Invisible String - Cregan Stark

Eight~ Shadows

Visenya

The fire in my chamber had guttered out to embers, and the furs piled on my bed had grown cold. Morning light bled pale through the windows, grey and soft as ash.

I had not slept long. My mind had been restless since the night before— since the balcony, the stars, the silence that had said more than words could.

I remembered the feel of cold stone beneath my palms, the smell of snow on the wind, and how the moonlight had glowed in Cregan's eyes.

We had spoken of gardens and laughter and a single day ten years gone, when we had been too young to understand the promises we gave each other.

And then— the rings. Small, worn things, no finer than trinkets, yet heavy with meaning. I had kept mine as a secret, a relic of something foolish and sweet. To find that he had done the same... it was like watching the world shift beneath my feet.

No thunder, no great cry of revelation. Only warmth, steady and certain, slipping into me as gentle as dawn light.

Now, with snow brightening beyond the window and Winterfell wrapped in silence, I felt something softer stirring inside me— something loosening.

I had worn a kind of armor all my life, not of steel, but silence. I was the quiet one, the strange one. My words chosen, my face intimidating.

But Cregan has never tried to take it from me.

He merely waited.

He's remembered things no one else has — a ring, a joke made a decade ago.

In his presence I did not need to impress or guard. I could simply be.

And being, for once, did not feel like danger. It made me realize I have built my walls so high so no one could get in, that now I was having a hard time getting out myself.

There was still a part of me that ached to flee— to mount Merrax and vanish into the sky, to where no one could follow. Not even him. Especially him.

I sat at the edge of my bed, hair unbound, my fingers toying with the ring on my hand. The morning was still grey, the world holding its breath, when a knock broke through my thoughts.

It was brisk. Hesitant.

A guard's voice followed, muffled by the thick oak door.

"Princess? Forgive the early hour... but your dragon...she's on the wall."

I blinked. "On the wall?"

"She... climbed it, my lady. The southern rampart. The men posted there said she's been pacing since first light. Tail lashing and restless."

There was a pause, and then—more quietly—

"They say she growled at one of the sentries who tried to approach. Not hurt, but shaken."

I sighed, rising to my feet with a sharp exhale. Of course.

I hadn't gone to see her this morning. Merrax's patience has faded with the sunrise.

I crossed the room quickly, grabbing my book and tugging my riding leathers into place with practiced movements. I've spent the past few days exploring, feasting, poring over maps and histories with Cregan by firelight — and in the quiet of that closeness, I had neglected Merrax for a single morning.

Just one.

But to Merrax, that was too many.

I made my way to the oak door, and stopped when I saw my reflection in the glass— a pale ghost, eyes too bright, mouth too knowing. And I couldn't help but think I am changing.