THE SIEGE OF STONE HEDGE
Late 1,384
Daveth awoke with a start, his eyes darting across the dim canvas walls as he struggled to remember where he was—until memory came rushing back. His personal tent, pitched outside Stone Hedge, where the siege was now underway.
The Battle of the Red Fork had been a masterclass in war.
Thanks to the newly paved roads through Blackwood lands and the iron discipline of his reformed army, Daveth had ordered a brutal forced march—one that would have been impossible for a typical Westerosi host. That speed carried them swiftly across their own territory and into Bracken lands before their enemies truly understood the danger closing around them.
With the counsel of experienced commanders—Tristan Ryger, the master-at-arms; Kevan; and the eldest son of Lord Preston Blanetree—combined with strategies Daveth had drawn from memories of Earth, a clear battle plan had taken shape. Well-trained scouts located the Bracken camp, and from there Daveth detached a small, fast-moving force to harry it without mercy.
That force struck by night.
Throats were cut in the dark. Horses were loosed. Grain stores burned. Horns sounded without warning, shattering what little sleep the Brackens managed to find. Whenever they gave chase, the Blackwood detachment melted away—only to return again and again, grinding down the enemy's strength, morale, and will.
In time, the Brackens were drawn exactly where Daveth intended: across the Red Fork.
There, the supposed "main" Blackwood force—deliberately made to appear smaller than it truly was—waited upon a low rise. Backed by House Blackwood's famed archers and disciplined pikemen, they neutralized the Brackens' celebrated cavalry and forced them into a brutal, head-on engagement.
Once the two armies were fully engaged and the Brackens' attention fixed entirely upon that force, the trap was sprung.
Four thousand Blackwood soldiers, divided into two disciplined columns, surged from the surrounding forests and smashed into the Bracken flanks, closing the circle. At the same time, a smaller Blackwood detachment—little more than a hundred men—held the far bank of the Red Fork. Archers cut men down as they entered the water, while spearmen and swordsmen slaughtered those few who reached the opposite shore. Many drowned, dragged under by armor and panic.
By the battle's end, House Bracken had been utterly destroyed. Only a few tens of men survived, fleeing in terror, and the Red Fork itself ran crimson with blood. The Blackwood men looked at Daveth differently now. Before, he had been respected for his sharp mind and his skill with a blade—a capable prince, clever and disciplined. But respect earned in council halls was not the same as respect earned in blood.
At the Red Fork, he had proven himself. They had seen him plan the battle, lead from the front, and stand firm when steel met steel. He had outthought the Brackens, broken their army, and ended their ancient threat.
Now the men followed him with certainty. They knew he could lead them to war—and bring them home again. Daveth was no longer just their prince. He was the man who would defend House Blackwood
Yet victory brought Daveth no peace.
For several nights now, sleep had been plagued by nightmares—thousands of Bracken lying dead across the field, lifeless eyes staring at him in accusation and hatred. He saw again the fallen of his own house as well: hundreds of Blackwood men who would never return to their families, their farms, or their hearth fires.
With a sharp breath, Daveth forced the memories aside. He rose, bathed, and dressed in silence, the weight of command heavy upon him. Stepping from his tent, he ordered one of the guards to summon every commander in the army at once.
The war was not yet finished.
After the Battle of the Red Fork, as the men had already begun to call it, the army rested for two full days, counting their losses and tending to the wounded. The dead were buried, the injured treated as best the healers could manage, and order was restored among the ranks.
Then the march resumed—this time into the lands of House Bracken. With their entire field army destroyed, there was nothing left that could truly oppose them. Barely a hundred fighting men remained scattered across the countryside, and they were swiftly crushed wherever they attempted resistance.
Holdfasts fell one after another. Hamlets and villages opened their gates without a fight, banners lowered in surrender as word of the Red Fork spread ahead of the advancing host. The speed of the conquest was almost unnatural, made possible by the army's discipline, its clear command structure, and the terror that preceded it.
Looting and rape—so common in most wars—were nearly nonexistent. Daveth had forbidden such acts outright, and those few who disobeyed were punished publicly and without mercy, made examples before the entire host. The message was clear: this was not a rabble of raiders, but an army of conquest and rule.
Now, nearly the full strength of House Blackwood's host stood before Stone Hedge itself. Only small detachments had been left behind to garrison captured keeps and enforce order throughout the conquered lands. Before them rose the ancestral seat of House Bracken—the last stronghold of a house already broken, its banners still flying, but its fate all but sealed.
As Daveth stood within his tent, lost in thought, the heavy canvas flap was pulled aside. One by one, the commanders of his army entered—lords and seasoned captains, their armor scuffed and their faces drawn from war. When the last of them had stepped inside, the guard lowered the flap again, sealing them off from the noise of the camp beyond.
Daveth studied them for a moment before speaking.
"How fares the siege?" he asked at last. His voice was calm, but edged with steel. "And how long do the Brackens think they can hold Stone Hedge?"
Kevan moved forward, resting a gauntleted hand on the war table. The master-at-arms looked as though he had not slept much, but there was satisfaction in his eyes.
"The siege goes well, my prince," Kevan said. "Too well, perhaps. The Bracken army is gone—completely annihilated. They marched out expecting victory and left their home unprepared for defeat or in this case. A long and tideious siege."
He gestured toward the rough map spread across the table.
"Our informants within Stone Hedge confirms that the castle holds little grain and fewer salted stores. They never expected us to stand after the Red Fork, let alone march straight into their lands. Their confidence was their."
Another one of Daveths commander spoke up, the eldest son to lord Preston Blanetree. A man whose armor still bore dried blood.
"They ration already," he said. "We've seen fewer men on the walls each day. Fires burn lower and more weak at night. Hunger has begun its work."
Tristan nodded.
"At best, they might hold for a few weeks," he continued. "More likely less. Once the stores run dry, fear will spread. Men will try to desert and the gates will open eventually."
He looked directly at Daveth.
"Stone Hedge is slowly dying, its living on borrowed time."
The tent fell quiet after that. Outside, the distant sounds of hammers, shouted orders, and the groan of siege engines carried faintly through the canvas. Daveth listened in silence, weighing their words, already knowing that the end of House Bracken was no longer a matter of if—only how, and how soon.
"Winter will be upon us soon," Daveth said at last, breaking the silence. His voice was firm, carrying the weight of command. "We do not have the luxury of time. This must end—quickly."
Around the table, the gathered commanders nodded in agreement. The days were already growing shorter, the nights colder. Prolonged sieges bled men, coin, and morale.
Tristan Ryger stepped forward, a note of confidence in his tone."Have no fear, my prince. With the new engineers you brought into your service, Stone Hedge will not hold. Their walls are old and poorly maintained. By this time tomorrow, they will fall."
For the first time that morning, Daveth allowed himself a faint smile. It did not last long. Tristan hesitated, then continued carefully,"There is another matter, however. What is to be done with the remaining members of House Bracken?"
The tent grew very still.
Daveth's expression hardened. He straightened, hands resting on the edge of the war table. "Lothar Bracken married his own cousin to prevent a rebellion after their defeat at the Battle of the Two Rivers," he said coldly. "From that union came three children—two sons, Jasper and Humfrey, and a daughter, Bethany."
His voice lowered.
"Lothar and both his sons are dead—by my own hand. Every male of House Bracken lies in the ground. And I will not be soft in times such as these." He lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of every man in the tent.
"House Bracken ends here. Their line must be cut clean. His daughter must die as well." The words hung in the air, heavy and final. No one spoke. Some looked away. Others nodded grimly, understanding the brutal logic of the decision even if they did not like it.
Before anyone could respond, the tent flap opened once more. A guard entered, kneeling immediately before Daveth."My prince," he said, "Lord Rodrick Terrick requests an parley."
Daveth stiffened.
Rodrick Terrick.
One of the few men to survive the Red Fork. Daveth remembered him clearly now—how the man had fled the field on horseback while the rest of his men and fellow lords was being slaughtered. From there, Terrick had ridden hard to his keep, gathered his family, and fled to Stone Hedge. It had been he who warned Queen Barbra Bracken of the disaster and of the marching Blackwood host.
Daveth considered this for a moment.
"Very well," he said. "Bring him to the outer pavilion. I will meet him there."
Under the white banner of parley, Rodrick Terrick stepped forward. He looked thinner and far more worn than Daveth remembered, his face drawn by sleepless nights and mounting fear.
Daveth recalled the first time he had met Rodrick clearly. It had been at the very beginning of the siege, when Rodrick and several other Bracken men-at-arms had ridden out from Stone Hedge under a banner of parley, acting on the orders of their queen. They had come not to surrender, but to bargain.
They had offered Daveth nearly seven-tenths of all Bracken lands if he would simply turn his army away and end the war there. Daveth had refused without hesitation.
Not when he held the golden opportunity to end his house's ancient rival once and for all. Not when every singe peice of land outside Stonde Hedge already belongs to his house. To accept such an offer would have been weakness—and weakness now would only invite future bloodshed.
Looking at Rodrick now, broken and desperate beneath the banner of peace, Daveth could see the weight of that refusal written plainly across the man's face. His once-fine armor dulled and scratched, his face drawn with exhaustion and fear. The strange thing was that he had come alone, not with any Bracken men-at-arms, no just his own guard.
Before he could ponder more, he was broken out of his thoughts by Rodrick dropping to one knee the moment he stood before Daveth.
"My prince," he said hoarsely. "I come to surrender Stone Hedge."
Murmurs rippled through the pavilion, but Daveth said nothing, watching the man closely.
"The castle cannot hold," Rodrick continued. "The men are frightened, and many already speak of opening the gates themselves. I beg you—spare my life, and the lives of my wife and children. In return, I will order the gates opened and Stone Hedge delivered into your hands without further bloodshed."
Daveth stepped closer, his expression unreadable.
"You ask for mercy," he said quietly, "after riding from the Red Fork while your king and his sons died." Rodrick bowed his head."I will not deny my cowardice," he said. "But I beg you to let my children live. They are not Brackens. They are innocent."
The wind tugged at the white banner above them, snapping softly.
At last, Daveth spoke. "The gates will be opened, the garrison will lay down its arms, and no man will resist. In return, your life and your family's will be spared."
Rodrick sagged in visible relief.
"But know this," Daveth continued, his voice turning cold once more. "House Bracken is finished. Their name will pass into history, and no one will raise its banner again. This mercy is extended to you alone—because you bent the knee before the last stone fell."
Rodrick pressed his forehead to the ground."Thank you, my prince."
Daveth turned away.
"See that the gates are opened," he said. "Or I will have them broken."
Some time later, reports began to reach Daveth that fighting had broken out within Stone Hedge. The sounds came faintly at first—steel striking steel, shouts of alarm, the echo of feet running along stone. Smoke curled up from the keep's inner ward, as if the castle itself were exhaling in panic.
Less than half an hour later, the great gates of Stone Hedge creaked open.
Blackwood soldiers surged through first, shields raised, weapons drawn, expecting treachery at every turn. They swept through the courtyards and corridors, searching for hidden men or hidden traps. The air was tense with anticipation, the kind that made even the bravest man's heart quicken.
When no ambush appeared, Daveth entered at last.
He walked through the keep with his vassals and commanders behind him, the sound of their boots ringing on the ancient stone. Stone Hedge had stood for generations as the seat of his family's oldest rival. Now it stood broken and silent, its banners gone, its halls filled with dread.
At the far end of the keep, the great hall doors were thrown open. Daveth stepped inside.
Blackwood men had formed a tight ring in the center of the hall, surrounding a small group. Rodrick Terrick stood within that circle, his shoulders squared though his face was pale and drawn. His wife and children stood close behind him, guarded but unharmed. A handful of Bracken guards knelt at the edge of the ring, disarmed and trembling.
Rodrick's eyes lifted when he saw Daveth.
"My prince," he said, voice strained but steady. "I kept my promise."
Daveth nodded once, cold and controlled."And I will keep mine," he replied. "Where are the Brackens?"
Rodrick hesitated, as if the answer hurt to say. He glanced toward the hall's far side, then down at the stone floor.
"My prince…" he began, swallowing hard. "They are dead."
Daveth's expression did not change, but his eyes narrowed.
Rodrick stepped forward a few paces, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might overhear.
"The queen," he said, "knew what was coming. She knew we would eventually betray her. She knew that the walls would soon fall and that the Blackwoods would not grant mercy."
His voice cracked slightly.
"She did not wish to be taken alive," Rodrick continued. "So she chose her own death… and her daughter's."
Daveth's breath caught.
Rodrick's hand trembled as he pointed toward two bodies lying near the ring of soldiers.
There, on the cold stone floor, lay the queen and her daughter.
Queen Barbra Bracken—her face pale and still, her eyes closed as if in sleep. Bethany Bracken—her young face twisted in the final moments of pain, betreyal and sadness.
Daveth stared at them, the realization spreading through him like ice.
"She poisoned herself," Rodrick whispered, voice barely audible. "And her daughter. Before the gates were opened, before the last of her guards could even move. She said it was better than being dragged before you… or being forced to watch her house die slowly."
A silence settled over the hall so complete it felt like the world had paused.
Daveth did not speak at once. He looked at Rodrick, at the children standing behind him, at the ruined banners and the broken legacy of House Bracken. At last, Daveth turned away, voice quiet but hard.
"Stone Hedge will be taken," he said. "Their banners will be burned and a small garrison will be placed here, to watch over and protect it if need be.
Rodrick bowed his head, tears now visible on his cheeks.
"And what of my family?" he asked, voice shaking. "You promised—"
Daveth's gaze returned to him.
"You will live," Daveth said. "Your wife and children will live. Rodrick sank to one knee, relief and grief warring across his face.
"Thank you, my prince," he whispered.
Daveth looked at the two dead Bracken women one last time, then lifted his chin.
"Take them away," he ordered. "And see that Stone Hedge is secured. No one leaves. No one enters."
As the Blackwood soldiers began to move, carrying the bodies away, Daveth felt the weight of the world settle on his shoulders. He had won. The Bracken line was finished.
But the victory felt like ash.
And in that silence, Daveth understood the truth of the war he had just won:
There are no clean endings in this world—only survivors.
----------------------------------------------------------------- Scene Break ---------------------------------------------------------
RAVENTREE HALL
Willem's world had been nothing but darkness for weeks.
The air within his chamber was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and candle smoke, heavy enough to cling to every breath he drew. The faint, rhythmic sound of breathing—his own—was the only constant in the stillness. His body lay heavy beneath linen sheets, his skin pale and damp with sweat.
Slowly, his eyes fluttered open.
At first, there was nothing but blurred shadow and trembling light. His throat burned with dryness, his mouth tasting of iron. When he tried to speak, only a rasp escaped him, his voice stolen by weakness. His head throbbed, dull and crushing, as though filled with lead.
Then the memories came—sharp and merciless.
He remembered collapsing. He remembered the words spoken to him. He remembered the moment the world had broken, when he was told that his son—his son, Benjen—was dead.
A figure leaned over him.
For a long heartbeat, Willem could not place where he was or who stood above him. The chamber was dim, lit only by a handful of candles that flickered weakly, as though they too struggled to remain alive.
"Gods be good—you're awake, Your Grace," a voice said, edged with disbelief and relief. "Quick—fetch the Maester!"
Footsteps hurried away. Willem tried to turn his head, but even that small effort sent a wave of exhaustion through him. Minutes passed before the doors opened again and a familiar figure entered, crossing the room with measured steps before bending one knee beside the bed.
"Who… who is there?" Willem asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. Panic fluttered briefly in his chest as he struggled to focus his vision.
"It's me, Your Grace," the man said gently. "Maester Cyrwin."
Recognition came slowly. Willem released a shallow breath as Cyrwin's grey robes and the glint of his chain came into focus.
"How long?" Willem asked hoarsely. "How long have I been like this?"
Cyrwin hesitated, his mouth tightening before he answered. "You collapsed after hearing of your son's death," he said quietly. "The shock was too great. Your body simply… gave out."
Willem closed his eyes. Benjen. The name alone felt like a blade twisting in his chest. Guilt rose up, heavy and suffocating.
"I should have been there," Willem murmured. "I should have done more."
"You could not," Cyrwin replied softly. "Grief is not something a man can command."
Willem opened his eyes again, fixing the maester with a steady, searching gaze. "Tell me what happened during the time I was out," he said. "Do not spare me."
Cyrwin shifted uneasily, glancing toward the door before meeting Willem's eyes once more. "Your Grace…"
"I will not be coddled!," Willem said, his voice hard despite its weakness. "Tell me."
Cyrwin exhaled slowly. "Two weeks after you fell unconscious, Prince Benjen was laid to rest," he said. "The rites were observed fully, as befits a prince of House Blackwood."
Willem swallowed, his jaw tightening, but he did not interrupt.
"The Brackens learned of your condition," Cyrwin continued. "They knew of your coma, of Prince Benjen's death, and of Prince Tytos's absence. They believed House Blackwood weakened—leaderless. A perfect opportunity."
Anger flared in Willem's eyes. "What?"
"They gathered their host and prepared to strike quickly," Cyrwin said, flinching slightly at Willem's reaction. "Before you could recover."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackle of candle wicks.
"And Daveth?" Willem asked at last. "What of my grandson."
Cyrwin nodded.
"He did not wait," the maester said. "With you unconscious and the Brackens advancing, Prince Daveth took command upon himself. He called the banners, assumed leadership of the army, and marched to meet the Bracken host."
Willem stared up at the ceiling, the weight of those words settling heavily upon him.
"He led them?" he whispered.
"Yes," Cyrwin said. "He chose to face them himself."
Pride and fear twisted together in Willem's chest. Daveth—still so young—had stepped into a war meant for older men.
Before Willem could ask more, the door to the solar flew open without warning.
Both Willem and Maester Cyrwin startled as the heavy oak slammed back against the wall, cold air rushing in with hurried footsteps.
"Victory!" a voice boomed. "Victory, Your Grace!"
Lord Preston Blanetree burst into the chamber, his usual composure utterly forgotten. His cloak hung crooked and dust-stained, his hair wild, his face flushed with exertion and split by a wide grin.
"My lord—" Cyrwin began, then stopped as Willem struggled to sit more upright.
"What is it?" Willem demanded. "Speak."
Preston crossed the room in a few long strides and dropped to one knee beside the bed, barely containing his excitement.
"It is done," he said. "The Brackens are broken. The battle is ours."
Willem's breath caught. "My grandson," he said at once. "Daveth?"
"Alive," Preston replied, his grin widening. "And victorious. He led the army himself—lured the Brackens across the Red Fork, exhausted them, then sprang the trap using a smaller force to decive the Bracken host, and later on used four thousand men to encircle and crush them. Their king and sons fell—by the prince's own hand, no less. What remained fled for the river, it is said that the Red Fork ran red with blood.
Willem closed his eyes and released a long, trembling breath.
"And now what" he asked quietly.
"The Brackens are finished," Preston said without hesitation. "Their army annihilated. Stone Hedge is under siege and will not hold. The rest of their lands have already been brought under heel."
Cyrwin bowed his head, murmuring a quiet prayer. "Gods be good." While Willem felt only relief, a faint smile touched his lips. Thank the gods for Daveth, Willem thought.
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SEAGARD
Tytos had received Daveth's letter beneath the towering red-and-gold banners of Casterly Rock.
He had been standing in one of the Rock's high galleries, the sea far below crashing endlessly against the cliffs, when a Blackwood runner was ushered in—dusty, exhausted, and clutching a sealed parchment marked with the raven-and-weirwood sigil. The moment Tytos saw the seal, unease settled deep in his gut.
He broke it open at once.
Tytos read the letter once, then again, and a third time, his jaw tightening with every line. The words struck him like a physical blow. Pain filled his eyes, hot and sudden, tears threatening to spill. His brother was dead and his father had collapsed, not knowing when he would wake up or even if.
He did not hesitate.
Within the hour, Tytos had secured passage from Lannisport aboard a swift merchant galley bound north. The captain, sensing the urgency in his voice—and perhaps recognizing the weight carried by the Blackwood name—drove his crew hard. The ship cut through the waves day and night, sails straining as they raced along the western coast before turning east toward Seagard.
The journey gave Tytos far too much time to think.
He worried for his father, still weak and broken by grief. He worried for Daveth—the boy who had already lost his mother and now his father, and who had been forced to grow up too soon and bear the weight of command far too young. He worried for his own wife and children, separated from him.
When Seagard's white towers finally rose above the gray-green waters, a tight knot in Tytos's chest loosened at last.
He disembarked to the cries of gulls and the crash of surf, greeted by a contingent of Mallister men waiting upon the docks. Without delay, he was escorted through the gates and into the main keep—where, to his astonishment, he found his family already waiting.
His wife, Ellys, stood foremost, her expression bright with relief. Behind her were their children—Lucas and Eleanor, his pride and joy. For a heartbeat, Tytos could only stare, scarcely believing they were there.
Ellys reached him first, taking his hands in hers, grounding him in the warmth of living flesh. His children followed, clinging to him with the unthinking trust of youth. For a long moment, Tytos could do nothing but hold them, breathing them in, reminding himself that they were safe.
Before he could ask how they had come to Seagard, they were gently ushered onward into the great hall.
The throne room was vast and ancient, its stone walls bearing the marks of generations. At its far end sat Jason Mallister, King of the Cape of Eagles, upon the seat of his forefathers. At his side was his queen, with their children—Denys and Cassana Mallister—standing nearby.
The ruler of Seagard rose as Tytos entered, his expression grave but welcoming.
"Welcome, good-brother, to Seagard," King Jason said. "Know that you are safe and welcome within these walls."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Tytos replied.
Though they were bound by marriage, Tytos bowed his head with the respect and honor owed to a crowned king.
The two men stepped forward and clasped forearms in greeting, the bond between their houses made all the stronger by blood.
King Jason did not release Tytos's forearm at once. Instead, he turned and gently guided him forward, his other hand gesturing for Ellys and the children to follow.
"Come," Jason said. "You've had a long road and a longer sea. We will speak after you've eaten."
They were led into one of Seagard's lesser halls, warm and well-lit, where a meal was already being laid. The scent of fresh bread, roasted fish, and spiced stew filled the air, and servants moved quickly to set places at the table. The noise of the larger hall was distant here, replaced by the low crackle of hearth fire and the soft clink of cups.
Jason seated them near the head of the table, insisting Tytos eat. Ellys shared quiet words with the Mallister queen, and the children were given honeyed apples and warm bread, their laughter a small but welcome sound in the room. Tytos ate because he was told to, though he scarcely tasted the food.
Only when the plates had been cleared and the servants dismissed did Jason's expression change.
The warmth faded from his eyes, replaced by something harder.
"Tytos," he said, folding his hands upon the table, "there is a reason your family is here."
The words settled heavily in the room.
"The Brackens have gathered their strenght," Jason continued. "They have raised their banners and mean to march on your house. With the new of your fathers collapse and the death of your brother they see your lands ripe for the taking."
Tytos felt Ellys's hand tighten around his.
"I ordered your wife and children brought to Seagard," Jason said calmly. "I did so at Daveth's request".
Tytos looked up sharply.
"Daveth sent word ahead of the storm," Jason went on. "He understood the risk. If he were to fall, House Blackwood would not fall with him. Your blood would remain safe. Your line would endure."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Tytos drew a slow breath, pride and fear twisting together in his chest.
"He thought of everything," he said quietly.
Jason nodded once. "He did. That is why I honored his request."
The moment stretched on, heavy with unspoken thought, until the door at the far end of the hall opened once more.
A man in grey entered at a brisk pace—the Maester of House Mallister. His chain clinked softly with each step as he crossed the floor, his expression intent, eyes bright with urgency. Without a word to the others, he went straight to the King and bent low, whispering into his ear.
At first, Jason stiffened.
Then his eyes widened.
For a heartbeat, he said nothing at all. Then a sharp breath left him, and the tension drained from his shoulders as if a great weight had been lifted. A slow smile spread across his face—one that grew broader with every passing second.
Tytos frowned. "Your Grace?" he asked, confusion creeping into his voice. "What is it?"
Jason straightened, placing a steadying hand upon the table. When he spoke, his voice carried a note of restrained triumph.
"The Brackens have been defeated," he said.
Tytos froze.
"Not defeated," Jason corrected himself, the smile returning. "Destroyed. At the Red Fork."
For a moment, the words did not seem real.
Jason went on, unable to keep the pride from his tone. "Daveth met them in battle and shattered their host. The Bracken king and his sons are dead. Their army annihilated. Those who fled were cut down at the river itself."
Tytos felt the air leave his lungs. "Daveth…" he whispered.
"He lives," Jason said at once. "And he has not stopped. Stone Hedge is already under siege. With their army gone, it will not hold long."
Silence filled the hall—thick, stunned, and reverent.
Ellys pressed a hand to her mouth. The children looked between the adults, sensing the gravity of the moment without fully understanding it.
At last, Tytos bowed his head, a mixture of awe, relief, and fierce pride washing over him.
"The boy has done it," he said softly.
Jason nodded. "Aye, it will be a victory that will be spoken of for generations. The end of House Bracken, and perhaps the rise of something new."
The fire crackled in the hearth as the truth settled in.
War had come—and in a single, brutal stroke, it had been decided.
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HOLLYHOLT
(Author here, I couldn't find the name of the keep of house Charlton so I just found a random one instead, if you know please tell me)
Jon Charlton had been feeling better with each passing day.
He sat at the long table of his hall, firelight dancing across polished wood and bright banners, a trencher of roast meat before him and a cup of dark wine close at hand. Around him, his family ate and laughed—his wife speaking softly with their daughters, his sons arguing over some small foolish thing that did not matter. It was a good night. A peaceful night.
Too peaceful, Jon thought.
He cut into his meat and chewed slowly, his mind far from the warmth of the hall. News had been coming steadily these past weeks, carried by riders and whispered by servants. All of it pleased him.
"Lucky bastard," Jon muttered into his cup, just loud enough for himself.
Across the table, his wife glanced at him. "Who?" she asked.
"Lothar," Jon said, waving a dismissive hand. "My cousin. The King of the Brackens."
He drank deeply, imagining it all as he had done a dozen times already. Lothar Bracken marching at the head of his host, red-maned horses thundering across the fields. Blackwood lands burning. Raventree becoming nothing more than a rubble. The ancient rivaly finally crushed beneth the boots of Lothar.
And the spoils.
Jon's lips twitched upward at the thought. The Blackwoods were rich—richer than many cared to admit. Gold hoarded due to their overwhelming trade, with their coffers overflowing.When Lothar took those lands, when House Blackwood was finally broken, there would be more than enough to share.
It was only right.After all, blood bound them. Allies, and more importantly, cousins. Once Lothar had finished with the Blackwoods, they would stand together. Bracken and Charlton, side by side. And then—
Mallister.
Jon's jaw tightened slightly. Seagard. The Cape of Eagles. The house that had cost him his brother. His father. Insults unavenged and blood unpaid. He imagined their white towers burning, their banners torn down, their king, Jason brought low. With Bracken strength and Blackwood gold behind him, Jon Charlton would finally take what was owed.
Land. Power. Revenge. He smiled into his wine. "All will fall into place soon enough," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. His sons laughed at something, unaware. The fire crackled. The hall was warm. Jon Charlton had never felt more certain of the future.
The smile had not yet faded from Jon Charlton's face when the doors to the hall flew open.
The laughter at the table faltered as a knight sworn to house Charlton hurried inside, breathless and pale. His armor shining in the light as he crossed the floor at near a run, heedless of custom or courtesy.
"Your Grace," the knight gasped, dropping to one knee before Jon. "Forgive the intrusion—but the news could not wait."
Jon frowned, irritation flickering through his good mood. "Then speak," he said. "You look as though the Stranger himself is at your heels."
The knight swallowed hard.
"It is… it is House Bracken," he said.
Jon leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk returning. "Ah. Victory already? Has my cousin crushed the Blackwoods so quickly?"
The knight shook his head.
"No, Your Grace."
The hall had gone utterly silent.
"The Bracken host was met at the Red Fork," the knight continued, voice trembling. "Prince Daveth Blackwood led the defense. The Brackens were lured across the river, harried and exhausted. From the information we gathered from the survivors and passing merchants, The Blackwoods had lured the Bracken host into a trap which they would later on surround and descimate them."
Jon's fingers tightened around his cup.
"King Lothar Bracken, your cousin is dead," the knight said softly. "Slain in the fighting. His sons as well—both cut down by the Blackwood prince."
The cup slipped from Jon's hand and shattered against the floor.
"That is not possible," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are mistaken."
"I am not," the knight replied. "Their army was annihilated. Those who fled were slaughtered at the river. The Red Fork ran red with Bracken blood."
Jon rose slowly to his feet, the warmth of the hall suddenly gone.
"And Stone Hedge?" he demanded.
"Under siege," the knight said. "And with no army left to defend it, it will not hold. House Bracken… is no more."
The words echoed in the hall like a death knell.
Jon Charlton stood motionless, his earlier dreams of gold and conquest crumbling into ash. The future he had so confidently imagined—alliances, vengeance, riches—had been torn away in a single stroke.
Around him, his family sat frozen, faces pale with shock.
Daveth Blackwood.
The name burned in Jon's mind.
What had been certainty only moments before was now dread. And for the first time in weeks, Jon Charlton felt the cold, creeping touch of fear.
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RIVERRUN
King Edmyn Tully had never before felt as tired as he did now.
The weariness was not only of the body, but of the years—of rule, of compromise, of watching rival kings fight amongst themselves generation after generation. He stood in the solar of Riverrun with his hands resting on the stone sill, staring down at the slow, winding river below. Sleep had come rarely of late, and when it did, it brought no rest.
At his summons, his children, the castle maester, and his most trusted advisors gathered around the long oak table. Candles were lit, their flames wavering as if uneasy with the subject that soon dominated the room.
The war between Blackwood and Bracken.
"The Brackens have already called their banners," the maester said. "They march with experiance and numbers alike."
Edmyn exhaled slowly and took his seat. "That they do."
One of the advisors spoke next, voice heavy with certainty. "The prince, Daveth Blackwood is brave, no doubt. But bravery is not command. The boy has never led an army. He has never stood on a field where thousands move or die at his word."
Edmyn nodded faintly. That, more than anything, troubled him.
"Lack of experience will cost him," the king said. "Steel can be learned. War cannot—not without blood. No matter how sharp prince Daveth's sword arm may be, he faces men who have fought wars."
It was a pity. A real one.
Edmyn had once entertained hopes for the young Blackwood prince—hopes that went beyond politics. Daveth had seemed a promising match for his daughter, Catelyn: earnest, noble, untainted by the worst habits of some of the river lords. But promise was fragile, and the Riverlands had little mercy for it.
"Tensions will rise regardless of who wins," Edmyn continued. "If the Blackwoods fall, the balance within the riverlands breaks. The same if the Brackens fall…" He did not finish the thought.
"Will it come to war, Father?" his son asked quietly.
Edmyn met his gaze, eyes lined with exhaustion and truth."This is the Riverlands," he said. "War always comes. Always."
Silence followed—thick, uneasy.
Then a chair scraped back.
One of Edmyn's sons had risen abruptly and crossed the chamber to the tall arched window overlooking the river. Edmyn turned sharply.
"Sit down," he snapped. "Mind your manners—"
But the boy did not turn. Instead, he raised his hand, beckoning urgently.
"Father," he said, voice strained. "Please. Look."
Edmyn crossed the chamber, irritation giving way to confusion—and then to dread.
The Red Fork flowed toward Riverrun as it always had, broad and steady. But its waters were wrong. Darkened. Tainted. The current carried a deep, spreading crimson, staining the river from bank to bank as if the land itself had been cut open.
No one spoke.
The truth would come later from messengers about the so called Battle of the Red Fork. The fall of House Bracken, due to a mere boy prince who had gone to war without experience and returned a commander.
But in that moment, watching the river run red beneath his castle, King Edmyn Tully felt the certainty of it settle upon him like a funeral shroud.
The Riverlands would bleed once more—and this time, history had chosen a new hand to wield the blade.
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Author's Note:Hi! Thanks for reading. I'd really appreciate it if you could let me know what you think in the comments. If you notice any incorrect information, inconsistencies, or things that could be improved, please point them out so I can fix them. Feedback helps a lot!