Prologue

It had all happened too fast. The black Honda came out of nowhere, and by the time William noticed, it was already too late to move. He tried to react, but his body felt frozen, helpless against the sudden blur of headlights. Now, he lay sprawled and bloodied on the side of the road, pain searing through his broken body as his consciousness flickered in and out. His thoughts, hazy and scattered, drifted helplessly to his mother. What would happen to her now? Who would look after her if he were gone?

He was her only child, her entire world, and they had leaned on each other through every hardship. Their bond was unbreakable, forged by years of shared struggles and quiet victories. Sure, they'd had their arguments—like all families do—but those disagreements never lasted. William loved her deeply, and each small moment of love and understanding had healed any rift between them. But now, how would she survive, knowing that her only son had died—or was on the brink of death? She was a single mother, scraping by on small part-time jobs that barely covered the rent, utilities, and the constant stream of bills that life threw her way.

These were the thoughts that weighed heavily on William's mind as he lay bleeding on the cold, unyielding pavement. What about him? He wasn't perfect, but he'd always tried to be a good person, a source of pride for her. Most would have called him the "ideal son." He was a regular British graduate student, tall from years of playing football, with an easygoing smile and a genuine curiosity for science and history. Not a prodigy by any means, but smart and determined enough to earn a place in a master's program, hoping to build a future for himself—and, someday, to give back to his mother, who had sacrificed so much for him.

Now, all of it seemed so fragile. Everything he'd dreamed of, everything he'd worked so hard to achieve, slipped away like water through his fingers as he lay there, helpless, alone, and afraid.

"Please… God, anyone—if you're out there, help me," he whispered, his voice barely audible, a tremor of desperation. "I don't care who you are. Just please, don't let me die. I can't leave my mother alone. Not like this… please, someone… help."

His words faded into the empty night, a final, frantic plea cast out into the silence. But no answer came. Only a vast, quiet stillness surrounded him, as the cold, unyielding darkness crept in, wrapping around his thoughts, and consuming him entirely until there was nothing left but an overwhelming quiet.

And just like that, the story of William—a seemingly ordinary young man—came to a close… or so it seemed. Was this truly the end, or was there more to his tale, waiting just beyond the edge of the darkness, hidden in the shadows?

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RAVENTREE HALL 

Early 1,400 B.AC

In the ancient seat of House Blackwood, the castle echoed with the anguished screams of a young woman. She wailed within a damp, shadowed chamber adorned with carvings of ravens and weirwood trees, their pale faces seeming to watch silently. In that foreboding room, beneath the weight of ancestral history, a king unlike any other in the annals of Westeros was destined to be born.

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"AUUUUUUUI! OOOOOOOOOOH!" Alys wailed in agony, her cries echoing through the dimly lit chamber.

She had never experienced pain like this before—it was unlike anything she had ever known. Alys had lived her life as a pampered princess, shielded from hardship by the protective embrace of her father and brother. Once known as Alys Mallister, she now bore the name Alys Blackwood, her identity reshaped by marriage.

As a princess of House Mallister, Alys had always understood her duty: to marry and continue the bloodline of whichever lord, prince, or king was fortunate enough to claim her hand. This expectation had been instilled in her from a young age, but she had dreaded the day it would become her reality.

She had grown up haunted by stories—grim tales of fair young maidens wed to fat, stinking, and detestable old men. These women, stripped of agency, were forced to bear heirs relentlessly, their lives reduced to the role of common broodmares. Shackled by duty and bereft of choice, they lived as little more than tools to secure dynastic power.

Alys had always known that her father, King Lymund, would never subject her to such suffering. She was his only daughter—his "little princess," as he affectionately called her. The memory of his loving nickname brought a brief warmth to her heart, a flicker of joy before another wave of pain tore through her.

"NNNNNNGGGGGGAH!" she exclaimed, her cry ringing out in the dimly lit room.

"Damn this belly," Alys thought, though not with malice or resentment. No, her frustration was tempered by warmth and a glimmer of hope—the kind only a mother could summon in such a moment. This was not her first time giving birth; it was her third. Yet the memories of her past pregnancies haunted her.

Her first had ended in a miscarriage, a pain she still carried in her heart. Her second had been even crueler, a daughter who had lived for just a single day before passing in her cradle. Twice she had failed to give her husband an heir, and twice she had endured the grief of loss.

Even so, the thought of her beloved Benjen brought a faint smile to her lips as she reflected on the past. When she had come of age, Alys had prayed fervently to the gods, pleading not to share the fate of the maidens in the stories—those condemned to loveless unions and lives of endless suffering. She had prayed so often and with such devotion that her father had once teased her, saying she might as well become a septa.

Alys had nearly attacked her father right then and there, held back only by the weight of the stress bearing down on her. Moons later, a letter arrived from Raventree Hall, the seat of House Blackwood—a peculiar house in her eyes. They were among the few remaining noble families in the south that still clung to the Old Gods.

She still remembered the first time she met Benjen. It was a few moons after the letter arrived when her father and King Willem Blackwood agreed that Benjen would spend some time at Seagard, allowing the two to get to know one another.

Rumors about the Blackwood prince had reached her ears before the meeting. People spoke of his fiery temper and prowess with a sword, but they whispered that he was good for little else—hence the nickname "Benjen the Fierce." The word "brute" had come to her mind unbidden. However, when she finally saw him, she found the rumors only partially true.

Their first meeting took place during breakfast at Seagard, the first time Alys laid eyes on him. Benjen was tall for his age, his lean frame hinting at developing strength. His raven-black hair and pale, almost ghostly skin were striking—traits she later learned were typical of House Blackwood.

During their time together, Alys had found herself falling more deeply in love with Benjen. She began to forgo her usual embroidery sessions to watch him spar with her brother, Jason—much to the amusement of her father and brother, who often teased her about it.

By then, Alys and Benjen had grown closer. They spent more and more time together, and it was during these moments that Alys came to realize the truth: her heart already belonged to this man. His fiery temper, his striking appearance, and his uncanny ability to charm and befriend nearly everyone he met fascinated her.

Then came the moment he declared his love for her. It was in the gardens, the place where they often met in private. There, Benjen confessed his feelings, and she, in turn, revealed her love for him.

When their betrothal was officially announced, Alys had nearly wept with joy. The thought of spending the rest of her life with her beloved Benjen filled her with happiness she could hardly contain.

Now, six years later, at three-and-twenty name days, she lay in bed, about to give birth to Benjen's first child.

Gods, by the Mother, please answer my prayers. Let this child live. Please, let my child live... please, she begged silently, her thoughts a desperate mantra as another wave of searing pain overtook her.

"AAAAAAGGGHHH! NN-GGH!" Alys screamed, her voice raw with pain.

"I can see the head, Princess—just a little more!" Tanya, one of the nursemaids attending to her, said encouragingly.

"That's it! Push! Push! Push!" Lilia, another nursemaid urged, her tone firm yet reassuring.

"Just a little more, m'lady. You're doing well," said Cyrwin, the Maester of House Blackwood. He carefully supported the newborn's head and neck as Alys, her breath unsteady, prepared for the final push. Summoning all her remaining strength, she bore down with everything she had.

"NNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!" Alys screamed, the agony tearing through her body as she gave one last desperate push. 

Alys suddenly felt a hollow emptiness before slumping back onto the bed, exhaustion washing over her as she breathed heavily.

"Waah! Waah! Waah!"

The sound of tiny cries reached her ears, stirring her from her haze. Instinctively, she raised her head and looked down to see Maester Cyrwin cradling the wailing baby in his arms.

"Congratulations, m'lady—it's a boy," Cyrwin said with a gentle smile.

Alys smiled weakly, utterly spent. A boy, a boy? she thought in disbelief. She had finally fulfilled her duty. She had given birth to a child—a son, no less. The thought brought a flicker of joy to her weary face.

"Bring him to me, Cyrwin," Alys said softly."

Of course, m'lady," Cyrwin replied, his tone calm and steady. With practiced precision, he deftly severed the umbilical cord and carefully swaddled the newborn in a soft blanket. Once the baby was securely wrapped and sleeping peacefully, he gently placed the infant in her arms.

My son. My beautiful baby. Took you long enough to arrive, she thought with warmth, gazing at her newborn. She lost herself in the moment, her heart swelling with love.

Suddenly, with a loud BANG, the doors flew open.

"Alys! Alys, are you okay?!" A young man in his early twenties had arrived. Benjen, her husband cried as he burst into the room. Benjen rushed to her side, his face etched with worry. 

"How are you? Do you feel any discomfort? I'll ask Cyrwin to prepare some milk of the poppy," Benjen said, his face full of worry.

"I am fine, husband, but I think you may have startled our son," Alys replied tiredly. Her voice was soft, but the warmth in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

Benjen's brow furrowed in confusion. "Our son?" he asked, his tone uncertain. He looked down and noticed the tiny babe cradled in Alys's arms, swaddled snugly in blankets. Silence hung in the air for a few seconds before Benjen erupted with joy.

"Our son? Our son!!" he roared in delight.

"Hahaha, a son! I have a son!" Benjen exclaimed, nearly laughing with glee.

Alys smiled warmly at his enthusiasm, though a faint hint of irritation crossed her face. Just as she began to speak, a sharp SMACK! broke the moment.

Benjen winced, now crouched and clutching his head. Standing over him was King Willem Blackwood, his father, glaring down with a mixture of exasperation and authority.

"COULD YOU SCREAM ANY LOUDER? YOUR WIFE HAS JUST GIVEN BIRTH, YOU STUPID TWAT, AND HERE YOU ARE JUMPING AROUND LIKE SOME KIND OF ANIMAL!" the old king bellowed, his commanding voice making Alys flinch slightly.

"NOW, EITHER YOU STOP ACTING LIKE A CHILD OR I WILL THROW YOU OUT!"

Benjen released his head and looked up at his father, his expression a mixture of sheepishness and defiance. "But I was just happy, Father. You should also be happy too!" he replied, his grin undeterred by the scolding.

Although annoyed, Willem answered with a small smile. "Of course I'm happy—my first grandson has just been born."

"In fact, where is he? Where is my grandson?" he asked eagerly.

"Here, Your Grace," Alys replied, carefully handing the babe to him.

"Ah, what a fine child indeed. I see greatness in him," Willem said, his voice brimming with warmth. "Have you two decided on a name yet?"

Before Alys could respond, Benjen stepped forward, now standing beside his father. His gaze was fixed on his son as he spoke.

"Yes, Father. If it had been a girl, we would have named her Arya. But since it's a boy, we've decided to name him Daveth."

"Good, good. Daveth Blackwood—a name fit for a king," Willem replied warmly, his pride evident.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. All three of them—Willem, Benjen, and Alys—stood quietly, their eyes fixed on the child sleeping peacefully in his grandfather's arms.

That tranquility was soon broken by a booming, cheerful voice.

"Hahaha! Brother, good sister, and Father, where is my nephew?"

The King's second son, Tytos, strode into the room, his voice brimming with excitement. Everyone turned to see the young man, still in his late teens, standing before Willem with a broad grin.

Before anyone could answer, the baby's loud wails suddenly pierced the air.

"WAAH! WAAH! WAAH!"

Willem's face darkened with frustration as he returned the crying child to Alys. Meanwhile, Benjen exchanged a knowing glance with his wife, both suppressing a smile at the commotion.

In an instant, Willem's angry voice rose above all else, accompanied by Tytos's desperate wails.

"OUCH! OUCH! FATHER, PLEASE STOP! MERCY, FATHER, MERCY!" Tytos cried out, his tone filled with panic.

Willem, undeterred, bellowed in response, "YOU INSOLENT BRAT! HOW DARE YOU MARCH IN HERE SCREAMING, DISTURBING BOTH YOUR GOOD SISTER AND YOUR NEPHEW!" With that Willem pinched Tytos's ear even harder.

The scolding echoed through the room, causing both Alys and Benjen to stifle their laughter. Despite their attempts to stay composed, a small chuckle escaped them as they exchanged amused glances.

What none of them seemed to notice was the raven perched just outside the window, its unblinking gaze fixed on the scene within, silently watching.