RAVENTREE HALL
Late 1,384 B.AC
Heart attack
That was the conclusion Maester Cyrwin had reached and told both Willem and Daveth when they had sprinted out of the solar that day and to the bedchambers of Benjen. His father was found dead on his bed, with some wine, alcohol and whores laying next to him. The women had been interrogated to see if any foul play had been involved but later released when no evidence had been found. His father had died of a heart attack, likely set on by the years of drinking, eating lavisoulsy and with no exersice, had caused his once well defined body to gain weight.
Daveth had been disgusted and saddened in equal mesure with the state he was in when he was found. A whores lips around his cock and stinking of wine and alcohol. His only father in both this and past life, once proud and a great father, husband, brother, son and heir had been brought as low as someone like Robert Baratheon or the worst side of Tyrion Lannister.
The only person who suffered more from Benjens death had been his grandfather, Willem. Daveth still remembered the pain and suffering on his grandfathers face, it was a memory he would never forget.
Flashback to two weeks ago
Willem had pushed past rows of stunned servants and guards gathered outside Benjen's chambers, barely slowing as he forced his way through them. He called his son's name again and again, each time louder, more desperate than the last, his voice tight with fear he could no longer hide.
When he finally crossed the threshold, the sight within struck him numb.
Maester Cyrwin knelt beside the bed, his head bowed, one hand resting near Benjen's neck. His face was drawn with quiet sorrow. Benjen lay upon the mattress, utterly still—far too still. His skin was pale, his lips faintly blue, and his chest did not rise.
Willem stopped short of the bed. His hands hovered in the air, trembling, as if afraid to touch him—afraid of what that single touch would confirm. He whispered his son's name once more.
There was no response.
The realization crashed into him all at once, brutal and unforgiving. His knees gave way the instant the truth reached him, and he fell forward, the breath torn from his chest. Color drained from his face as he gathered his son's lifeless body into his arms, rocking him gently, as though love alone might undo what had been done.
He clutched Benjen to his chest, holding him as if strength and will might force breath back into dead lungs, might reverse the cruelty of the world. His hands shook as they brushed through his son's hair, his face twisting in disbelief, his mouth trembling as if searching for words that did not exist.
Then the sound came.
A raw, animal cry tore from Willem's chest, shattering the stillness of the chamber. It was grief laid bare—no dignity, no restraint, nothing of the king who had ruled for decades. Only a father, broken by the loss of his son.
"No… no, no," he sobbed, his voice splintering. "This can't be. This isn't how it's meant to be."
He rocked back and forth, shielding Benjen from the watching eyes, from the murmurs, from the unbearable silence that followed death. His grief poured out in broken cries, each one sharper and more desperate than the last. He did not call Benjen a champion, or a hero, or a lord.
He called him what he had always been.
"My boy," he cried, his voice raw and unrestrained. "My boy". "
My boy is dead" he screamed once more.
The words echoed through the chamber, leaving nothing but silence behind them. Around them, grown men and women wept openly, unable to look away, unable to forget what they had witnessed. Some guards whispered that the gods were cruel, while servants fell to their knees, murmuring prayers for both Willem and Benjen.
Willem held his son tighter still, as though refusing to let go might deny the truth itself, might keep death at bay just a moment longer.
But the world did not grant him that mercy.
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Daveth stood however at this moment under the greatest of Weirwood south of the wall, its pale bark carved with countless ancient faces, its red leaves whispering softly above him. This was the heart of Raventree Hall. Though it wasn't for his usual prayers he was here for, no instead he watched as his fathers body was laid to rest beneath the huge weirwood tree. His father died by a heart attack, most likely set on by the weight he had gained from years of drinking, whoring and lavish feasting which had finally taken its toll. Daveth was saddened by the news but nevertheless continued watching with an unemotional facade as his fathers body was lowered and finally buried.
The gathered servants, guards, merchants and lords just watched silently as the coffin was covered, and even once it was done they continued watching with no one moving. No one spoke. They simply stood and waited.
Daveth realised they were waiting for him to speak, this duty should have fallen to his grandfather. Willem should have been the one to speak the final words, to commend his son to the earth and the old gods. But grief had broken him. He had collapsed that very day, overcome by sorrow, and had not woken since.
In the span of a single night, Willem had aged decades. His once iron-straight posture had bent, his face now deeply lined. Hair that had been grey with only faint traces of black had turned completely white, as though the color had been drained from him along with his strength. He was nearly unrecognizable compared to the man Daveth had spoken to only the night before.
Daveth had visited him often since. He sat beside his grandfather's bed, holding his frail hand, whispering prayers for his recovery. His aunt and cousins came as well, doing their best to console him, though none truly succeeded. Lucas and Eleanor wept openly, their faces red and swollen, while Denys stood helplessly beside them, eyes filled with worry and pity.
Returning to the present, his face remained emotionless, but tears betrayed him nonetheless, slipping free and falling silently as he stared at the freshly turned earth where his father would rest for eternity. He had only ever known one father. A leader. A warrior. A man who loved so fiercely that when that love was torn from him, he could not survive it.
Daveth had tried—again and again—to help him. To pull him back from the spiral. But his father had refused every attempt, stubborn to the end. And now, standing here, Daveth could not escape the thought that perhaps his father had wanted to die.
He shook his head and wiped away his silent tears. Stepping forward, he turned to face those gathered in the godswood. The household of Raventree Hall stood before him: servants and guards, hardened men who had served his House for decades. Lords Ryger and Blanetree were there, their sons and grandsons beside them. His aunt and cousins, Lucas and Eleanor, Denys. Kevan, the master-at-arms. His friend, Eddard. All eyes were on him
"I wish to thank you all for coming here today," Daveth began, his voice steady despite the weight pressing against his chest. "My father was once a great and fierce man. It pains me greatly—as it does all who knew him—that his grief overcame him and reduced him to a shadow of who he once was." He paused, drawing breath. "But I will not remember him as the man he was at the end. I will remember the man who taught me most of what I know. The man who gave me the freedom to better myself. The man who loved his family so deeply, so completely, that when that love was broken, it broke him as well." His gaze hardened, resolve taking root.
"That is the man I will remember. That is the man I will fight for. And I will carry his dreams forward."
"For Prince Benjen! For House Blackwood!" Lord Tristan Ryger shouted, raising his voice to the sky. The cry was quickly taken up by Lord Preston Blanetree, then by others—servants, guards, and minor lords alike. The words rang through the godswood again and again until, slowly, the fervor faded. People drifted away, returning to their duties or heading toward the keep, where a modest feast had been prepared in his father's honor.
Daveth remained beneath the weirwood. Maester Cyrwin soon joined him. The man looked far older than Daveth remembered from his youth, which was hardly surprising—he was only a few years younger than Willem himself. The silver links of his chain clattered softly as he spoke.
"A letter has arrived from Casterly Rock," Cyrwin said. "Your uncle, Prince Tytos, has turned back immediately from his business there. He will return within the month." Daveth nodded. He had ordered Cyrwin to write to his uncle as soon as Willem collapsed, informing him of everything that had occurred. The confirmation brought him little comfort.
They stood together in silence for several long moments. Then Daveth noticed movement—urgent, frantic. Lords Preston and Tristan were hurrying toward them, drawing the attention of Kevan, his aunt, his cousins, and Eddard.
Lord Preston reached them first, breathless from his hurried approach. He bowed low and lowered his voice. "My prince," he said urgently, "I bring grave news from our agents within House Bracken."
At once, Daveth's expression hardened. "Speak."
"The Brackens are planning to attack," Lord Preston continued, his voice heavy with dread.
"WHAT?" Daveth's startled shout rang out, drawing startled looks from those nearby.
Lord Preston flinched. "My prince—"
"Are you certain?" Daveth demanded, forcing his voice lower, though tension still laced every word.
"I am, my prince. We have observed an unusual number of men gathering at Stone Hedge. One of our agents—a scribe serving the maester—overheard him speaking with King Lothar Bracken. They spoke of a prime opportunity." He hesitated. "We believe they were referring to the death of your father, Prince Tytos's absence, and the coma of his grace, King Willem."
A heavy silence fell over the group.
"My prince, what is happening?" Kevan asked at last, as the others gathered closer, faces pale with concern. Daveth looked each of them in the eye before answering. "The Brackens are planning to attack."
"WHAT?" This time it was his aunt, Ellys, who cried out.
"What will happen?" she asked warily.
Daveth's mouth curved into a grim smile as he surveyed them. He saw his aunt clutching her daughter Eleanor so tightly that her knuckles had gone white, while her younger son, Lucas, stared at the ground, trembling and unable to speak.
The murmuring around him grew louder, anxiety spreading like a wild fire. Realizing he had to act decisively, Daveth straightened and turned to Lord Tristan.
"Gather the army," he said firmly. "I will lead them personally."
Lords Tristan, Preston, and Kevan all started to protest, but Daveth raised a hand, silencing them.
"I will not see my lands raided, my people put to the sword, or my family harmed," he declared. "I am the only one here capable of leading them, and I will hear no more on the matter."
Ellys opened her mouth to argue, but her brother, Lord Tristan, spoke first."Our young prince speaks true," he said gravely. "I shall do as you command, my prince."
"Good," Daveth replied simply.
He turned to Lord Preston. "Will the Charltons interfere?"
"No word has come from our agents within House Charlton," Preston answered. "It appears only House Bracken seeks war—for now. Still, we will remain vigilant."
Maester Cyrwin stepped forward, folding his hands within his sleeves. "That seems likely, my prince. With winter less than some weeks away, the Charltons would struggle to muster their banners and march in time. Such an effort would take over a month, and they must also remain wary of House Mallister, given the relations between House Blackwood and Mallister. The Brackens likely mean to strike swiftly, before winter arrives and snow closes the roads.
Daveth felt a measure of relief at that. Facing one enemy was grim enough—two would have been disastrous. "You will have my sword, my prince," Kevan said suddenly. He drew his blade and laid it at Daveth's feet. "And mine as well," his son Eddard added, doing the same.
"Thank you, both," Daveth said, lifting them to their feet. He then turned to his cousin Denys. "Denys, I have a request." Without hesitation Denys replied, "Anything cousin"
"I want you to take my aunt and cousins to Seagard. They will be safer there." At once, Lucas looked up, fire flashing through his fear. "No! You cannot!" he shouted. "I will stay and fight as well!"
Daveth smiled softly at that and went down on one knee before the boy, meeting his eyes.
"You need to," he said gently. "If the gods are good, this war will end quickly. But if something goes wrong—if I should fall—House Blackwood must endure. Do you understand, Lucas?"
Lucas swallowed hard, then nodded.
"Good," Daveth said quietly.
He rose to his feet and turned to Lord Tristan, his expression once more set in iron. "We march as soon as the army is gathered."
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Two weeks later
Lord Randyll Lolliston felt uneasy—an emotion that would have surprised anyone who truly knew him. His house, the Lollistons, had served House Bracken for ages untold. No book recorded when or how the Brackens had conquered them, but such details had long ceased to matter.
Now he stood within the great pavilion of the Bracken war camp alongside another vassal, Lord Rodrick Terrick. Around them gathered a host of lesser lords and landed knights sworn to House Bracken, all feasting and drinking in the presence of their king. With them came around
At the center of it all sat King Lothar Bracken.
One greasy hand clutched a roasted chicken leg, while the other raised a cup filled with Arbor gold. He had refused to drink any beverage brewed by Blackwood hands, laughing loudly when asked why he would not sample their new vintages. Instead, he roared with laughter at some crude joke told by a knight whose name Randyll had never bothered to learn.
Beside the king sat his sons, Princes Jasper and Humfrey, sharing in their father's mirth.
At last, King Lothar rose to his feet, wiping grease from his beard. "Feast, my lords and friends," he bellowed, "for tomorrow we shall be busy slaughtering the Blackwoods!"
The pavilion erupted in cheers, laughter, and raised cups.
"The House of Blackwood ends tomorrow," Lothar continued. "A shame I could not kill Benjen the Fierce myself." He lingered mockingly on the name, drawing laughter from his sons and bannermen alike. "But his father, his son, and every last one of his kin will have to suffice!" He threw back his head and laughed. "I shall bring the skull of every Blackwood to the graves of my father and brother, to console their spirits in the Seven Heavens."
Lord Rodrick Terrick raised his cup and spoke loudly. "Aye, Your Grace. If it were not for the craven Blackwoods ambushing us at the Battle of the Twin Rivers, your father and brother would still be with us this day."
A chorus of agreement followed, though Lord Randyll Lolliston felt his unease deepen as the cheers echoed through the pavilion.
Another knight spoke up, raising his cup. "I've heard the Blackwoods are rich in gold and grain. A shame they'll have no further need of it."
Laughter burst through the pavilion, crude and hungry, echoing off the canvas walls.
The laughter did not fade quickly. Around the pavilion, men spoke freely of plunder and easy victory, their confidence fed by wine and old grudges.
To them, the Blackwoods were already beaten.
They knew of a House already weakened by loss—a prince dead, its other prince absent, its king lying senseless in a sickbed not knowing when to wake up. They only saw grieving women, frightened children, and a boy prince forced to play at war. In their minds, Raventree undefended with their people and bannermen like a headless chicken.
The Brackens told themselves the Blackwoods had grown soft in peace, rich in gold and grain but poor in steel. Old victories were retold as proof of future triumphs, while old defeats were reshaped into tales of treachery and ambush, never of Blackwood skill.
Even the wiser men among them—lords who had marched before and buried sons beneath cairns—allowed themselves to believe it would be a short war. A single hard strike, a swift battle would end everything before winter, and the feud that had bled both Houses for generations would finally end in Bracken victory.
And so they drank, and laughed, and planned for spoils—never once imagining that the Blackwoods were watching, preparing, and ready to remind them why Raventree had stood for thousands of years.
All of it left Randyll deeply uneasy.
He remembered the boy prince's skill with a sword, displayed again and again at various tourneys—victories earned not through luck, but talent and discipline. He remembered the rumors as well: that no bandits, raiders, or thieves survived long within Blackwood lands; that roads there were safer than most, not because of mercy, but because justice was swift and final.
None of it fit the picture being painted here.
The unease gnawed at him until at last he could no longer remain silent.
"We cannot underestimate them," Randyll said, forcing his voice steady as he addressed the king. "Not in the slightest, Your Grace. Though many Blackwoods may be craven, there are some who are not—least of all the boy prince."
The pavilion fell quiet.
King Lothar, his sons, and every lord present turned to stare at him. Before the king could respond, Prince Jasper—older of the two—rose with a sneer.
"Mere rumors," Jasper scoffed. "Tales the cravens of Raventree Hall spread to win themselves a meager reputation. The boy will fall the moment he faces a real warrior—a real knight."
Laughter followed.
"Aye!" King Lothar boomed. "My son speaks true. Come morning, we shall march across the Red Fork and into Blackwood lands. Their army will be crushed, Raventree Hall torn down stone by stone, and every man, woman, and child with even a drop of Blackwood blood put to the sword."
He grinned widely, eyes shining with wine and hatred. "I have heard Tytos's wife is a great beauty. I shall see for myself—perhaps sample her as well!"
The pavilion erupted in cruel laughter, but Randyll felt only cold dread settle in his chest. He didn't belive for a second that thye were just some rumors.
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A few days later
By midday, the Bracken army—three thousand two hundred strong—had made ready and begun its march. Today, they would officially cross the Red Fork and press into Blackwood lands. A journey that normally took a single day had been stretched into several, for during the night, to Randyll's shock and mounting unease, Blackwood scouts had struck under cover of darkness—cutting throats, loosing horses, burning food stores, and sowing disorder throughout the camp.
As if that were not enough, horns had blared all through the night, echoing from every direction. Each blast came from the scouts. When Bracken men attempted to pursue them, the Blackwoods would flee on horseback, only to return later and sound their horns once more. On several occasions, when the Brackens finally chased in force, the scouts led them straight into a larger Blackwood detachment of some five hundred men, who in turn inflicted sharp casualties before vanishing back into the dark.
Losses had been heavy at first, their numbers falling to roughly three thousand. Only when King Lothar ordered the sentries strengthened and the number of scouts doubled did the attacks diminish, dwindling into little more than a constant irritation—an irritation that ensured no man in the army managed more than a wink of sleep.
Despite the unsettling whirlwind of rumors surrounding the boy prince—tales that named him a great warrior in one breath and an even greater administrator in the next—and despite Randyll's repeated insistence that Daveth Blackwood might yet prove troublesome, the prince had so far revealed himself to be nothing more than the green boy everyone had expected. Minor lords and landed knights began to jape openly about Randyll being overly cautious, and at last he allowed himself to breathe a little easier.
It seemed they were only rumors after all, or so Randyll Loliston thought.
Repeated attempts to force battle with the Blackwood force of five hundred soon revealed, to Randyll's irritation, that the enemy infantry was far better trained and equipped than expected. Still, King Lothar and the other commanders concluded that the boy prince sought to lure their cavalry into a reckless pursuit, hoping to isolate and destroy it. A foolish notion, they agreed.
And so the days passed in a deadly dance—raids by night, skirmishes by day, and endless marches north. The Blackwoods excelled at harassment, but in time they were bloodied. At last, their small force of five hundred was reduced to just 300 broken men, crushed near the Red Fork, much to the elation of Randyll, King Lothar, and the rest of the Bracken command. It was too easy—broken arrows, discarded cloaks, and wounded men who was slowly dying. With the rest of the 300 men running back across the the Red Fork.
"Cowards run as they always do," King Lothar declared, and ordered the advance. A small battle none the less still boasted the morale of all the lords and levies, including Randyll.
They followed the trail straight to the Red Fork and finally reached their initial goal. From a rise overlooking the Red Fork, Randyll spotted the main Blackwood host. As he took stock of their own army, he realized that despite the fighting and constant skirmishing, they still numbered some three thousand, just slightly less. Others noticed it as well—King Lothar, his sons, and the assembled knights and commanders.
There, upon a low hill above the river, stood the Blackwood army—entrenched, with shallow trenches dug and stakes planted. By Randyll's estimate, they numbered just over fifteen hundred, and with the initial detachment joining them and bolstering their numbers to eighteen hundred men. The force was anchored in place and made no move to advance.
Lord Rodrick Terrick turned to his king and laughed."It appears the rumors were true, Your Grace. The Blackwoods have grown fat and soft on their wealth. Tomorrow, once we are rested and ready, we shall crush them and end the Blackwood line."
Cheers and cries of "Hear, hear!" and "Aye!" rang out—until King Lothar raised a hand for silence.
"No," he said. "We fight today."
Randyll turned sharply to his king."Your Grace, the men are exhausted from constant skirmishing and the long march, not to mention the ceaseless horns the craven Blackwoods have blown through the night with many still hungry.
Lothar faced his lords and army, his voice carrying across the ranks."No. We march now. This feud has burned for thousands of years, and today it will end. I refuse to live under the same sky as a Blackwood for even one more day."
"Besides, winter will be upon us soon, and I wish to end this once and for all," Lothar continued. At that Randyll could only sigh. He was likely drunk on the thought of defeating them—on visions of victory, revenge for his dead father and brother, and the rich spoils the Blackwoods possessed, Randyll thought, but what could he do. Lothar was his King and so far The Blackwoods have proven to be craven amd weak.
Thus the army of House Bracken marched onward, weary yet confident, banners snapping in the wind and hooves pounding the hard earth as they crossed the Red Fork. The river was swollen from recent rains, its waters dark and swift, whispering against the reeds and stones. The crossing was difficult, but they pressed on nonetheless, for their king. The chill of the water clung to them, soaking boots and cloaks, their clothes sticking to their bodies like glue. The wind almost biting.
As they drew ever closer, unease welled within Randyll as he took in the Blackwood host. The entire army stood disciplined and well armored, far more so than he had expected. Still, he forced the feeling down. After all, they outnumbered the Blackwoods by more than a thousand men. What could possible go wrong, right?
What he did not notice was the forest around them—how quiet it had become. Far too quiet, for any man who cared to look or listen closely. But no one did. Their eyes were fixed on the enemy ahead, their thoughts consumed by the battle to come. And so they marched on, blind to the silence closing in around them.
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When the two armies finally clashed, the outcome Randyll had expected—the Bracken lines smashing through the Blackwoods in a swift and decisive blow—never came. Instead, the Blackwoods fought like a living beast, moving as one with a discipline that stunned him. Their shields locked, their spears struck in perfect rhythm, and Bracken men began to fall in droves. Steel rang, men screamed, and the ground grew slick beneath their feet.
If this continued, they would lose.
Randyll saw the realization dawn on his king's face as well. Lothar wheeled his horse about, raising his sword high and bellowing over the din,"ON ME! FOR STONE HEDGE! FOR BRACKEN! FOR THE SEVEN!"
The cry rippled through the ranks. Morale surged, and with sheer numbers and fury the Brackens began to push the Blackwoods back, step by bloody step.
Then the horns sounded.
Not one—but several at once, howling from every direction, a wall of sound that froze blood and turned confidence into dread.
The blasts rolled out from the forests surrounding them, deep and terrible, and Randyll's blood ran cold. From the treeline poured Blackwood men—thousands upon thousands—advancing in ordered ranks. Banners unfurled, armor gleamed, and spearpoints bristled like a steel tide.
These were no frightened farmers or half-trained levies.
These were soldiers, monsters even. .
Seasoned, disciplined, and with their armors and swords gleaming in the sun.
"In the name of the gods… how did they manage to armor every man in their ranks?" Randyll muttered to himself, eyes widening in disbelief—only to be jerked from thought by a spear hurtling toward him. He barely managed to deflect it, the wood splintering against his shield.
The trap closed with dreadful precision, and in that moment Randyll understood the truth at last. The silence, the feigned weakness, the careful retreat—it had all been a lie. They had been lured here, herded across the river, and now they stood surrounded.
The Blackwoods had not come to fight.
They had come to destroy them.
Before Randyll could do anything else, an arrow took him in the left eye, and darkness crept in as the world began to slowly fade around him. His last thoughts turning to his family, his wife, his sons.
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A few minutes ago
Daveth could see the Bracken King—Lothar Bracken—just behind his front line, towering in his red horse-head helm, a greatsword clenched tightly in both hands. From horseback, Daveth felt a tightening in his chest as the armies collided. Men were impaled on spears, hacked apart, crushed beneath shields; screams pierced the air and were swallowed by the thunder of battle.
In his time here, Daveth had grown largely desensitized to death. He had killed before—many times. Executions, bandits, skirmishes in the night. Yet to witness slaughter on this scale was something else entirely. It churned his stomach all the same.
The first clash had gone to the Blackwoods, but the moment Lothar and his sons joined the fray, Bracken morale surged. Their lines stiffened, and slowly, inexorably, they began to push the Blackwoods back.
Daveth shook his head sharply and forced his focus onto the field.
"Lockstep!" he roared.
Immediately, the Blackwood center tightened. Four ranks deep, shields locked edge to edge, the men braced shoulder to shoulder. Spears jutted forward through narrow gaps in the kite shields, forming a living wall of iron. It would be murderously hard to break.
His archers loosed well before the enemy could respond. From their position on the hill, the famed Blackwood bowmen rained death upon the advancing Brackens. Arrows fell like black rain, piercing chests, throats, and eyes. Hundreds of men collapsed screaming, their cries echoing horribly across the slope.
He had chosen the terrain well, denying the Brackens the use of their famed red-mane horses and crippling their cavalry, forcing them instead into a brutal, grinding fight head-on—exactly where he wanted them.
He steeled his nerves, suppressing the long-forgotten corner of his modern mind that recoiled at the carnage. When Bracken archers finally came into range, Daveth barked another command. The rear ranks raised their shields at a practiced angle. Most arrows skittered harmlessly away, though a few unlucky men still fell, gasping and broken.
Then he saw it.
The Brackens were fully committed—eyes forward, minds fixed on the shield wall before them. They were no longer watching the woods.
Daveth turned in the saddle and bellowed,"THE HORNS! NOW! BLOW THEM—NOW!"
Great warhorns sounded, deep and thunderous.
Moments later, thousands upon thousands of disciplined, well-armored Blackwood soldiers burst from the surrounding forest, advancing in ordered ranks. The right flank surged forward under Tristan Ryger, the left under the eldest son of Lord Preston Blanetree. The trap had snapped shut with ruthless precision.
The Brackens were utterly unprepared.
Exhausted from sleepless nights, half-starved, poorly equipped, and their levies armed mostly with pikes, while only the knights and the lords were armored with proper equipment had caused them to be they overwhelmed by fresh Blackwood troops—fed, armored, and drilled to perfection. Their bodies trained by years of heavy construction and with ample food. The difference was immediate and brutal.
The Blackwoods moved as one body, each man guarding the next. Shields stayed locked. Spears jabbed through narrow gaps. Blades flashed, withdrew, and struck again. Bracken men fell by the hundreds—no, thousands. It was no longer a battle. It was a slaughter.
Daveth kept his eyes fixed on Lothar Bracken and his sons. He saw the dawning horror on their faces as they realized they were nearly surrounded. He saw them attempt to carve a path free.
Next to him stood Kevan, and beside him, Eddard—Daveth's friend.
Daveth drew a breath and roared.
He led his honor guard—the Raven's Teeth—forward. These were the finest warriors within his army, men clad in plate, wielding two-handed axes and swords. The shield wall parted smoothly, exactly as they had practiced.
Daveth was the first through.
His greatsword became a silver blur as he hacked into the Bracken ranks, carving a bloody path. His men poured in behind him.
A spear lunged for his chest—he twisted aside, wrenching his blade free from a corpse and cutting the spearman down in a single strike. A swordsman with a round shield rushed him as another man swung a crude hoe-like weapon. Daveth dodged the hoe, then drove his greatsword through the man's gut, the blade bursting out the back. He raised his gauntlet just in time to block the swordsman's blow, the impact jarring his arm.
The man hadn't expected that.
Daveth exploited the opening instantly, ripping his blade free and hacking down into the man's shoulder, killing him where he stood.
Another armored knight charged, hoping for glory—for the honor of slaying the Blackwood Prince. Daveth met him without slowing, parried once, and cut him down just as quickly.
For ten relentless minutes, it continued.
Then Daveth was within shouting distance of Lothar Bracken and one of his sons. "BRACKEN!", he roared. In which the older son saw him first responded back with a roar of his own. "BLACKWOOD!".
Daveth cleaved through two men who rushed to help their prince, with prince Jasper Bracken charging towards him with a furious roar. Daveth would later admit that he was very skilled—dangerously so. A strike nearly caught his shoulder.
But not enough.
A rapid double feint drew the prince's shield aside. The third strike slipped through the opening, biting deep into his side and dropping him to the ground with a scream. Daveth did not hesitate. He stepped forward and drove his blade down, ending the the life of the oldest prince where he lay. Blood steamed across the grass.
"JASPER—NOOO!"
A scream of rage tore through the chaos of battle, and Daveth looked up to see King Lothar himself charging towardshim, his younger son, with his remaining son Prince Humfrey at his side, both faces twisted with fury.
Daveth moved instinctively. Prince Humfrey swung first, a desperate strike meant to catch him off guard. Daveth ducked and rolled aside, then pivoted into the Kings arc with a brutal shoulder check, crashing it into Lothar's cheek and sending him staggering backward. Like a predator sensing opportunity, Daveth spun and blocked Humfreys follow-up strike, knocking the sword aside, and swung with a blow that would have cleaved the boy's head in two if it werent for a Bracken household knight taking the blow meant for Humfrey.
It was three against one: one son already dead, Lothar returning to the fray, and the surviving son, Humfrey, wild-eyed and dangerous. Daveth spent twenty brutal minutes on the defensive, never letting them gain the upper hand. A greatsword was a weapon for offense, not defense, yet he wielded it like an extension of his own body. His arms burned from the exertion, but pain was muted, the haze of adrenaline carrying him through each strike and parry. He waited, patient, hunting for the slightest error, and it soon came, from the young prince.
Humfrey, overreaching in anger, he left himself exposed. Daveth didn't hesitate and struck a vicious swing cutting deep into the boy's side. He collapsed in a heap, screaming in agony before hitting the ground, most likely dead before the body even reached the dirt.
"HUMFREY!" Lothar bellowed, a mixture of grief and rage as he fought on.
Five minutes passed in a blur of steel and sweat, with King Lothar Bracken striking harder and harder his fury intensifying, pressing Daveth with brute force. Daveth's arms ached with exhaustion, yet he found the strength to disarm the man with a masterful strike, wrenching the sword from his grip. Before Lothar could even blink Daveth swung, making a vicious cut across Lothar's thigh. Which brought him to one knee.
With a final precise strike he severed the Lothars head admit his cry to wait. The battlefield fell momentarily silent at the sight, then erupted in a roars as Daveth stepped forward and picked up the golden horse-head helmet containing the head of the Lothar Bracken, the King. Raising it high above his own head while shouting, "VICTORY!". . Blackwood soldiers threw their heads back and joined in, their voices shaking the air, celebrating victory with a ferocity that matched the carnage around them.
Seeing every member of the royal family felled in battle by the Blackwood prince none the least finally broke the morale of the Bracken center, causing them to shatter in quick succession. The flanks fell not long after, collapsing under the weight of the disciplined Blackwood forces. After hours of battle the war was finally over.
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The Battle of the Red Fork, as it is now called was a was a decisive victory for House Blackwood. The Bracken army was crushed with their king and princes slayed. Thousands of Bracken men, from their lords to their levies died fighting.
Almost a thousand Bracken men had survived the slaughter and fled down the hill, desperately trying to cross the Red Fork. All that awaited them though was was utter annihilation. Across the river, a small Blackwood detachment stood waiting. Arrows rained down from the banks, piercing men that tried to swim across. Spears and swords awaited those who managed to cross and was cut down. Countless men had drowned, their bodies swept away by the current.
It is said that the river ran red with Bracken blood, flowing for miles, staining the lands of House Tully near the Red Fork. The horrors of that day would be whispered for generations.
In contrast, the Blackwoods suffered relatively light losses—about nine hundred men out of their original six thousand, 200 from the losses suffered by the small detachment that hindred the Bracken army and the others suffered by the initial clas and total annaliation of the Bracken army.
Millenia of untold grudges ended in a single day, in a single battle. All at the hands of the young Blackwoods prince.
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Author's Note: Sorry if the battle wasn't written as well as it could have been—I did my best. If you notice any inconsistencies or mistakes, please feel free to point them out in the comments.