Chapter 1: The Blood of the First Men
"In the blood of the First Men, fire and steel awaken, for even the smallest spark can ignite an inferno."
The great hall buzzed with low murmurs, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and the ever-present tang of iron from the distant forge fires. The suitor's tour had become a monotonous parade of faces, all vying for her favor, but today something broke through the endless stream of droning voices and polite, empty compliments.
A child.
Rhaenyra's gaze fell upon the gaunt, almost fragile figure of Willem Blackwood, standing before her with a resolve that belied his slight stature. His dark eyes gleamed with an intensity that seemed too fierce for his age, and his small, pale hands trembled slightly as he grasped the hilt of his sword. The steel glinted ominously in the dim light, the blade too large for the boy but clutched with a determination that made her breath catch.
Around her, the hall seemed to hold its collective breath. The rustle of fine fabrics and the faint clink of armor faded into a tense silence as Willem stepped forward, his gaze locked on Jerrel Bracken. The Bracken lordling—a man grown, broad-shouldered and sneering—lounged with an arrogance that set Rhaenyra's teeth on edge. His smirk deepened as he looked down at the boy, contempt radiating from him like the heat from a forge.
" The princess has a dragon, you dumb cunt. " Jerrel's voice dripped with condescension, his hand resting lazily on the pommel of his sword, as he remained Willem and pushed him to the floor.
Rhaenyra watched, her heart thudding in her chest, as Willem's jaw tightened. The boy said nothing—words, it seemed, were unnecessary. Instead, with a movement so sudden it made the closest guards flinch, Willem drew his sword. The sound of steel against leather was sharp, slicing through the tension in the hall.
Gasps echoed around the room as Willem charged, the blade flashing as he aimed a blow at Jerrel. For a moment, the world seemed to slow. each second dragging as Rhaenyra watched the clash of wills unfold before her. Jerrel's surprise was palpable, his confident smirk vanishing as he didn't manage to deflect the strike in time. The stillness as it sat fatefully in his stomach.
Rhaenyra's fingers tightened around the arm of her chair, and her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. She didn't care to admit it, but a part of her—perhaps the part that bore the fire of her lineage—wanted to see the blood. There was something undeniably thrilling about his defiance, about the way he refused to be dismissed as a mere child would.
A heartbeat later, Willem pulled the sword out and Jerred fell, his small frame moving with surprising speed and agility. The Kingsguards moved. White cloaks billowed as they intervened, their armored hands seizing Willem and pulling him away, dragging now the body of Jerrel Bracken, and his sobbing father.
Rhaenyra leaned back in her seat, her heart still pounding. The hall was alive with hushed whispers, the other suitors exchanging nervous glances and spiteful comments as they speculated on what had just transpired. For a moment, the boredom that had plagued her for weeks was forgotten, replaced by a keen sense of interest. The boy had drawn his first blood, his first kill after all, and there was something to be said for that.
As the noise around her began to rise again, Rhaenyra found herself thinking that perhaps this dull tour had just become far more interesting. She allowed herself a small, private smile as her gaze lingered on the spot where Willem had stood.
The blood of the First Men ran deep in the veins of the Blackwoods, she mused. It seemed this child had more fire in him than many a grown man. She will remember him, fondly or not, only time will tell.