Kiss a man (or slit his throat) - herofumi (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

There was a soft, plaintive sob.

Aeron could hear it over the clash of swords, a heart-wrenching sound that pierced through the chaos. "I am sorry, I am sorry," the voice repeated, strangled and pained. "Come on, Bracken. Stay with me. Please."

He felt hands pressing against his skin, felt his clothes cling to his body, soaked through with the warmth of his own blood. It was warm, so warm, and the pain was strange, a haunting mix of agony and numbness. His lips parted, and a broken whimper escaped, a mournful sound that silenced the voice above him, before the hands returned, cradling his face with desperate tenderness.

Warm hands, strong hands, rough hands.

Is this death? He wondered. Am I dead?

Aeron could not see, could not open his eyes, and even if he could, he knew he wouldn't need to. The scent of blood was overwhelming, putrid, and metallic, clinging to him. He could feel its sticky thickness on his fingers, could sense its life slipping away from him. The wound in his lower abdomen flared back to life, sending waves of unbearable agony through him, and he nearly screamed.

"Bracken?" the voice rose again, cutting through the fog in his mind. "Can you hear me?" It trembled with emotion, raw and aching. Aeron’s mind drifted, caught between two worlds, tethered only by the voice calling him back, pleading with him to stay. The hands held him, gentle yet insistent, grounding him in the present, in the moment, in the pain.

Until all that remained was him, the sorrowful sobs, and the feeling of warmth slipping away, like sand through his fingers.

Another sharp wave of pain coursed through his body.

Aeron’s breath hitched, a ragged sob escaping his lips. His hands fisted in the dirt, (the blood and flesh), nails digging into the ground as if he could anchor himself through sheer will, but the earth offered no solace, only cold indifference.

"F-f*ck, thank the Gods, you're... you're alive!"

Barely, he wanted to say, but he could hardly move his lips, the ache too overwhelming. His body was suddenly lifted, cradled against a strong chest, and he winced before relaxing into the touch. Every last one of his nerves screamed in agony, his heart ached, and his soul felt fractured, like shards of broken glass.

Instinctively, he leaned closer.

The hands under his knees tightened, as if afraid he might slip away and vanish into the ether. Aeron parted his lips and whispered, weakly, "Da...vos?" The firm hands tightened again, trembling slightly.

"You're good, I'm here," Davos said. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry, Aeron."

Aeron leaned closer, desperate to fuse with the warmth of the body against his, hoping it might seep deep into his core, merge and tangle, and never, ever leave, but with every movement, more blood gushed from his wound. He tried to focus on the heartbeat throbbing against his ear, a desperate rhythm as his own pulse slowed to a mournful whisper.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

He clung to that sound, the cries of battle growing distant, replaced by the intimate sounds of heartbeats. Thud, thud, thud. Each beat a promise, a plea, a desperate hope that he could be a little stronger, feel a little more, hold on to this moment just a little while longer.

But the warmth was slipping away, the edges of his vision darkening, and he could feel the cold creeping back in, relentless and unforgiving. He drew a shuddering breath, his grip tightening one last time before his strength gave out entirely, and he was left with nothing but the fading echo of that heartbeat.

Thud ... thud ... thud.

"Davos! What are you doing?" A muffled voice suddenly shouted. "That is a bloody Bracken!"

Davos was forced to stop running.

"He's f*cking dying," he spat with enough venom and animosity to fuel an army. "Move out of my f*cking way!"

Aeron wanted to say that it mattered little if a boy was dying, let alone a Bracken, and even less the nephew of the Lord of Stone Hedge. The one who first drew his sword, the one who had started it all, but his voice failed him. He is right, you should leave me to perish. All these men are dying because of me.

There is a debt to be paid.

War is an ugly thing.

A greedy one, it takes and it takes and it takes, leaving naught but ruin in its wake. Men rode to war to defend a lord, a king, or a queen, but a battle fueled by hatred and the poison of generations past was more devastating still. It took more than war itself, for it was personal. The thirst for vengeance was the ugliest of creatures, a monster fed by a hatred that rivaled the fury of the gods. A seething wound that festered, growing larger and larger, and above all, a sin—the gravest of them all.

Aeron was a sinner.

His pride had led them here.

Yet, when one of the Blackwood men was about to drive his sword through his throat, to make him pay for his sins and his pride, Davos had stabbed the attacker from behind.

Because was there any bigger sin than love? Perhaps not. Perhaps there was. He did not yet know if he would live long enough to find the answers.

The rustle of grass whispered secrets, and the wind, tender and cold, caressed his skin. Aeron felt the chill seep into his bones, but it was fleeting. The warmth of Davos's arms surrounded him, a fragile border, like the one they often fought over. Before the numbness claimed him, he whispered one last time, "Davos," a lament for all that was and all that could never be.

Then he stopped feeling anything at all.

Aeron jolted awake, gasping for breath, his heart hammering in his chest.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

Alive and loud and unbearable.

Sweat drenched his brow, and his hands trembled as he pushed away the heavy furs tangled around him. The room was freezing, but he felt as if he were burning up, his skin clammy and slick. He sat up abruptly, nearly falling off the edge of the bed, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

The sudden pain in his lower belly was ferocious. It made him gasp and fall back onto the bed.

"Steady, Ser," a familiar voice advised. "You're wounded."

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

The light was dim, flickering, casting long and eerie shadows on the rough-hewn stones of the room. His vision was hazy, but he could make out the silhouette of someone leaning over him. Aeron blinked, his gaze darted around, wild and disoriented, and soon enough, the walls, the small wooden table cluttered with medical supplies, as well as the face hovering above him all came into focus.

A girl was looking at him, her kind eyes lined with concern. Aeron recognized her, for he had met her in this inn when he was sixteen and his friends had judged it the best moment to initiate him to the pleasures of manhood. Aeron barely enjoyed it, as he had come to learn, he wasn't all that much interested in women. But he liked inns. They were familiar, hospitable, and felt like home.

("They call me Sara, Ser," she spoke softly, "I serve meals, tidy the tables once men depart, and ensure rooms and linens are pristine. Mostly, I pour wine, my kind Ser."

He had smiled. "You're not unlike some squires, then, are you?")

Aeron let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Sara...?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and unsteady, bleeding through his dry throat.

"Yes, Ser," the girl simply replied, dabbing a cloth soaked in a pungent solution on his wound. "You've been through quite an ordeal."

"How did I get here?" he rasped, wincing as more pressure was applied to his wound.

"The Blackwood lad brought you here," she replied without looking up from her work. "Said you were injured in battle and needed immediate attention. You’ve been here for two days, Ser.”

Two days. Memories of the battle flooded back to him, his mind struggling to piece together the events that had led him here—the chaos, the clash of swords, the searing pain of his wound, and then... nothing. “What happened?” he asked, struggling to sit up. His forearms gave way, and he sank back onto the bed.

A frustrated lament escaped from his lips.

Sara moved to his side, gently pressing him back down. “Please, do not move. You were gravely injured. A weirwood arrow, I believe. You were brought here under the cover of night. The battle was... costly.”

Aeron winced once more. “And the others?”

The girl's expression grew somber. “Lord Samwell Blackwood fell in single combat against Lord Amos Bracken. Your uncle, Raylon Rivers—may the Seven grant him rest—perished soon after, struck by the same arrow that brought you down. The mill was burned. I heard men talking about it all day, Ser; it was gruesome.”

Time seemed to freeze for a fleeting moment. Aeron felt the world grow silent around him, the words he had just heard echoing in his mind like the haunting whispers of Harrenhal.

Your uncle perished soon after, struck by the arrow that brought you down.

Your uncle perished soon after.

Your uncleperished .

Aeron's heart plummeted like a stone into the depths of his soul. It felt as though a dagger had been thrust into his chest, twisting and tearing until his entire being bled with agonizing clarity. If he were to die now, he thought, all that would remain of him would be a crimson-stained skeleton, a visceral red that seeped through every fiber of his being. Sour bile rose in his throat, acidic and burning, while suffocating guilt gripped his insides, hollowing him out until he felt nothing but an empty void in his gut.

The man he had squired for, the one who had looked after him, his uncle, lay dead. Many of their men had suffered the same fate. And for what? For whom? The battle had ignited because of him, he knew. It was his fault; he should never have shifted those boundary stones. He should never have spoken those two fateful words. Babe-killer, the accusation parroted relentlessly in his mind, babe-killer, babe-killer, babe-killer, babe-killer, babe-killer, babe-killer, babe-killer, babe-killer, babe-killer.

Was he any different? What was one infant's life compared to the slaughter of a hundred men? All sacrificed because he had drawn his sword first? Now his uncle was gone, and he remained, alive with the weight of unbearable guilt. He should have been the one to die, he thought, over and over again.

He had ridden into the fray, driven by the same hatred that had fueled his ancestors. But something had changed, something he couldn’t quite grasp. He remembered the chaos, the blood, the screams. And then... Davos. The memory was hazy, but he recalled Davos standing over him.

“Why did he save me?” he muttered, half to himself.

Sara blinked. "What?"

"Why did Davos Blackwood save me?" he repeated. "What could have driven him to such a reckless act?”

The girl paused her task, the white cloth in her hands drenched, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “I do not know, Ser Aeron. Perhaps he simply acted on impulse. In the heat of battle, men do strange things.”

"Where is he now?" he asked, his voice barely more than a feeble whisper.

"He's gone, Ser," Sara said. "Left soon after bringing you here. He didn't stay long enough for us to ask many questions. But he was worried if that is what you're asking."

He wasn't, but he was glad she had told him so. Aeron considered this, the memory of Davos’s dark, inscrutable eyes haunting him. “Do you think I can trust a Blackwood?”

He almost chuckled at the question. The familiar response came effortlessly: no, of course not. Never trust a Blackwood. Yet, a different thought had been haunting him for some time now, a notion he struggled not to entertain, something he couldn't bring himself to voice.

At his side, Sara struggled to conceal her smile, ever so soft, small, and genuine. Born of common stock, the feuds of high Lords held little sway over her, unlike the impact of their wars on her everyday existence. It was evident that life at the inn welcomed men from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms, be they Blackwood or Bracken. They did not care, nor did Sara.

“Trust is a rare commodity in these times, but actions speak louder than words. Davos risked his life to save yours. That must count for something.”

Aeron closed his eyes, she was right, and yet—"It was all for nothing," he murmured. There was something about this entire ordeal that loosened his tongue, allowing his thoughts to flow freely. Damn him. "So much death, and what for?"

“For loyalty,” Sara replied softly. “For honor. These are the things that define your people, even in the face of such tragedy. You told me so, once, do you recall?"

("Why did you want to become a knight, Ser?" she asked. The boy had been drunk, and giggling, struggling to even string together coherent words, but his answer so serious that it had caught her off guard.

"I want to serve my house and repay my uncle for his kindness. I squired for him, and he's always looked after me." He nodded earnestly. "I do it for honor, for loyalty. That's what defines my people.")

A bitter laugh escaped Aeron's lips at the memory. Loyalty? Honor? Words that seemed distant from his own reality. The choices he had made, the sins he had committed (the sins they had committed). Could he truly lay claim to loyalty after everything that transpired? His allegiance to his house felt like a betrayal of himself. Aeron couldn't decide which was worse, and if death had come for him, he would have been spared the torment of such questions.

He cursed Davos silently for all of this.

"You should rest now. Dinner will be brought to you later on tonight," Sara said. She gathered the dirty clothes and herbs, preparing to leave, when Aeron reached out painfully to grasp her arm. His cold fingers contrasted with her warm skin, causing her to startle.

"Wait," he hesitated, "I have no gold to pay for your kindness."

Sara's surprise softened into a smile. "Do not worry, kind Ser. Kindness is not measured in gold or silver. It's already been taken care of."

With that, she left him lying there on his bed, half undressed and still shivering.

But not from the cold, no.

Davos winced as the cold lotion seared his raw, bloodied skin, the rough hands applying it with harshness that felt more like punishment than healing.

"Shut your mouth," the man behind him growled, applying more of the stinging ointment, pressing more than necessary.

Davos gritted his teeth harder, tasting blood. He wanted nothing more than to drive his sword through the man's skull, carving away at his face until he was nothing but a lifeless heap of flesh. He wanted to silence him, to render him as useless as his fingers were at soothing the wounds on his back.

"Be careful, you damned bastard!" Davos snapped, shooting a venomous glare over his shoulder. "Or I'll gut you and dump your body in the river."

But Blackwoods weren't easily cowed by threats; Aeron might have been, Davos mused, but these men were seasoned warriors, toughened by years of battle and indifferent even to their own kin. Davos knew he could hold a sword to their throats and they wouldn't flinch—an understanding born of shared violence, vengeance, and unyielding loyalty to their cause.

Everything he hadn't been two days ago.

It had cost him dearly.

"I ain't kind to f*cking deserters, so keep quiet or I'll shove that sword up your arse and f*ck you bloody with it."

Davos suppressed another curse. Deserter —the word left a rancidtaste in his mouth. He was one now, damn lucky to still be breathing. His grin was wide but edged with bitterness and anger, fortunate indeed to escape with only fifteen lashes. How merciful Lord Benjicot Blackwood had been.

But Davos knew better than to mistake mercy for weakness. The losses at the Battle of the Burning Mill were heavy; they couldn't afford to hang men for desertion, no matter how grave the offense.

He still wondered if his cousin would have been as lenient if he knew that Davos had fled with a Bracken boy in his arms. Was the young lord truly as soft-hearted as they claimed?

He found that he did not care much.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

At the inn's threshold, Aeron stood, his body still bearing the marks of recent battle—limping, sword at his side. He held himself with the air of a seasoned knight, though inside, doubt and weariness gnawed at him. Four days under their roof was enough; he couldn't burden them further. Home beckoned, and he resolved to heed its call.

However, Sara's concern was palpable. She did not share his enthusiasm—or what little of it Aeron could muster, anyway. "Ser, you shouldn't. The wound is still fresh. You can't possibly—"

"I'll manage," Aeron interrupted firmly. "I have to return. My uncle must think me dead."

The journey back home would undoubtedly be arduous, but carriages and horses frequently passed along the road. If he was fortunate, one of them might allow him to hitch a ride without expecting anything in return. Aeron could tell Sara had considered this possibility too; it was written plainly on her face, as clear as the blue sky above them.

Yet a flicker of something unreadable crossed her eyes—fear, perhaps, or hesitation. She struggled with her words, uncertain and hesitant. "Do you... Do you think Lord Amos would understand?"

Confusion clouded Aeron's brow.

Understand what? He hadn't betrayed anyone. If anything, he expected relief at his survival, despite his injuries. (Why betrayal was the first thing that crossed his mind, he couldn't fathom.)

"Why wouldn't he?" He smiled, though it barely reached his eyes.

"It's just... Davos Blackwood returned to Raventree Hall, where I heard he was met with hostility."

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Of course. Davos—always Davos—reckless to the end, had faced punishment for rescuing him. But Aeron's uncle, a stern man of duty (grievance), might not see it as a rescue at all. "I didn't ask him to save me," he almost spat, defensive and coiled like a stray cat guarding its meal.

Or a snake around its prey. Ravenous.

Sara didn't flinch; her kindness persisted despite everything. "I know, Ser Aeron. But sometimes, honor isn't understood by those who value obedience over compassion."

Honor? Aeron thought incredulously. What honor could Davos possibly claim after saving an enemy? Blackwoods were treacherous kin, he knew, but now he had seen it, had lived it. Why would Davos save him? This wasn't honor. This was the vilest of vices, and he had spoiled them both with it.

You should have died, a voice whispered in his mind, punished by the Seven, punished by the Gods.

"I must go," he eventually said, steeling himself. "Thank you for your hospitality."

The girl nodded, handing him a saddlebag. "Please, take this with you." She had gathered what little she could spare—a loaf of bread, some dried meat, a waterskin filled with cool water. Aeron felt a pang of guilt for taking from those who had already given him so much, but Sara insisted. "It's the least we can do," she said quietly. "Ser Aeron, may the Seven watch over you on your journey home. And may your uncle see the truth in your return."

Aeron wasn't so sure, but he was a firm believer in the Seven, trusting they would enact what was necessary. If it meant punishment, he accepted it, hoping his soul would be cleansed once they were through with him.

As pure as the water that once flowed through the Red Fork, now tinged red, not just in name.

Itching, painful, insufferable, blistering hot— too hot. Davos couldn't emphasize enough the discomfort of his current situation. The stool beneath him was hard against his aching backside, utterly uncomfortable for someone bearing wounds of such severity. But then again, nothing in this place seemed suited for him.

"I had a nephew about your age who took the black," the innkeeper talked too much for his taste, his voice tainted with nostalgia, oblivious to the grimace of pain Davos couldn't help but show each time he patted him on the shoulder.

Oblivious to many things, it seemed.

Davos sipped his beer, barely paying attention, but the man carried on nonetheless. He had been kind, offering him a drink on the house. The tavern boasted a bathhouse, and he had taken advantage of that, too, savoring the hot water despite the soap stinging like a nest of vipers. A beer and a hot meal, stew, and bread—it was nice enough, but Davos wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. His back ached, and the disapproving or pitying looks from passing men didn’t help.

"He was a good lad, aye, that he was," the innkeeper continued. The old man was homely, with teeth so yellow he claimed to have caught a disease biting golden coins. He talked a lot, but his beer was the best Davos had ever had, so he half-listened. "He stole bread, and they punished him, poor boy. Castle Black wasn't for him; life there is too rough. But I thought he could handle it. When they said he deserted, I couldn't believe it."

That word again, and all that it entailed—deserted, deserter. Davos had heard it enough to drive the sanest of men to madness. If he heard it one more time, he might just rip out the speaker’s tongue. (Deserter, they call him. A fate worse than death, some say.)

"He was just a frightened boy, four and ten. He saw something and ran home," the innkeeper lamented, shaking his head. "Didn't deserve the axe for it. Lord Cregan Stark might hate oath-breakers most, but I thought he had enough sense. If they start beheading every lad who flees the Night's Watch, soon only ghosts will stand guard on the Wall."

Laughter erupted in the room at the words, tankards clattering on tables, and soon enough orders being barked out. Here, for another beer. There, for another bowl. Davos remained mostly silent, despite the old man's expectant gaze from behind the counter.

"What?" he eventually snapped, glaring. "Let me enjoy my beer in f*cking peace."

The innkeeper raised his hands in a placating gesture. "No offense meant, lad. Just speaking my mind. Seen my share of lads like you, running scared from one thing or another."

Davos huffed, taking a long pull from his tankard. The ale did little to soothe his frayed nerves. "I'm not running from anything," he spat, defensive and coiled like a dog with a bone.

Or a snake around its prey. Ravenous.

"Of course not," the innkeeper replied with a knowing smile, wiping down the counter with a rag. "Wouldn't expect a Blackwood to run from much. But desertion's a hard charge to shake, especially with those eyes of yours."

Then he turned away before the boy could ask any questions, attending to another patron further down the counter. The room buzzed with conversation, though a few curious eyes glanced in Davos's direction, whispers barely audible over the general din.

He took a long draw from his tankard, the bitterness of the ale mingling with the bitterness in his thoughts. Desertion. It clung to him like a shroud, a mark he couldn't wash away no matter how hard he scrubbed. Aeron's face suddenly flashed in his mind, the last time they stood together against the odds, (against each other). A flash of steel, the roar of battle, and then the aftermath—Aeron wounded, the battlefield empty save for corpses. Davos had saved him, but at what cost?

His gaze drifted to the window, his mind elsewhere.

("I... am a knight," Aeron choked out, a boy of two and ten, tears threatening to spill, clutching his arm in pain. His cheeks flushed red, lips forming a defiant pout.

Davos scoffed, meticulously cleaning the cut with a rag soaked in vinegar. "You're not a knight yet," he reminded him firmly, "Knights don't cry."

"It hurts!" Aeron snapped back, glaring at him with eyes that betrayed more vulnerability than fierceness. He resembled a drenched kitten rather than the formidable lord he imagined himself to be. "And knights can cry too!"

"Not this knight," the oldest huffed, proudly straightening up. "I won't be the kind of knight who blubbers like a babe in his mother's skirts."

"You can't be a knight if you don't follow the Faith of the Seven!"

"Nonsense! I don't need any God's favor to be a knight, unlike you. A true knight doesn't whine about every little scratch. They toughen up and keep going."

Aeron winced and flinched as the stinging antiseptic was applied to his wound, his body tensing involuntarily, proving the other right. "You're just jealous because I'll be a better knight than you ever will," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Davos smirked condescendingly at the bold claim. "Brackens are all the same—weak and whiny. No wonder your lot always loses to us Blackwoods."

"Blackwoods are nothing but arrogant fools, thinking they own everything just because of some old trees."

Davos was tempted to mention that there hadn't been any woods in Blackwood Vale for millennia, as the oaks had long been cleared for homes, mills, and holdfasts. Instead, he concentrated on wrapping the bandage around his arm.

"Brackens are all talk and no steel," he sneered, his hands moving skillfully despite his biting words. "I'd sooner trust a wild boar than a Bracken."

"At least Brackens have honor," Aeron shot back. "Not like Blackwoods, always sneaking about in the shadows." Davos's grip on the bandage suddenly tightened. He tugged on it, out of spite, and Aeron let out a plaintive cry, "Y-You bastard! That hurt!"

"You think you know about honor, Bracken?" he spat. "Your lot wouldn't know honor if it smacked you in the face." When the boy squirmed against his grasp, he tugged harder, "Hold still, unless you want me to do a worse job than I already am."

"I don't need your help! I could have done it myself."

That was a lie.

Davos snorted. "Right, and make it worse. You'd probably bleed out before you even found your way back to that sorry excuse for a castle you call home."

Aeron scowled but said nothing, biting back his pride.

After a few more minutes, the older boy finally stepped back.

"There," he said, wiping his hands on his tunic. "All done. Try not to get yourself killed before we meet on the battlefield."

Aeron cautiously tested his arm's mobility, rotating it with a grimace to assess the lingering discomfort. "When we meet on the battlefield, I will be a knight," he asserted. "Then I will kill you, and you won't even be able to blubber like a babe in his mother's skirts.")

"Knight, huh?" Davos muttered bitterly to himself. "Some knight."

The irony wasn't lost on him; in the end, he had been the one shedding tears. He was no knight, but what kind of man had he become—fleeing, breaking oaths, and turning his back on his own people, all for a Bracken boy he ought to despise? Well, irony or not, Davos would have preferred to pity his fate in solitude. But as he had learned from the innkeeper, men in these parts were oblivious, persistent, and certainly not his preferred company.

So when a stranger settled onto the stool beside him, eyeing him with a smirk, Davos let out a long, tired sigh. "Enjoying your drink alone, are you?"

He glanced at him, unimpressed, taking a deliberate sip from his beer before replying.

"A man can't have a moment's peace in this town?"

The lad chuckled, leaning closer. "Peace? Maybe. But secrets? Those have a way of finding their way out."

For the first time in four days, Davos felt a chilling dread seep through his entire body, freezing him in place—a sensation he hadn't known even during the lashes, the accusatory gazes, the relentless questioning. Instinctively, his hand found the knife in his sleeve, gripping it tightly, yet he maintained a composed exterior.

"What do you mean?"

The man's casual shrug belied a knowing glint in his eyes, one that Davos was eager to extinguish. "Just tales, you know. Stories of a Blackwood lad deserting his post," he drawled, "And fleeing with a Bracken boy."

The next part unfolded in the blink of an eye.

Tolerance wasn't Davos's forte; he possessed patience that could be strained when it came to insults, but it was easily broken by threats. Swift as thought, the knife in his grip found its way beneath the table, penetrating layers of fabric to a tender spot that promised excruciating pain. It was a warning, not yet a threat. Davos's eyes blazed, devoid of empathy or remorse, speaking a message: keep silent or suffer.

He could spill blood here in this tavern, consequences be damned.

"I'd advise caution, friend," Davos smirked, a wicked glint in his pupils, his tongue sliding over his teeth. "Spreading tales can be quite hazardous."

The man chuckled nervously. "O-Of course, of course. Just a thought, really." Yet his bravado held. "But I was just wondering, did Lord Benjicot know a-about your little escapade when he spared your life?"

Suddenly, Davos slammed the knife onto the stool, the blade sinking between the man's legs. Leaning in close, his voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "Lord Benjicot knows where my loyalties lie," he declared, his smile still intact, wild, and unnerving.

"Loyalty can be a precarious thing, especially with Brackens and Blackwoods involved. You have to agree."

If warnings were ineffective, Davos mused, his eyes flashing with primal intensity. With swift precision, he seized the man's wrist in a vicious grip, pulling him closer and pressing the knife's edge against his throat, just enough to draw a thin trickle of blood.

The man froze.

Now, this was a true threat.

"You're right," Davos muttered, his voice cold and deadly calm. "Loyalty is tricky. But you see, I've survived battles that would turn your guts to water. If you think Lord Benjicot's mercy makes me weak, you've sorely misjudged me."

The stranger's eyes widened in terror, his breath catching in his throat. Davos leaned closer, his gaze hungry— hungry for something that wasn't food, something scary, nasty.

"So here's what's going to happen," he continued softly, "You're going to remember this little chat. And you're going to think very carefully before you speak of things that don't concern you. Because the next time we meet, I might not be so forgiving."

"The two of you! None of that in here," the innkeeper suddenly shouted, eyeing them with a stern look that brooked no argument. "No bloodshed in my tavern!"

Davos's gaze flickered to him, his hand still gripping the knife with white-knuckled intensity. Slowly, he withdrew the blade, the metal glinting faintly in the candle light. He released the man, who fell back with a relieved gasp, clutching his throat where a small trickle of blood traced a path down his skin.

Oh, how Davos longed to slice open that pale throat.

After all, patience was never his virtue, nor forgiveness. Would it really hurt to terrify him one last time? Davos didn't think so. He was straightforward that way—enjoying the sight of fear in someone's eyes, especially when they had tried to frighten him first.

And, well, debts are meant to be repaid.

With a sudden, predatory movement, he fisted his shirt, bringing him closer once more. His voice was a low, dangerous growl that filled the space between them. "You listen here," he snarled, "If I ever hear you speak ill of me or mine again, I'll carve your tongue out and feed it to the dogs."

The man trembled visibly, nodding frantically. Davos held his gaze for a moment longer, then shoved him roughly away, making him stumble backward, nearly tripping over a stool in his haste to retreat.

Once he was out of sight, the Blackwood let out a heavy sigh.

A man really can't have a moment of f*cking peace in this town.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Davos didn't find much difficulty in admitting that there were gentler awakenings than a kick to the ribs.

Because, well, there certainly were.

In another life, he might even have woken to a fair maiden, riding him, satisfying his desires until he was sated, and then hungry—or the other way around. Davos always hungered for a hearty meal after a good f*ck, just as his blood was always boiling for a good f*ck after a hearty meal.

Granted, the woman hovering above him was fair, but she was his aunt, and Davos was a Blackwood, not a Targaryen. He let out a pained groan, turning on the hard floor where he had fallen asleep the night before, in the middle of Raventree Hall's corridor.

"Wake up, you fool," she spat, a girl of six and ten, younger than him but somehow bolder. (If that was even possible.)

"Good morrow to you too, Alysanne," he grunted, though a smirk tugged at his lips. He shielded his eyes from the light with one forearm.

The girl appeared displeased.

"Is this how you spend your free time? Sleeping like a drunkard in a tavern?"

It was too early in the morning for Davos to care much, and too late in the night it had been for him to seek out his room. He had found this spot quite convenient the evening before and would have found it just as convenient if his goody-two-shoes aunt hadn't kicked him awake as if he were a stray dog in her path.

Well, he was in her way, one way or another.

"Ah, what else is left for me to do?" Davos drawled, lazily rolling over. "Once, I diligently guarded our borders and patrolled our lands. Of course, that's all a bit impractical these days, what with them being strewn with bodies. Quite the inconvenience, wouldn't you say?"

She kicked him again, and he managed to catch her foot this time. With a deft twist, she squirmed free, narrowly avoiding smacking him in the face.

"We need strong hands to move the bodies. You should pitch in," she pressed.

"Hmph," he grunted. "And what's their grand plan?"

"They're burning them."

"That is foolish. Let them be. They'll return to the earth, where they rightfully belong."

Alysanne let out an exasperated huff, puffing out her cheeks. Most of the time, Davos had to admit she carried herself twice her age, but moments like these always reminded him just how youthful she truly was. "Those men were fathers, sons, and brothers! Show some damn respect, you idiot!"

Always the sharp tongue. Davos braced himself for another blow, readying his ribs and tensing his belly, but it never came. Instead, Alysanne simply sighed, her dark, raven-like eyes piercing his. Even from a reasonable distance, Davos could smell the woodsmoke clinging to her clothes like a cloak.

He lazily snorted at his own musings. It seemed every Blackwood had something trailing them like a hound, whether a scent or something far more ominous. Lately, when he looked at Benjicot, he glimpsed the ghost of his father in his shadow too, but a shake of his head could banish it as quickly as it appeared. Then his mind would be flooded again with memories of the boy who had brought him to this point.

Brackens were always such a nuisance.

Aeron wasn't known for complaining much.

At least, not any more than any other boy of eight and ten. Most of the time, he kept things to himself, that much he was taught. Then there were other times, times when he aired his grievances freely, often about the Blackwoods or the rough treatment of the stableboys towards the horses.

Today, however, wasn't one of those times. As the cart rumbled along the winding road, snaking through wooded islets and sandbars, a queasy unease churned in his stomach, and Aeron kept his complaints to himself. He despised it, of course, and felt like he was about to retch in the grass, but he consoled himself with the emptiness of the road and the lack of questions or demands for payment from the owner.

Still, he couldn't help but find it strange how sick he felt. He was a Bracken, for Seven's sake, he'd ridden horses that moved wilder than this and never had any trouble. Curiously, he reached up to touch his forehead and nearly groaned. His skin was burning, and clammy, with hair sticking to his face. He was sweating profusely and clearly not at his best.

He could only pray his wound hadn't somehow gotten infected. (Though, wouldn't that be fitting? An infected wound, festering and foul, just like him. He surely deserved it, no doubt.)

When the cart made another turn, Aeron halted it.

"I'll stop here," he announced, gripping his side with one hand and steadying himself with the other, determined to rise like a man rather than a cripple. The cart owner eyed him skeptically, scanning him up and down before surveying their surroundings.

"Here?"

"Here," he confirmed. Here—where the river ran crimson with blood. Here, where fields lay strewn with the fallen. Here, at the charred remains of the mill. Here, stood the boundary between their lands, where border stones had become the tombs of a graveyard.

Yes, here.

Aeron needed to witness for himself what he had wrought. He wanted to pray to the Mother, beseeching her mercy, and to the Smith, asking for strength.

("Those who feel like outcasts might light a candle for the Stranger.")

The teamster hesitated while scratching his chin nervously. "This ain't no place for a stop, m'lord," he said cautiously. "Dangerous ground 'round these parts, especially after dark. It's not a sight for the faint-hearted, bodies still lyin' about, and worse. Men say it's cursed, that place."

It was not so. The only cursed thing to tread those grounds must be him now, moving among the living as nothing more than a hollow shell. Sinful, sinful, a foolish little creature—he wasn't a man, just the semblance of one. He was convinced that everything he touched would turn to ashes.

"I can manage," he eventually said, his voice wavering slightly with the effort to remain composed. "I'll wait for my strength to return, then continue on foot if I must."

"Are you sure, lad?" the man inquired once more, casting a final glance at the long, somber river nearby. The boy nodded resolutely. With a shrug, the man conceded, "Take care, boy. It's a strange place to be dropping off."

Without so much as a word, Aeron stepped down from the cart, his boots sinking slightly into the muddy ground. He took a deep breath, wincing as the sharp pain shot through his side yet again. The driver didn’t linger, urging his horses forward.

He fled as though he truly believed the place to be cursed, leaving the boy alone on the deserted path.

Alone with the Stranger. (Could it truly be considered alone, with the Gods always watching over them? Do not confuse solitude with loneliness, he had been often cautioned.)

Before him, the Red Fork stretched out, its waters running dark and foreboding under the gray sky. On the banks lay the aftermath of it all—a scattered litter of bodies, some barely recognizable in the mud, others torn by crows and scavengers. The air was thick with the stench of rot, mingling with the scent of wet earth and blood.

So much blood.

Aeron's stomach lurched, and he pressed a hand to his mouth, swallowing hard to keep from retching. He forced himself to look closer, searching among the fallen for any sign of recognition, any clue that might ease the gnawing uncertainty in his heart.

The relief from pain he had hoped for never came.

Not when his gaze fell upon familiar figures sprawled face-down in the mud not far from where he stood. Not when he recognized the yellow tunics, the boyish hair, the once-plump cheeks now pale and lifeless—cheeks that had often flushed pink with embarrassment. Not when memories of the boys flooded back, striking him like a whip.

Aeron exhaled, painfully, his breath quivering. With unsteady steps, he moved closer.

There, in a heap like slaughtered cattle, lay two boys, hands clasped together, faces frozen in fear. They were no more than fifteen, scared, terrified, and lifeless.

These were the same boys he had easily impressed, the ones who had admired him, the ones who had trembled at the sight of Davos approaching. They were the same ones for whom he had drawn his sword when they had stumbled during the Blackwood's assault, (he shouldn't have, this was all his fault, he really shouldn't have). They had dreams, a future, and a family waiting for them—all gone, snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

It's my fault.

I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.

He had fought here, bled here, and nearly died here, but he had survived, while so many others had not. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. He should have been among them, fighting until his last breath, not here. None of this was fair.

He felt small, insignificant, stripped of any semblance of the bravado he had once worn like armor.

Aeron could not bear it any longer. Knights don't cry, he was told, but he wasn't a knight, not when he couldn't shield those he cared for—he was just a boy—a boy who had seen too much, who had lost too much, and who carried the weight of it all like a chain around his putrid heart.

And, alone and lonely, a boy sank to his knees and wept.

"Some knight you'll turn out to be," Davos jeered, straightening Aeron's attire while affixing his own raven pin to the weathered brown Bracken cloak. "Can't believe you let yourself be bested by boys barely out of swaddling clothes."

Aeron bristled, his ears burning under the Blackwood's mocking scrutiny. "They weren't little boys, just a year or two younger!"

He had seen thirteen winters when the incident occurred, still a squire, while Davos, just a year older, had already won his first tourney. He reveled in the honor and proclaimed himself a knight. (Well, not a real one, that is. The Blackwoods had always refused knighthood, but that didn't stop Davos from boasting to anyone who would listen. A knight of nothing, if you asked Aeron.)

"Just what I said, little boys," Davos taunted, casting an impish eye over Aeron, whose cheeks flushed deeper with shame.

"They were not little boys!" he bit back, whiny and vexed, eyes glossy with tears. "Unlike some who wear the cloak of honor before they've even earned it."

Against all odds, instead of anger, Davos merely wiped blood from Aeron's cheekbone with a thumb, grinning broadly. "Fine, fine. No need to weep to your mother's skirts. Knights don't cry."

"Yes, they do! Knights weep when their honor's at stake."

Davos raised an eyebrow, then shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure. Believe what you will, Bracken."

"I will."

Aggravated, he turned to leave.

It was only then that Aeron glanced down at the raven pin adorning his shoulder, the same one Davos had just pinned there moments ago to replace the one he had lost. "Hey, Blackwood," he called out after him. "What should I do with this?"

Davos halted in his tracks, casting a sideways glance over his shoulder. A smirk slowly crept across his face, mocking and mean. "Maybe use the pointy end to scare off those little boys next time?"

Aeron's whole face felt aflame.

"They weren't little boys!"

Davos let out a bark of laughter. "Of course not. Big boys, then." With that, he continued on his way, leaving him to fume silently with the pin still gleaming on his shoulder.

Aeron reached with a trembling hand and seized the raven clasp, ripping it from his Bracken cloak, tearing a few threads in the process. Hot tears blurred his vision, but he gripped it tightly in his hand, squeezing tighter and tighter until he saw the blurry lines of red trickling from his skin, running down his fingers and into the earth.

The earth eagerly drank it in.

And still, Aeron squeezed harder.

Chapter 4: Benjicot I

Chapter Text

When Benjicot was just six years old, he dreamed of becoming a knight, riding into battle to earn glory. Back then, he could barely wield a sword, couldn't shoot an arrow straight, and had more dreams than means to achieve them. But at his first tournament, his father promised him a sword if Davos won, and so he cheered for his cousin with all the fervor a young child could muster. Benjicot still recalled how Maester Vymanhad fretted when he could barely speak the next morning.

All worth it, really. Davos had won, as expected, (Benjicot had always admired his strength above all else), and the sword he received still rested at the foot of his bed. Though Benjicot knew he would have received a sword regardless, he had always felt a peculiar debt to Davos for it, perhaps stemming from a little boy's excessive admiration.

An admiration that fueled a single desire. Benjicot yearned to be a knight, charging into battles for glory. Instead, he became a lord too soon, and the fleeting time he thought he had was slipping away.

It was too early to dwell on it, he knew. He wasn't accustomed to this role yet. But he still half-hoped his father would stride in as he always had, order men about, tell him tales of Nine-Finger Jack, Bran the Builder, and the Winged Knight. Benjicot had hoped for many things; he was a boy with grand dreams but limited means to achieve them.

Perhaps they were dreams beyond reach. (And Blackwoods could not be knighted—they followed the Old Gods, not the Faith of the Seven.)

He glanced at Davos, who slouched in his chair, lazily picking at his food as if each bite required immense effort. A few years back, Davos had called himself a knight, claiming he didn't need anyone's favor to name himself anything. Benjicot remembered his father laughing loudly, telling him that if that were the case, he should go sit on Viserys' throne and call himself a king. It had been funny at first, but then Davos said he would, and fierce as he was, Benjicot believed him, weeping all night, fearing his cousin would die for trying to usurp the king.

But now, Davos could hardly stand properly or eat his food, and part of Benjicot felt terrible for punishing him for desertion. But duty demanded it, and what duty demanded, duty must take. What kind of lord would he be if he favored his own kin? Punishment must come to all, like death.

(I am sorry.)

Alysanne cleared her throat from where she sat primly beside him, often shooting glances at her nephew, who seemed either oblivious or unconcerned.

"So, Daemon Targaryen has taken Harrenhal," she began.

Davos let out a loud yawn, not bothering to stifle it. He glanced at Alysanne with half-lidded eyes. "Took it, did he? Good for him."

The breakfast table paused for a beat, everyone looking up at him. Even a few servants stopped momentarily before continuing their tasks, pouring more wine into Davos' cup as he signaled them to do so. (He had taken to drinking more wine as of late. Perhaps Benjicot should say something about it.)

He frowned. "Harrenhal is the key to the Riverlands," he ventured cautiously.

Davos snorted. "Oh, I'm sure it is."

If he had any doubt before, now he was certain—Davos was in one of his odd moods, where he wielded a sharp tongue and an uninterested mind. Benjicot had seen this enough, times when the late Lord Samwell would stop calling him "son" and address him by his full name.

Alysanne seemed to share her brother's thin patience. "This is important. It may sway—" She was interrupted by a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"Let it sway. The Targaryens do as they please, and we do as we must." A bitter edge burned through his indifferent tone, acidic and unpleasant. He drowned his next goblet of dry Arbor red with a grimace.

(Is he drunk?)

Benjicot cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation away from politics at the breakfast table, at least for this morning. "I plan to visit the Burning Mill today."

To his relief, Davos perked up slightly, raising an eyebrow with a hint of what he hoped was interest. "The Burning Mill? What's left to see there?"

"I want to pay my respects to the fallen soldiers," Benjicot explained earnestly.

Alysanne seemed pleased with his answer, and he was glad to have said the right thing, by her standards. Davos, too, almost smiled; Benjicot saw it in the way his lips twitched before he shoved another spoonful of food into his mouth. "To the fallen soldiers, huh? Even the Brackens?"

"Uh..." the young lord frowned, part of him relieved to see Davos engaging, albeit sarcastically, and the other part considering how to respond. "I don't know."

He settled for that. Davos shrugged.

"Suit yourself, Benny. Just don't let the ghosts catch you."

Benny, he called him. Benjicot smiled at the nickname. It was a jest, Davos was jesting. His childish mind, now barely restrained by his lordly responsibilities, couldn't help but feel relieved at the thought that he held no resentment towards him. (Benny's smile grew even wider.)

"They won't," he nearly sang, pushing his plate aside and jumping up from his chair. (Like a child.)

"Confident, are you?"

"Yes, they won't catch me, because you're coming with me."

Benjicot thought he had never seen Davos' smile disappear so quickly.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

"I am terrible with a bow," Aeron had confessed once when they were six-and-ten.

Davos had known that for far longer than he cared to admit. He'd watched Aeron train once, twice, or... well, more times than he wanted to admit. Brackens were good fighters—he had struggled to accept that once—but they were burdened by honor, and sometimes, fighting with honor led nowhere. House Blackwood had, at least, learned that lesson well. (In war, honor was a scarce commodity. There were those who clung to it and those who fought to survive. You couldn't do both. You could either live or die.)

"Of course, you're bad at it. Do Brackens know how to do anything but cry after losing battles?" Davos had sneered, releasing another arrow straight into the makeshift bullseye. (He had cried once, out of frustration, when he was a kid and could not hold his sword straight. Heavy it was, for a little boy, that is.)

Aeron, standing behind him, frowned and dropped the hand that had been absently coiling one of his light locks. "We know how to do plenty of things."

Another arrow whistled through the air.

"If you'd be so kind as to enlighten me, Bracken."

Thud— it hit the target flawlessly. Davos turned around with a mock crusty, and Aeron rolled his eyes. (He had glanced at the scabbard that hung from his belt, Davos remembers, his constant companion in and out of battle as he called it, then back at him.)

"Well, first off, we can fight," Aeron said, taking a few steps forward. Davos opened his mouth to protest, but he silenced him with a finger against his lips. It was soft. "Chide all you want. If we didn't know how to fight, we wouldn't have been standing against each other for millennia."

(It was true. Davos smiled against Aeron's index, shrugged, and let him continue.)

"We are pious," he added, his finger trailing down and jabbing Davos in the chest, right where his heart lay. Thud, thud, thud— it beat steadily. He pressed there. "We pray to the Seven, and we are not animals like you."

"Animals?" Davos echoed. "At worst, we're heathens. My people believe in the old gods."

The Bracken co*cked his head to the side, feigning curiosity. "Do they? Most of your people don't seem to believe in anything."

"I believe in a great many things, Ser." (A finer knight than I could ever be, but not a stronger one. Not one who survives. Honor binds you, and for a moment, it had you.)

"What do you believe in, Blackwood?"

You.

"Myself."

A brief silence fell as they gazed into each other's eyes. Deep green drowning in hazel. Then Aeron smiled, his eyes crinkling into crescents in a way Davos cherished, oh so dearly.

"...must answer for this, with blood, if need be."

"I understand. What do you think, Davos?"

The crystal layers around him seemed to shatter audibly, bringing the world back into focus. The sound of the river was no longer muffled, nor was the noise of the Blackwood men, the heavily moved carts, and the bodies being carried. Davos turned around to find Benjicot and Willem Blackwood looking at him, waiting for an answer.

(An answer to what, exactly?)

"Mh?" he blinked. The horse beneath him stirred slightly, and he pulled on the reins.

"Were you not listening?" Benjicot asked. When Davos merely shrugged, Willem smiled, bitter.

"We were discussing bringing the Brackens to justice," he said, his eyes never straying far from the battlefield, from the slaughter. Red against yellow, red against yellow-turned-red, filthy with blood and mud, and the smell of rot that churned their insides.

(Benjicot cried when they arrived; his eyes were still slightly inflamed, and he ran the back of his hand over them to help with the sting.)

"To justice?" Davos repeated. "Isn't this justice enough?"

The words felt strange on his tongue, foreign and unlike anything he would have said before. Before this, before him, before many things. He didn't know if justice could restore what they had lost. He didn't think Willem wanted justice — he wanted revenge, an ugly beast, hiding beneath their cloaks. Revenge wasn't for men of honor; it wasn't for knights. But Blackwoods were no knights, so Willem wished for it, and he would have it, in the same way it already had him.

"My brother was slain," he spat. "Amos must pay for it, with blood."

"And what would you have us do?" Benjicot demanded. "Raid their lands? We’ve suffered our own losses; we cannot engage in battle again, not so soon."

Davos couldn’t help but smile. "You’re wiser than I believed you to be, cousin." It almost sounded like praise. It was, of course; he hadn’t meant it to be so resentful. By the end, they did suffer great losses—losses that perhaps had saved his life. (If we hadn’t, would I still be alive?)

Deserters are slain, hanged by kings and queens and lords alike, and by knights as well. He would have been as good as dead.

Willem shook his head, the same glint in his eyes that Davos had seen in his own reflection—a glint of hunger. Not the kind that food could satisfy, but a hunger for something deeper. Davos knew all too well how destructive that kind of hunger could be, how it consumed more than it ever fed.

"The Bracken are weak now, more than ever after the battle, and perhaps more than they will be for a very long time. This is our chance to strike," he said. "The Queen would see them answer for their actions. It is the right thing to do."

"Queen Rhaenyra cares for us as much as Aegon the Usurper cares for the Bracken," Davos scoffed. "And I have yet to see any dragon circle Stone Hedge."

Men fight wars for sovereigns who care little for them. Davos had learned that long ago when he realized he knew the names of Viserys, Rhaenyra, Daemon, and even Queen Alicent, yet none of them knew his name. He was a number, a casualty when fallen. He could be a victory or a defeat, but he was no soul. At least, not alone. Always and forever followed by hundreds. (The cost of war—they were nothing more than that. A king might suffer a paper cut, and the Riverlands would bleed to death for it.)

"They want our armies," Benjicot added. "When her Grace the Queen calls for our men..."

"Then we can set our own conditions," Willem interrupted. "We will demand justice in exchange for our forces."

"Do you believe Queen Rhaenyra will permit you to slaughter Brackens in her name?" Davos raised an eyebrow. "I do not know her personally, but I believe the Targaryens fear the stain of tyranny after Maegor the Cruel." (As impossible as it might be for her to avoid now.)

Willem frowned, halting his steed. Benjicot stopped as well, next to his uncle, both of them looking at Davos as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had because every sentence that stumbled out of his mouth felt strange. Gods, all he wanted right now was to drink, sleep, and be left alone. Damn the Targaryens and their wars! He had lived well before all this, when the Brackens fought them over some lands and children threw rocks at each other.

No battles, no blood, no swords, no flogging, no fire. Hatred, yes, but controlled, at times forgotten, when Bracken and Blackwood would meet by the invisible line and talk.

"What is up with you?" Willem's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Your uncle and lord died! Once, you would have rejoiced at the prospect of revenge."

"I want justice for Lord Samwell as much as you do, uncle," he breathed out. He truly did want it, more than they thought, yet he didn't feel entitled to it—how could he, after what he had been doing while his uncle lay dying? He had only his tears to shed, and even to that, he felt undeserving.

A terrible feeling gripped his heart. In response, Willem's glare hardened, striking him like a whip across the back.

"You don't sound like it."

"You can't possibly think—"

"Perhaps we shouldn't argue," Benjicot intervened. "Davos has been weary of late, uncle. He doesn't seem quite himself, and we shouldn't hold it against him. He's still recovering from his... wounds."

Wounds.

The Maester had warned him that his wounds might never fully heal. Davos refused to believe it; all wounds were meant to heal, given enough time and pain. In a few moons, perhaps a year, he would have scars. He was supposedly lucky that the whip hadn't reached his bones. His shorn skin had been cut clean and rubbed with salt, but Davos didn't feel lucky at all. Even now, the pain persisted, so intense that it had become his new normal—a constant cycle of ache. He would endure it silently, for moons, years, or perhaps forever, as the Maester had foretold.

Deeper cuts had surely been endured, (and for a deserter, this was mercy).

"Yes, perhaps you should return to Raventree Hall and rest, nephew."

Willem's words held the seriousness his eye roll had suggested, but Benjicot nodded, a slight pout forming on his youthful lips. "Uncle Willem is right. I've kept you here too long. I didn't consider your physical state. I apologize."

Ah. Davos felt a pang of guilt now.

"I can stay. I didn't mean to—"

"No, I'm in good hands," the young lord smiled. "Uncle Willem will care for me if that's your concern. I'll see you at supper this evening."

Davos smiled. It was a curious thing, that Benjicot still felt the need to reassure him that he was being looked after. Lord or not, he was still just a boy. He was still Davos's cousin.

(The sore feeling in his heart intensified.)

From the earth we come, and to the earth we return.

The gods give, and the gods take.

That is the cycle of life.

Aeron felt the ache in his knees and the pain from his wound, but he knew the gods gave and the gods took, and he wanted to return his friends to the earth. The ground was damp, still wet from recent rain. He had been there for what felt like hours, maybe days, with his eyes closed.

He prayed.

He prayed for his friends, for the fallen, for his uncle.

("Listen closely, son," Raylon's voice echoed in the empty great hall of Stone Hedge. "Lives are like candle flames, easily snuffed out by errant winds. You must not mourn the departed; they have gone to a better place."

Aeron hadn't understood then, tears blurring his vision as he looked down at his father's body. "T-Then what should I do?"

"You must pray for them.")

"Seven-faced God, hear my plea for these souls departed, whom I now bring before you," he recited, kneeling beside the freshly turned earth where he wished he could mark the graves with crystals. "In your divine presence, I offer prayers for souls dear to me, who have journeyed beyond this mortal realm."

The forest lay still and silent, the towering trees seeming to stand sentinel over what felt like a solemn funeral. Aeron found solace in this thought; his friends deserved a proper burial, not to rot under the sun.

"To the Father, judge of all, I pray for Bryan. May his deeds be weighed justly, his virtues remembered, and his faults forgiven. Grant him mercy and peace in your halls of judgment," he muttered.

A part of him couldn't shake the reminder that in another world, he could have been there with them, decaying, a sword lodged in his throat. He knew he should have met that honorable, redeeming death instead of surviving, crippled and dishonored, still tainted.

(Aeron clawed at his neck, nails digging into the skin there, then moved to his arms, thighs, and chest, leaving trails of red that stung under the warm, almost burning water of his bath.

Off, get off, he thought desperately, clawing harder until he drew blood, until he could no longer feel the lingering touches, the lips, Davos' soft breaths—until his skin remembered only pain, not gentleness.

And he prayed for the Mother's mercy, knowing no matter how much he scrubbed, he bled from sin, not from blood.)

"To the Mother, nurturing and kind, I beseech you for Lucan," he whispered, clasping his hands tightly as if to bind them for eternity. "Welcome him with your loving arms, console him in his weariness, and grant him eternal solace in your gentle embrace."

There was a small noise.

A slight rustle in the leaves, perhaps an animal stirring, accompanied the sound of distant birdsong. But beyond that, there was silence. Aeron continued to pray, for those he could not see and those he could not find, no matter how hard he had searched among the bodies earlier.

("Will I be knighted soon?" A small Aeron had asked after the day's training when they used to sit by the courtyard's stairs and eat simpler meals.

His uncle chuckled in response, tousling his hair affectionately. "You only began your training a few moons ago. Surely you're not so eager to leave me? Aren't you happy serving as my squire?"

"Of course, I am! I just want to fight by your side in battles!"

Raylon frowned then, tilting his head thoughtfully. "And what kind of battles do you have in mind?"

Silence followed.

Aeron furrowed his brow, struggling to find an answer. Finally, he ventured, "We could raid the Blackwood lands. They wouldn't expect it, and we'd win and Uncle Amos would be proud."

"And whom would you be fighting? Farmers? Women? Children?" his uncle countered. When the child couldn't respond, a fond smile softened Raylon's features. "To be a knight, you must defend the innocent and protect the weak. Raiding villages isn't our way, Aeron. We're not Ironborn.")

"To the Warrior, defender of the faithful, I offer my thanks for Ser Raylon Rivers' valor and strength," he tried to keep his voice from wavering but failed miserably. "L-Let his courage be remembered, his battles honored, and his spirit find eternal rest under your watchful gaze."

To the Maiden, whose purity shines bright, guide these souls through the veil. Let their journey be guided by your light, and may they find peace in the purity of your embrace.

To the Smith, mender of broken things, I seek your blessing for these souls. As you shape the world, mend their spirits and grant them renewal in your eternal forge.

To the Crone, keeper of wisdom, I ask for guidance for these departed. Illuminate their path with your insight, lead them to understanding beyond mortal sight.

(To the Stranger, harbinger of the end, I acknowledge your presence in their journey. Guide them gently into the eternal night, and grant them safe passage to the realm beyond.)

Aeron let out a shuddering breath.

Opening his eyes, he squinted against the light filtering through the dense greenery around him. Life surrounded him once more. The sky had cleared to a bright blue, and the clouds swept away. He glanced up briefly before deciding it was time to move.

Placing both hands on the ground, he prepared to push himself up when a hand abruptly clamped over his mouth, muffling a cry that escaped his lips.

What?

His eyes widened.

Aeron's heart suddenly hammered in his chest as panic surged through him. His body tensed, every muscle coiling instinctively as he struggled against the sudden restraint. His mind raced through scenarios—ambush, betrayal—but nothing made sense with the verdant tranquility that had been surrounding him.

The hand over his mouth smelled of leather and sweat, rough against his skin. His eyes widened in dread, darting around in search of his assailant. He felt the hard press of a body against his back, pinning him against the tree trunk.

"Don't make a sound," a low voice murmured against his ear, the words almost lost in the rustling of leaves. It was deep, familiar yet unexpected.

Aeron's breath came out short and sharp from his nose, his pulse thundering in his ears. The pressure on his mouth lessened as the hand withdrew, and he turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of dark hair.

Dark hair, and scarred lips, and red clothes.

His heart skipped a beat.

Davos Blackwood.

The grip on his shoulder suddenly felt like a vice, and he pushed against it with all his strength. "Get off me!" Aeron hissed. "f*cking get off me!" He twisted, trying to break free.

But Davos didn't let go; instead, he tightened his grip, looking around with alarm. Yanking him closer—closer than Aeron wanted. "Stop it," he urged. "Stop screaming!"

Aeron glared at him, pushing, clawing, struggling like the devil. "Why should I listen to you? Let me go!"

Voices of distant men suddenly echoed around them, and Davos clamped a hand over his mouth again, pushing him harder against the tree. Aeron winced as his wound flared back to life, but he quickly recovered and bit down on the hand restraining him, intent on causing pain.

Off of me. Off of me. Off of me!

Davos cursed. "f*cking hell!"

"Get off of me!"

"What are you doing here? Are you a fool?" Davos demanded, still scanning their surroundings like a paranoid man. Aeron frowned, tugging at his restrained limbs. "You've been declared dead for four days, and you come back, so close to the battlefield? Do you ever think?"

"This is Bracken land!" he shot back, his voice rising with unfiltered anger. "f*cking let me go or I'll scream until the farmers hear me!"

Don't touch me, he thought. Don't touch me, don't ever touch me again.

"There are no farmers anymore! No one will hear you but Blackwood soldiers!" Davos replied, his tone urgent, almost pleading.

Aeron fell silent.

Thud, thud, thud, his heart was racing. He felt sad, lost, angry—most of all, hateful. He hated it all, he hated him.

Davos slowly released his grip, and they stared at each other for what felt like an eternity—dark green drowning in hazel. Red against yellow, red against yellow-turned-red. Aeron bit down on the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood, the ugly feeling in his chest growing and consuming him until all he wanted was to hit Davos.

So he did.

Aeron shoved him abruptly, then slapped him across the face. Davos recoiled in shock, but before he could react, Aeron pushed him again. The sound of another sharp slap reverberated through the empty forest, the strike fueled by pent-up frustration. (I hate him, I hate him.)

Aeron stepped forward to push him again, but Davos grabbed his wrists, astounded. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

At the words, something inside him plummeted, heavy and loud like a rock shattering his heart into a million glass shards, pain spreading throughout. "What the hell is wrong with me? With me?" he shouted, his eyes wide with incredulity. He yanked his hands from Davos's grasp, freeing himself before shoving him again.

Harder, meaner.

"Stop that! Will you st—" Davos started, but Aeron interrupted him with another strike. "f*cking stop hitting me!"

"You craven! How dare you!" Aeron screamed, a gut-wrenching sound that tore through his core, more painful than any wound. His fists pounded against the Blackwood's chest.

(He wanted to cry, his heart was squeezing so painfully, he wanted nothing more than to cry.)

"How dare I what?" Davos shot back, frustrated. "Let me guess, I've somehow offended you by saving you from death?"

Aeron froze, his chest heaving with anger and hurt. He went limp for a moment, locking eyes with Davos, then he shook his head, and swallowed hard, feeling his tongue heavy in his mouth.

"Saved me? Are you mad?" The inquiry was breathed out. (He remembered the fallen, the blood, the smell of rot, his uncle. Aeron remembered the sound of battle, the cries of scared boys, and the prayers of men.) "Saved me? Have you gone f*cking mad? You did not save me!" Aeron spat, his wrath loud, raw, and poisonous. "You ruined us! Both of us!"

Davos flinched, and for the first time since they were children, Aeron saw hurt flash across his face. Fleeting as it was, Davos's eyes cleared, his mouth agape before he swallowed his emotions. Then it disappeared, as though it was never real, his gaze hardened again, and there stood the man he hated. ("Blackwoods are heartless, soulless savages. They can not feel remorse, for they do not feel.")

He wanted to scream, and kick, and cry like a child.

"I am a knight!" Aeron's lip quivered despite himself, his fists clenched to hold back the tears veiling his sight. "I-I was supposed to die there, with them!"

"So what? You're going to resent me because I spared your life?"

I spared your life, the words echoed in his restless mind.

Everyone was dead; the man who had raised him as well. There was nothing left. Nothing. Everything was over, everything gone, all for a senseless fight, a petty argument over boundary stones. He hadn't been spared; Aeron wished he had died so he wouldn't have to endure such pain.

This was no mercy.

This was torture.

"I did not ask you to do it!" Davos fell silent again, and Aeron could now feel burning tears rolling down his cheeks, and he hated it. He did not wish to be weak; he did not wish to cry. (Knights cried, but not in front of their enemies.) "My..." he struggled to catch his breath, fighting to keep his voice steady. "My uncle died, my friends died, and you think saving me was mercy?"

No answer.

Davos simply looked at him for a moment, then his gaze dropped to the ground. His body tensed. Look at me, Aeron thought fiercely, look at me, you f*cking coward.

But he did not look.

"You... You have no idea what I did to become a knight." The words left his lips in a sob. He bit down harder on his tongue, trying to steel himself, to hold onto his composure. "I should have... I should have died a knight!"

Davos opened his mouth, then closed it. Frustrated by his lack of response, Aeron pushed him again.

But there were no complaints, no protests. Davos simply stumbled back a few steps, showing no reaction, like an empty shell. Aeron despised it.

He despised him.

"You..." A pause, as he caught his breath, clutching his hand to his wound, wincing in pain. "Y-You ruined me! And you walk away unscathed while I have to pay the price of your sins too!"

Another silence.

Aeron couldn't comprehend it.

"f*cking say something!" he cried out, desperate for a response, but not a single word was uttered in return. More tears welled up in his eyes, clouding his vision as he stared, waiting for any sign of acknowledgment, remorse, or even defiance. Anything.

He wanted him to react, to feel—guilt, regret, anger—he wanted him to hit him back, to insult him, he wanted him to do something. Aeron did not wish to realize, that perhaps Davos felt nothing at all. ("Blackwoods are heartless, soulless savages. They can not feel remorse, for they do not feel.")

But maybe this was it—Davos Blackwood felt nothing at all, while he had to carry this festering guilt like a boulder.

"I hate you!" Aeron pushed him. "You craven!" Again. "You have no honor!" Again. "You're the bane of my existence!" And again. "I... I had hoped..."

He paused, the words catching in his throat. The venom he had intended to contain spilled out, raw and accusing. He choked it out painfully, knowing once spoken, it couldn't be taken back. (The poison burned through his throat like wildfire.)

"I had hoped they had hanged you for desertion."

Chapter 6: Past I

Chapter Text

"Drink, drink, drink, drink!"

There were few things Aeron disdained doing with his friends. He was as amiable as they come, eager to go to great lengths to please those around him. Yet, even one such as he had limits. He only wished those limits had not been reached on his seventeenth nameday, in a brothel of all places.

Aeron had frequented brothels before, even visiting the Street of Silk in King's Landing when he was but thirteen, dragged there by his cousins. He fled as soon as he could, of course. Women—whether highborn, commonborn, or lowborn—held little interest for him. He did try, mind you. He had conversed with a great many, and some were truly kind, but they stirred in Aeron nothing more than a desire for friendship.

Never one for lust.

Something must be wrong with him, he knew, for he felt no such desires when his eyes strayed upon a woman's body. Someone had once told him that not all women were desirable in the eyes of men, that he must find the perfect one, tailored to his preferences—small breasts, large ones, thin waist, thick waist, thick thighs, bony, chubby. They were all categorized like goats, or cattle, or cuts of meat. Aeron found himself deeply uncomfortable whenever the topic arose, and eventually, everyone stopped asking him if he was... still green, south.

That was until he was dragged to Stoney Sept and shoved into The Peach. (The inn and brothel, not the fruit.)

"Look at all these peaches, Aeron, they're all for you," Vorian slurred, chugging another tankard of ale.

Peaches.

Aeron barely hid a grimace. Peaches was the name given to the prostitutes in the establishment, and it only reinforced his discomforting notion that he was expected to treat them like commodities, and nothing more. Seven above, every woman was the very picture of the Mother and should be spoken of with respect. This was wrong.

The entire place felt wrong.

His tankard hit the table with a loud thud as he swallowed the foul brew with great difficulty. He was not particularly fond of beer; he preferred wine. His uncle had once joked that he had a woman's taste. Aeron had found it funny until Davos made the same jest, and suddenly, it was not funny at all.

Stupid Blackwood.

Vorian leaned in closer, his breath reeking of ale, his eyes glassy with drunkenness. "You haven't had your fill yet, Aeron? What, scared of a few peaches?" He nudged him with his elbow, nearly knocking him off balance.

Aeron forced a chuckle, the smile never quite reaching his eyes, his hands damp with sweat as he wiped them on his trousers. "I-I’ve had my fill," he lied, casting a glance around the room. The women were beautiful, no doubt, but they might as well have been statues for all the interest they stirred in him.

His mind drifted to Davos again.

("So you don’t like girls?"

"O-Of course I like girls!" Aeron snapped. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You said your dream is to join the Kingsguard," Davos said, unimpressed. "They can take no wife, they can not f*ck, they can’t even touch women. Only a fool would swear to that—unless, of course, you don’t like girls."

He felt his face flush a deeper color.

"I said I do like girls!")

Aeron cursed himself silently.

Why did he have to think of him now, of all times? (He missed him.)

"Drink, drink, drink, drink!" The chant went up again around the table as the others joined in, pounding their tankards on the wood.

Aeron lifted his cup reluctantly, taking another swig of the bitter beer. The taste was as unpleasant as ever, and he suppressed a shudder as he swallowed. "I’m drinking," he said, his voice lacking the enthusiasm of his companions.

He wanted nothing more than to go back home.

"That's not all you should be doing," Vorian said with a leer, gesturing to one of the women who had been watching them from across the room. She smiled and sauntered over, her hips swaying in a way that was meant to be enticing.

Oh no, Aeron felt his heart rate quicken with a growing sense of dread. He knew what was expected of him, but the thought of it filled him with a cold, clammy unease. No, no, no, please— he joined his hands beneath the table, tugging and worrying the skin around his fingers like he was peeling a fruit.

"Evening, m'lord," she purred, smooth like honey. "Would you care for some company?"

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Aeron forced a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "N-No, thank you," he managed to say politely, though his entire body felt as though it had turned to stone.

The whole table let out a loud, exaggerated groan.

"f*cking hells, Aeron! You’re hopeless, look at her! She’s the very picture of beauty. A fine peach, indeed!" One of them turned to the woman. "Forgive him, sweetling. He’s had too much to drink and doesn’t know what he’s saying."

Aeron shifted in his seat once more, uncomfortable. “Quit talking about her as though she were a prize to be won. She’s—”

“A woman!” Vorian interrupted, rolling his eyes. “What do you think she is, some kind of saint? Just look at her! And you’re telling me you’d rather sit here with that sour look on your face?”

“Maybe he’s just waiting for a proper lady, one who can hold a conversation instead of peddling her wares,” said Joren, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But I doubt any lady would want him now, eh?”

"Shut up, Joren!" he snapped, heat rising to his cheeks. "I-I really think I should pass."

Vorian’s expression turned from playful to incredulous. "Pass? On a night like this? Are you mad? It’s your nameday! You’re supposed to celebrate!"

"I am celebrating," Aeron insisted, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "I’m here with all of you, aren’t I?"

"Celebrating? Hah! You call this celebrating?" Another friend, Norwin, chimed in, his face flushed with drink. “What’s wrong with you, Aeron? Have you never felt the sweet thrill of a woman’s touch? You’re seventeen, for the Seven’s sake! What’s the worst that could happen? She’ll take your silver and you’ll forget her name. Simple as that!”

("We can pretend this kiss never happened," Davos told him, close, impossibly close. "We can pretend we never knew each other."

"That would be the wisest choice," he replied, watching a flicker of disappointment pass over Davos' features, "but I don't want to pretend I don't know you.")

Aeron shook his head to banish the memory, running his tongue over his bottom lip and sinking his teeth into the flesh, anxious. “I don’t wish to be with a woman who sees me as nothing more than a coin to toss."

“If you keep hiding away, you’ll end up an old maid with nothing but memories of your beloved horses! Are you really content with that?”

“Yes, very much."

“Boring!" Norwin groaned.

"Come now, don’t be such a wet blanket!” Vorian urged, slapping the table. “One night with a lovely peach, and then you can return to your stables. We'll show you how it's done!"

At his side, the woman’s smile remained steady, though her eyes flicked to Aeron with a hint of curiosity. "What do you say, m'lord?" she asked softly, leaning in closer.

She placed a hand on his thigh, and he froze. Suddenly, it all became overwhelming, unbearable—too much noise, too much light, too much heat, too many people. Too much of everything.

Aeron stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I-I need some air," he muttered, pushing past her and making his way to the first empty room he saw. He could hear the laughter and jeers of his friends behind him, but he didn’t look back.

He slammed the door shut and finally, finally, let out a deep breath. He released his tortured, bloody fingers and sighed, sinking onto the bed—if it could be called that—a pile of half a dozen silk blankets and pillows, resembling a fairy tale princess's room but reeking of heavy perfume and sex.

He tried to calm his nerves; the noise outside was muffled, and it was relatively calm here. Perfect, he thought. I don't have to come out for the rest of the night, and surely they'd get tired and forget about me.

He let out a groan at the foolish thought.

Why was this so difficult? Why couldn’t he be like the others, finding pleasure in the company of women? His thoughts returned to Davos once more, and he clenched his fists. Stupid Blackwood, indeed. Stupid, for occupying his mind when he should be enjoying his nameday. Stupid, for making him question things he had no right to question.

Stupid, for making him feel like he was missing something he couldn’t even name.

Aeron closed his eyes, trying to push away the unease gnawing at his insides. He buried box after box of questions and feelings, hoping they would disappear. (But in truth, all he did was plant trees that grew day after day, bearing fruits he didn't care to tend until their branches became heavy. And the trees wept.)

The sound of water sloshing suddenly caught his attention, and Aeron’s head snapped up. From behind a partition, someone emerged, shrouded in steam. His breath caught in his throat, a sound between a yelp and a cry of surprise escaping as he recognized him. Clad only in a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, Davos stepped into the room, his wet hair slicked back on his head.

There was a moment of silence, where both of them froze.

“What are you doing in my room?” Davos asked, a note of surprise in his voice. He paused, a slow, teasing smile spreading across his lips as he took in the sight of the boy sitting on the bed. “Well, this is unexpected.”

Aeron’s heart pounded harder in his chest. “I... I didn’t know this was your room,” he stammered, rising to his feet, knocking a goblet of wine that was sitting by the foot of the bed. “S-Sorry—I thought I would be alone.”

“Alone?" His smile was mocking, a wicked glint in his eyes, clearly relishing in Aeron's squirming embarrassment. "Only you, Bracken, would want to be alone in a bloody brothel. A nameday celebration, and yet you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he snorted.

Davos took a few steps closer, and, Seven Hells, Aeron felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungs. Davos was too close, half-naked, and it made him feel in ways he swore he’d never feel again. In ways he should feel looking at the soft curves of a woman’s body, the smooth skin of her tummy, the delicate sight of her arms—not at a Blackwood’s rough, scarred chest, the trail of hair that went from his navel to under his towel, his sculpted arms and muscles that flexed with each movement.

f*ck.

Don’t look at him, he scolded himself mentally, staring at the floor. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

A finger suddenly hooked under his chin and tilted his head upward. Aeron found himself staring into the dark, mocking eyes of a Blackwood, who was grinning like a fool. “Cat got your tongue?”

He shook his head, too fast, too eager, his breath catching in his throat. Davos chuckled, the sound sending a thousand needles prickling down Aeron’s spine, or perhaps he just shivered really f*cking hard.

“Really? Then why do you look like a cornered rabbit?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” he managed to say, though his voice wavered.

“Good,” Davos whispered, satisfied, his fingers tightening under his chin, holding him in place. “Because I’d hate for you to run away before we’ve had our fun.”

“F-Fun?” he echoed.

A shrug, then—“Thought I’d join the festivities, but it seems like you’re not in the mood for them.” He tilted his head, studying him with those piercing raven-like eyes of his. “What do you say we find a way to celebrate your nameday properly?"

Oh, Seven Hells.

Aeron knew he should push him away, maintain the expected distance between sworn enemies. But they had long breached those limits, hadn't they? They had crossed back and forth countless times. They laughed together, comforted one another, hugged, kissed, touched. Aeron had promised each time would be the last, yet here they were again. Maybe this truly was the end. He didn’t want it to be.

He wanted this. (He wanted him.)

"How?"

Davos' lips curled into a knowing smile. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Aeron’s collarbone, trailing down to the laces of his tunic.

A flush crept up his neck. “Davos, this...”

They had never done this before. A few touches here and there, Davos had taught him how to sin, but always alone, never together. (A sense of guilt seemed to rise, but he pushed it down, shoved it into a little box, buried deep to be dealt with later.)

“Shh,” Davos murmured, his fingers deftly untying the laces. “Let me. Just this once.”

Aeron stood frozen as he slowly, torturously, undid his tunic, the fabric slipping from his shoulders to pool at his feet. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin, but the craving in Davos’s gaze was enough to set him aflame.

Rough hands roamed over his chest, exploring every dip and contour with a possessive thoroughness. “You’re beautiful,” Davos whispered.

He shivered at the touch. His own hands moved to the towel, fumbling with it. “I... I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice trembling.

Davos’ smile was gentle this time. “Follow my lead,” he said, guiding Aeron’s hands with his own. “Trust me.”

Davos was far from being a morning person. In fact, he was the complete opposite, as it turns out, he'd rather sleep through the entire day rather than endure one more second of the chatter from those Bracken fools. Always talking, always making empty threats—there was nothing he despised more.

Such nuisances.

He shoveled another spoonful of breakfast into his mouth. Here, when night gave away to daylight, the brothel turned into an inn. Though faint sounds of passion still echoed from some chambers, it was mostly tired men eating and drinking now.

Aeron sat at the far end of the room. Davos noticed him stealing glances, but whenever their eyes met, he quickly looked away as if afraid of being caught staring.

It almost made Davos crack a smile, despite his foul mood.

"Hmph, here slinks the Blackwood rat."

"Still as arrogant as ever."

“Wouldn’t trust a Blackwood any farther than I could throw one.”

He drank, ate, and drank some more until a boy sidled up to him. Davos glanced around at all the other empty stools, then back at the newcomer. (Why he had chosen to sit right next to him, he could not fathom.)

The boy leaned in close, his voice hushed and sharp. "Enjoyed your night, I presume? Heard that some walls have ears," he murmured, eyes darting towards Aeron. "Didn't expect him to turn traitor, if you ask me. With a Blackwood, of all people, a man at that."

Despite himself, Davos tensed.

"And who might you be?" he asked.

The boy looked him up and down, then shrugged. "Vorian Rivers."

Davos nodded slowly, a smile creeping onto his lips.

Aeron wiped the sweat from his brow.

The sun was harsh, even in the early morning, and tired he was but eager as well to prove his worth. Silent and steadfast, he worked twice as hard as any man. He had patrolled the castle walls, assisted the master-at-arms in training younger squires, and was now tasked with mending damaged armor from the last skirmish. The blacksmiths were gruff men, not much older than he was, but seasoned enough to make him feel green behind the ears.

"Pass me that rivet, Aeron," called the harsh voice, a burly man named Jorun.

Jorun had been at Stone Hedge for as long as anyone could remember, long before his uncle Amos Bracken was even lord, they say. Aeron respected him, perhaps even feared him, and so he stumbled to hand over the rivet, watching the blacksmith expertly secure it to a breastplate.

Jorun grunted, the wrinkles on his weathered face deepening. "Tell me, boy, have you seen Vorian? He didn't show up to the stable this morning."

Aeron blinked, a faint crease forming between his brows. "Uh, no," he replied hesitantly, his mind still fogged from the previous night's revelry. "We were at an inn yesterday. Did he not return?"

"No," the man growled, his voice rough with irritation. He turned to face Aeron fully, his eyes piercing like a hawk's. "If you see him, tell him to get his lazy arse back here. The horses need tending, and I won't have him slacking off."

The boy shifted uncomfortably under the gaze. "I'll... I'll find him, then," he stammered, stepping back hastily. "As... As fast as I can."

"Go on, get out of my sight, boy. I can manage without you hovering."

Aeron stumbled back, nearly losing his footing.

(Vorian never showed up.)

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Davos' anger was a living, seething thing that demanded release.

For as long as he could remember, it had been the only monster he knew—greedy, vile, mean, and ugly.

The inkpots shattered on the floor, their contents staining the wood and pooling around his boots. He didn’t care. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest.

He slammed his fists into the desk, the wood groaned under the force, and the old writing implements scattered, rolling away and clattering against the walls. The silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the erratic breathing of a man on the edge.

It was all for nothing.

Every bit of it.

Every sacrifice, every punishment—despite all his efforts—it was all in vain, consumed by nothing but hate. ("I had hoped they had hanged you for desertion.")

His eyes stung, and he tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, slipping down his face in hot, angry trails. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, but they kept coming as if the floodgates had been opened and couldn't be shut.

"Damn it all!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "Damn it!"

The room was silent again, save for his ragged breaths. He sank to the floor, his back against the wall, the remnants of his rage scattered around him. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding back more tears. He wanted to scream, to lash out at something, anything, but instead, he just sat there, broken and exhausted.

And in that broken, silent space, Davos felt a profound sense of loneliness. The anger was gone, leaving only the raw, unfiltered sorrow.

A more insidious monster, it appeared gentle and weak, yet it inflicted deeper pain. He despised it, preferring anger and greed to sadness, for sadness felt like weakness.

And for all he knew, it was better to turn a blind eye to pain.

Two arrows soared through the air like dancing fireflies in the night, whispering with the wind before falling silent as they struck their targets. Ravens perched in the trees took flight, their croaks muffling the sound.

Davos grunted, cursing his less-than-perfect shot. Though his arrow had hit the target, it was the second one that had struck flawlessly, right in the center. He reached for his goblet resting on a makeshift table—a trunk from an old tree that had been cut down because it was ill. ("It's going to make the other trees sick; cut it down," Lord Samwell Blackwood had ordered. "Cut it. Winter is coming, and we don't need any sick trees.")

Davos drank the dry wine in one go, then put the cup aside and massaged his knuckles. Behind him, a small chuckle was heard; his companion for the night was smiling, Davos could tell, just by the sound of his voice.

"A bad day, aye?"

When he turned around, Robb was leaning against a tree, his bow casually at his side, arms crossed and grinning. Davos scowled; the words of his earlier conversation with Aeron still echoed in his mind, like haunting spirits that wouldn’t let him rest.

("You did not save me! You ruined us!")

"Shut it, Rivers," he spat.

Robb’s grin only widened, devilishly handsome as ever. So handsome that Davos might almost feel guilty for pounding him into a bloody mess—many a handmaiden would surely hold it against him. With his long, fiery copper hair and just four years Davos' senior, Robb had grown up alongside him, ever eager to add his own touch of mockery to any situation. But tonight, Davos was in no mood for jest.

"Come on, lad, no need to be so sour. Just because I bested you with that last shot—"

"It's not about the shot," came the sharp answer, cutting through the quietude like a blade.

A heavy silence fell between the two.

("You ruined me! And you walk away unscathed.")

Davos swished the last dregs of wine around his mouth, savoring the fading taste while trying to ignore the sting of the welts on his back. He could feel the blood seeping, but he made no sound. Instead, he nocked another arrow, drawing the bowstring back with a grimace, his muscles taut with barely restrained frustration.

"Then what is it about?"

He released the arrow, didn't even bother to watch it land, instead turning to face the bastard.

"None of your concern."

Robb arched a brow. "Fair enough. Though it might be easier to overlook if you weren’t scowling as if someone had swapped your prized dagger for a mere spoon."

Davos' glare deepened. "Just shoot, Robb. Or leave. I don't care."

The man held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off." He reached for his bow with practiced ease, nocking an arrow with a fluid grace. The bowstring sang as he released it, sending it straight, burying itself in the center of the target, better than Davos, once more.

Well, it was no great feat to outshine him, to be sure. In many respects, he fell short—he was a strong fighter, yet not the finest, a skilled horsebreaker, though not as adept as Alysanne; a loyal cousin, but tainted by treachery. Not a hero, merely a craven.

("I had hoped they had hanged you for desertion.")

He groped blindly for the goblet of wine on the trunk, only to find it empty. With a frustrated grunt, he flung it aside and gave the tree trunk a sharp shove, as if to punish it for its perfidy. “Damn it,” he muttered, drawing a deep breath. The edge of his irritation made him feel as though he might burst into tears.

His hands quivered slightly as he drew another arrow, concentrating on the sensation of the bowstring against his fingers and the tautness as he drew it back. Ignore the pain, he thought, trying to drown out the throb that pulsed through his arm, his back, his chest, and the sting of his eyes. Ignore the pain, Davos. Curse it all, be a f*cking man.

(“Did I raise a little girl? ” his father had snarled at him when he was just five years old.

Davos shook his head, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, struggling to stifle his sobs. “No, Father.”

“Then stop acting as if you’ve got a maiden’s c*nt between your legs. Be a bloody man!”)

Robb glanced at him, his expression more serious now. "You know, if you keep scowling like that, your face might freeze that way. And then what will the ladies think?"

"I said, just shoot," he snapped.

Robb sighed but didn't push further. He nocked another arrow and took aim. "Fine, have it your way. But if you miss again, I'm going to start calling you 'Butterfingers'."

"I don't miss."

"Could've fooled me." The bastard picked up another arrow. A brief silence followed before he spoke again. "So, heard the new tavern wench has an eye for you. Seems she likes the brooding type."

"She can look all she wants. Not interested."

Robb snorted. "Aye, figured as much. But you should at least pretend to be flattered. Keep the spirits high, eh?"

Davos shrugged.

Rivers took a step back, eyeing his latest shot with a thoughtful hum. He seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, evidently searching for a new topic to broach. As expected, he shifted the conversation.

“I also heard the miller’s daughter has taken on a new suitor. The poor lad’s likely in for a heap of trouble, mark my words," he declared.

Davos cared little for the matter, to be honest.

"She's got a temper, that one. Good luck to him."

If anything, it wouldn’t be a marriage of love. More likely, it would be one of necessity. With the mill burned down and the old miller out of work, securing a match for his daughter could bring in some much-needed coins. It wasn’t much different from being a whor*, Davos admitted—though, truth be told, everyone was a whor* in some way. Some just sold different parts of themselves.

“Aye, well, she’s not the only one with a temper around here,” Robb replied, glancing sideways at him. “Speaking of trouble, have you seen the new stableboy? Clumsy as a fool. Nearly got his head kicked off by a horse this morning.”

Davos did not. He had been far too consumed by the misery of his own existence—enduring the lash, being salted like a slab of meat, sleeping on the cold, hard floor like a dog, drinking himself into a stupor, and enduring the scornful shouts of his betters. ("You are the bane of my existence.") His mouth twitched, jaw clenched, and his eyes grew cold and hard. Davos exhaled sharply through his nose, struggling to hold back the ache.

Be a man, Davos. Gods damn it, be a man.

“Maybe he’s in the wrong line of work,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Not everyone’s cut out for it.”

"Tell that to his mother," Robb replied, watching him release yet another arrow. "She begged Lord Benjicot to take him on. Said he'd be the death of her otherwise."

It hit its mark.

"Well, if he keeps up like that, he'll be the death of someone, that's for sure."

A heavy silence settled between them.

Davos had hoped this might be the end of it. Robb was wont to fill silence with idle prattle—a habit Davos had long since recognized and begrudgingly accepted. Gossip, as it was known, often served to occupy the mind, but tonight, his thoughts were already burdened beyond measure.

But, true to form, Robb was not one to remain silent for long.

"Ever wonder what we'd be doing if we weren't here, in this gods-forsaken place?" he asked, leaning back against a tree.

Davos paused, weighing the question carefully. For a fleeting moment, a sad smile tugged at his lips, only to vanish just as quickly. He shook his head with a dismissive air. “There’s no use in dwelling on what-ifs. This is the hand we’ve been dealt. We make do.”

"Ah, but it's fun to imagine," Robb persisted. "Me? I'd probably be somewhere warm, with a tankard of ale and a lovely lass on my knee."

Davos couldn’t suppress a snort, even in his foul mood. “You? More likely to be locked in a cell for some misdeed or another.”

"Maybe." He grinned. "But at least I'd have had some fun getting there. What about you? Can't tell me you've never thought about it."

Davos hesitated, his grip tightening on the bowstring. Beneath the layers of red, flesh, and the weight of deceit and rage, he felt his heart clench painfully.

He cursed it silently.

(“Do you ever wish for something beyond knighthood?” He had asked, floating on his back in the river’s cool embrace. Aeron, seated on the riverbank with his boots discarded and feet soaking in the water, had been fourteen, Davos a year his senior.

The Bracken shrugged, his eyes drifting over the rippling water. “No. I’ve always wanted nothing more than to be a knight. It’s the only thing I’ve ever truly desired.”

Davos wrinkled his nose in mock distaste. “Boring.” He stuck out his tongue, and Aeron’s familiar irritation flared. It was all too easy to ruffle his feathers, and Davos couldn’t help but grin despite himself. “I dream of a quiet house, far from the world, with a farm and fields enough to sustain myself. A life lived on my own terms.”

The other boy's brows lifted in surprise. “You? Leading such a humble life? I find it hard to believe.”

Davos splashed him playfully. “Shut up, Bracken!” He returned to his position, gazing up at the clear, blue sky. “Imagine, you could come with me. We’d owe nothing to anyone. We’d be free.”

Aeron’s voice was low, thoughtful. “We weren’t born for freedom," he had told him.

“But we might still find it.”

“We might.”)

So why didn't we?

He swallowed, his throat parched, the taste of wine lingering on his tongue. He cleared his throat, meeting Rivers' curious stare, which lingered expectantly for a reply.

"Never had much time for dreaming," Davos lied. "Too busy surviving."

"Fair enough," Robb said, his tone light but his eyes understanding. "Still, there's got to be something you want. A goal. A dream."

"Just want to get through each day in one piece," he sighed.

"Well, here’s to getting through another day, then." He raised the empty goblet in a mock toast. "And may tomorrow be just as exciting."

Davos allowed himself a fleeting smile. “Here’s hoping it’s a bit less.” He cast his gaze downward at the last of their spent arrows. A sudden weight settled upon his heart. “I reckon that’s enough for one night.”

"Aye. My arms feel like they're about to fall off." Robb clapped him on the shoulder. "Try not to let whatever's eating you get the better of you, eh? Got enough to deal with without you turning into a bear."

"Piss off."

In, out.

In, and out.

Aeron drew a deep breath, but each inhale seemed to rob his lungs of more air than it granted.

In, and out.

The strong arms that held him, guiding him through the shadowed halls of the castle, felt more like chains than assistance. He had made the journey himself, utterly spent and barely able to stand. So, chains or not, he was grateful for them.

In, and out.

His vision wavered, the edges darkening into a haze.

Muffled, as if he were submerged by the river, he heard a distant shout: “Where is he?” The voice urged, "Where is my nephew?"

He took a few faltering steps on his own, and everything snapped into focus, if only for a moment. There, in the corner where he once stood—by the great hall’s doors, where he had listened to the murmur of men’s conversations as a child—was Lord Amos Bracken, frozen in shock, staring at him.

Staring at a ghost, he thought, he must look like one by now.

Something wrenched at his heart, and the smile he had tried to force faltered, shattering into countless pieces, when the uncertain voice of his uncle whispered, "Aeron?"

The hall seemed to stretch endlessly before him. Aeron's legs trembled, barely able to support his weight as he trudged forward. Each step felt heavier than the last. The floor itself sought to swallow him whole.

In, and out.

He could hear his breath from within.

“Aeron…” The whisper came again, in a voice that seemed almost unfamiliar. “Aeron! Where in the Seven Hells have you been? You vanish for days, leaving us to think you were dead!”

In, and out. (He tried, but it was hard.)

The walls of the great hall seemed to close in around him, the torches flickering like distant stars. He could hear his uncle’s voice, but the words were muddled.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through? What you’ve put me through? We thought you dead, Aeron, dead!”

He shook his head, struggling to focus, while the faces around him seemed to dissolve into clouds. The world twisted and warped before his eyes, stone transforming into serpentine labyrinths, stretching endlessly like the roots of a dead weirwood tree.

“You fool! Did it never occur to you to send word? To warn us?! Where did you vanish after such a bloody battle?"

The walls suddenly contorted into the charred remains of the battlefield, the stench of smoke and blood filling his nostrils, twisting his guts. He could see the faces of the fallen, and hear their screams of agony. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful, twisted reminder.

This is unfair, the voice whispered, you survived the battle you brought upon us, while so many others did not. Yet still, you find a way to lay the blame on others for what you have done.

“Son!” His uncle’s voice again, desperate now, shaking him. The sound seemed to come from a great distance.

I had hoped they had hanged you for desertion, his own voice kept repeating. Aeron clawed at the neck of his cloak, gasping for breath. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the cold stone floor, unable to hold himself upright any longer.

“I’m sorry,” was all he choked out between gasps. “I’m so sorry. I should have—I failed... I... I didn't mean to... I did not mean to say that."

Tears coursed down his face, unbidden and relentless.

And with them, everything spilled forth.

All of it.

His uncle, at last breaking from his stupor, dropped to his knees beside him. He gathered the broken boy into his arms, holding him tightly as if to shield him from further harm.

Until he felt it, the harm from within—humid, wet against his hand—and raised his palm to reveal it stained crimson. Amos looked down, watching the wound spread across Aeron's clothes like a venomous plague, devouring everything in its path, drenching the yellow fabric.

He took a shuddering breath and turned to the guards.

“Fetch the maester!”

Chapter 8: Alysanne I

Chapter Text

"Thank you for the warning, Sharna."

Alysanne gave her a curt nod and a small smile. The handmaiden returned it, and quickly departed, off to tend to her duties, leaving her alone in the quiet of her chambers.

Though it was still early and the dawn light was faint, Raventree Hall was already bustling, as it was at any hour of the day or night. Sleep was scarce for men, and even more so these days, days of war. Alysanne was no man, but she rose with the first light daily, taking it upon herself to oversee matters at the castle—matters she knew would otherwise burden her nephew.

However, this morning, as she awoke, she found not the letters she had hoped for from her ravens, but a basket that her handmaiden had brought from Davos' chambers.

Alysanne sifted through its contents once more—white linens and clothes. She pulled out one piece and, upon seeing dried blood on the fabric, quickly shoved it back into the basket. She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. I should not be surprised, she told herself; stubborn as Davos was, this should have been anticipated.

Even had he not been reckless, his wounds were unlike any she had seen before—wounds, as common sense would have it, bled profusely, and these bled all the more, beyond reason. She had only hoped that despite his stubbornness, he would not be so careless.

("He didn’t want me to call the Maester," Sharna had informed her. "He refused even to alert Lord Benjicot, insisting he would handle it himself.")

Bloody fool.

Alysanne took one final glance at the bloodstained clothes before deciding to get dressed.

The weirwood of Raventree Hall was the largest and most grotesque thing that Alysanne had ever seen. In Blackwood Vale, children were taught that the Brackens poisoned it and that it had been dead for years beyond count. Yet, it was the one tree they had never felled.

She had always held a strange fondness for it. As a child, she had found delight in trying to climb its ancient limbs, and now, as a woman grown, she took solace beneath its branches. By night, she would watch from her window as the ravens gathered on the skeletal limbs, making the dead tree seem alive again, their feathers as black as coal serving as leaves. Alysanne recalled how Davos, despite his fierce denials, had harbored a silent dread of the heart tree when he was younger.

(“Trees ought not to have faces,” he had told her. “I will cut it down, one day.”)

He had grown much since then, now sitting beneath the very tree without a trace of fear. He was polishing the steel of a sword with a piece of lemon. A peculiar choice, surely, since lemons were costly and did not grow in the Riverlands; the climate being too cold. Not exactly what Alysanne would have used to clean a blade.

"Here I find you," she called from afar. Davos looked up just in time to catch the small jar she hurled his way. He set the sword aside, if only briefly, to inspect the object between his hands, and then regarded her with a frown.

“What is this?”

“It’s an ointment. It will ease your wounds.”

Davos sighed. “I’m fine,” he said curtly, before returning to his task with renewed focus, as though she were not there. Only then did Alysanne notice the blade he was so meticulously polishing.

He handled the weirwood pommel with great care, the two small rubies set in the craved raven’s head glinting faintly in the dim light. (Her brother had once carried this very sword, sheathed at his side, a legacy from their father, who had inherited it from his own sire.) Samwell said they called it Bloodraven.

A peculiar name for a sword, but she had heard stranger. (Ravenbane, Willem had named her longbow, the very one he had gifted her on her ninth nameday—an even stranger present for a little girl.)

Alysanne let out a deep breath before settling by his side, offering no comment when Davos cast her an annoyed glance. She turned her attention back to the blade—clean, smooth, and gleaming already—yet he did not cease his work, kept scrubbing, and rubbing. (Alysanne could see the lemon juice seeping into his cuts, making the bloodstains on his fingers all the more vivid.)

“You’re a stubborn fool,” she said after a small silence. “I heard from my handmaiden you’re bleeding and refusing to let the Maester tend to your wounds. Do you think yourself some martyr?”

Her nephew tensed, ever so slightly, though she caught the movement before he relaxed and shrugged it off. “It’s nothing that can’t be borne,” Davos said gruffly.

Alysanne blinked.

“Nothing that can’t be borne,” she echoed in disbelief. “You’re proving nothing by enduring this torment. You’re only making it worse. The Maester sent this for you.” She seized the discarded jar, unscrewed the lid, and stirred it with a face she hoped looked convincing.

Once more, she caught the subtle tension in his frame, his hand momentarily halting, his eyes darkening for a fleeting instant before settling back into their impassive state. It was a brief glimpse of the Davos she had once known—a stark disparity to the Davos Blackwood she saw of late, whose emotions rarely extended beyond annoyance, anger, fleeting happiness, and overwhelming pride.

“I don’t need it,” he muttered.

(Bloody fool polishing Bloodraven.)

They fell into silence again, Alysanne settling more comfortably in the grass, resting against the gnarled trunk of the dead tree. The godswood around them was tranquil and mostly empty, save for a few men passing by, tending to the spoils of the hunt—skinning the game and salting the boars for the coming winter.

Winter.

Her thoughts wandered northward, pondering Lord Stark, who had raised Queen Rhaenyra's banner. She wondered how he managed—balancing the demands of preparations with the need to send aid to the war. She had also heard that Cregan was quite young himself and had a son barely three years old. ("It’s only greybeards," Davos had grumbled at the dinner table the other night, "He can’t spare more than that, not with Winter's approach.")

A gust of wind rustled the branches overhead, and Alysanne refocused on the present.

"You know," she began, "you might find yourself living a bit longer if you took better care of your body."

Davos huffed a humorless laugh, putting the spent lemon aside. He brandished Bloodraven, raising it to catch the light, scrutinizing its gleam. In those moments, Alysanne mused, it was perhaps fortunate for Blackwoods that the great weirwood tree had shed its leaves, for otherwise, they would cloak the ground and obscure the sun. (Even in death, it seemed, there were things to be valued. Surely the Bracken had not considered this when they poisoned their tree, and yet...)

Seemingly satisfied, her nephew turned to her. “I suppose some of us are just too thick-headed to heed that advice.”

“Perhaps,” Alysanne said, her tone flat. “But it’s hard to be of any use if you’re bleeding out in a corner. Letting your pride get the better of you only makes things worse.”

“You’ve a way of getting under my skin."

“And you have a way of making me worry."

Davos met her gaze, this time with a glint in his eyes that she could not decipher. "It does not matter. The scars will—"

"They are not scars yet," she cut in sharply. "They will be if you do tend to them properly."

"I will," he replied, to her surprise. She shifted in her seat, frowning, her eyes darting between him and a point somewhere between the trees and the square towers.

"Really?"

Davos gave a noncommittal hum, quickly followed by a nod.

It had been easier than she had anticipated. Part of her was almost disappointed that he hadn’t put up more of a fight, though a greater part was relieved. (Still... it seemed odd to her, the cause of such a sudden change in him. Davos was known for his stubbornness and unyielding nature, and this was neither stubborn nor unyielding.)

She, however, had neither the time to ponder it nor the opportunity to ask any questions.

"Aunt Aly?" A new voice cut through their conversation, or lack thereof, drawing their attention. They both looked over to where stood Benjicot, tall and slender, with a shy demeanor. He looked older than eleven but not yet beyond thirteen—boyish and youthful, yet still unmistakably the image of Alysanne's brother.

She offered him a warm smile.

"What is it, Ben?"

He cleared his throat and straightened his back in that way he did when he wished to appear lordly, then said, "We have received a raven from Harrenhal. Prince Daemon Targaryen summons us. Uncle Willem and I want to confer on the matter. If... you wish to join us?" The words came more as a query than a command, the hesitation in his voice rather endearing. She noticed the fleeting, uncertain glances he cast at Davos. (Benjicot was surely still a boy at heart, a child in many ways.)

“Of course,” Alysanne nodded in assent, and her nephew, after a moment’s hesitation, agreed as well. “We will be there.”

“I shall see you shortly then,” the young lord replied, a smile touching his lips. But before he could turn away, Davos’ voice cut through.

“Benjicot, wait.”

Curiosity piqued, the boy turned back, and Davos rose from his seat. Alysanne heard, despite his efforts to mask it, the wince that slipped through clenched teeth. She watched as he handed the boy the sword he had been polishing, its blade shining as brightly as the two rubies set in the raven’s eyes.

Benjicot glanced down at it, then back up, his eyes widening slightly.

"Take it," Davos said when he did not, "It should be yours."

"But..." the boy hesitated, "Father gave it to you. It’s your sword."

It was true. Alysanne would never forget just how delighted Davos had been to receive it on his twelfth nameday, a gift far beyond what he had ever hoped for. He would have slept with it, had he been given leave, and it had been, for as long as she could remember, his greatest possession.

“Yes, and I’ve cherished it, but you’re the true heir to its legacy. I’ve come to realize that it’s fitting for you to carry it." Davos looked down at it, his grip white-knuckled, his eyes shadowed with sorrow. Benjicot did not notice the sadness, for little boys seldom do, but Alysanne did. "You deserve it more than I ever will."

"Truly?"

Davos nodded, and Benjicot took it with the wide, bright eyes of a boy on the cusp of twelve, who had been gifted something far beyond what he had ever hoped for.

Chapter 9: Amos I

Chapter Text

As Lord Bracken, there were many things Amos was expected to understand without explanation.

Foremost, he belonged to his people, bound by honor, duty, and the need for justice when required or demanded. By the old and new ways, it was always warranted, and he had ever been willing to serve it. Secondly, that he must be ready to serve that very justice, and thus punishment, to anyone, if need be, despite his personal judgment and feelings.

But a lord is still a man, and a man has his weaknesses. (And how could he be anything but overjoyed to see the nephew he had always considered a son, alive? He wondered, for there was something else—curiosity... doubt?)

He watched from the doorway as the maesters labored over the wound. More milk of the poppy was administered to the boy, needles threaded through flesh, and blood-soaked linens were carried away.

Aeron would live. The injury, though bloody, was not as grievous as it seemed, having been tended to with great skill. Whoever had saved him had done well, for he would indeed live. (He was no deserter, and let it be known that any tongue daring to speak ill of him would soon find itself removed. He was no deserter, no, he was a survivor. And yet...)

Amos's gaze fell upon Aeron's dirtied cloak, its Bracken sigil sullied and worn, the once-proud crest now a mere shadow of its former self. Resting atop it all was a raven penannular brooch, black as midnight and unyielding in its stark defiance.

(“What is this?"

Raylon turned at the sound of his voice, abandoning his task of gathering the young squires' wooden swords and training dummies. He glanced at the object Amos held between his fingers—a black, circular piece of metal.

“A clasp, I’d wager," he replied dismissively, returning to his work.

“It’s a raven,” Amos pressed.

The knight looked up again, then nodded.“ That, it is." He offered no further explanation, and Amos sighed, impatient.

“What is it doing in Aeron’s room ?”

“How should I know?” Raylon answered, and when his brother's skepticism did not waver, he abandoned the swords entirely and faced him. “He bested one of the Blackwood boys and took it as a prize, simple as that.”)

What manner of prize sat atop the heap of bloodied garments? This was not the visage of victory Amos had hoped to behold.

"The wound has been cleaned and dressed properly, my lord," the Maester's voice cut through his brooding thoughts. "I have left a poultice to stave off infection and some herbs to ease his pain. Give him no more than a few drops of poppy each night to help him sleep and alleviate his suffering. Too much, and it may dull his senses more than is needful."

Amos regarded his nephew, slumped against the pillows, stubbornly refusing another draught of the poppy, like a balky horse that will not be coaxed to feed. Each time the handmaiden brought the cup to his lips, he turned his head away. Amos waved her off, and she withdrew.

"And during the day?" he asked.

"He ought to avoid exertion," the Maester advised. "His body must conserve its strength to mend properly. Let him remain abed, and see to it that the wound is kept clean. Change the dressings twice a day, ensure he drinks ample water, with broths and light fare, and," he added, fixing Amos with a steady gaze, "keep him warm and ensure he does not succumb to despair. The mind can hinder the body's healing as much as any wound."

"Understood," he said with a nod. "Thank you for your service, as always, Maester."

The room soon cleared, leaving only the two of them.

For a moment, he stood there, frozen as if rooted to the spot. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Amos placed the cloth he had been holding beside the head of the bed and settled into the chair next to Aeron. The boy, pale and frail, managed to lift his eyes to him, trying to summon a faint smile despite his misery.

"Uncle," he rasped, his voice failing him as a fit of coughing seized him, his hand rising to cover his mouth like a child afflicted by fever.

Amos shifted his weight, easing into the chair with a troubled gaze. He yearned to reach out and grasp Aeron's hand but refrained. (The boy's resemblance to Raylon struck him sharply.)

“How fare you?” he inquired.

Aeron attempted another smile, more earnest this time, though it fell short of reassurance as Amos perceived it. “I am well,” he said. “Even if I do not seem so.”

“Indeed, you do not.”

A silence settled between them, peaceful and familiar, a comfort Amos had once known with his own brother—long before Aeron had even been born. And he might have gladly surrendered to the stillness, savored it as Aeron surely did. But answers were what he sought, not tranquility. Thus, he shattered the silence, his voice low and earnest, cutting through the quiet like a knife.

“The Seven were surely gracious to spare you," he began. "Whoever it was who pulled you from the brink deserves their due, to be celebrated and honored, not left in shadows.”

(I need to know. I need the truth of it.)

Aeron suddenly seemed hesitant, his eyes darting as if seeking an escape from some unseen menace. “I do not feel spared,” he confessed in a voice barely more than a whisper. “Rather, I feel cursed, if I am to speak truly.” He exhaled shakily, then added, “I... cannot recall who it was that saved me.”

His hands twisted together restlessly, fingers clutching at his own flesh. Amos reached out to still his hands. “You must not torment yourself so,” he said. “You speak of curses and burdens, but you are here, breathing and alive. That is no small blessing. To be saved is a gift.”

(Had it been any of the Bracken men, they would have stepped forward without hesitation. They would have claimed the reward eagerly, seeking more and more, ever hungry for gain. But this was not a Bracken soldier, was it?)

Aeron’s eyes stayed cast downward. He uttered no more words, staring at his hands, at the white sheets encircling him, avoiding his uncle’s gaze. Amos understood well, better than most, the nature of guilt, the visage of guilt.

Today, it took the form of Raylon—more youthful, just as gentle, hurt, and devastated, with bloodstained fingers and the Bracken name. Aeron Bracken was his spitting image—a ghost risen from battle to haunt him.

("He is a promising lad, perhaps one of the finest riders of his age," Raylon declared, tousling Aeron's hair, which flushed a deep crimson with embarrassment.

Amos let out a hearty laugh. "A fine knight he’ll make, then?"

"Better than you, I daresay," Raylon retorted with a smirk, "though that’s scant praise, considering your own prowess."

"Slander, pure slander!")

"About..." Aeron's weak voice trailed off, and Amos lifted his head to meet his gaze. He observed the way Aeron swallowed, hesitated, and trembled, fear and frailty evident, to him, at least. "Uncle Raylon, has he been..."

There was no need for further words; Lord Bracken nodded with a look of quiet apology. "He has been buried, already."

(He buried him himself, among the other Brackens. It was said to be an insult to inter a bastard alongside Highborn, but Raylon had his place beside Jerrel. A brother to him in every way, and yet again struck down by a Blackwood. Curse them.)

Amos noted the slight jolt in Aeron's body, the tension that seized him as though the news had struck him with a physical force. Yet, he strove to mask his reaction, clinging to a facade of strength and pride, despite the folly of believing that emotions were a sign of weakness.

"I see," the boy replied at length.

The silence in the chambers grew heavy.

He had anticipated this—sorrow, guilt, and the ever-present weight of emotions that Aeron seemed to carry so well. The boy had always been sensitive, prone to empathy and sadness, his tears flowing easily in days gone by. Amos remembered that well.

For another while, neither spoke.

Until Amos rose from his chair and moved slowly about the room before retrieving the cloth he had placed at the foot of the bed—rather, the object wrapped within. He returned to his nephew, who, for the first time that day, stirred from his silent self-pity to peer with curiosity. Amos was at least grateful for this small sign of engagement.

He unfurled the cloth, revealing the steel, which gleamed fiercely in the flickering candlelight. Aeron's eyes widened as he beheld it. "It's..." he began, seeking some sign of approval in his uncle's gaze.

Amos nodded solemnly. "Raylon's sword. I hoped it might bring you some comfort."

With a trembling hand, the boy grasped it, his knuckles whitening around the hilt. He turned it over and traced his thumb along the intricately carved stallion pommel. It was masterfully wrought, and Amos could not deny that Raylon had wielded it well.

“A bastard sword,” the man said.

Aeron’s lips curved into a genuine smile, the first he had shown in many hours. “How fitting,” he remarked, the jest light and sweet, like a memory of better times.

(“You’ve got a bastard sword?" Amos laughed. "How fitting!”

Raylon's smile grew, though he muttered with mock annoyance, “Piss off.”)

He chuckled softly at the lost memory. "He called it..."

"Bittersteel," Aeron interrupted, curiosity evident in his eyes. "I’ve often wondered why."

There were many reasons. Raylon had always been a peculiar sort, not like other lads; he was unique in his way of thinking, perhaps the only one who spoke of such things. The sword had borne that name for years, but before it had a name, it was merely a gift from their lord father. (A beautiful gift; his most prized possession.)

"He was never fond of killing," Amos said after a brief pause. "Yet he was skilled with it. Sometimes, he wielded that same steel to send men to their deaths, sealing their fates. He harbored a bitterness towards it, never cared for violence, though he was a knight."

"Bittersteel," the boy murmured in understanding, more to himself than to anyone else.

"I want you to have it ."

Aeron’s eyes widened, his gaze fixed on the sword as if he were seeing it anew. He looked back at Amos, his mouth opening and closing, grappling with disbelief. "M-Me?" he stuttered, barely able to accept the words that had been spoken.

Amos nodded.

"Yes, you. Raylon would have wished it thus. He valued it, despite its name." He observed how Aeron's hands trembled as he tightened his grip on the sword. "It’s somewhat unbalanced, and you may struggle to wield it at first," Amos continued, "but he would have wanted it in hands that grasp its true worth. I know you find no joy in killing, which is precisely why it must be yours."

Aeron shook his head. "I... I cannot possibly be worthy of it," he said, but Amos pressed.

"Take it," he said, his tone firm but softened by a fleeting smile. "I’ve already had a scabbard made for you."

The boy blinked in surprise. "Whatever for?"

"So you might carry it on your back," Amos explained, "It's a bastard sword, Aeron. You would find it less than comfortable to carry at your hip."

Aeron’s lips curled into a gentle smile, a rare lightness in his eyes.

"Thank you, uncle."

"You are most welcome." Outside, the hour of the wolf was drawing near, yet the demands of duty did not yet yield to the call of sleep. Amos tapped his knees and rose to leave. "I must go now, make sure that you rest before dawn."

Aeron nodded, holding the sword tightly as he watched his uncle walk away. Before departing, however, Amos paused one last time to glance at the torn, bloodied garments strewn nearby. His jaw tightened despite himself. He loathed the Blackwoods—hated them for what they had taken from him, and for nearly claiming Aeron as well. Greedy, monstrous devils that seemed to have crawled from the very depths of the Seven Hells. Beasts reveling in slaughter, ravens that plucked the eyes from men.

He bent down to pick up the raven clasp, turning it over in his hand with a contemplative look—a bitter smile forming, reminiscent of the steel of Raylon’s sword. With a hollow chuckle, he asked, "Do you know what a group of ravens is called?"

Aeron tensed. "I do not."

"Unkindness."

Then, he tossed the pin into the fire of the hearth, watching as the flames consumed it.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Harrenhal was a cursed place, or so Davos had heard, teeming with ghosts and spirits that haunted the ruins, the kind of things that would scare any sensible boy. To see Benjicot so eager was a surprise; his belief in such things far exceeded Davos's own, though that was hardly a challenge.

"I should be the one going," he stated.

Willem shook his head, his opposition clear. For the past hour, he had argued against the stubborn boy, a debate more exhausting than the castle's haunted legends, until Davos's head began to ache.

"You should remain here, at Raventree. You are its lord—"

"Which is precisely why I must go," Benjicot interrupted, his tone resolute. "I am Lord of House Blackwood. Prince Daemon has summoned our banners, and it is my duty to meet him at Harrenhal."

He sounded like his father, carrying that same air of confidence when the matters were crucial. He held himself with a poise that belied his years, that belied a boy known to be shy and polite. This was the man who had ordered Davos to be flogged, not the little boy he saw earlier, not the cousin he had breakfast with. This was a lord, he thought, a lord with a glint of fear in his eyes, the fear any child would have.

"I agree with Ben," Alysanne said, nodding as she reached for her goblet of wine, which was filled to the brim, unlike Davos's. "He is the lord; it would be improper to send anyone but him."

Not so long ago, it had not been so. Not so long ago, Benjicot's only worries were which tunic to wear, for all the others were soiled from his training; what fare would grace his supper table, and if his father would regale him with yet another legend of the Old Gods; what gift he might receive on his next nameday.

Not so long ago, lordship was a distant and unimaginable future.

Willem sighed. "It would be wiser if I were to go. Benjicot is still young; he lacks the experience."

"Then perhaps someone should accompany him," she suggested. "Divide the burden, and ensure all are satisfied. The terms to be presented to Daemon Targaryen were settled long before this meeting."

Davos traced a finger absent-mindedly over a crest carved into the table's wood. He wondered what he might have for supper that very night; he wanted to eat well, if only this once. And then he pondered whether he had burned those cursed Bracken letters hidden in his desk and removed the golden pin from beneath his pillow. (He hadn't. He couldn't bring himself to burn the letters.)

"I think Aunt Alysanne is right," Benjicot agreed. "I will take someone with me, and two shall remain here to tend to the castle in my absence."

Lemon cakes sounded good; he craved lemon cakes.

"Now the question arises," Willem drawled, "who?"

The sudden silence made Davos raise his head slowly, finding all eyes upon him. "What?"

"I want you to come with me, Davos," Benjicot stated, clear and definite.

The journey to Harrenhal would span two to three days in fair weather, accounting for rest and all that entailed. Davos was none too fond of horses, and to venture to that cursed castle of all places? He had no belief in ghost stories, but even the simplest of fools knew to steer clear of that damned fortress. They said it drove men to madness. Davos felt he was mad enough already.

He shook his head.

"No, I..." He shifted in his seat. "I have other plans."

That was no lie. Indeed, he did.

Alysanne blinked, clearly taken aback. "Well... now you have more pressing concerns."

It seemed, however, that this matter was not open to further debate.

Davos had always been fond of climbing. As a child, he and his friends would challenge themselves to scale anything climbable. He took pleasure in it, enjoying it more than anyone ever did—everyone knew that much, a matter of pitying bets among them. Davos was an adept climber.

He had climbed the square towers of Raventree Hall, its trees, and statues. He would toe off his shoes and climb to the roof, laughing as guards chased him down, while his mother turned pale at the sight of him leaping carelessly from stone to stone. He felt free, like a raven, never touching the ground for long.

He loved it.

Until he began to hate it.

"Mother, mother!"

He was but seven years old, running eagerly to his mother. The day was still young, the summer long, and the air warm. Alysanne did not trail behind him as she often did—ever since she could walk, she had followed him everywhere. His mother sat near the windowsill, focused on her embroidery.

Davos did not pay attention to the blossoming bruises on her wrists, did his best to ignore the purple marks. It was easy when she looked at him and smiled, and the world seemed all the brighter for it.

"Did you watch from the window, did you?" he asked eagerly, his excitement barely contained. "Did you see how well I handled the bow?"

She would laugh and cradle him, tell him he did well, and Davos would be the happiest boy in the world. Happy by her side, forever, he wished to remain there, for she was always so kind, so sweet, so unlike his father. (His mother's womb had once bled, had once stretched to make room for him, and still, she seemed ever so eager to give him more—more room, more love. She always bled more.)

"Yes, I did, sweetling. I am proud of you."

Mothers were ever proud, always loving their sons and daughters, no matter the cost. Davos yearned to make her proud, to earn her love, to make her forget her unhappiness and the lack of affection she received in return. (She did not know, though he did, that Davos could not love anyone as deeply as he loved her.)

"Davos!" But then his father's voice would cut through, and his mother's smile would falter. He would sense something was wrong, yet he could not grasp what it was.

Little boys were often blind to their mother's sadness, unlike little girls who mirrored their mothers' hearts.

"There you are, son." He'd smile, cheerful. "Fancy a hunt? Time you made your first kill."

Yet fathers lacked the wombs that could stretch and ache for their children. They could love, but not as mothers did. It was a different sort of love, Davos had come to understand. His father wanted to mold him into a man, while his mother cherished the boy he still was. But Davos knew he lacked the heart for killing; he would see the beast's eyes, pleading, and he would falter. His father would scorn him for it, as he always did, and Davos would cry, like a little boy, not a man.

It would anger his father, and his mother would pay the price, as she often did. Most days, he'd wonder; how could a little boy be both his mother's joy and her doom. He did not know, but come morning, he would find her skin painted in more bruises. (Again and again, he tried to turn a blind eye, striving to ignore the signs as best he could. And was it ever difficult for him? When she looked at him and smiled, the world seemed to brighten, if only for a moment.)

She never spoke of it either; she was far better at ignoring it than he was.

And mothers never spoke, they were not there to do so, they were there to endure, and endure she did. She bore the strikes, the blows, the harsh words. She cried often; Davos knew. His uncle once told him they had the same eyes: green and gray, like the brewing storm clouds, and in certain lights, blue, like the depths of midnight.

He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that his love would be enough, that he alone could be worth it.

He was wrong.

He had failed, as a boy, and in his father's eyes, he failed as a man as well.

For, on the eve of Davos' eighth nameday, his mother hung herself from the weirwood tree in the Godswood.

(He was never enough; he never had been.)

His father had forced his way through the gathered crowd, pushing and shoving, as if tearing through the very fabric of the world that had denied him. It was as though he were a babe clawing his way out of a bleeding womb, a child who had stretched too far and brought death upon his mother. He seized Davos by the sleeve, as every eye in the Godswood turned towards them.

“f*cking cut her down,” he spat.

Davos cast aside his boots and began to climb the tree.

He had always been fond of climbing. As a child, he and his friends would challenge themselves to scale anything climbable. It was a joy to him, a way to escape. (The memory of his mother’s body hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud haunted him.)

But as time wore on, the thrill turned to disdain.

The heart tree's gaze seemed to follow him.

In his youth, it had wept blood, its appearance almost mournful. Davos had once vowed to cut it down, back when he couldn't pass it without being plagued by nightmares. But that was when he was a boy. A man had no such fears, and the tree no longer wept blood; the sap simply leaked from its trunk.

"Are you going to scale it like my brother claimed you did when you were a child?"

Davos didn’t need to turn to know it was Alysanne who stood behind him. Above, the ravens perched on the branches, large and inquisitive, peering down at them. He met their gaze, staring into the eyes of the Gods as they stared back at him.

"The ravens have been restless of late," she remarked.

Davos turned to her with a shrug. "How restless can ravens be?"

He had no faith in any of it, having raised himself beyond such beliefs. His mother had clung to the Faith, despite her better judgment, while his father honored the old gods. Davos would have rather perished than adhere to either. None of the gods had ever answered his pleas, and if they truly existed, why would they bestow love and desire, tyranny and sin, doom and death? What kind of benevolent gods would inflict such suffering? (Only men were capable of that. Gods, if they existed, were merely men in another guise.)

Alysanne studied him for a moment. "Restless enough to foretell change," she said. "Or trouble."

Davos raised an eyebrow, curious. "And what trouble might that be? The ravens aren't exactly known for their clarity."

"As I well know," she chuckled, a delicate sound like wind through leaves. She settled beside him, placing in his hands a goblet he had hoped was filled with wine. The moment it touched his lips, however, he nearly spat it out.

Milk of the poppy.

Davos grimaced. "This is wretched."

"Hardly," she replied. "I am merely trying to tend to a raven with broken wings, but he is restless and lacks clarity."

Davos glared at the goblet, the bitter liquid barely masking the medicinal odor. “And I am to be your patient?” he grumbled, setting it aside with visible distaste. “I’m not in need of healing so much as a drink and a decent night’s rest.”

“And I am not in the business of indulging idle comforts. You need rest and care if you are to recover. You swore you would take it.”

“Care and rest, I can promise you, but I doubt solace will come from this foul brew. What I need is a clear head. Not more of this—” He gestured dismissively at the goblet. “—milk of the poppy.”

Alysanne sighed softly as if resigned. “Very well. Drink what you must, Davos." Her eyes met his, black against green. "But remember, even the most restless of ravens can find their wings mended with patience.”

Patience, my arse.

He took a deep breath, casting a glance at the darkened sky before turning back to her. "Do not attempt poetry; you'd fare far worse at it than you do as an archer."

"Oh, coming from the man who cared little for fallen soldiers on the battlefield?" she scoffed. "You wouldn't recognize poetry if it struck you in the face, you soulless Blackwood."

She meant it as a jest, as they had shared many such jests before—Davos the soulless, Davos who felt nothing. Yet, despite the lightness with which it was spoken, it stung more than he cared to admit. It was unfair, for all that had transpired, that her words should wound him so deeply. Perhaps she was right, perhaps he was indeed soulless, empty, consumed by nothing but... what?

(“Stop your damned crying, Davos. You care for nothing,” his father had always told him. “You’re a far better blade than you are a person.”)

“I did not mean it,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. The words tumbled from his wine-stained tongue, natural and unbidden. (The Others take him.)

Alysanne turned to him, curious. “Mh?”

“What I said about the soldiers of the mill,” he repeated, “I did not mean it.”

She offered a small, perhaps even proud smile, the sort a mother might give her son, making him roll his eyes. "I know you didn’t mean it. Sometimes, you sound just like your father, without even trying." The moment the words were out, she clamped her mouth shut. "Sorry... I didn’t—"

"It's fine, you're right," Davos said with a lack of real heat. "I was angry."

"Well... when are you not?"

This time, he managed a smile as well, nudging her gently. "When well surrounded."

"Should I take that as a slight, considering you were angry in my presence?" she asked, feigning offense.

Davos let out a laugh, a true, hearty laugh that shook his shoulders—one that only she could draw from him. He cherished that part of her, the part that brought out the best in him, the part that made him feel he was more like his mother than his father. There were times he wished he could be that way all the time.

But he was not raised for it.

He was a creature of habit, and this was his realm.

"Do I seem angry now?"

"No," she shook her head, "You look too calm. It’s almost unsettling."

"Haha." He cast her a disinterested glance, "Perhaps it’s the ghosts of Harrenhal reaching me from afar."

"Maybe you'll turn into a raven... with three eyes!"

Davos furrowed his brow and looked at her in confusion. "Three eyes only?"

"Very well, a thousand then."

"A thousand and one."

"You are petty."

"No, you are."

Chapter 11: Past II

Chapter Text

It was Davos' eighth nameday. Or perhaps the day after, or the day after that.

It mattered little to him; he did not celebrate it, had no cake, and refused most of the gifts offered. His father had deemed it a day of mourning, but the stars in the sky shone brightly that night, and that mattered more to him than the nameday. He had once heard that stars were the souls of those who had died, and his mother was surely the brightest among them.

"Please, shiny stars," he whispered, kneeling on the cold stone floor near his window, his hands clasped in prayer. "Send me an angel to be my friend, as kind as Mother was, but not one who follows me around like Alysanne, or ugly Robb. I want a true angel." He paused, then added, "And I also want a real sword, so I can slay Bracken and make Father proud."

Truth be told, he wanted to ask for many other things. A hound he could name Nightwolf, which was admittedly a foolish name for a dog. He longed for a longbow, the kind used in wars, and a great horse. He was weary of riding a pony; though he was still small, he believed he deserved a proper horse—black, big, proud, and strong—a stallion. ("You'll have your very own horse one day," his mother used to tell him. "But you must promise me you'll stop climbing," she'd say, pinching his nose, and Davos would wonder what one had to do with the other.)

The door of his room creaked open slowly.

He scrambled to his feet, nearly toppling forward.

Samwell stood in the doorway for a few moments, his hand still on the handle. Then, a smile broke across his face. Davos straightened his posture, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck as his uncle entered the chamber.

"Were you praying?" he asked.

The boy scoffed, a sulky pout forming on his lips. "No, I don’t pray." He turned his gaze away. "I just wanted a sword and a horse."

His uncle's eyes softened. He was gentle, in ways Davos thought lords should not be—at least, not lords like him, who had reasons to be otherwise.

Lord Samwell Blackwood—his father's older brother by a mere year—had become a young lord when Davos' grandsire had perished in a duel against Lord Bracken, leaving behind a legacy and a pregnant widow. Davos could never forget, with how his own father hammered it into his head: "Brackens are evil, Brackens are to be slain, they killed my father." This was repeated ad nauseam , driving home the need to grow strong, so no one could kill him.

His uncle Samwell was different from his father, though they were kin. Samwell smiled more, laughed more, and had not been wed at three-and-ten as Davos' father had been. He supposed that made all the difference.

(Samwell had been fifteen when Davos was born.)

"A sword and a horse, is it?" he laughed, loud and unrestrained. "Quite the ambitious request for one so young."

Davos crossed his arms, his pout deepening. "I’m not that young!" he snapped. "Besides, you’re not that old. Maybe you should get me a horse. I’m a Blackwood. And I deserve a stallion, not that stupid pony."

Robb always mocked him for not having a proper horse, and Davos was weary of it. His pony was named Dusty, a name his friend had given out of disdain, claiming the beast was dull and lacked color. This was far from the truth; Dusty had a range of hues, though Davos longed for a black mount, finding colors less to his liking these days. And Robb was scarcely older, merely twelve, yet he had his very own horse. Why did he not?

Perhaps it was because Rivers was Samwell's half-brother—a bastard, but a brother nonetheless. Worth more than a nephew? Perhaps not, but worth more than Davos? That wasn’t such a stretch.

"Ah, the pony is beneath your dignity, is it?" his uncle teased, ruffling his black hair.

Davos swatted his hand away. "Yes! And a proper sword, not just a practice one. How am I supposed to defend our honor with a wooden stick?"

Samwell raised an eyebrow. "Planning on challenging the Brackens already, are we?"

"Maybe. If they dare show their faces around here!"

When Davos was six, he once tussled with a Bracken boy by the river. It wasn't a grand fight; more a matter of pushing, rolling in the grass, and tugging at hair than anything else. Yet, he was confident he could take on three of them and still prevail. (He had returned home bloodied and with a broken nose, but Willem and his father had clapped him on the shoulder like a seasoned comrade, and suddenly it was worth it.)

His mother had been worried sick. Davos sometimes wondered if he had made her worry too much, worry herself ill, worry herself to death.

"You’ve got the spirit, I’ll give you that. But perhaps we should start with mastering the pony and the practice sword first. Even the greatest knights began with humble beginnings."

Davos scrunched up his nose. "Ponies are for children!"

"And what are you, if not a child?"

The boy groaned and stamped his foot, much like, well, a child.

Samwell had always been the most reasonable of his brothers, always there to remind him that he was too young, too frail, too sensitive. It was all bothersome, Davos thought. He wasn’t sensitive, he wasn’t frail. He was strong, and in his heart, he knew he felt nothing. Nothing could hurt him; he hadn't even cried at his mother’s funeral. Sometimes, he wished his uncle would trust him more with the duties of men. Willem did not either, but Willem was a nuisance, and Davos wanted to kick him in the balls every time he saw him.

Like that one time he had pushed him into the river when Davos leaned in to see if there truly were purple fishes, which, of course, was a lie. Willem the liar.

"Father says I am a man," he countered.

Something in Samwell’s eyes shifted, and he gave one of his soft, kind smiles—the kind that Davos thought would look fitting on his father if he were to see it one day. It was gentle, fatherly. Samwell reached out and rested his hand on the top of Davos' head, not ruffling or moving it, just keeping it there.

"Cayn believed himself a man grown at ten," his uncle began, "I am certain he would expect his own son of eight to slay men twice his age. But that is not the way of it." He paused, trying to meet Davos' small, troubled eyes. "Your mother would have wanted you to be a child."

The boy tensed, closing in on himself like a shell, the light in his eyes dimming. He shook his uncle's hand away and said, "Mother died because I was too much of a child."

She had. He knew it. If he had been stronger, more of a man, if he had felt less, if he hadn't cried into her skirts every time his father had been cruel—if that hadn't pushed her to defend him—if he had been less sensitive, if he had fought and killed heartlessly, Father would never have been mad at her, and she would never have been sad. She would still be alive if he had been man enough to protect her.

Knights don't cry, fighters don't cry, men don't cry. He had been none of those. He had cried too much. Now, he was done crying.

"Is that what you believe, or is that what your father wants you to believe?"

Davos paused, staring intensely at the floor before glancing back at his uncle. "I am going to bed now." He turned swiftly before Samwell could reply, slipping into bed and turning his back, listening for the moment his uncle would leave.

The room remained silent.

After a few tense seconds, he turned cautiously to see his uncle still standing there—stubborn and unyielding, watching him with unwavering eyes.

He came and sat on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"I said I am going to bed, you big oaf!" Davos kicked at him with his small legs, but it did little to move the man. "This is trespassing."

"This is my castle," Samwell replied with a smirk.

Davos grumbled and fell silent once more.

A few beats of silence passed.

Until Samwell took a deep breath, his face etched with seriousness. An uneasy feeling began to stir in the little boy's heart, but he remained quiet, waiting. "I know you think yourself a man," he said slowly, "but I would have you be a boy a little longer."

"Why?" The sooner he became a man, the sooner he could fulfill what was expected of him. He did not wish to wait; he had waited long enough.

"My child will be born in a few days, the maester says." he looked at Davos, who frowned in response. "I... well, I am not certain he'll ever have a brother."

"Why not?" the boy asked.

"His mother will not be able to bear more," his uncle replied, his gaze falling to the floor. "She has lost too many before."

(What a foolish question to ask, a man would have known better.) Davos had seen Samwell burn every single one of them, from the window of his room, and had heard his mother pray for Lady Blackwood, time and again. He had also heard men say his seed was cursed, and that he could not bear children because Bracken had used dark magic against him. Willem, however, believed the maesters of the Citadel were behind it, that they poisoned the wife instead, with their new ways and their Faith of the Seven.

(Davos believed neither.)

“If my babe is born well and safe,” Samwell’s voice cut through his thoughts, “I would wish for you to be like a brother to him, or her. I would want you to be kind and caring. Do you think you could do that?”

Davos did not think long before nodding. "What will you name the child?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

The boy hummed, sitting up on the bed, his brow furrowed in thought. He had once read the tale of a little prince who lived on a star and befriended a fox, a story he loved dearly. He smiled. "Benjicot, if it is a boy."

"And if it is a girl?"

This answer came easier, without thoughts of books and stories.

"Lyanne."

His mother's name.

Deep into the night, long after his uncle had left and Davos was certain no one would hear him, he would lay by the window where his mother used to embroider, and he would cry and cry until sheer exhaustion overcame him.

By morning, his father would find him curled up, shivering, his lips nearly blue from the cold, and would carry him back to bed.

The baby wasn't exactly easy on the eyes.

At first glance, that was precisely what crossed Davos' mind. It looked more like a misshapen bunny than the adorable bundle everyone seemed to fawn over. People cooed and declared it the most beautiful boy in the Seven Kingdoms, and Davos began to wonder if he was the one with impaired vision—or, by the gods, if he were blind altogether. It took several more glances before he concluded that everyone must be very skilled at deceit. Besides, Benjicot bore little resemblance to his mother, who, without doubt, was the more beautiful of his two parents.

Davos watched as his father cradled the infant with an almost reverent care, while his uncle Samwell gazed down with a smile so tender it seemed beyond all others. Both had been engaged in a lengthy discourse about the babe—details Davos could scarcely recall, having paid little mind as he watched.

Alysanne, however, seemed fully engrossed, staring into everyone's soul with an intensity he found unsettling—though less so, considering she was only a girl of five. She had a habit of such intense staring when focused.

Davos did not share her focus.

Mainly because he rarely focused on anything for long. He was a boy of action, driven by impulse. He did not waste time weighing options; he preferred to charge in headfirst, like a warrior—and warriors trained, they did not spend their evening looking at babes. He should be in the courtyard, like Robb. Sometimes, he wished he had been born a bastard, so no one would pay him any mind and he could do as he pleased.

Benjicot babbled something, and Davos shot him a scowl.

It’s your fault I don’t get to train, he thought hard enough in hopes he could hear it. This is stupid. So, he sulked. And consequently, found the baby to be rather unattractive, (ugly).

When it was his turn to hold him, he couldn't help but grimace. "What?" he demanded of Benjicot as he glanced in his direction. "Why is he looking at me like that?"

"Be kind, Davos," Willem interjected, but he barely spared him a glance before looking back down.

"I am kind, Uncle," he said, rocking the baby with all the finesse and affection of, well, a rock. "See?"

"Be kinder, then."

"I am the kindest," he snapped, just as Benjicot began to cry in his arms. "What's wrong with it?" Davos grimaced down at the restless baby, lifting the swaddled child away from his face as it unleashed another wail. "Why is he so loud?" he asked, wincing at the noise.

Alysanne clicked her tongue disapprovingly and fixed him with a fierce glare as she snatched the infant from his grasp. "He's not some doll!" she scolded, cradling the babe protectively in her arms.

"I know, I know..." he muttered quietly, annoyed.

Samwell couldn't help but chuckle. "I'll call the wet nurse; I think he's hungry."

Well, Davos knew he had promised to be kind, but Benjicot looked so stupid that he was certain the baby wouldn't even remember being annoyed with him today. He reached out with a single finger and touched Benjicot's nose, and just like that, he stopped crying.

Davos smiled.

Midnight perched atop Davos' leg, its claws gently pressing into his skin through his trousers without causing pain. In his hand, he crumbled pieces of bread, alternating between feeding himself and the raven, his bare feet dangling from where he sat on the branch.

The boy's eyes seldom strayed from the border, this side of the forest where the trees stood close together, the boundary between Bracken and Blackwood lands mirroring each other. He knew his father would race against Bracken men during hunts here, hurling insults and jeers as they vied for victory.

He looked, stared, for what felt like an eternity and more at the path where horses would soon thunder, driven by the pride of hunters, right between two ancient trees.

Midnight croaked upon his thigh.

"What?" he turned to the raven. She was large, larger than his face, so large he could scarcely hold her with both hands. She could easily pluck out his eyes, but she did not. She had been his mother's raven, and she was his now, so Davos fed her his last piece of bread.

Midnight looked at him, and he looked back. "You're ugly," he said at last.

The raven croaked again before taking flight, settling on a branch above. Davos watched as she fluffed out her feathers, and tilted her head curiously. He furrowed his brow and called up to the raven.

"You know, Midnight," he said, "it’s not very nice to just sit there and look down at me. If you could talk, you'd probably say more rude things. I think you’re just jealous of me."

Midnight croaked again.

"What? I think that was an insult," he continued, "You’re just a big bird with a bad attitude. I bet you can’t even remember the last time you saw something other than trees. I’ve seen more of the world than you have, and I don’t even have wings!"

True that.

He had once journeyed to the capital, mind you. He had seen King’s Landing, dined at a king's feast, and celebrated Prince Lucerys’ nameday. Robb had not been invited and Davos had been quite despondent at first, but then Willem had flung his carrots with his fork toward Lord Bracken’s table, striking the man's daughter squarely in the hair, and Davos had laughed so hard he turned as red as his own cloak. He would wager his very hand that Midnight had never witnessed such a hilarious sight, even with wings.

The raven’s head bobbed slightly, as if in agreement before it ruffled its feathers once more and settled more comfortably on the branch.

Davos pouted, crossing his arms. "Fine. Stay up there and be all high and mighty." He grumbled and turned his attention back to the path, muttering under his breath. “But what do you know? You’re just a stupid bird.”

For the next few minutes, he counted the tall grass as best as he could, tried to discern familiar shapes in the drifting clouds, and attempted to catch a butterfly—nearly tumbling from the tree in the process. Bored and on the verge of returning to Raventree, he was suddenly startled by the delicate notes of a lute being played.

A tune he recognized.

He listened intently at first. The melody was sweet, and sad, winding through the trees like a gentle breeze, but the voice was unlike anything he had heard before, soft, lilting, it carried over the rustling of the leaves.

Midnight croaked again, but Davos barely noticed. The music beckoned him, and he found himself drawn towards the source of the sound, moving cautiously from branch to branch. Navigating through the trees, he allowed himself to drop onto a low-hanging limb. With his legs gripping the branch tightly, he swung himself upside down.

Below, the sight swam hazily.

A young man with long hair sat upon a fallen log, a lute resting across his knees. His fingers danced over the strings, weaving a gentle, melancholic melody. Davos recognized it immediately; he had heard it countless times before. The men would sing it in taverns when the hour of the wolf was near and the heavy drink had left them sad.

The day they hanged Black Robin,
The air was clear and still.
The day they hanged Black Robin,
The autumn ground was chill.
The smallfolk gathered in the square,
The gallows there were set.
The smallfolk gathered in the square,
The women never wept.

Beside the stranger with the sweet voice sat a little boy, who resembled him strikingly. Cross-legged on the grass, the boy’s wide hazel eyes were fixed intently on the man. He looked enthralled, his small frame tense with rapt attention. Davos had thought at that moment that he was the most beautiful boy he had ever seen.

The Gods above all knew his crimes,
The lord read off his lists.
The Gods above all knew his crimes,
The men's hands balled to fists.
His legs they kicked, they jerked, then slowed,
The crowd not once did cheer.
His legs they slowed, then finally stopped,
The crowd not once did jeer.

The day seemed warmer despite the mournful tone of the song. The yellow of the field was more vibrant than he remembered as though the sun itself had descended to walk upon the earth, a tapestry of gold, pristine and resplendent. Davos straightened, sitting upright and attentive.

I'll never mourn Black Robin,
He killed my girl of four.
The day they hanged Black Robin,
My son came home no more.

The man finished his song, his finger coming to a rest on the strings, and turned to the small boy with a curious smile. "Tell me, Aeron," he inquired, "do you think Robin deserved to be hanged?"

Aeron's face scrunched in contemplation, his young brow furrowing as he pondered the question. “I don’t know,” he answered in a small, uncertain voice. “He was someone's son; his mother must be grieving. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, but he caused a lot of harm. Do we know why he did those terrible things?”

The man shook his head. "No, we do not," he said, his eyes softening as he gazed at the young boy. “It’s a hard thing to grasp. Even when we believe we know what is right, the world often proves to be more complex. Do you think we should have asked Black Robin why he did those things?”

The boy nodded solemnly.

Davos scoffed before he could stop himself.

The two faces snapped up at him, startled, their eyes wide as they looked up to where he sat in the tree.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Davos declared, rather boldly, unaware that they were seated on the other side of the border. He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “If Black Robin was hanged, it was probably because he deserved it. People make mistakes, and sometimes they are punished for them. It doesn’t matter if it’s right or wrong. It’s just how things are.”

The man's fingers faltered on the lute strings, and he glanced at the boy before speaking. “But if Black Robin did something wrong, shouldn’t he have been given a chance to explain himself? Maybe he had his reasons, even if they were not right. Sometimes people do bad things because they are desperate or afraid. Maybe he was not as wicked as everyone thinks."

It mattered little; his father had always said that caring for the dead was trouble and that showing concern for men he did not know was folly. Davos told himself he had no such feelings in his heart. Memory was punishment, and caring was punishment. He ought not to indulge in it; it pained him to think of his mother. Still, he vowed not to shed a tear. (Last time was the last time.)

“Maybe. But people are quick to judge and slow to listen. Justice is harsh and swift, so I don’t see the point in pretending things are better than they are. It’s just a waste of time,” Davos answered.

The man offered a sad, rueful smile.

"You speak in a manner a boy of your years should not," he said gently.

Davos shrugged. "What does it matter if Robin deserved it?" he wondered aloud. "You didn’t even know him." (What do the deeds of strangers matter to those who live in comfort? Does the fate of one boy change the world for you or me?)

The boy named Aeron shook his head, his small face earnest and serious. "Even if we did not know him, it matters because every soul has worth,” he said. “We all deserve kindness. Sometimes, the heart cares for those who suffer, even if they’re strangers. I would care for you, even if I did not know you. It’s the right thing to do.”

Davos stood silent for a moment.

Then, he sank to the grass, feeling its softness beneath his bare feet, walking on without realizing he had crossed the Bracken borders. He squatted to the boy's level, meeting him face to face, frowning and tilting his head as he scrutinized his beautiful golden eyes.

Aeron shifted uncomfortably.

At last, Davos broke the silence, in a very serious tone.

“Are you an angel?”

Chapter 12: Oscar I

Chapter Text

Oscar had been waiting for quite some time now.

Near the heart tree, at the doors of Harrenhal, where Simon Strong had first received him a day prior. "The Blackwoods are coming," he had been told, ravens larger than any he had ever seen settling on windows and in the rookery, bearing messages of their arrival. "You may wish to rest and enjoy the hospitality of our house while you wait."

But how much hospitality could one squeeze out of a place like this? Harrenhal was cold and gloomy, more ruin than castle. Oscar wondered how any fire could have started here, how Lyonel Strong and his son had perished in such a blaze. Everything was wet and damp, and the chambers he had been given nearly drove him mad with the constant drip of water onto the stone floor. Again and again, he had not closed an eye.

When morning came, he decided the heart tree was more hospitable, despite its carved face scowling in perpetual displeasure.

Truth be told, he should not even be here. He should be at his grandsire's bedside. They were Tully, through and through; Family, Duty, Honor—and yet, here he was, placing duty above family. (Though, in truth, he knew their words had not been listed in order of priority.)

This was necessary, he reminded himself, for one day, he would be Lord Paramount of the Trident. One day, on a day like this, he would be needed for meetings and battles, wars and settlements, amendments and judgments. But he did not know if he wanted that day to be tomorrow. At thirteen, barely past his name day, wars were already being declared, and his grandfather was too ill to rule.

Oscar ran his fingers over the thin silver jewel around his wrist.

In the distance, he heard the close whinny of a horse and the croak of a raven, then another. He raised his head and saw Simon Strong running forward—always running, Oscar had noticed, always trying to preempt Prince Daemon’s slights and offenses. ("Perhaps you might place a feather pillow over his head and speed along your inheritance?")

"Ser Oscar Tully," the old man panted, placing a hand against his heart to steady himself. He clearly did not expect to find him here.

Oscar nodded politely. On the path up to the castle, he saw two horses trotting slowly and steadily, ridden by men he did not know or recognize, their cloaks black as night. The first, taller, looked as tired as a man who had not slept in days, dark circles under his eyes matching their somber hue. There was no light in his eyes, no spark of the soul Oscar often found in others. This one was miserable, brooding, and weary, and surely, it was not just from the travel.

"That is Davos Blackwood," Simon said before he even had the chance to ask. Oscar had heard the name before—a troublesome lad, flogged, if he remembered correctly, for deserting. Though Riverrun had granted no such leave for punishment, houses often acted as they pleased with their own members, within the bounds of reason and law.

“Is it wise for him to be traveling in his condition?” came the question, so softly whispered it might have been mistaken for the voices that haunted Harrenhal’s shadowed halls. Yet, the old man heard it and gave a solemn nod in response.

"Unwise, surely, but," he smiled, a small, proud smile, "if he is in pain, we have one of the finest healers the Riverlands has ever known."

Foolish of him, but then, nothing less could be expected of a Blackwood.

Oscar had studied heraldry and history, as many boys do, when he was younger. He knew all the houses sworn to his own, had understood the Blackwood and Bracken feud for as long as he knew his sums, and had been acquainted with the ways of the Blackwoods for even longer. “Messengers of the Gods”—such were their house words, a proud house indeed. Oscar had always found it curious how House Blackwood's most prized possession and symbol of pride was a white weirwood tree, despite their very name.

Contradictory, as were many other houses, he supposed. Fierce in their own right, Blackwoods had fought the Brackens for ages and beyond. “Fear Our Thunder”—were House Bracken’s words. But what thunder could scare ravens that took to the sky during true storms? For they soared higher than horses could run and were elusive beyond measure.

Oscar offered Ser Simon a small, shy smile at last, his lips curling slightly as he glanced back at the path, overgrown yet barely reaching the height of an apple. Above, the sky seemed to contend with the sun, clouds heavy and brooding, poised to weep and unload their burden.

Behind Davos, there followed another rider.

Oscar's gaze lingered on him.

For a moment, concealed in the shadow cast by his own kin, the figure remained unseen. But slowly, steadily, he emerged into the light of a single, cold ray of bright, white sun that pierced through a parting cloud, as though bestowed by the Gods. Perched atop his horse, the boy scrunched his nose and squinted against the glare. His eyes glimmered with a clear, watery hue.

Oscar stood there, his eyelids fluttering involuntarily before settling into a steady, unblinking stare.

Messengers of the Gods.

He had heard, while growing up, tales of cold, dark beauty. He had never witnessed it firsthand, but it was the sort of beauty he imagined witches to possess—those who lure men into the night with their dark hair and piercing eyes, whose very lips seemed capable of freezing a soul. Such beauty would seem otherworldly, with fingers as cold and unforgiving as the winter's breath, dark spirits that could make even the stoutest kings shiver.

He had never thought a boy could embody such beauty, but this boy certainly did, with the blackest hair he had ever seen cascading over his brow, curling and framing his pale skin and dark blue eyes—cold, cold, and hauntingly beautiful.

Not much older than he was.

"Who is that?" Oscar blurted, pure curiosity in his voice, not even noticing when Simon blinked, dumbfounded.

"He is Lord Benjicot Blackwood, ser."

His entire body seemed to flinch at the words. He turned around, eyes wide with surprise that he made no effort to conceal. Oscar often wore his thoughts openly, like a banner for all to see. "L-Lord Blackwood?"

"Indeed," the old man confirmed with a solemn nod. "Prince Daemon has summoned him. I was under the impression that you were informed when you requested to extend your stay at Harrenhal."

That was not what had truly startled Oscar, he had to admit. He knew that House Blackwood was to be summoned, though he had planned to stay at Harrenhal merely for a night’s rest before continuing his journey to Riverrun at midday. The ride was long and wearisome, but Alys Rivers, the bastard healer, had suggested he might want to linger longer. ("The Blackwoods are coming," she had told him. "You may wish to rest and enjoy the hospitality of our house while you wait.")

He simply hadn’t anticipated... well, he wasn’t sure what he had expected, really. "How... How old is he?" he inquired at last, and Simon paused, humming thoughtfully.

"I believe the lad is soon to reach two-and-ten summers."

Gods be good. Nearly two years younger, and yet he appeared far wiser, infinitely grander. A true lord, though not yet old enough to be believed a seasoned warrior, he carried himself with a gravitas that made Oscar feel as if he were the elder. Dark and lean, and cold, with a strikingly beautiful sword slung across his back, its raven-shaped pommel's ruby eyes catching what little light filtered through the clouds.

Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, and Oscar felt like a silly child caught in some misdeed. (Benjicot certainly looked as though his fingertips could turn a man's soul to ice.)

It took him a few moments to notice the stable boys already aiding their dismount. Davos was the first to leap down, his eagerness leaving little room for hesitation. He loathed riding—quite fitting, considering their sworn enemies. He swiftly unbuttoned his gloves and slid them off with even more haste. Soon after, Benjicot followed, dismounting from his white horse, his gloved hands running over his tense neck.

Simon Strong hurried to their sides, bowing with practiced grace. "My lords, welcome to Harrenhal," he said, in a manner that always reminded Oscar more of a kindly grandfather than a knight. Simon was rotund and commonplace, resembling someone you might have known all your life. "It is an honor to have House Blackwood within these walls," he continued.

Davos offered a curt nod, his eyes wandering with curiosity, while Benjicot inclined his head more politely. "Thank you, Ser Simon," the young lord replied.

Oscar straightened where he stood, his gaze darting between the two. He had not anticipated the boy's voice to sound so youthful—not like a mere child, no, but more like a stripling, much like himself. He had expected, if he were honest, a voice graver, more mature, manly even. This was not an unwelcome surprise; in fact, he had felt slightly dwarfed beside him, and this made him feel better. (Now, as he stood closer, he realized that Benjicot was not much taller than himself, just a few inches.)

Oscar had met men who acted smaller than their stature, only to discover they were quite tall. This boy, however, was the rare exception where the reality was quite the opposite.

"The journey must have been long and wearying," the old man said with a measured smile. "Might I offer you the hospitality of Harrenhal? A warm meal and a place to rest?"

The boys' gazes locked once more, green and blue meeting. The air between them grew still, though the young Tully had been silent for some time, lost in thought. In that exact moment, he thought that while Benjicot could freeze souls with a mere look, his face would find a more fitting home near the hearth, amidst the warm hues of red or the leaves of a heart tree.

"A meal would be most welcome," Davos grunted. "The road has been arduous, and this f*cking castle's a devil to reach. We have matters to discuss that would be better served with some nourishment."

Simon’s eyes widened, taken aback by the rough manner, which even surprised Oscar, if only slightly. "O-Of course," he stammered. "The Great Hall has been readied for your arrival. I shall ensure that food and drink are brought forth immediately."

Davos then fixed his gaze on Oscar, frowning curiously, tilting his chin toward him. "And who might you be?"

The boy suddenly tensed, his entire posture stiffening. Simon Strong, standing beside him, faltered at the question, his face paling slightly as if struck by a sudden fever. He raised a hand to his forehead to steady himself, and let out a sigh tinged with a nervous, hollow chuckle.

"Forgive me," Simon said, his attempt at laughter more of a strained, pained sound, "I seem to be a poor host today. Allow me to introduce Ser Oscar Tully, grandson of Grover Tully. He is the heir to Riverrun and will one day be Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

Blue eyes turned back to Oscar once more. He felt a sudden flush rise to his ears, a burning warmth spreading across his entire face.

"Y-Your Gra—um, uh... My—My," he stumbled over his words, the heat climbing so high in his cheeks that he wished he could vanish beneath the heart tree. He swallowed hard, struggling to compose himself, and managed to finish with, "L-Lord Blackwood, it is an honor."

Benjicot's furrowed brows relaxed, and a smile broke across his face, revealing a pair of charming dimples. "The honor is mine," he replied with a polite nod.

A heavy silence fell over them, stretching on for what felt like an eternity as they stared at one another.

Oscar struggled to dispel the flush that had burned his cheeks, though he was certain the memory of his embarrassment would linger in his dreams for many nights to come, with or without the haunted corridors of Harrenhal.

Then, with a dry cough, Davos Blackwood shattered the silence like a frail thread.

"Well, it seems that the honor is shared by all parties," he started with a smile that barely reached his eyes. "but I am afraid I’ve had nothing but thin air since dawn, I’m rather hungry, and I’d wager you’re not here to provide me with anything more than the view of your bright red face."

Benjicot’s head suddenly whipped around, his gaze snapping to him with a sharp glare. Oscar felt the familiar heat creep back into his face, as unwelcome as an old acquaintance. (Certainly, he had known more agreeable friends—those who did not make him appear a fool before the Lord of Raventree Hall.)

Davos, however, seemed unfazed. He shrugged languidly and let his lips curve into a dismissive frown. "Or are we to stand here until the stars fall from the sky?"

Simon, stung by the words, fumbled for a response. “O-Of course not,” he stammered, struggling. “We can see to the meal immediately. I trust you’ll find it more to your liking.”

“How kind of you, Ser Simon. Lead the way, before I wither away from sheer hunger, if you please.”

And so he did, leading the way to the heavy, iron-bound doors, while Davos followed behind, each step resonating with a weight of its own. The two boys remained rooted, hesitant, as if bound by the very roots of the weirwood. Before either could muster a word, however, Davos turned sharply and called out.

"Are you coming, lads?"

Oscar turned, exchanging a final, perplexed glance with Benjicot before they both moved to heed the summons.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Aeron had always harbored a keen fondness for political discourse and the weighty matters of state—discussions that other boys his age would deem tedious and dull.

He could not help it, it held a certain allure for him, perhaps because they were an essential part of what it meant to be a true knight. His uncle had often impressed upon him the importance of diplomacy, reminding him that a good knight must wield words with as much skill as he did a sword. "If bloodshed can be avoided by peaceful terms, then it is our duty to pursue them," Raylon would say. "For we are protectors before we are fighters."

Thus, he had grown ever eager to listen, and the Gods, in their wisdom, had granted him the chance to do so. As a boy, Aeron had served as cupbearer to his grandfather, Lord Humfrey Bracken—an honor he bore with no small measure of pride.

And like a shadow, he followed his grandsire everywhere—through every council meeting, every banquet. He served not only Lord Humfrey but also other lords present, striving to do his duty with diligence.

He would listen to the long, tedious conversations, those drawn-out discourses, and loved them dearly. So much so, in fact, that he would often get lost in the words, distracted to the point of spilling wine or knocking over goblets, earning sharp rebukes for his carelessness. Aeron had relished the role of cupbearer for two years, while still a squire, until the day his grandfather passed. After that, his uncle Amos appointed his own son to the position, leaving Aeron to the memories of his service.

Back then, he believed that he would never again grace the great table of Stone Hedge Hall, that his future lay in the fields and the stables, cleaning after squires and sharpening swords. Yet, here he was, setting aside his cane as he entered if only to preserve his dignity. Though now he moved with the aid of a cane, his every step attended by servants, he wished they could see past his frailty, despite his wounds.

His cousin Raylon offered a sympathetic smile as Aeron settled into his chair. Somewhere in the haze of childhood memories, of cupbearers and knights, Davos' youthful, teasing voice echoed in his mind. (“Your uncle is named Raylon, and your cousin is named Raylon? Isn’t that confusing?”)

Aeron shook his head, pushing the recollection aside.

This morning, just a few hours past, Lord Amos Bracken had entered his chambers with a summons to join the meeting regarding the Battle of the Burning Mill, offering him the chance to sit in his late uncle's seat. Aeron accepted with an eagerness that belied the lingering pain in his limbs. He dressed with care, braided his hair neatly, and, though reluctant, took up his cane. (That very morning, he had prayed fervently to the Seven until his knees throbbed and his wound burned with reproach. He could not afford to be seen limping into the Hall, no matter his disdain for the crutch he bore.)

“... and we are in a precarious position,” Amos’s gruff voice cut through Aeron’s thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “We’ve not only lost a significant number of men but also crucial resources.”

Despite the knot of anxiety in his gut, the ache in his heart, and the never-ending string of guilt in his throat, Aeron steeled himself. This was his first chance to prove his mettle, and he could not afford to falter. He knew he must embody the knightly virtues he aspired to, if only to atone for the past. (May the Gods be merciful.)

At his side, Raylon let out a heavy sigh, his voice a low, bitter growl. "Damned Blackwoods," he muttered, "Heathen wretches, they have no honor. Butchers, that’s what they are."

"They'll burn in the Seven Hells, let them," another voice cut in, “We must regain our footing.”

Aeron found himself unable to fault Raylon's harsh words, though they were laced with vitriol. House Blackwood, always them. They had taken so much and faced no reckoning—first their lands, and now their very spirit. One day, he vowed, they would see every last one of them dead and buried, their legacy erased from history.

Yet it is not their fault if battle broke out, the voice in the back of his mind whispered incessantly, never allowing him a moment’s peace.

Aeron drew a steadying breath and cast a contemplative glance at the map sprawled across the table. For a long moment, he simply studied the intricate lines and symbols, his mind wrestling with the burdens of his thoughts. Then, with deliberate care, he traced a single finger along the map’s contours, his touch thoughtful and measured.

(Be strong, Aeron, be strong.)

“House Blackwood will undoubtedly seek retribution for the death of their lord; their taste for vengeance and blood is well known,” he declared, his gaze steady as he addressed the assembly.

Raylon frowned.

"And what of it? He brought this upon himself. Are we to weep for his fate?"

Aeron nearly rolled his eyes but managed to suppress the gesture. He could not afford such blatant disrespect. A knight would never allow himself such indulgences. He must embody the ideals of knighthood, though he had fallen short in recent years. For the sake of his late uncle, who had been like a father to him, he needed to honor that role now.

“No, but we must consolidate our remaining forces. Our strongholds, especially Stone Hedge, must be fortified without delay.” He cast a sidelong glance at his uncle, who nodded in approval. “We’ve already stretched our garrisons thin, so reinforcing these positions will be critical. Ideally, we would bolster our communication lines to ensure that any movement or intelligence is swiftly relayed, but achieving that will prove difficult.”

Foolishly, he wondered if the ravens of Raventree were swifter than those of the Seven Kingdoms, or if their archers were truly as skilled as rumored—if they could bring down Bracken ravens before they even took flight. Davos certainly could. (No, he chided himself, push those thoughts away. Stop thinking about them. Stop thinking about him.)

"Consolidation makes sense," his cousin Malwyn agreed, nodding. It was rare for him to see reason, and Aeron was relieved that he did this time, even if the truth was stark.

They were weak, that much was clear.

But Amos shook his head, resting his hands on the table in weariness. "Ideally, as you said, nephew, that would be perfect. But how would we manage the cost of rebuilding and rearming our troops?"

"We could tax the smallfolk."

"We could," Aeron conceded, though his expression was a grimace of distaste. "but instead of a blanket increase, we should target those with the means to contribute more without risking rebellion. In tandem, we should seek out additional sources of revenue. Trade agreements or temporary alliances could provide the necessary funds."

House Bracken, though a mere vassal to House Tully, held dominion over much of the Riverlands and could muster an army larger than their liege lord's. Yet now, they stood on a precipice, with most of the Riverlands pledged to the Blacks and Bracken forces aligned with the Greens. It was only a matter of time before enemies would seek to crush them for their perceived treason, rallying under banners of the kinslayer pretender to the Iron Throne.

Aeron refused to let that fate befall them. He would not stand idle while innocents suffered.

“But who?” Raylon inquired. “Who could find common cause and alignment with our house?”

“House Vance,” Aeron replied, his tone measured. “They have raised King Aegon’s banners. Even if their forces are split between Atranta and Wayfarer’s Rest, subduing them would take time and effort, we are in need of such an army. We should propose joint ventures or mutual defense pacts. We need their aid—whether it be in troops, supplies, or coin. If we show that their assistance will be met with reciprocity in the future, they may be more inclined to commit to our cause.”

There was a heavy silence.

The men in the room exchanged glances, yet none spoke a word. Aeron felt a creeping unease settle over him. Had he said something wrong, something foolish? He turned his words over and over in his mind, searching for any fault, but they seemed sound. His reasoning was clear—if they acted swiftly and followed his counsel, they could raise an army greater than anything House Tully could muster. (Or had he missed something? Had House Tully declared for the blacks in his absence? No one had told him anything.)

After what felt like an eternity, Amos finally exhaled deeply. "That's a fine strategy, son," he admitted, though his tone held a note of regret. "But... we have already sent word to House Vance of Atranta and received no answer."

Oh.

Aeron sank back into his chair, a defeated pout tugging at his lips.

In truth, he felt more than just defeated—he felt useless. His first meeting and he had contributed nothing of worth.

"You must not think that we alone have suffered the consequences of such a battle, Aeron," Raylon said, giving his shoulder a firm pat and offering an encouraging smile. "The Blackwoods would be fools to come for us now; they’re just as weakened as we are."

But what if it wasn’t the Blackwoods who would come for them? What then?

Aeron had no answer to that, and he prayed, more fervently than ever, that the day would never come when they would have to find out.