The Blackwood’s Might (My Version)

RAVENTREE HALL

Late 1,390

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the training yard. Dust swirled beneath Daveth's boots as he tightened his grip on the sword hilt. Across from him, his opponent—a boy of fourteen, taller and broader—watched him with a steady gaze, blade held ready.

The older boy struck first. Daveth met the blow, steel ringing against steel. His arms shook from its force, but he held firm. The older boy pressed the attack, launching a quick series of strikes to drive him back. Daveth dodged one, parried another, and barely turned aside the next.

"You're getting slow," his opponent taunted, smirking.

Daveth rolled his shoulders, shifting his stance, and said nothing.

He lunged without warning, his sword cutting through the air in a downward arc. His opponent raised his guard, bracing for impact—but at the last moment, Daveth feinted. Pivoting sharply, he brought the flat of his blade against the boy's ribs. The strike landed with a dull thud, forcing a grunt from his opponent as he stumbled back.

With a growl, the older boy recovered and thrust forward. Daveth sidestepped, locking their blades together. The two strained, muscles taut, breaths coming hard. For a moment, they were locked in place, neither willing to give ground.

Then Daveth twisted his wrist, breaking the bind. In the same motion, he stepped in and drove the pommel of his sword into his opponent's chest. The older boy gasped, staggering back before dropping to one knee in the dust.

Daveth exhaled, lowering his blade slightly. Sweat dripped down his temple, but he barely noticed. A grin tugged at his lips.

"Yield," he said slowly

His opponent groaned but forced himself to stand. They were finally finished with Daveth coming out as the victor.

After more than an hour of training, it was finally over. Daveth dropped to one knee, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. His entire body was drenched, his muscles aching from the relentless drills. He signaled to a nearby servant, who quickly handed him a cup of water and a towel.

"Good work, my prince," said Kevan, the master-at-arms of Raventree Hall. A common-born knight, Kevan had earned his position through skill with the sword and unwavering loyalty to House Blackwood.

"Aye, my father speaks true," came another voice, light with amusement. "But you were lucky to defeat me."

Eddard, Kevan's son, and Daveth's training partner, grinned as he wiped sweat from his forehead. At his words, Kevan turned to him with a sharp look, his expression tinged with displeasure.

"Mind your tongue, boy. That is the prince you're speaking to," he said sternly.

Eddard flinched under his father's gaze before offering a sheepish smile.

"There's no need, Kevan," Daveth interjected, his tone easy. "It was only a jest. Besides, he speaks true—I was lucky."

Kevan studied him for a moment before giving a short nod. "As you say, my prince. Though luck alone wasn't the reason you won. You've been improving—beating boys four years your senior now."

Daveth felt a flicker of pride at Kevan's words. To be besting boys four years his senior was no small feat. But he forced the feeling down just as quickly as it came. Pride, if left unchecked, could make a man complacent. He had seen it in others—warriors who believed their reputation was enough to win fights. He wouldn't make the same mistake, not now that he was finally making real progress.

Kevan exhaled, resting a hand on his sword belt. "We're finished for today. Eddard, go and clean yourself up," he said, turning to his son before shifting his gaze back to Daveth. "My prince, your father and mother expect you at supper. You should take the time to clean up as well."

Daveth wiped the last bead of sweat from his brow with the towel before tossing it aside. His arms ached, his legs felt heavy, and the sting of bruises was already beginning to settle in, but it was a good kind of exhaustion. A sign that he was getting stronger.

He gave Kevan a respectful nod before turning on his heel and making his way out of the training yard, his boots kicking up dust with each step. The day's work was done, but tomorrow, the training would begin again. At the same time, Kevan also walked out, but he was heading somewhere else entirely.

After walking for some time, Kevan finally reached his destination—the lord's solar, or in this case, the king's solar. He paused outside the door, taking a moment to collect himself. He quickly wiped away any traces of dirt or the lingering scent of sweat from his morning training. In the presence of the king, he would appear composed, as any man should. Satisfied with his appearance, he gave a nod to the two guards stationed outside. Without speaking, one of the men stepped forward to announce his arrival.

"The master-at-arms, Ser Kevan, Your Grace," the guard said, his voice steady and formal.

From within the solar, a calm, commanding voice responded, carrying the weight of authority.

"Come in, Kevan."

The heavy wooden doors groaned as they opened, and Kevan stepped inside. The first thing that struck him was the room's rich decor. Tapestries hung from the walls, each depicting ancient battles, long-dead kings, and the heroic deeds of House Blackwood. The room smelled faintly of aged wood and polished stone, an atmosphere that spoke of centuries of history.

Weapons mounted on stands—swords, axes, shields—lined the walls, each meticulously polished and holding the silent weight of past bloodshed and triumph.

Kevan's eyes were drawn to something else. A sword. It stood on a carved wooden stand, its blade dark as a starless night. The hilt, fashioned into the shape of outstretched raven wings, seemed almost ready to take flight. Along the length of the scabbard, intricate engravings of weirwoods and ravens told a silent story of its legacy. Vengeance.

The name carried the weight of centuries. The ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Blackwood passed down through generations, had been in the family for thousands of years. A weapon of kings and killers, justice and retribution.

Kevan's gaze lingered on the artifact for a moment, but his focus soon shifted to the large desk at the center of the room. It was cluttered with scrolls, maps, and letters sealed with the royal insignia, the tools of a king who had much to oversee.

Behind the desk sat King Willem Blackwood, a man as regal as the room that surrounded him. His long raven-black hair had turned gray with age, falling neatly around his shoulders, but his grey eyes—sharp and piercing—still held the same intensity that they had in his youth. They met Kevan's gaze, unreadable yet expectant.

Kevan bowed his head slightly, the gesture respectful and steady, his posture one of unquestioned loyalty.

"Your Grace," he greeted, his voice even.

Willem did not rise, but a faint smile played at the corner of his lips.

"Kevan," the king said, his voice calm but carrying the authority of a ruler who had seen decades of rule. "What news from the training yard? I trust my grandson hasn't made a fool of himself."

"Of course not, Your Grace," Kevan replied, though his tone betrayed the weight of something unsaid. Willem, sensing the hesitation, leaned forward slightly.

"What is it, Kevan? What's happened?"

Kevan's voice was steady but cautious as he spoke. "This morning, the prince defeated my son."

The words landed heavy, and Willem's eyes widened in surprise. "Your son, Eddard? The one who is four years older than Daveth? Are you sure? The same boy who could hold his own against two of his peers?"

Kevan met the king's gaze without flinching. "Yes, Your Grace. I would not lie about such a thing."

Willem chuckled, his surprise turning into something approaching admiration. "I never doubted you, Kevan. I simply wanted to hear it from you. Hah, this boy continues to amaze me." A proud smile tugged at the edges of his lips, his eyes gleaming with a rare warmth.

"The prince's skill with the sword is remarkable," Kevan continued, his words genuine. "But what pleases me most is his nature—prideful, yes, but not so much that he's blinded by it."

Willem's expression softened, a deep breath escaping him as he processed the words. There was a moment of quiet before his sharp eyes turned back to Kevan, now searching, intent.

"What is it, Kevan?" he asked, his voice edged with concern. "What troubles you?"

Kevan hesitated the weight of his next words heavy on his chest. After a long pause, he spoke carefully, as if choosing each word for its impact. "The prince is... extraordinarily gifted, Your Grace. And that's precisely what troubles me."

"The young prince absorbs everything I teach like a fish in water," Kevan said, his tone a mixture of admiration and frustration. "But lately, no matter what training I put him through, it seems to do little good. He doesn't improve anymore. And I fear I have failed you, Your Grace."

Willem's eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to process the words. Then, he looked up, his face unreadable. "Do you mean to tell me you have nothing left to teach the boy, Kevan? Is that it?"

Kevan quickly shook his head, almost in disbelief. "Gods, no. It's just… the prince seems to improve less with each lesson. It's as though, subconsciously, he doesn't want to improve anymore. Like he believes himself good enough already, Your Grace."

Willem blinked, a brief flicker of surprise crossing his face before he masked it with his usual calm composure. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice even.

Kevan nodded. "I fear so, Your Grace."

Willem was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping slowly against the armrest. Finally, he gave a small nod. "Thank you for your report, Kevan. You may leave. And know that you have not failed me."

Kevan bowed deeply, relief crossing his face. "Thank you, Your Grace. I shall leave at once."

With that, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft thud.

Willem sat still for a long while in his solar, alone with his thoughts. The room, though grand, felt uncomfortably silent. What was once a promise of greatness now seemed a question of whether his grandson had already plateaued if the prince had already begun to believe there was no more room for growth.

Willem's thoughts drifted back to that day four years ago—the day Daveth first revealed his ambition. At the time, Willem had been taken aback. Every noble child of the Riverlands had, at some point, entertained grand dreams of uniting the fractured region. It was a fantasy woven into their blood, whispered in stories of old kings and lost glory.

Even he had once been guilty of such youthful arrogance. At twelve, Willem had boldly declared that he would one day conquer the entire Riverlands. His parents had only laughed, humoring the foolish dreams of a boy who had yet to understand the weight of crowns and war. But when his father died and the burden of kingship fell upon his shoulders, he quickly learned just how impossible that dream truly was.

For Daveth to voice such ambition at the tender age of six had been something else entirely. Willem had always known the boy was bright—quicker than most, perceptive beyond his years. He had even invented his own game of chess, an early sign of the sharp mind he possessed. But when Daveth insisted on beginning his training so young, Willem had dismissed it as nothing more than a child's passing fancy. He had indulged the boy, believing that, like so many others, he would eventually grow bored and abandon the effort.

How wrong he had been.

Daveth had not only endured but thrived. He did not waver, did not tire. He grew stronger with each passing year, outlasting and outmatching every opponent who stood against him. 

And now this.

Thinking of Daveth brought a rare smile to Willem's weathered face. Age weighed heavier on him with each passing day—simple tasks that once required no thought now left him weary. He could feel his strength fading, the inevitability of time catching up to him.

But there was comfort in knowing his house would endure. Daveth was not just a capable heir—he was exceptional. A blade of such fine steel must be honed, its edges sharpened, and its full potential realized. Willem would see to it that his grandson was prepared but unstoppable.

------------------------------ Scene break ----------------------------------

Freshly bathed and dressed, Daveth stood before the mirror, studying his reflection. At just 10 years old, he looked strikingly older, almost 15. He stood at exactly 5 feet tall, a result of years of rigorous training and his First-Men bloodline, which had not only made him taller but also gifted him a somewhat eerie, pale complexion.

His raven-black hair had grown longer over time, and now it fell past his shoulders, forcing him to tie it back into a tight bun at the nape of his neck. His clothes were rich and carefully chosen, made of fine leather in the colors of his house—crimson red, deep black, and the purest white. The Blackwood sigil was embroidered boldly across his cloak, a reminder of his family's strength and history.

Daveth looked at himself once more, his expression steady. He might still be a boy, but at this moment, he looked the part of something more.

"You're going to be late if you don't hurry, my prince," Sarra said, standing a few steps behind Daveth. She scanned him carefully for any speck of dirt or imperfection before giving a satisfied nod.

Daveth exhaled. "Alright, let's go," he muttered, rolling his shoulders before stepping forward, Sarra following closely behind.

They made their way through the halls, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The familiar corridors led them to the grand hall, where his infamous training debacle had unfolded years ago. As the guards swung open the heavy doors, the hum of conversation quieted, and all eyes turned toward him.

Daveth strode in silently, his expression unreadable, heading straight for the table. A shrieking voice rang out before he could take his seat, laced with excitement. 

"Daveth! Daveth, you're finally here!" Lucas came rushing up, nearly tripping over himself in excitement. "Who did you fight today? Was it the Brackens?". Daveth chuckled as he knelt, ruffling the boy's dark hair. "The Brackens are still standing—though I doubt they'll be smiling after our skirmish."

Lucas's eyes widened. "You fought them?" he asked, bouncing on his heels. "Did you swing Vengeance? Did you cut down a hundred of them?". Daveth smirked at the boy's enthusiasm. "A hundred? Not quite. They'll think twice before stepping on Blackwood land again". 

Lucas pouted. "I wish I could've seen it". Before Daveth could respond, another voice cut in. "Stop acting like a brute, Lucas. It's unseemly, you stupid bore," Eleanor said, her small arms crossed as she tried—unsuccessfully—to look more dignified than her years allowed.

Lucas spun on his twin, his face flushing red with anger. He opened his mouth to snap back, but Daveth raised a hand, cutting him off before the argument could begin."You'll have your time, Lucas," Daveth said, standing. "For now, you should be at your lessons with Maester Cerwyn."

Lucas scrunched his nose. "All he ever talks about are houses, kings, and things that happened thousands of years ago". 

"And you ran off," Eleanor said with a frown. Lucas only grinned. "I had better things to do". Daveth sighed, though amusement flickered in his tired eyes. Before he could reply, a deeper voice spoke from behind him.

"A Blackwood must be sharp in mind as well as with a blade." Lucas turned to see his father, Tytos, watching him with a knowing look. "Come, let us sit," Tytos continued. "Your grandfather will be here soon, and then we'll eat."

At that, Daveth nodded to his uncle before making his way to the table, settling beside his parents, who were deep in conversation with his aunt, Elyn. The adults seemed oblivious to the chatter of their children, the warmth of the hall filled with the quiet hum of family and home.

-----

It was only a few minutes later that Willem arrived, and took his seat at the head of the table, that everyone started eating.

As they ate, Daveth's parents, uncle, and aunt spoke of matters across Westeros—battles fought, lords rising and falling, even the latest fashions spreading through the courts. But one mention in the conversation made Daveth freeze. His grip faltered, and his knife clattered against his plate, the sharp sound cutting through the room's quiet hum. All eyes turned to him.

"What was that?" Daveth asked, his gaze fixed on his father. Benjen arched a brow, setting down his cup. "What was what, Daveth? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Daveth hesitated, then shook his head. "Nothing… I was just eating too quickly." He reached for his knife but then pressed on. "But—what were you just saying to Uncle? Something about sellswords in the Westerlands?"

Benjen nodded, taking a measured sip of wine. "Ah, that? Just some common trouble. A sellsword captain and his band have been raiding small mining villages near Casterly Rock. A nuisance, nothing more."

He waved a hand dismissively. "I can't even recall the man's name." Daveth froze at the mention of the name, his mind racing. It can't be, can it? It can't be Teague.  Needing more answers, he gathered his thoughts and asked again, "Do you know his name father?".

Benjen paused for a moment, as if searching his memory, before replying, "I think his name was something... something Tegan. At that, Willem finally looked up from his food, his voice low and deliberate. "Teague. His name was Torrence Teague."

Daveth went rigid, but no one noticed. Of course, he thought, how could I have forgotten about him? A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead as he pushed his food away, suddenly unable to stomach another bite. His mind was consumed by thoughts of Teague. The man who would conquer the entire Riverlands in the future.

-----

After supper, everyone went their separate ways. His uncle and father headed to the yard, either to train themselves or to oversee the men-at-arms and guards. His mother and aunt retreated to another chamber for some quiet time, likely to embroider or play the lute. Meanwhile, a servant led his two little cousins away for their lessons with Maester Cerwyn.

Only Daveth and his grandfather remained in the hall. Sensing his grandson's unease, Willem called out to him."Daveth, are you feeling well?" he asked, his voice warm with concern. Startled by the sudden question, Daveth turned to his grandfather. "Ah, yes, Grandfather. Just… something minor on my mind," he replied, trying to sound reassuring.

Willem studied him for a moment before chuckling. "Why don't we play a round of chess, my boy? It's been too long since I last had a good game." With a hearty laugh, he signaled to a nearby servant. The servant nodded and left the room, returning a short while later with a chessboard in hand.

The servant set the chessboard down on the heavy wooden table between them, carefully arranging the carved pieces in their starting positions.

Willem leaned back in his chair, watching Daveth with a knowing look." Come now, boy," he said with a slight grin. "You look as though you've seen a ghost. Perhaps a game will clear your mind." Daveth hesitated for a moment before nodding. He reached out and moved his first piece, though his thoughts were still tangled. Torrence Teague. The name lingered in his mind like an echo from the past.

His grandfather made his move with practiced ease, his fingers steady as he slid a knight into position. "Your father plays too aggressively," Willem remarked idly. "Your uncle is more patient, but he lacks creativity. And you? Let's see how you play tonight."

Daveth forced a small smile, trying to focus on the game, but his mind kept drifting. He barely noticed his grandfather studying him between moves."Your hands are trembling," Willem observed after a few turns. "If this were a battlefield instead of a chessboard, you'd already be dead."

Daveth exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "It's nothing, grandfather," he said, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince. Willem leaned forward, his gaze sharp despite his age. "A wise man once told me that when something troubles you so deeply, it's best to face it head-on. Not let it fester."

He gestured to the board. "And in chess, as in life, hesitation is a killer." Daveth swallowed, staring at the pieces before him. His grandfather was right. He had to find out more about Torrence Teague—and soon

Daveth knew that if Torrence Teague sought to conquer the Riverlands, he had to be stopped. He would not let history repeat itself. He had no idea who had reincarnated him into Westeros, but he would not waste this second chance.

"I will be the one who conquers the Riverlands," he vowed.

The first step was gathering intelligence. He needed to know everything about Teague—his allies, his resources, and his plans. If Teague had already begun small-scale raids, it was only a matter of time before he amassed enough support to launch bigger raid's. Time was running out. Preparation had to begin now.

Next, he had to secure alliances. The Riverlords were a fractured people, divided by old rivalries and ambitions, but they all shared one unshakable truth: their hatred for outsiders who sought to claim their land. Even the lesser lords and hedge knights could tip the balance if they were brought into the fold early.

But alliances alone would not be enough.

The final task was to strengthen the lands of House Blackwood, using every bit of his otherworldly knowledge to prepare for the storm that was Torrence Teague.

Daveth took a deep breath. The road ahead would be treacherous, filled with trials and hardships, but he had no choice. He would stand against Torrence Teague—and he would not falter.

-----

Daveth was pulled from his thoughts by the sudden crash of the doors swinging open. His father, Benjen, strode in with purpose, his movements sharp and urgent. The noise startled Daveth, but his grandfather, Willem, remained unfazed, merely shifting his gaze from Daveth to his son with mild curiosity.

"What is the meaning of this, Benjen?" Willem asked, irritation lacing his tone. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of a game?"

Benjen looked tense, almost out of breath, but he dipped his head apologetically. "There's no time for that, Father. We have news from the border."

Willem sighed, setting down his game piece with reluctant patience. "Well? Out with it, then."

Benjen's expression darkened. "Bandits," he said grimly. "They've begun raiding the villages near the border."

At that, Willem's annoyance vanished, replaced by sharp attention. He leveled a piercing stare at his son, silently urging him to continue.

"We don't have exact numbers yet," Benjen admitted, "but we estimate a dozen or so men. They've struck along the Red Fork."

The room grew tense, the weight of his words settling over them like an approaching storm. 

Willem's expression hardened. "Assemble the men. Have them ready within the hour."

Benjen gave a swift nod. "Alright, Father." Without another word, he turned and began making his way toward the door.

Just as he reached the threshold, Willem spoke again, his tone firm. "And take Daveth with you."

Both Daveth and Benjen froze. A stunned silence filled the room as Benjen halted, turning back to face his father. Daveth felt his pulse quicken. This was not what he had expected.

Benjen's expression tightened. "Father, he isn't ready for this." His voice was firm but laced with hesitation as if he was trying to keep his frustration in check. "He's still young, untested. This isn't some lesson in swordplay—these are real raiders, real danger."

Willem met his son's gaze without flinching. "And what better way for him to learn?" His voice carried the weight of experience, steady and unwavering. "War doesn't wait for a man to be ready, Benjen. It comes whether he wills it or not. When that time comes for Daveth, I will not have him standing there, unprepared and ignorant."

Benjen exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "He's just a boy."

Willem's expression darkened. "Aye, but he will also be the future lord of this house when you are gone." He turned his sharp gaze to Daveth, who stood silently, tension gripping his shoulders. "If he is to rule, he must learn. Not in books, not in the safety of these walls, but in the world, where blood is spilled, and choices have consequences."

Benjen looked at Daveth, his lips pressed into a thin line. The boy stood straight, his hands clenched at his sides. 

Willem leaned back slightly, his voice calm but edged with finality. "You will take him, Benjen. That is not a request."

Benjen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before nodding stiffly. "Very well." He looked at Daveth, his expression unreadable. "Get your sword and your armor. We leave soon."

Daveth swallowed, nodding as he turned to do as he was told. The weight of what lay ahead settled over him, but he did not waver. He would not be weak when the time came.

-------------------------------- Scene Break -------------------------------

(A couple of days later)

The morning mist clung to the ancient oaks as Daveth Blackwood rode alongside his father and their company of twenty seasoned guards. The Blackwood lands stretched before them, the towering trees of the Blackwood Vale swaying with the wind, their dark canopies blotting out the pale morning sun.

Beneath them, the damp earth squelched under the hooves of their horses as they followed the trail of destruction left by the bandits—scorched farmhouses, butchered livestock, and the lingering stench of blood and smoke.

They rode in silence, their faces grim. This was no patrol. This was a hunt.

Benjen Blackwood led them, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon, jaw clenched with unspoken fury. These were his lands. His people. And the bandits had defiled them.

For nearly a day, they tracked the raiders, following faint footprints in the damp soil and broken branches that marked their passage. Farmers they passed spoke in hushed, fearful tones, describing wild men on horseback, clad in scraps of stolen mail, cutting down any who stood in their path. They came upon an entire village razed to the ground—the old, the men, and the children slaughtered, while the women had been violated before their throats were slit.

The sight had seared itself into Daveth's mind, an image he would never forget. His stomach churned, and he had vomited into the underbrush.

It wasn't until dusk that they found a fresh trail leading them to the bandits' camp.

The raiders—ten men, perhaps more—had set up camp in a clearing near the Red Fork, huddled around a roaring fire. Their raucous laughter echoed through the trees as they drank stolen ale and tossed dice over ill-gotten loot.

Benjen raised a fist, halting the company. He turned to Daveth, his eyes hard as flint. "This is battle, boy. Not a song, not a tourney. If you hesitate, you die."

Daveth swallowed hard, gripping the hilt of his sword. He had trained for this—fought with wooden blades, sparred against his peers—but this was different. This was real.

His father gave the signal.

Steel hissed as swords left their scabbards. The Blackwood men surged forward. The first bandit barely had time to rise before a spear impaled him through the gut.

A choked scream tore from his lips before he was wrenched off the weapon and tossed into the dirt. Another raider scrambled for his axe, but a Blackwood knight was on him before he could swing, driving a sword deep into his chest.

Daveth charged, his heart pounding like a war drum.

A burly man turned to face him, a rusted axe in hand. His scarred face twisted into a grin, teeth yellow and rotting. "Look at this! A lordling come to play!"

Daveth barely had time to react before the man swung.

The axe came down hard. Daveth threw himself back at the last second, the blade missing his face by inches. He staggered, breath ragged, and lifted his sword to strike—too slow. The bandit swung again, a brutal downward chop meant to cleave his skull.

Time slowed.

Daveth knew he wouldn't be fast enough.

The axe was nearly upon him when a flash of steel cut across the bandit's throat, blood spraying into the firelight. The man collapsed, gurgling as he clutched at his ruined neck.

Benjen stood over him, his sword slick with blood. His father's glare bore into Daveth, filled with icy disappointment.

"You think this is a game? You almost got yourself killed!" he snarled, stepping closer. "Your sword's no good if you're too scared to use it. Hesitate again, and you'll die for it!"

Before Daveth could respond, a shout rang out.

He turned just in time to see another bandit charging, a short sword raised high.

Instinct took over.

Daveth didn't think. He thrust his blade forward, the point piercing flesh, sinking deep into the man's stomach. The bandit gasped, eyes wide with shock, mouth opening as if to speak—but no sound came.

Daveth felt the man's body go rigid, the warmth of his blood spilling over his hands.

He pulled his sword free.

The bandit collapsed at his feet, a wet, gurgling sound escaping his throat before he went still.

Daveth stood frozen, staring down at the body. The first life he had ever taken.

The firelight flickered against his face. The scent of blood filled his nose. The sounds of dying men and clashing steel echoed around him.

This was no training yard. No sparring match. No Earth.

This was Westeros.

-----

The battle had ended, leaving the clearing littered with corpses and soaked in blood. Smoke curled from smoldering fires, mingling with the metallic scent of death. The only sounds were the crackling of dying embers and the pained moans of the wounded.

The bandits had been decimated by the ambush, their original dozen reduced to a single survivor.

A ragged man with a crooked nose and yellowed teeth had thrown down his rusted sword the moment the last of his comrades fell. Now, with his hands bound tightly behind his back, two guards dragged him before Benjen.

The man's face was a mess of sweat, dirt, and blood. His split lip trembled as he gasped, panting like a cornered animal. His wild eyes darted between the armed men surrounding him.

"Please," he rasped, his voice rough with fear. "I— I ain't no killer! I was just followin' orders!"

Benjen's cold eyes bore into him. "Then tell me who gave them."

The prisoner hesitated, licking his cracked lips. His gaze flickered toward the lifeless bodies of his companions, as though hoping one might still rise to save him. None did.

Daveth stood beside his father, his sword still clenched in his trembling hands. He only now realized how tightly he gripped it—his knuckles white, the blood on the blade drying to a dark rust. The man he'd killed lay nearby, glassy eyes staring into nothing.

Benjen crouched in front of the prisoner, seizing his chin and forcing their eyes to meet.

"You and your scum have raided my lands, butchered my people," he growled, his voice low and deadly. "Tell me who sent you, or you'll choke on your tongue."

The man swallowed hard, fear radiating from him. His eyes flicked nervously to Daveth, then back to Benjen.

"King Lothar," he blurted out, spittle flying. "It was him! He ordered the raid. I swear it!".

Benjen's jaw tightened, though his face remained stony. Daveth saw the glint of realization in his father's eyes—this wasn't just random raiding.

"Bracken. Of course," Benjen spat the name like bile. "Where is he? Will there be more raids?"

The bandit's panic deepened. He opened his mouth but faltered. A guard slammed the hilt of his sword into the prisoner's ribs, drawing a choked cry.

"I don't know!" the man gasped, wheezing through the pain. "I swear! We never saw him. Only his men who brought the orders. That's all I know. Please, have mercy!"

Benjen studied him for a long, silent moment before rising. "Then you're useless to me."

"Wait! No—NO! I told you everything!" the man shrieked, his voice cracking.

Benjen signaled to a guard, who drew a dagger and stepped forward. But before the blade could reach the man's throat, Benjen raised a hand, halting him.

He turned to Daveth.

Daveth's stomach twisted as the weight of the moment sank in. His father's steely gaze left no room for argument.

"Daveth. You do it."

The boy's throat felt dry as dust. His hands trembled, but he forced himself forward. The guards shoved the bandit to his knees, pressing him over a rough wooden log.

"Please, lad! I'm beggin' ya. I'm no threat! Mercy!"

Daveth hesitated, sword raised but unsteady. His heart pounded in his ears. The bandit's pleas echoed, but then came the memory—the sight of the burned village, the lifeless bodies of his people, their blood staining the earth.

His grip tightened. He swung.

The sword cleaved through flesh and bone. The man's head toppled to the ground, blood spurting from his neck, pooling around Daveth's boots.

Silence.

Daveth's chest heaved, bile rising in his throat, but he forced it down. His hands shook violently.

Benjen approached and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Do you understand now?" His voice was calm but firm. "This is the weight of leadership."

Daveth swallowed hard, eyes still locked on the severed head.

"Yes, Father," he whispered.

This was Westeros. And Westeros spared no one.

"Good. We ride at dawn," Benjen said, turning to the others. "There's a greater war ahead."