The first of two timeskips until we get to the main story. We'll spend some chapters on this one though.

15 B.C

'What man would call himself a fool?'

Even years after his death, Ignotus Teague could still hear his brothers words - in clear defiance of their good mother - echoing in his mind. Then, feeling the fool had been easy to dismiss, easy to dismiss the words of his fathers' second wife to be the preaching of a dishonourably ambitious woman, attempting to set the fruits of her own loins as heirs to the lordship he was bound to inherit. The fool had been she to him - the boy of the time - and it took few words from those closest to him to help him remember.

Now, however, he had no family to tell him to not fret, to look forward and be strong. And he felt difficult to feel anything but stupid.

Ignotus had underestimated the cruelty of his liege, and the cruelty of the men that had come with him. And that mistake looked like it would cost him all that was left of his life.

"You couldn't have known, my lord," Percival had said, when they had stopped to water the horses, "No man could have."

Ignotus appreciated the effort from his friend, but truly, he should have. These ironborn roamed the Riverlands in droves, looting, stealing and raping as if they were not in the lands sworn to their king. They had learned that to their detriment when his brother was killed by these men whilst protecting a farmstead close to Seagard. There had been no justice then, no action from their supposed Iron King, who had also sworn to protect them as they had sworn to serve him.

Memories of that, memories of having to bury his brother headless floated heavy in his mind, and Ignotus found himself asking that if it was true, if it was as Lord Walder wrote it to be and Jeyne haad been brutalized by these men bearing the Kings own banner, would he have to accept the inevitable failure of justice, as his father had?

'Yes,' Seemed the clear answer. What else was there to do?

The sun was setting when Ignotus' procession reached Raventree Hall. They were greeted by the open gates of the castle tall, foreboding walls - the faces of the men atop its ramparts becoming more illuminated by the torches they bore than by the disappearing sun, giving them all an almost grim appearance. A sight that disheartened him greatly. A strange thing. He had never been one for superstition.

The courtyard was quiet but for the passing guards, and a man he spotted sitting on the steps to the castle. Ignotus recognized him to be Wendel, the castles steward, an ageing man that had been the steward for the lords of Blackwood since before he was even born. He was jovial, quick to smile and easy to grow fond of. But he could not bring himself to courteous to even him.

Ignotus was off his horse before it had stopped, and Wendel was standing before he had even dismounted.

"How does she fare?" Ignotus asked before anything else, not even taking a glance back to make sure the rest of his party was being looked after.

"The Maester Maric has been with her through the day," Wendel had been slow to answer, and even then, had not answered at all.

Ignotus near directed his turmoil towards him but managed to hold himself. He knew she was being looked after. Lord Walder Blackwood had told him as much when he wrote to him to come with all haste. He decided to hold his tongue as he was lead to her sickroom. It would no do lash out on a man he could call a friend. He would get his answers from the maester himself.

Wendel told a passing serving to alert Lord Blackwood of his arrival.

There was a man on her door, as if it would make a difference now. His mere presence almost worked as a mockery in his min, and he cursed him in his mind, and ignored him as he opened the door the room in reality.

The room stunk of blood and sweat like a battle had been fought in its very walls, and all that remained were the bodies. There were bodies, but all were alive - serving women stood near its edges, looking to floor in distaste or sadness, he could not tell. On the very floor they seemed adamant to set their gaze on were marks of blood, new and old, close to the featherbed where she lay, breathing heavy, tears streaming from her eyes. Despite that salted water that flowed from them, her lips were as dry as the deserts of Dorne.

Her lower half was exposed, and the stitches were as clear as the blood on the sheets, a sight he could scant swallow. The Maester was close to a table, working with vials and potions that Ignotus cared not to understand. The man turned to them when he heard the door.

"My lord," He greeted, his voice near grim.

Only then did Jeyne seem to notice that someone had even come into the room, and even then she was slow to turn, her voice coming of as a whisper when she spoke, "Egg?..."

Ignotus would have chastised her for that if the circumstances had been different, and his heart not in his stomach.

"Jeyne," He muttered when he drew to her bedside, gentle in passing their palms together for a moment.

She gave him a slow, tired smile, "I-I..." for a moment, it almost looked like she had forgotten what she had wanted to say, but then she continued, "I tried to-to... to fight them. I did..."

"I know you did," He returned her smile, "That doesn't matter anymore. Fight now, Jeyne."

Ignotus almost feared she had not heard him when she closed her eyes, but she nodded lazily and grew even laxer. His heart skipped.

"The milk, my lord. It makes her sleep," Maester Meric assured him, and only then did Ignotus notice that his hands were marred with blood.

Her blood.

"Will she..." He lost his voice, and cocked his head, recovering himself, "Will she die?"

"The cuts and wounds are deep, and blood she has lost plenty. Yet, I cannot say, my lord."

"Is it not your profession to know this?"

"I work within the skills given to me by the citadel. I've done all I can. Her fate is with the gods now."

"I was hoping it was with you, for the gods so do love punishing the innocent."

The ,maester gave him an almost apologetic smile, "To be true, Lord Teague, best we speak more outside the sickroom."

Ignotus nodded silently and held to the warmth of her hand while the Maester cleaned his hands as best he could on the bowl set on the table. His mind was here, with her on her sickbed, but... He could not stop it from wandering, from imagining what had transpired, and it was easy to see her fighting them, kicking them in balls and cutting their faces. But, it was just as easy to imagine her cries as they forced themselves on her, tearing at her dress as they clearly had from the stitches over her womanly parts.

Was he meant to dismiss such images, and swallow the attack on the honour of his house?

The Maester beckoned him out, and Ignotus was slow to follow, but follow he did.

Outside, standing patiently, was gaunt, dark-haired Lord Walder Blackwood, who was clad in plain silver mail beneath a surcoat bearing the Blackwood weirwood tree. He was going bald, and his skin was growing loose from age. He wore a deep frown, one he seemed to be fighting to keep from his face.

"Lord Blackwood," Ignotus greeted, doing his best to convey gratitude despite the circumstances, "You've done my house a great honour. One I intend to repay."

"Speak no more of it," He said to him, "This... Cruelty done to her. It's difficult to foresee it coming from the men a king surrounds himself with. Taking a lady of a noble house -"

Ignotus raised his hand, closing his eyes with a breath, and the Lord of Blackwood stopped.

"My apologies."

Ignotus nodded.

"She may yet live, my lord," Maric put in, "Take heart in that. By all accounts, she not have lived through the day. Yet she fights for life her... And, perhaps, the life she carries within her."

The words were difficult to make sense of. It should have brought him joy, and it would have if the times were different. But it only added to his concern, for now, he had to worry for Jeyne, and a babe he had not even met yet but was already protective of. This was a scar that Jeyne would carry, a tarnish to her name and his that would never be mended, even if she retained her life.

The non-existent justice of their raper of a king would not undo this at all. Ignotus could see the man, laughing on his rising monstrous castle, calling this an honour - telling him that she knew that hands of a man at long last.

"I'll take heart, Maester Maric," Ignotus spoke with barely contained rage, "When I see the head of our Iron King mounted on a pike."