Chapter Text
The southern forests had transformed into something truly astonishing, a sight for sore eyes, even on the most mundane of days. The grass a fresh new green unfurling, shafts of golden sunlight filtered through the foliage above, dappling the forest floor with patches of warmth, long grasses perched speckled in soon-to-bloom buds.
The air was sweet with the smell of growing things: Davos took a deep breath of the scent of pine and damp earth, remnants from the previous night’s storm, a familiar fragrance that often soothed his troubled mind. He fastened his belt and threw his robes over his shoulder, shaking the droplets of water from his face.
Earlier this morning, he had hurled himself into the glistening waters of the Trident’s banks, still fresh from the last days of winter. The river’s icy embrace had shocked his senses, but it was a necessary plunge, a ritual of cleansing and renewal. Now, dripping and invigorated, he strolled through the woods, the crunch of fallen leaves beneath his boots echoing in the stillness. For the young lord, this was a sanctuary of solace, a stark contrast to the dark, time-worn stones of Raventree Hall. The green here was a balm for wary eyes, a reminder of life and growth amid the ever-encroaching gloom of his thoughts.
This was, until the forest had shrieked.
Davos halted abruptly, his senses honing in on the source of the distress. The cry rang out through the shrubs once more.
He dashed towards the voice through the dense thicket, the branches grasping at him like desperate hands, scratching at his skin and clawing at his head. The undergrowth was thicker here, a tangled mass of green and brambles that resisted his every move, but Davos plunged through it, leaves rustling and twigs snapped underfoot.
He emerged at the riverbank. Amid the churning waters, he caught sight of a flash of auburn hair struggling against the furious grip of the river’s embrace. He knew he had to act swiftly, the river was eager to claim its prize.
Davos hurried to the water's edge, where hands flailed weakly above the surface, a desperate face gasping for air. The river surged with relentless force, threatening to swallow both rescuer and victim alike. Ignoring the peril, he reached out towards the drowning figure, whose grasp seemed just beyond his fingertips.
“Hold on!” He called out, but the boy could not muster up any sense in his state of panic, and Blackwood knew he had to take a leap.
Cursing under his breath, Davos quickly tossed his heavy robes, their weight would only drag him down. With a determined effort, he grasped him firmly by the back of his waterlogged garments and pulled with all his might. Inch by inch, he dragged the gasping young man to safety, onto the grassy bank where he soon closed his eyes in rest. He lay weak, his energy spent from the harrowing ordeal.
Davos knelt beside him, a mixture of exasperation and relief washing over him. Gently, he turned the limp body over, loosening his sodden cape from its suffocating embrace, and brushed the plastered hair from the boy's face, revealing flushed cheeks beneath a porcelain complexion, he was soft-skinned like a maiden. He couldn't help but notice the seamless harmony of his features, the ease with which he could just simply look at him. He cocked his head to the side watching the water droplets sliding from the reach of his nose, down the line of his neck and seeping its way into the fabric of his shirt. He looked further down— the mustard yellow of his clothes had dampened to a murky brown, but the crimson sigil was unmistakable.
“Bracken.” Davos muttered with disdain, casting aside the sodden cape as if it were a serpent. His eyes narrowed, sweeping the surrounds for any sign of what had transpired. A conflicted silence hung in the air as Davos pondered the implications of this unexpected encounter. Admittedly, the thought of reaching for his knife did flicker through his mind, but to what avail? On an unconscious boy? A sense of pity welled within him.
Before Davos could unravel the mystery before him, the distant sound of approaching riders broke the stillness of the forest. The heavy thud of hooves against earth echoed through the trees, drawing nearer with each passing second, “Aeron!” the voices called.
Davos glanced up, his senses on high alert. Aeron Bracken he thought, looking a the pale face before him. A derisive snort escaped him, “what a lord you are,” he muttered
He gathered his robes and slipped into the shadowed woods, the usual fire for tormenting Brackens extinguished. For once, he had no taste for insults or curses. The river had delivered more than just a drowning boy—it had brought him face to face with the complexities of duty and honor.
Aeron struggled to consciousness amidst the clamour of concerned Bracken men, their voices blending into a cacophony of urgency and confusion. Each word struck him like a blow, pulling him back from the abyss where the river had threatened to take him.
“Aeron!” Their faces echoed with worry and suspicion.
His mind reeled in. The encounter earlier had flashed vividly in his memory— the silhouette of a strong figure, glimpsed briefly through the steam rising from the morning bath. Their eyes had met, if only for a fleeting moment, before the world plunged into darkness.
As his senses slowly returned, Aeron became aware of his surroundings—the damp earth beneath him, the pungent scent of wet foliage, and the distant murmur of the river. The Bracken men hovered around him, their expressions a blend of relief and concern, their words a jumble of questions and reassurances.
One of the lanky pages stepped forward, his brow furrowed with worry. "What happened?”
Aeron hoisted himself up on his elbows, the afternoon sun masking the flush of shame that threatened to betray him. The riverbanks, swollen and treacherous after the night’s rain, had crumbled beneath his feet, sending him sprawling into the muck. Too proud, or perhaps too fearful, to confess to such a feeble lapse, he swallowed and murmured, “I do not know.”
The young men exchanged wary glances, their eyes flickering with confusion. Though questions danced on their lips, they did not press further.
“We found your horse west of the bank,” called out Jory, one of the younger pages, the reins coiled tightly in his grip. “Can you ride back? We ought to fetch Maester Beren; he’ll want to see to you.”
“I’m fine,” Aeron coughed out, raising a trembling hand to silence their concern.
With rough but steady hands, they hauled him to his feet, sodden and shivering. “Easy,” Gavyn said. He was a sturdy lad with a mop of unruly brown hair. “You’ve had a brush with the cold.”
They lifted the young lord atop his saddle, making sure he was able to balance himself and keep steady with the reins. Out of breath, he simply nodded whenever they pestered him with questions, if he was fit enough to keep going, fit enough to hold on. They set off at a brisk pace, the hooves of their mounts drumming a steady rhythm on the leaf-strewn path. The young lord did his best to sit tall in his saddle, though he swayed slightly with each step of his horse, a sheen of sweat glistening on his pale and drawn brow.
The forest gradually thinned, giving way to the wide plains of golden wheat and barley that marked the outskirts of Stone Hedge. The fields of land sprawled endlessly before they reached the town ahead, a brown knot of timber-framed houses and thatched roofs. They rode through the wooden arches, past stables where horses whinnied and stamped their feet, sensing the unease in the air. The cluster of stone towers loomed ahead in the distance, a formidable silhouette against the darkening sky. Atop the tallest keep, the Bracken banner rippled in the breeze, the crimson and gold stark against the grey stone. When they drew nearer, the heavy gates swung wide, and a group of guards spilled forth to meet them.
As they dismounted their steeds, two men moved to help the young lord from his saddle. He huffed as his feet touched the ground, the drenched leather of his boots swished as he walked, but he managed to stand on his own, his jaw set with determination.
They escorted him through the castle gates, past the bailey where men-at-arms drilled under the watchful eyes of Ser Osric, Stone Hedge’s master-at-arms. With each strike at the straw dummies, clusters of hay flew into the air, their forms pummelled by the relentless blows.
Aeron made his way into the great hall through the studded oak doors, the walls were adorned with the trophies of past hunts and the heraldry of House Bracken, rows of tapestries hung along in their faded colors, murmuring tales of great battles and hunts. A fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone floor, their flames sputtering in the draft that seeped through the cracks in the old masonry.
Lord Amos Bracken rose from his seat, his sharp eyes taking in the young lord's condition. "You look half-dead, boy,” he said, not unkindly.
“Uncle,” Aeron stammered.
“Fetch some wine,” Amos commanded, his voice cutting through the air with authority. One of the servants, a young woman with a clean linen shift, briefly curtseyed before scurrying through the stone archway to the kitchens.
“Now,” Amos began, his arm draped casually around Aeron’s shoulder whom he shook lightly. “Pray tell—” His words halted abruptly as he withdrew his arm, noticing a dampness spreading across his sleeve. “What in the seven hells happened to you?” Amos’ concerned voice boomed through the hall.
Before Aeron could gather his words, his cousin strolled out from the archway into the vast expanse of cold stone. He drifted past the long oaken tables that flickered with the sullen orange light of the torches, a wry grin on his face. “Took a swim, did you?" Edric quipped, his tone playful yet tinged with a hint of skepticism. He was Lord Amos Bracken's second son.
"Warm yourself by the fire, have some wine, and shed those damp clothes before you turn my halls into a bog," Amos chided as he made his way out the hall.
Aeron nodded gratefully, allowing himself to be led to a chair near the hearth. He sank into it with a weary sigh, the heat from the fire seeping into his bones.
The servant hurried over with a flagon, pouring wine into the chalice Edric had handed him, the rich aroma of grapes filling the air. He sat opposite Aeron, leaning forward with a glint of curiosity in his eyes illuminated by the fire's flickering light. "You look like you've had quite the day,” he said, swirling the wine in his cup.
After a lingering moment of silent exchange, they both chuckled softly, the sound faintly echoing in the quiet of the hall. Aeron's laugh was weary, a breathy exhale of spent energy. He raised the chalice to his lips, taking a sip before leaning his head back against the chair. Grateful for the brief respite, Aeron savored the calm before retreating to the solitude of his chambers, securely tucked beneath the comforting drapes of his bed.
In the shadowed hours that followed, he could not shake the events that had just transpired. If it was the coursing water engulfing him into the depths or if it was that mysterious young man who had helped him out. Surely it was the bathing figure. Even though his world had plunged into a great darkness, he could hear the coursing river, the young man's huffs muffled with droplets of water, his breath against his cheeks…the way he had muttered his family’s name, laced in such disdain. It had confirmed his suspicions— a Blackwood. A Blackwood had saved him. He could repeat that fact over and over to himself and still not believe it to be as such. And so, he closed his eyes, where a cascade of lights erupted behind his eyelids. The lights traces the silhouette of a man, and the figure wavered, as if drawn from the depths of his memory.
