Turin awoke to the scent of herbs and old wood. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The bed beneath him was soft, warmer than any he'd ever known, the sheets thick and clean. Sunlight filtered through high windows made of stained glass, painting red and gold streaks across the stone floor.
Then came the pain.
His left leg screamed with fire. It felt like it had been run through with a lance and then set ablaze. He winced, fingers curling into the sheets. It all came back in a flood.
The forest. The spear. The Ironborn. The man with the axe. His brothers—Ser Roderick, Ser Willam—charging into death so he could run.
And the man in the black cloak... House Blackwood.
Turin looked down and saw his thigh wrapped tightly in linen, stained with brown and red. A poultice of herbs clung to the wound beneath. He tried to sit up, gritting his teeth, but the pain dropped him back down. So he lay there, breathing hard, teeth clenched against the scream he wanted to let out.
Roderick… Willam... gone.
Is the camp still safe? Is Elle—?
The door creaked open.
Turin turned his head.
A girl stepped inside. She couldn't have been much older than him — maybe fifteen or sixteen — but carried herself like a queen. Her hair was long and pure black, tied back in a braid that shimmered like raven feathers. Her eyes were piercing blue, cold and unreadable. She didn't speak.
"Who are you?" Turin asked.
She ignored him, walking to his side and setting down a small bowl of steaming soup on the nightstand.
"Wait—" he started.
She didn't answer. She turned and walked away, the hem of her dark red dress whispering against the stone floor. The door clicked shut behind her.
Turin stared at the soup. His stomach rumbled, but he didn't move.
What did I do wrong?
---
It was near dusk when another figure entered the room. This one was no girl.
He was a tall man dressed in fine red and black wool, with the weirwood and ravens of House Blackwood stitched in silver across his chest. His cloak was clasped with carved wood in the shape of a tree. Rings gleamed on his fingers, and his beard was short and neatly trimmed.
Lord Blackwood.
Turin knew it without being told.
The lord gave him a long look before chuckling softly.
"You look better than when we found you. You could barely breathe with all that blood in your mouth. How are you feeling?"
"Like my leg's on fire," Turin muttered.
"That means you'll live," Lord Blackwood said, pulling a chair beside the bed.
Turin looked up, searching the man's face. "Do you… know me?"
Lord Blackwood's lips curled into a sad smile. "No. But I knew your knight. Ser Roderick."
Turin froze. His throat closed.
"You—did you—"
"He was my brother."
The room seemed to go still.
"Bastard brother," the lord continued. "Few knew. Only he and I, truth be told. Different mothers. But blood is blood."
Turin looked down, trying to blink the tears away. He failed.
"He thought of you like a son. Sent ravens about you. Said you were wild, reckless, too brave for your own good—but that you had a good heart. A hard one, too."
Turin let the tears fall.
"He's dead," he said softly.
Lord Blackwood nodded, jaw clenched.
"Then I am glad his last act was saving you. He would have wanted that."
They sat in silence for a moment, until Turin wiped his face and looked up.
"There was a camp. My people. A girl—my sister. Elle. She's three. Pale, golden hair. I need to know if they're safe."
Lord Blackwood hesitated.
"You need rest, lad."
"Please."
The lord studied him, then gave a curt nod.
"I'll send riders. You have my word. But you don't leave this room until that leg is better."
"Thank you," Turin whispered.
Lord Blackwood stood, his expression unreadable.
"My brother died for you. Live long enough to make that mean something."
He left, and the room was quiet again.
---
It was nearly midnight when the door opened once more. Lord Blackwood's face was grim.
Turin knew before the words were spoken.
"The camp is gone."
It felt like someone had carved the breath out of his chest.
"Destroyed. Burned to the ground. Every man's body was left to rot. The women and children... gone."
Turin swallowed.
"Did you find her?" he asked. His voice was barely a whisper. "Elle?"
"No. A few tracks led north. The Ironborn took them, most likely."
Salt wives. That's what the Ironborn did. They didn't just kill. They took.
Turin's vision blurred with tears.
"You're sure she wasn't—?"
"We found no girls her age. And no little bodies."
It was a small mercy. But it felt like nothing.
"I need to leave," Turin said, his voice shaking.
"You can't even walk."
"I don't care."
Lord Blackwood stared at him a moment longer, then turned and walked out.
Turin's scream of grief came only when the door shut.
He punched the mattress first. Then the wall. Then again. And again. His hands split open, blood staining the sheets. His wounded leg throbbed, tearing at the stitches.
The door slammed open. The black-haired girl from before stood frozen in shock.
"Guards!" she shouted, backing away.
Men rushed in. Strong hands gripped Turin by the arms and shoulders, forcing him back onto the bed. He fought. He didn't want their hands on him. He didn't want anyone.
Lord Blackwood entered behind them.
"Stop," he ordered.
The guards backed away.
The girl lingered near the door, staring at Turin with wide blue eyes.
"Melissa," Lord Blackwood said, "my daughter."
Turin looked at her through blurred, bloodied vision.
Lord Blackwood sighed and stepped forward.
"Don't ever do that again. I will chain you to the bed if I must."
"I'm fine," Turin muttered.
"You're bleeding."
"Then I'm alive."
They stood in silence again.
At last, Lord Blackwood spoke.
"Rest. You'll need your strength. If your sister lives, and the Ironborn have her... you'll need to be strong to get her back."
He left with Melissa and the guards.
Turin lay there, bloodied and alone.
He thought of Elle — her bright eyes, her laugh, the way she held his finger with her tiny hand.
He would find her.
He would burn the world if he had to.