The makeshift ale hall at Riverrun was a long canvas thing that flapped in the chill night breeze, half-tent, half-stable. Smoke clung to the rafters, and the floor was churned earth slick with spilled beer, trodden straw, and gods-knew-what else. Men shouted, laughed, cursed, played at dice with eyes already half-glazed.
Morys Bracken sat alone at the end of a rough plank table, elbow propped, fingers wrapped around a half-empty cup.
He'd been told to stay out of it.
"Stay with the camp," his father had said. "You're not needed in there."
"They don't need boys who counted barrels," his brother Hendry had added with a smirk. "Stay and mind the horses, little Morys."
He hadn't minded the horses. He'd ridden with the supply train, guarded carts, seen dead men hanging from trees on the way to the Trident. He'd watched fighting, even put a spear through a rebel once when the line broke near the rear. But no one cared about that. No songs for boys who kept the bread dry and the arrows oiled.
So he drank.
He was staring into his cup when someone sat down across from him.
No clatter, no clearing of throat—just the quiet drag of a bench and a presence that hit like cold water.
Morys looked up.
The man wasn't big the way some knights were—but he filled the space. Dark hair tied back carelessly, grey eyes like wet stone, face thin and angular in the torchlight. Not handsome in a singing way, but there was something carved and dangerous about him, like a knife left point-up on a table.
Black doublet. Subtle red stitching. No sigil showing—but Morys knew him anyway.
Everyone who paid attention did.
"Cade Blackwood," Morys said before he could stop himself.
The man's eyes flicked over him, quick and assessing. "Morys Bracken."
It wasn't a question.
Morys blinked. "You… know me?"
"I make it a habit to know the youngest sons," Cade said, reaching for the jug and refilling Morys' cup without asking. His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was no softness in it. "They're always the ones left out of rooms like the one we were just in."
Morys flushed, shoulders stiffening. "I wasn't left out. I—"
"Yes," Cade said mildly. "You were."
Morys narrowed his eyes. "And what are you doing here? Thought Blackwoods sat under their damned tree and glared at the rest of us."
"Resting," Cade said. "And seeing who else was smart enough to be angry."
Morys snorted despite himself. "You call this smart?" He lifted his cup and took a long swallow. "Feels more like sulking."
Cade tilted his head, studying him. "Sulk, then. Better than pretending you enjoyed being told you're all fools and cowards to your face."
"That part wasn't wrong," Morys muttered.
A passing serving girl dropped another jug on the table and moved on. In the corner, a pair of Piper men were singing badly about some girl with seven brothers and no sense. Dice rattled near the entrance. Somewhere behind them, a man retched noisily into a bucket and got laughed at for his trouble.
Morys drummed his fingers on the table. "So. Blackwood. What do you want with a Bracken?"
Cade's mouth curled—barely. "A drink."
Morys scoffed. "You've got thirty of your own men to drink with. Why here?"
"Because they already know what I am," Cade said. "You don't."
There was something about the way he said it that made the hairs on the back of Morys' neck rise.
He covered it with a grin. "I know what the songs say."
"There are no songs," Cade said. "Not yet."
"No songs," Morys agreed, "but there's talk. They say you were at the Bells. At the Trident. With a unit. That you… handled some things."
Cade held his gaze, unblinking. "Do they now."
Morys swallowed. This was stupid. Sitting with a Blackwood. Drinking with him. Talking. If his father saw—
Fuck him.
"Were you?" Morys asked. "At the Bells?"
Cade leaned back, one arm resting on the bench beside him. "I was."
Morys waited. Cade didn't rush.
"How bad was it?" Morys prompted.
Cade's eyes drifted past him, as if the tent canvas had turned to mist and he could see straight back through time.
"Bad," he said. "Good. Depends how you count."
Morys frowned. "That doesn't—"
"You were in the supply line," Cade said. "You saw the outskirts of it. Bodies on the road. Cart tracks through blood. Men with no faces."
Morys' mouth went dry. "How—"
"Men talk," Cade said. "You listen long enough, you learn who did what, where. You were there when our vanguard pushed the loyalists back into the town, yes?"
Morys nodded slowly. He remembered the sound most. Bells tolling, men screaming, the ring of steel in narrow streets. He'd held a spear and tried not to show his hand shaking even though they'd kept him to the side, guarding wagons while knights went forward.
Cade's voice dropped, more to himself now.
"Streets so tight the horses panicked," he said. "Bells ringing so loud half the men couldn't hear commands. Tully wanted a push. Stark wanted precision. Robert wanted blood. And the loyalists wanted to vanish into the walls."
"What did you want?" Morys asked before he could stop the question.
Cade's gaze flicked back to him. "Results."
He poured himself a little ale and took a sip, as if tasting a memory.
"We went in from the side streets," he said. "Thirty men. All my men from Blackwood lands. No banners. No horns. Just rope and torches and a lot of patience."
Morys leaned forward despite himself. This was better than the drunk tales in the corner, better than the half-true boasting he'd heard from hedge knights all week.
"We found an alehouse near the square," Cade went on. "Big enough to hide fifty men in the cellar. We knew someone would try it. So we let them."
"You… let them?" Morys echoed.
Cade nodded. "Closed off the side alley. Knocked out the back door guard without killing him. Left the front wide open. Our men pretended to be drunk, turned away, terrified, same as any other Riverlands boy who'd seen a charging line. Loyalists poured in. Targaryen men, Crownlanders, some Kingsguard squires. Thought they'd found a moment of shelter."
He smiled then. It wasn't pleasant.
"We barred the doors behind them. Piled wet wood at the openings. Lit it."
Morys swallowed hard. "You burned them alive?"
"Mostly," Cade said. "Smoke's quicker than fire when a room's packed tight. Men choke. Claw. Trample each other. By the time we kicked the door back in, it was just a heap of bodies and one knight trying to crawl toward the window with his eyes half-melted."
Morys stared.
Cade shrugged. "Better than losing fifteen good men charging a narrow doorway with spears waiting."
"That's…" Morys searched for the word. "Cold."
"Efficient," Cade corrected. "And kind, compared to the Trident."
Morys sank back a little. His heart was beating faster. His skin buzzed with ale and horror and a kind of reluctant admiration.
"You were at the ford?" he asked. "Where—you know—"
"Where the stag and the dragon danced," Cade said. "Yes."
He took another drink, slow.
"There was a Kingsguard there," he went on. "You know his name."
Morys did. Everyone did. "Ser Jonothor Darry."
"Aye." Cade's tone didn't change. "Good knight. Better than most."
Morys licked his lips. "They say you killed him."
Cade's eyes finally sharpened, like a blade being honed on stone. "Me and my men. Thirty against one. All fair, in the way war is."
"How?" Morys heard himself ask.
Images flickered behind Cade's eyes: the roar of the river, the churn of mud, the metallic stink of cut flesh. A white cloak stained red, a man on one knee refusing to fall.
"We cut him down," Cade said. "Same as the others. Only slower."
Morys' fingers tightened on his cup. "Slower?"
"He was good," Cade said calmly. "And stubborn. wounded four of mine. gave one one of my men a deep scar all across his back, so 11 jumped him at once but the bastard still kept swinging but he was tiring himself out. We had 30 men waiting for an opening and Eli, my best sword kept picking at his calves and it was over from there. Kingsguard are the deadliest swordsmen but anyone up against 30 men will lose" We couldn't just let him ride through our archers and smash into Mallister's flank. So we broke him."
He traced an invisible line on the table.
"Took the calves first. Hobbled it. Then the tendons above his ankles. Then his sword hand. We asked him to yield. He refused."
Morys' stomach twisted. "So you—"
"We gave the men something to remember," Cade said. "A Kingsguard screaming in the mud while the river washed the blood off his armor. They needed to see that white cloaks tear like any other cloth."
"You mutilated him," Morys said, voice low.
"Yes."
Morys expected a flinch. A hint of guilt. There was none.
He realized then that Cade wasn't bragging. He wasn't boasting. He was stating facts, like a maester reciting a harvest tally.
"You respect him?" Morys asked.
Cade nodded once. "He kept his oath. Fought to the end for a lost cause. Bold. Stupid. Consistent. I respect consistency."
"And when he begged?" Morys said hoarsely.
Cade's lips twitched. "Everyone begs in the end. That's not the part that matters."
The torchlight made his eyes look almost silver.
Morys let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "They cheer you for that, you know. Some of the men. They say the sight of that white cloak torn up gave them the courage to push harder."
"Good," Cade said. "Then the butchery was worth something."
Morys huffed a laugh despite the chill in his gut. "You're fucked in the head, you know that?"
"So I've been told," Cade replied.
They drank.
The ale loosened Morys' tongue, and once it loosened it didn't stop. He told Cade about the supply lines—the endless trudging, the fear of being ambushed in some nameless copse, the quiet terror of hearing battle from a distance and not being allowed to join. He described the one time he had been allowed forward, at the Trident's edge, when a knot of loyalists had broken and run right toward the wagons.
"I stabbed a man in the back," Morys said, staring at the stained wood. "I always thought I'd face someone, you know? Look him in the eye. But he was running. Didn't even see me. I put the spear through him and he just—" he snapped his fingers "—folded."
Cade watched him, unreadable. "You kept the line from breaking. That matters more than some story about honor."
Morys let out a bitter laugh. "Tell that to my father. I came home with all my limbs and suddenly I'm half a man in his eyes because I wasn't in the first ranks with a fucking banner."
"Fathers are idiots," Cade said.
"Yours too?" Morys asked.
Cade's mouth curved—too sharp to be called a smile. "Mine's dead. So he's stopped being a problem."
Morys blinked. "You don't miss him?"
"No," Cade said.
Something about the way he said it made Morys decide not to ask further.
The talk drifted, as it usually did among young men who'd seen too much too early. From war to wounds, from wounds to scars, from scars to women who'd kissed them or refused to. Morys found himself laughing more than he had in months—at Henry Smoke pissing on a Lannister banner by mistake, at Eli Rivers nearly getting torn apart by dogs and winning them over with sausage, at Cade's dry commentary on half-competent hedge knights who thought shouting louder made them braver.
At some point, two women drifted close from the corner where the camp-followers lingered—patched dresses, kohl-smudged eyes, the easy sway of hips that knew how to attract attention and how to avoid the wrong kind of it.
"Lord Blackwood," one of them said, recognizing Cade with a little curtsy that was half-mocking, half-respectful. She had dark hair and a bold mouth. "Haven't seen you in our corner yet."
"Busy," Cade said. His eyes flicked to Morys. "Tonight, I'm entertaining a friend."
Morys snorted. "Friend?"
"Drinking partner, then," Cade amended.
The other girl, red-haired and freckled, tilted her head at Morys. "Bracken colors," she said. "You lot always drink like you're trying to forget your own horses."
"Sometimes we are," Morys said.
She laughed and slid onto the bench beside him, shoulder brushing his. The dark-haired one moved closer to Cade, though he hadn't exactly invited her. He didn't move away either.
Cade reached into his belt and took out a small pouch. The sound of coin was soft but unmistakable when he set it on the table.
"For your time," he said, looking at both women. Then, more quietly, to Morys: "You look like you could use a night where the only screaming you hear is for the right reasons."
The redhead's hand slid down Morys' forearm, fingers calloused but confident. "You want to forget the war for a while, my lord?"
He swallowed. "Can't promise I'll remember much after."
"That's the point," she said.
The dark-haired girl leaned in close to Cade, breath warm at his jaw. "And you, m'lord? You here to forget, or to watch?"
Cade's gaze held hers, steady. "I don't forget," he said. "But I don't mind being… distracted by you beautiful."
They left the table for one of the smaller partitioned spaces along the back of the tent—a curtain, a narrow bed, a space that smelled of sweat and perfume and something like lavender trying to smother everything else.
Morys moved clumsily at first, all limbs and nerves, but the redhead laughed softly against his throat, guiding his hands, soothing his edges. Kisses grew hungrier, touches more confident, the world narrowing to heat and breath and the sharp relief of not thinking for once.
Beside them, through the thin curtain, he caught glimpses—Cade's low voice, a stifled moan, the dark-haired girl's breathless laugh turning into something more desperate. Cade was quieter even in pleasure, it seemed—controlled, but not detached. Morys heard the way the woman said his name once, half-worship, half-curse, Morys felt his whore put her hands down his pants and grab his cock and didn't pay attention to anything else but her.
Time blurred.
When it was over, Morys lay on his back, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. The redhead traced idle circles on his shoulder, humming tunelessly.
"You're not bad for a boy who looks like he thinks too much," she said.
"I don't think enough," Morys murmured.
Cade emerged from the neighboring stall before long, shirt half-tied, hair a little looser, expression almost exactly the same as when he'd walked in. The dark-haired girl leaned in the doorway behind him, lips swollen, eyes satisfied.
"You two stay the night if you like," she said. "Or drink yourself stupid and pretend it didn't happen. Your choice."
Cade handed her another coin, fingers brushing her wrist briefly. "For being convincing," he said.
Then he looked at Morys.
"Can you stand?"
Morys pushed himself upright, legs a little shaky, but pride forcing him steady. "Of course."
They stepped back into the cooler air near the tent's flap. Noise rushed in—laughter, shouts, the clatter of mugs.
Morys ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. "That," he said, "was fucking incredible."
"Good," Cade said.
Morys glanced sideways at him. "You're a strange man, Blackwood."
"So I'm told," Cade replied.
"Why pay for me?" Morys asked, genuine confusion cutting through his post-pleasure haze. "You don't owe me anything."
Cade regarded him for a long moment. "Because you have a fire behind those eyes."
Morys blinked. "What?"
"You're angry," Cade said quietly. "Hungry. Sick of being told you're less because of where they put you in the lines. You pay attention. You asked the right questions."
He started to walk slowly, and Morys found himself matching his pace.
"This realm is changing," Cade went on. "Half the lords in that hall are clinging to the old ways. Feuds, grudges, stiff-necked honor that gets men killed for nothing. They will eat each other alive and drag us all down with them if we're not careful."
"So what are you going to do about it?" Morys asked, some part of him both wary and enthralled.
Cade's mouth curled, that not-smile again. "I'll make sure i'm the one who is doing the eating and not get eaten."
Morys swallowed. "What should I do, I'm the youngest of three and my oldest brother Hendry already has a son.?"
"If you're smart," Cade said, "you'll be at my table, it doesn't matter where you are in line, all that matters is how far are you willing to go to forget there was ever a line in the first place."
They stopped at the edge of the torchlight where their paths split—one way toward the Bracken camp, the other toward the Blackwood's elm-shadowed tents.
Morys hesitated. "You know my father would shit himself if he knew I just shared ale and whores with a Blackwood."
"Then don't tell him," Cade said.
Morys barked a laugh. "He won't even notice if I start talking like you"
"Start listening first," Cade said. "Then we'll worry about talking."
They stood there for a heartbeat.
Morys stuck out a hand. He didn't know why. Instinct, maybe.
Cade looked at it, then took it. His grip was firm, unhurried, utterly sure.
"Good night, Morys Bracken," he said.
"Good night, Cade Blackwood," Morys replied.
As he walked back toward his father's tents, the world felt slightly tilted. The old stories of Blackwood and Bracken seemed smaller. Petty. Almost childish.
He'd just drunk with the man who mutilated a Kingsguard and walked away without a scratch. A man who talked about chaos like it was a craft.
And for the first time in his life, Morys Bracken wondered if the stories of Bracken and Blackwood were just tales you tell children before bed.