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Harrenhall had a soul, Lord Benjicot Blackwood of Raventree Hall—or Bloody Ben, like his men called him—thought grimly, one that was stoic and sober as if patience was easy for its ancient pillars of rock.
But then, the impregnable fortress built by Harren the Black ages ago had seen its fair share of loss and tragedy; it was no wonder everyone thought it was cursed. Those who had simply owned the castle without ever occupying it had experienced fates just as horrific as those who had fruitlessly attempted to rule over it.
His father, the late Lord Samwell Blackwood, used to say that it displayed the hollowness of victory and he agreed wholeheartedly.
Now that the Dance of the Dragons was over and the Targaryens—and most of their dragons, were reduced to ashes and melted bones, he hoped that they would enjoy a few years of peace.
House Blackwood had done well by supporting Queen Rhaneyra’s claim to the throne. The same couldn’t be said for their mortal foes; the Brackens.
“I can see their banners,” Ser Oscar Tully muttered under his breath. Benjicot looked at his brother in arms and smirked. He was eager to hear what price the traitors had to pay to gain King Aegon III trust.
Lord Kermit Tully of Riverrun cleared his throat, “Behave, Lads,” and offered an indifferent profile from which one glinting eye regarded them with blatant amusement.
During the Battle of the Kingsroad, Benjicot led the army with his liege; Lord Kermit and his cousin Oscar. Together, they broke the flank of Lord Borros Baratheon allowing his aunt Lady Alysanne to bring down the green knights. It was the night the three forged a strong bond.
“I’ll try my best, my Liege,” he said in mock politeness. “But I cannot give you my word not to show a red stallion or two their rightful places. No Bracken is safe here.”
“No one was ever safe in the walls of Harrenhall,” Lord Kermit sighed. “Not even Daemon Targaryen could manage to tame the wild spirits taking residence here.”
“True,” Ser Oscar studied the walls warily.
The windows beckoned light inside but they failed to lift the gloom and mystery the ancient building imposed. Instead, the light added a growing sense of an approaching doom. Benjicot fought the chill that ran down his back and pretended he wasn’t anxious to return to Raventree Hall so he could train his man and expand his army.
The flock of ravens on the scarlet surrounding a dead Weirwood blazoning his arms, felt heavy and comforting at once. It didn’t matter that House Blackwood’s coat of arms reminded him daily of the Brackens’ treachery.
The bastards had poisoned the sacred Weirwood of Raventree Hall in a petty attempt to usurp their lands, but what their foolish neighbours failed to understand was that a Weirwood was meant to live forever.
The Ichor of the Old Gods ran through every Weirwood’s old roots and made sure that every arrow made from the sacred tree went further and always hit its target. Preferably, a Bracken’s neck or black heart.
“I know that face,” Oscar snorted. “You will shed no Bracken blood today. We are here for peace.”
Benjicot suppressed a smirk from his face. “I can always kill them later. As it happens, there’s too much of them, it’s the most ghastly crime their forefather committed when he laid with a wench. I can already smell the horse stench.”
Benjicot thought that, despite how Humfrey Bracken joined the blacks in support of King Aegon III, the realm would never forget them serving the greens like the dogs they were for years.
Blackwoods recognized a winner when they saw one, and Queen Rhaneyra’s claim to the Iron Throne was indomitable and absolute.
Anticipation filled his chest at the thought of what punishment Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell would give them.
He hadn't realized until that instant just how much he looked forward to seeing their faces when they found out that their feeble attempt to clean up the mess they made did not work.
The North never forgets, and Lord Stark was here to administer justice. Benjicot knew that he summoned them to Harrenhal instead of the Red Keep to remind them of the vow they swore to King Jaehaerys.
Two bannermen announced the arrival of Humfrey and his delegation. They stared at him with repugnance etched into their faces, and his grin widened. They deserved to be shot by his arrows. Every single one of them. He could make it happen neatly. All he needed was a chance.
Humphrey—coward that he was—looked away when Lord Kermit gave him a stern look.
Every shoulder in the hall straightened as Lord Stark glided in a swoosh of black and grey. His stormy eyes were lethal, reminding him of the legends they heard about the Direwolves of Winterfell.
He moved like a dangerous predator. His shoulders were thrown back, his gait one of deadly precision. His sharp gaze swept the men with a steely glint that made several of them gulp audibly.
Luckily for him, he wasn’t easily intimidated.
Everyone stepped back, allowing Lord Stark to approach the centre of the group. An aura of ancient power clung to him.
“We are gathered here because the war is over...” His voice trailed off as he looked at Humfrey pointedly. “I was sent by our King to put an end to your old and bitter dispute. This is a time to rebuild, a time to tend to the wounded and bury the dead. The last thing we need now is a generations-long feud that might eventually wipe out all participants. Both of you are Rivermen, proud sons and daughters of the First Men.”
“The Brackens are descended of horses,” one of Benjicot’s soldiers snickered and was skewered by one of Lord Stark’s icy glares.
“Our king is gracious and keen,” Lord Cregan declared. “As such, we came with a most effective way to end the bad blood between you. What do you say, Lord Tully?”
“I say, I cannot wait to hear the rest, Lord Stark,” Lord Kermit agreed smoothly. “All my Vassals shall abide by our King’s words. By all means, let’s end this war.”
“Well said, Lord Tully,” Lord Stark’s usually grave expression flickered momentarily when their eyes met and dread filled his veins.
Benjicot strove for a calm expression, but he knew that he wasn’t going to like Stark’s next words.
“Only one worthwhile solution had kept swords in their scabbards and arrows in their quivers for centuries.”
Lord Kermit seemed absorbed in Stark’s words, Oscar sniffled and Benjicot carefully hid his anguish.
He looked at his aunt, seeking help, and almost embarrassed himself with a splutter when he caught on the way she was looking at the Wolf at the North. Alysanne Blackwood never deemed a man worthy of a second look. Ever.
“Marriage,” Lord Stark pronounced the vilest word. “Your descendants will rule over Raventree Hall and have strong ties with Stone Hedge. The Raven shall fly higher, and the stallions shall breed stronger foals.”
Benjicot stared at Humfrey incredulously. The bastard had no sisters he knew of. Surely, the Brackens liked to keep their secrets close to their chests, but many of his spies had infiltrated their land. Surely…
He struggled to keep his head level when Stark looked at him. “Lord Blackwood. Your feats with a sword have travelled the Seven Seas, but I assure you, marriage is a quite enjoyable game. You shouldn’t have any trouble learning the rules.”
“Is there something you specifically want to tell me, Lord Stark?” he asked in a calm voice he didn’t feel.
“I’m suggesting that there is no reason at all why you shouldn’t meet Lord Bracken’s enchanting sister and maybe discuss further plans.” The treacherous wolf’s smile was colder than winter’s snow.
“Sister?” he frowned. “I know of no Lady Bracken.”
“That is because, unlike the rest of us, my sister was raised in Essos with our Dothraki allies. My father wanted her to learn the art of breeding stallions from masters.” Humfrey regarded him with an unreadable expression. It must pain him to sign a peace treaty with the Blackwoods. “Make no mistake, though. She’s a Bracken through and through.”
The crowd parted forthwith, giving passage to…
By the Old Gods, the woman was a vision.
She had a long mane of curling black hair with several braids at her temples. The fire in her iridescent green eyes flooded his sense and made his fingers itch to aim an arrow at her heart.
Boldly, he let his dark gaze travel the length of her armoured body slowly. She was tall and lean, with a combative posture that made him guess she knew how to use the Weirwood arrows at her back.
She had the gall to appear at their twice cursed betrothal party with Weirwood arrows? The nerve of the woman.
She gave him the most enigmatic smirk and tipped her chin higher when he approached her, his blood boiling with anger and….rampant desire.
He did not doubt that she was the wildest creature the Brackens had ever bred and, by the Old Gods, he would tame her.
“Lady Bracken,’’ the name tasted like poison on his mouth.
“Please call me Larissa,” she offered him her hand and he noticed the strange mark crafted in the shape of a triangle with a circle within and a vertical line on her wrist.
Was she following a new religion? Was it a Dothraki Mark? “I shall call you Bloody Ben,” she added under her breath. “I find it fitting, considering I’ll make you drown in your blood if you as much as try to touch me.”
His heart lurched at her words, and his skin tingled when he touched her pale hand. He darted a look at Lord stark, then offered her his widest grin. “I’d like to contradict you. You are my war prize, Larissa, and I’ll do more than touch you. I’ll tame the Bracken mare.”
Instead of being slighted or scandalized by his brazen words, her plump lips curled back from her lips and her eyes gleamed with mischief. “You’d be surprised to learn how many fools had claimed they could win against me through my lives. As long as Death is my closed ally, you have no chance, my Lord. You want to try, go ahead. I dare you.”
It was a common truth that if you wanted to provoke a Blackwood, all you had to do was to throw a dare. By the Gods, Benjicot had been looking for a matching heat to meet the fire raging within him.
Her ominous words sounded like pelting rain against his lonely soul. He did not get the whole meaning of what she said, but he heard enough.
“I shall accept my King’s verdict and do as he asked,” he nodded to Lord Stark, ignoring the way Humfrey’s eyes narrowed. “I will take Larissa Bracken as my wife and the Lady of Raventree Hall.”
When she cocked a brow up, he took the opportunity to hold her and clap her slightly in his arms. He pretended he didn’t see the smirk on Lord Tully’s face or Ser Oscar’s astonished gasp.
Several of his men watched her surreptitiously, and he couldn’t blame them.
Taking her to Raventree Hall was like setting wildfire to the sacred Weirwood, but he couldn’t deny the assault on his senses.
He’d been looking for an anchor from all the responsibilities he had to carry since he was eleven, and he found it in her glittering eyes. He recognized the primal power in her, felt exultance and anticipation, and couldn’t help but rise to the challenge.