Invisible String - Cregan Stark

Twenty two~ Talion

For a moment, loyalty had filled the room.

And then it was gone.

All that remained was blood, moonlight, and grief heavy enough to break the world.

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The day did not hurry me.

From the moment dawn broke, Mother did not allow me beyond the reach of her presence. Her hand found my shoulder whenever I drifted too far. Her eyes followed me even when her attention was claimed by others. I felt her watching, vigilant, as though she feared I might slip away if she looked aside for even a breath.

Jace was no different.

He did not touch me—not as the younger ones did—but his watchfulness was constant all the same. His gaze stayed fixed upon me or my wrapped arm, sharp and unblinking, as if sheer will might keep me tethered to the world.

And the little ones—gods, the little ones.

Joffrey had slept pressed against my side through the night, his small fingers twisted into my sleeve as though I were something solid in a world that had suddenly revealed how easily it could shatter.

Little Aegon and Viserys hovered near me since, quieter than I had ever known them, clinging with the instinctive certainty that something terrible had nearly taken me away. They followed my steps like shadows, careful not to let the distance between us widen.

The burial passed as if I were wading through deep water. Words were spoken. Prayers murmured. Earth turned. I remember Mother's hand tightening around mine when the names were spoken—Erryk and Arryk. Twins in birth. Twins in death.

When the mourners finally departed, their footsteps swallowed by stone and dark, Mother lingered. I felt her hesitation like a weight between my shoulders. She studied my face closely, searching for some sign—fracture, perhaps, or the echo of that moment she could not unsee.

At last, she let me go.

She pressed her forehead briefly to mine, fierce and quiet all at once, and whispered something I did not quite hear.

Jace hesitated too, jaw tight, eyes still locked on my face. Only when Mother laid a hand on his arm did he turn away, and even then he gave me one final look—heavy with everything he did not know how to say.

They returned to the walls of Dragonstone together.

All but Eliab.

He remained close enough that I could feel his presence without needing to look, yet far enough to grant me solitude. Mother trusted him.

Now there was only wind, the scent of turned earth, and the low hush of the sea far below the cliffs.

One grave lay before me. Two bodies lay within it.

I stepped closer, my boots sinking slightly into the softened soil. Erryk. Arryk. Brothers bound by blood, torn apart by duty, reunited by death. They had been laid side by side, as they had begun—together.

My father's lyre rested against my thigh, familiar and strange in equal measure. My fingers hovered above the strings. I had spoken enough words in the past days to last a lifetime. Words had failed me in chambers slick with blood. They had failed me at pyres and processions and graves dug too quickly.

Music had not yet failed me.

I brushed my fingers across the strings.

The first note came thin and uncertain, like a breath drawn after too much sobbing. I winced—not in pain, but in recognition. The lyre answered me honestly. I steadied my grip, slowed my breathing, and tried again.