Redfork Menace

A courtly storm

Shanda was awake before dawn. The weather had taken a turn for the worse during the night and she had awakened to the rumbling sound of thunder. The very ground beneath her had shook in its wake and she had lied there, listening. She probably should've spent the extra time on preparing a defense against the crimes raised against her but she didn't. Instead she allowed herself a rare luxury and thought of her mother. Her mother had been larger than life, eclipsing her in the best way possible.
Her mother was always telling jokes, crafting them in such a way that they landed only for who she intended. She would make jokes about Shanda's father with him in the room and none the wiser. She had been a master at solving arguments, a skill Shanda was sorely lacking. Her own internal fuse seemed permanently set to dangerously short. She needed distance from the problem and time to map it out. She was afforded neither at the present time and so she didn't try. Whatever mockery of a trial they decided to conduct wouldn't satisfy her father, of that she was sure. But she still yearned for her mother's jokes. She hadn't had a good laugh in ages.
A girl had been sent in eventually to help her dress. She had allowed it once she saw the dress lent to her. It was spun gold, so beautiful it made her want to cry. The fabric wasn't fancy by any means, the pattern simple but it was gold. She briefly wondered why they'd possess such a color but dismissed it from her mind. Surely not everyone's mind was so poisoned by the feud that even certain colors were off limits. Once dressed, she'd simply stared out the window waiting. The storm raged on, still swirling out of control. Not a far cry from how she felt inside, a bizarre twisting horror of emotions.

A knock on the door turned her attention outwardly. The door opened to reveal the heir once again. Today he wore a dark colored tunic and for once, no sword. Upon closer inspection of the shirt, she found it looked the color of dried blood. So he wanted them to contrast.

"Good morning, my lady. You look well. I trust you slept well?"

She stared at him, dumbfounded.

"How did I sleep?"

"That is what I asked, my lady."

His expression was serious and unwavering as she stared at him, her mouth near agape.

"I slept horrible, my not so good sir. I'll thank you for naught."

Then he looked genuinely concerned, confusing her even further.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Was it the storm? This has been an unprecedented season. Might be we'll have an early autumn this year. No way to tell just yet, I'm afraid."

He blabbered on about gods know what and she let him, still trying to restart her brain. What was with the lady bit? And since when did he speak to her like a normal person? She wondered if Alysanne had knocked him over the head in his sleep, changing his brain chemistry. That seemed like a viable option. Or maybe the change in air pressure was messing with her head.

"-en the limbs are on the ground, tangled in the roots. Not a good time at all. But no worse than an errant leaf in the eye while you're trying to swin…"

Maybe she had died when she fell in the river and this was some weird vision from the gods. This could be an atonement for ripping her family apart in a war over her death.

"Anyway your trial awaits, my lady."

She looked up from her clasped hands to him at that. "Uh huh, for sure. Tell me, what exactly are you hoping to achieve at this trial?"

She walked up beside him and he grabbed her arm without her permission, as if to guide her out.

"That's easy, my lady. Justice."
***
Benjicot did not sleep a wink that night. He lay awake dreaming of the woman just a room away. He'd made sure to place her in his personal wing of the castle. There was no chance, he was letting her out of his sight. Not with her propensity to jump up and start running. He couldn't throw her in a jail cell, she was a lady. So he posted a guard and slept next door.
He had spent the entire night planning his arguments for the trial. Not so much for the one following in the morning, but the inevitable one at Riverrun. The majority of his plan relied upon wooing her before then. He was not very concerned about that aspect. He was more concerned with how to frame the situation in a way Lord Elmo Tully wouldn't be able to refuse. That meant lots of wooing. How would he look proposing a marriage if all she had were stories of him being a brute? He stood by knocking her in the mud, and desperately yearned for a chance to do it again, but it didn't exactly scream 'suitor'. If he played his cards right, she'd have more positive thoughts than negative.
Phase one of this was finding ways to drag out the conflict. He needed to spend time around her, get to know her. Allow her see that life was definitely better outside of Bracken walls and maybe give her the sense of purpose she was obviously looking for. That's why he had called for the trial at dawn. It was unusual to hold a trial this quickly but when he heard the storm raging, he escalated it. His father had grumbled at him, something about 'young idiot men' and then said he'd be in the main hall. He called for it because the storm was raging. Every brother she had would be itching to get over here and represent her in a trial. He wanted to deny them that privilege, the gods were not going to decide this trial. She would have no representation if she called for a trial by combat and he would break any Blackwood who volunteered knees.
His mind drifted back to her, lying in bed. She had looked softer, more relaxed despite him barging in on her sleep. Most of all he thought of how soft her skin was and the way she had leaned into his touch. He knew she had an unholy amount of siblings, an emotionally unavailable father and a recently passed mother. There was no doubt she wasn't getting enough attention at home, he doubted she got any at all. But that was fine, because he had plenty of free time to share and more than enough affection. He wondered how he might next get his arms around her.
***
Shanda stood accused, her face pinched in a sour expression. She was right in her assessment of the trial being a farce. In the main hall was Lord Samwell Blackwood, herself, the accuser, Alysanne and a Maester for recording purposes. She had burst out laughing upon seeing the ink and parchment the Maester was holding. Unable to help herself, she had nearly doubled over before she had recovered.