still yards, “I only mean to establish a union between our houses,” he continued, “our fathers were friends in their youth, even closer in their later years…they would have wanted for us to be friends, too.”
“Did you know my father well?”
She turned to look up at him, watching as he gave a stiff nod, “I knew him enough to respect the man he was,” Cregan said, his voice low and thoughtful. “We met during a few councils, exchanged words on occasion… He spoke of you often.”
He paused, his eyes searching hers as if gauging how much to share, “But no, I did not know him well enough to claim a close bond. I only wish I had,” His tone softened.
She let out a laugh, a huff of air through her nose as she withdrew her hand from his elbow and planted her palms against the windowsill, leaning into it by her waist. Her chin lifted, breathing in the fresh air, any remaining tension that had settled into her bones melting away with the familiar sounds of the vale. Her head lowered after a moment, recalling the memories of her father and their many conversions— a lifetime of discussions and jokes they had shared. She tried to pick through the conversations over supper in which he spoke of the Lord Stark and his young son, “Were you close with my brother?” She suddenly asked.
She heard a low chuckle, short and resembling a choked snort as he briefly looked away, his attention turning down the hall they had come from, “We…met briefly,” He replied, his voice quiet; turning to face the window she had placed herself in, mirroring her position to look outwards, “I would not say we were close, however.”
She craned her head to look at him, trying to make sense of his reply and his tone— there was an edge to it she could not quite put her finger on, but it was clear to her nonetheless that he was not keen on the subject of her brother that piqued her curiosity. Her mouth opened, wanting to press further, but she settled on stopping herself before she overstepped.
Cregan’s eyes shifted to scan the court they looked over, House Arryn’s high walls obstructing the view she knew was beyond the high walls that fenced them in — luscious fields of soft grass and beautiful flowers she’d loved picking as a girl on the other side of it. It was as though he sensed her eyes still on him, turning to look at her and raising his eyebrows, a moment passing between them that was filled by a comfortable quiet; filled only by the sounds of the bugs that chirped with life from the yards.
There was a subtle shift in the air around them, suddenly aware of the little space that existed between them as her gaze reflexively lowered to his chest where her attention landed on the familiar sigil of his house. The outline of a wolf, proud and powerful. Cregan moved, a small and subtle action, as his right hand planted against the windowsill beside hers; the heat he naturally radiated felt against her skin, even through his gloves. Her breath hitched, clearing her throat as the air caught there, nearly choking her.
“You know, he spoke very highly of you,” Lysara admitted, redirecting their attention as she withdrew her left hand from alongside his to rest against her ribs, cradling her side.
“Your father?”
She looked up again, offering him a polite smile, “I think he always hoped my brother would share your likeness,” She said, pausing before speaking again, “Arrnold didn’t take to swordsmanship.”
There was a hint of a smile, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he gave another small nod, “I do recall.”
Again, she noticed, there was a hint of his knowing of her brother. She blinked, “How…”
“My lady,” A young voice interrupted, greeting them. She turned away from the window, stepping away from his side and finding the guard who she quickly recognised from earlier. The young guard who stood a few feet back, bowing his head as he then seemed to notice Cregan’s presence, “My lord…I apologise for my intrusion.”
He had been present with Ser Herrold in his task to drag her to supper. She stiffened, awaiting his next words, “A letter has arrived by raven,” he explained, Lysara’s confusion evident as he stepped forward and presented her with a neatly rolled scroll, struggling to recognise the gold seal that closed it.
“Who is it from?” She asked, eyeing it.
The guard looked behind her, looking at Cregan who idly stood by, hesitating to answer. His words were slow and quiet, low enough that even she could hardly hear him, “I…do not know, my lady.”
She let out an annoyed sigh, breaking the seal and beginning to seek out any identifying details. Her gaze darted up one last time as the guard began to retreat, his stare lowering from hers as she narrowed her eyes at him; she looked over her shoulder at Cregan who had turned to face her, witnessing the interaction with a shared look of scepticism. She moved slowly, unravelling the parchment to reveal the letter inside, allowing the guard to leave with no interference, her head inclined to the side as her eyes scanned the messily scrawled writing.
Lysara,
My love.
I am safe, hidden beyond reach. Meet me in two days' time at midnight, where the trees meet the stream. I must see you.
do gareth and ser herrold have a faceclaim? I don't know who to imagine them as lmaoo
I haven’t found a face for Ser Herrold yet but you best believe I’ll be posting it asap once I have the fancasting fully established, but as for Gareth Royce — Lorenzo Richelmy 🫶 hopefully yall are content with this idea
