RAVENTREE HALL
Late 1,384
The winds were growing colder and more brisk in the Blackwood Vale, the gales swirling across the vast farmlands surrounding Raventree Hall. King Willem stood in his solar, gazing out through the window. He watched the people laboring in the fields beyond the keep, striving to harvest the last of the grain before winter truly set in. From such a height, their figures looked like ants, the distance between the window and the farmlands immense.
As Willem shifted his gaze downward within the keep, he saw that the grounds of Raventree were alive with activity. Servants bustled about their duties, while guards patrolled the walls of the great keep, ever watchful as the season turned.
Thanks to the boom in trade, the coffers of House Blackwood overflowed with gold. Much of this wealth was spent on building infrastructure—new mills, roads, bridges, and homes—or repairing the old and worn. Another portion went to the army, stationed across Blackwood lands to protect the people from raiders, thieves, and rogue animals
Though some of House Blackwood's newfound wealth was poured into repairing and expanding Raventree Hall, transforming it from a grand seat into a fortress of legend. New walls rose higher and thicker than ever before, while the main halls were enlarged and adorned with rich tapestries depicting ancient battles, forgotten kings, and the heroic deeds of Blackwood ancestors. Vast new granaries were constructed, capable of holding enough grain to last for years, ensuring the castle could withstand even the longest siege.
Raventree Hall had grown into a sprawling complex, covering several acres, and was protected by a multilayered defensive system. Three massive granite walls encircled the castle, each taller and stronger than the last, with towers and battlements spaced at intervals to provide archers with perfect vantage points. Hidden gates, sally ports, and reinforced drawbridges allowed defenders to move unseen, giving the castle a reputation as nearly impregnable.
At the heart of the complex lay the ancient godswood, the largest south of the Wall, around which the castle was carefully arranged. Multiple yards surrounded it: one vast yard for weapons training and horseriding, where quintains could be set up for jousting practice, and another in the inner ward dedicated to archery, with rows of archery butts for precision training.
The great keep itself had been expanded several times, becoming many times larger than before. Its towers soared above the walls, serving both as watchtowers and as living quarters for the lord's household. The great hall, once simply a place for feasts and receiving guests, was expanded to accommodate the growing retinue and visiting dignitaries. Smaller halls such as libraries, council chamber and the servants quarters where also expanded with the kitchens, stables, and workshops growing bigger to to support the now much larger population of Raventree Hall.
Raventree Hall now stood as more than just a seat of power—it was a fortress, a city within walls, and a living symbol of House Blackwood's wealth, foresight, and authority. Travelers spoke of its grandeur with awe, while some lords whispered of its defenses in fear, for the castle was a place where prosperity, luxury, and security met in perfect harmony.
Willem watched from the window of his solar in the great keep as his grandson Daveth trained in the practice yard below. He smiled as Daveth dueled against five guardsmen at once, swiftly defeating them all, showcasing his skill with the sword and earning praise from all who watched. Yet Willem noted how none of the praise seemed to affect Daveth, as he moved to help each guardsman to their feet, complimenting their skill and offering encouragement.
The young prince was already a giant of a man at just sixteen, towering above all at six and a half feet, tall and muscular, with a handsome face framed by a crop of raven-black hair. Daveth dwarfed even his own father, Benjen, who was no small man himself—broad-shouldered and once hardened by years of weapons training. Yet years of neglect, drinking, and indulgence had ruined both his skill and his body, leaving no trace of the man he had once been.
Shaking his head, Willem returned his gaze to his grandson just as he took a towel handed by a nearby servant.
Daveth was the product of Benjen's marriage to Alys Mallister, and Willem smiled sadly at the thought of the girl—a pretty thing, sweet as summer. Alys had come from one of the oldest and strongest houses in the fractured Kingdom of the Rivers and Hills. Her family, the Mallisters, were descended from the First Men, though over time their faith had shifted to the Seven Who Are One. Willem thought that Alys would have been proud of her son, of what he had become, and he smiled bitterly at the memory.
Daveth was a blending of their two families, both proud descendants of the First Men. Broad and strong, Daveth's physique reflected his First Men heritage, yet his eyes were the clear blue of the Mallisters—the same eyes Daveths mother and her mother before her had possessed.
Daveth was an exceptionally handsome young man, with a strong, square jaw and a noble aquiline nose, admired by nearly every young lady in the Riverlands. Yet it was not only his appearance that drew attention—his skill with the sword, noble lineage, and wealthy upbringing made him the subject of widespread admiration. Despite this, Daveth paid little heed to such attention, caring far more for duty than flattery.
Willem could not help but swell with pride at the sight of him. Daveth was the grandson and heir any man could be proud of: an unmatched swordsman and jouster, clever and kind-hearted, brave yet gentle. He was also exceptionally skilled in administration, reforming outdated laws to make them fairer and more efficient, and adept in trade and military strategy. Under his guidance, House Blackwood had risen to unprecedented wealth and power, becoming the mightiest house in the Riverlands.
Willem knew, however, that he did not have long. When his gaze shifted from his grandson to his own hands, he saw the many more wrinkles now joined with scars from his youth. His tall frame had grown slouched, almost bent; even walking and breathing had become more difficult. Yet he was not afraid of death. As a young man, Willem had been raised like a warrior by his father—and from those teaching combined with decades of ruling he had learned to die a long time ago. Although just thinking about how his house and the legacy of his ancestors would remain safe, within the hand of hid grandson filled Willem with joy and ease.
A great booming laugh drew Willem's attention back to the yard. He saw his other grandson, twelve-year-old Lucas, had managed to throw a bucket of water over his older cousin. Both boys laughed—Daveth at the shock of suddenly being drenched, and Lucas at seeing Daveth's reaction.
But Lucas's laughter soon vanished, replaced by an expression of horror as Daveth darted after him. Lucas, screaming in terror as he tried weaving between practice dummies and training men to escape from the clutches of Daveth. From the edges of the yard came laughter, applause, and cheers. In addition to his grandsons, there were many others present, including his grandaughter Eleanor, who both chastised her twin and cheered for Daveth.
Others watched as well, such as the sons of Lord Tristan Ryger: the older brother, Hoster and the younger brother Edmure. Hoster was the same age as Lucas, while Edmure was a year younger. Both had come with their father, Lord Tristan, when he was appointed one of the officers in the Blackwood army. They had been sent to Raventree Hall to foster with their cousins, to strengthen ties, and grow relations to their future rulers and with others, within the court of Raventree Hall.
Another figure among the children was the grandson of Lord Preston Blanetree, the spymaster of House Blackwood. Young Harlan Blanetree had come alongside his grandfather to learn the ways of the court and to foster relations with their future king and overlord. Harlan was older than Lucas but younger than Daveth, and at the moment he was bent over laughing at the chaos in the yard.
But the loudest cheering came from Eddard, son of Kevan, the Master-at-Arms at Raventree Hall. Eddard had become close friends with Daveth, almost never leaving his side. Yet the most prominent among the group was a boy standing next to Eddard.
That boy was Denys Mallister, the son of Jason Mallister, King of the Cape of Eagles. He was also cousin of Daveth, as Jason Mallister and Daveth's mother were siblings. Denys was the same age as Daveth, though much shorter, albeit still tall for his age. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and a leaner physique than his cousin. Denys had been sent to foster with the Blackwoods at the age of twelve, when his father decided it would be wise for him to live with relatives. It would strengthen the connection between the two houses, and allow Denys to learn, and give him the benefit of witnessing the newfound strength and prosperity of House Blackwood firsthand.
Lucas and Daveth's cat-and-mouse chase quickly dissolved into a wrestling match as Daveth tackled the smaller boy to the ground and ordered one of the servants to bring a bucket of cold water. The servant did so swiftly, handing the bucket to Daveth, who threw it over Lucas. Everyone—from Lucas and Daveth to Denys, Harlan Blanetree, and the Ryger boys—erupted into laughter. Willem chuckled at the sight, a warm feeling spreading within him. He was glad to see his family and vassals so united.
Turning away from the window, Willem strode to the door of his study and opened it to reveal the single guard stationed outside—a tall man clad in the armor befitting his station. "Godric," Willem said, "kindly ask Daveth to present himself in my study within the hour, preferably after washing and changing."
The guardsman gave a shallow bow and darted off at Willem's request, vanishing around the curve of the hallway within the span of a few heartbeats. Closing the door behind him, Willem returned to the window, looking down at the courtyard below. Somehow, Lucas and Daveth had roped many of the other young men in the yard into a wrestling match, acting more like children than almost-grown young men. The sight brought a smile to Willem's weathered face.
Turning from the window, Willem sat back down at his desk, his eyes scanning the ancient oak surface for a moment. Scattered across it were dozens of letters and scrolls: reports from the city of Ravenna, requests from minor lords across the Blackwood Vale, sheets detailing taxes and tariffs collected from the people, and even a handful of betrothal offers from lords across the Riverlands and beyond, reaching as far as the West. Picking up one such letter, Willem scanned it for the second time that day.
It was from King Oscar Smallwood of Acorn Hall, a man well into his seventieth year and with more descendants than anyone could keep track of. The Smallwoods was neither among the most powerful in the Riverlands nor among the weakest, but comfortably in between. He was far too eager for a marriage contract—this alone was the sixth such letter he had sent to Willem that year.
Setting the letter aside, Willem flipped through the stack it had rested atop, noting the names of other houses proposing betrothals: the Rootes, Wodes, Harltons, Goodbrook, Strongs, Leffords, and Marbrands. Some were from respectable houses, while others came from minor families likely hoping one of their daughters might catch the eye of the Blackwood prince and so as they could grow above their station. Willem also noted that some proposals came from entirely different regions, such as the Marbrands and Leffords, hinting at ambitions beyond the immediate reach of the Riverlands.
In all honesty, Willem did not think any of the current proposals were suitable. He was looking for a stronger match for his boy. Though no offers had come from them yet, he had three houses in mind whose daughters might be worth considering. Meera Mooton was said to be a beauty, and her father was the wealthiest man in the Riverlands besides themselves, with economic ties to many River and Blackwater houses.
King Edmyn Tully's younger daughter was also still unbetrothed—another fair lass—and while her father could not match the Mootons' wealth, he controlled lands that provided a direct route into the West. Then there was Aemma Darry, granddaughter of an old friend of his. The Darrys were one of the few Riverlands houses descended from the First Men that still kept to the Old Gods. Her father, the new King Darry, spoke very highly of her and was reportedly seeking a marriage alliance. It would be prudent if the houses that still followed the Old Gods helped one another.
With Daveth now almost a man grown, Willem supposed it was time to consider these matters seriously. After all, there were not many Blackwoods left of suitable age for marriage. Only three could be considered, either now or in the coming years: Daveth, Lucas, and Eleanor. With Lucas and Eleanor being far to young. If their house was to grow and prosper, Daveth would need to marry soon. Leaning back in his chair, Willem made a mental note to send ravens to Riverrun, Maidenpool, and Castle Darry, inquiring about the hands of those girls. Perhaps Daveth would one day take a fancy to the fiery redhead of House Tully—or to the spirited lass from Maidenpool.
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Daveth shook himself, trying to warm up and dry off. The chill had been somewhat pleasant at first, but it was growing uncomfortable. Shoving open the door to his chambers, he quickly began struggling out of his doublet, barely bothering to close the door behind him, pulling the sweat-soaked garment over his head.
Tossing the doublet aside, Daveth took a moment to look around his chambers as water ran down his back and onto the stone floor. His room was rather plain, considering the wealth of his house—but that was just how he liked it. Too much luxury could dull a person like wine and make them arrogant, and Daveth had no desire for that. No expensive rugs from Essos, no finely carved woodwork. The walls were plain stone, the rugs simple wool, and the furniture unadorned and practical. The sole ornament in the room hung from a wooden rack beside the fireplace: a suit of finely made plate armor, a gift from his uncle Tytos for his last nameday, celebrating the prosperity of House Blackwood.
The armor was exquisite. Made of fine steel, burnished and unmarred by use, it was carved with the sigil of their house: a flock of ravens on a field of red surrounding a weirwood tree on a field of black, with some First Men runes etched here and there across the breastplate. Twin steel ravens, colored black, formed the pauldrons, their wings curving back over the shoulders protectively. Most magnificent of all was the helm, wrought in steel to startlingly resemble a raven. Its screeching beak formed the visor, giving the piece an almost living presence.
Daveth had only worn the armor a handful of times, and almost never in a real fight—not that he had had many opportunities for that due to the peace within their lands. Turning away from it, he pushed the thought aside and finished stripping, moving toward one of the side rooms his chambers possessed. A large copper tub sat in the center, ringed by a cleverly lowered section of floor to prevent overflow from flooding the room. A small drain in the depression channeled the spilled water away, though Daveth had never really cared to ask where it went. The tub was full almost to the brim with steaming water, just as he had requested, and with a luxuriant sigh, he sank into it.
For a few moments, he let the hot water wash over him, enjoying how it melted away the chill from Lucas's earlier prank. After that brief moment of bliss, Daveth quickly began to wash, sparing little time to linger. His grandfather had requested his presence, and keeping him waiting was not something Daveth liked to do. In mere minutes he was finished, stepping out quickly clambered from the tub, sending water splashing to the floor. He dried himself with a nearby cloth, idly watching the spilled water drain through the grate and wondering once again where it went.
With his bath complete, he strode back into his room and stopped before his wardrobe. Throwing it open, he grabbed a pair of stout woolen trousers almost at random. Like his room, his clothes were simple: wool and leather for hunting, fighting, riding, and climbing, with luxourious court clothes his grandfather demanded he wear.
Pulling on the trousers, Daveth reached for a wool tunic, dyed a dark red with a dark raven stitched upon each sleeve. An undyed leather jerkin went over it, followed by his sword belt, the heavy iron pommel etched with another wheeling raven resting just above his left hip, a dagger hanging at his other side. He soon finished the struggled to pull on his boots, and walked back at his still-open wardrobe, Daveth's eyes settled on his favorite garment: a Shadowskin cloak made from a shadowcat. Slightly long even on his massive frame, the black fur was streaked with silver, and it was fastened with a simple brass clasp. The cloak carried with it one of his fondest memories.
When he had been fourteen, he had persuaded Denys and Eddard to ride out with him across the lands of House Blackwood. The three had slipped away before dawn one morning, armed with gear, food, bedrolls, hunting bows, and daggers. They had planned to be gone only a couple of days, but along the way, they discovered the tracks of some strange animal—later identified as a shadowcat. The tracks led them up a small mountain to a hidden pool.
Daveth had stumbled upon a secluded glade while climbing, where two dozen weathered pines and ash trees eked out a living among the rocky soil. At the heart of the glade stood the most remarkable sight: a stunted yet sturdy weirwood, its trunk carved with a weeping face, nestled against the pool's shore.
He had been struck by the beauty of the glade and the weirwood. By his best guess, it had once been a godswood of the First Men, abandoned after the Andal Invasion. The climb to the glade had been easier than he expected, yet it took time with Denys and Eddard following in his wake, their laughter and chatter echoing softly among the rocks.
They reached the shelf just before dusk on the first day and quickly made camp, never noticing the eerie silence. The birds and squirrels that had filled the glade on Daveth's previous visit were absent, leaving only the whisper of wind through the pines.
Halfway through the night, a great, coughing yowl shattered the quiet. Not long after, the source of the sound came prowling near their fire—a shadowcat, one of the largest Daveth had ever seen, nearly ten feet from nose to tail. Its fiery eyes glowed like embers, floating across the rocky ground as it snarled and circled them.
The beast had clearly used the shelf as resting grounds before, but with game scarce on the mountain in autumn, hunger had driven it desperate. It saw three young boys as an easy meal. Eddard, eager to prove himself before Daveth and Denys, stood his ground—though the only weapon in his hand was a small dagger.
When the cat struck, everything became a blur. Shadows and fear twisted the night, and none of the three could fully recall what happened. But they all agreed on one thing: the shadowcat had come for Daveth.
What they did remember was the aftermath. Daveth awoke with burning pain along his left shoulder and a crushing weight across his chest. When Denys and Eddard managed to free him, the enormity of the beast became clear. A single arrow jutted from the cat's shoulder—Denys's doing—but the killing blow had come from Daveth himself. Somehow, he had driven his dagger home three times: twice to the neck and once to the cat's blazing eye.
The victory had come at a cost. The shadowcat had left its mark: four deep claw wounds streaked from Daveth's right shoulder down to just above his waist, and a massive bite had crushed his left forearm. Even in triumph, the boy had been forever changed by the encounter.
It had taken the three of them two full days to descend the mountain, with Daveth injured and Eddard insisting upon bringing the shadowcat's body along as proof of their encounter. He smiled at the memory of their triumphant—and terrifying—return: his grandfather's fury at their recklessness, quickly followed by a quiet, begrudging pride in their bravery. The cloak had been made to commemorate that adventure, a Shadowskin gift that would forever remind him of the night the shadowcat had marked him. Daveth, Denys, and Eddard had each had a pendant fashioned from several of the beast's teeth, crude yet treasured tokens of the ordeal they had survived together.
Shaking his head softly at the memory, Daveth draped the Shadowskin about his shoulders. He would have to cross the vast courtyard to see his grandfather, and the cloak was warmer and heavier than any other garment he owned. The wind whispered through the trees beyond the outer walls of Raventree Hall, carrying the scent of pine, stone, and the ever-present river mist, but Daveth drew in a deep breath to push the memories aside. The day demanded focus, not nostalgia. With measured steps, he strode toward the grand oak door of his grandfather's chamber.
The journey through Raventree Hall was long, even for someone as tall and powerful as Daveth. The castle had grown into a sprawling fortress over the years, a maze of stone corridors, multiple courtyards, and countless halls. Servants scurried along walls lined with banners of House Blackwood, and the faint clatter of smiths, masons, and apprentices echoed from the workshops tucked into the lower wards. The scent of baking bread, waxed floors, and freshly cut timber mingled with the faint tang of the river, a constant reminder of the lands the Blackwoods ruled.
Finally, he reached the door to the study. A single guard stood at attention, the man's polished armor reflecting the late morning light filtering through the tall windows. He gave Daveth a respectful nod as the prince approached, stepping aside to not obstructing his path. With a firm hand, Daveth pushed open the heavy oak door, entering the study in a fluid motion. The guard silently drew the door closed behind him, as Daveth prepared to face his grandfather.
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The study was much as it had been for as long as Daveth could remember. Warm woolen rugs, embroidered with scenes of famous battles and victories of House Blackwood, covered the stone floor. Along the right wall stood two stout shelves, crammed with books and scrolls—ledgers, records, and tomes his grandfather found essential to have close at hand. The hearth burned merrily, flanked by two well-worn but comfortable chairs, while above the mantle hung a pair of heavy battleaxes crossed in silent testament to the house's martial heritage.
His grandfather's desk dominated the far wall, a solid oak relic carved centuries ago with landscapes of jagged mountains and wild forests. Two tall windows flanked it, letting in streams of sunlight that glinted off the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Blackwood, Vengeance, which hung proudly behind the desk, its edge gleaming like fire in the light.
King Willem Blackwood sat beneath the sword, hunched over parchment, quill scratching furiously. He barely registered Daveth's entrance. Without a word, Daveth crossed the study and took the chair before the desk, settling in and waiting patiently as his grandfather finished his work.
After a few heartbeats, Willem set the quill and parchment aside and lifted his gaze to the young man before him, eyes sharp and calculating. The silence stretched just long enough to make Daveth feel the weight of his grandfather's scrutiny. Finally, Willem spoke, his voice calm but deliberate: "You still plan to leave for Seagard soon?"
Daveth gave a shrug. "Aye. Denys is itching to go home soon, and besides, it's been a while since I last saw Uncle Jason. The plan is to leave in two days, if the weather holds." Willem nodded slowly as Daveth continued. "The ride will be long, but thanks to the new Cape Road, the journey will be far easier."
The Cape Road was a wide, paved thoroughfare, laid with a mixture of cement and stone, stretching from Raventree Hall all the way to Seagard. It had been built through the joint efforts of both Houses to improve trade, strengthen alliances, and allow for rapid military support should one be threatened. Caravans laden with grain, timber, and goods now traveled safely along it, while soldiers could move quickly to defend, if the need ever came. Its name came from the Cape of Eagles, the windswept lands where House Mallister held sway, marking the road's final stretch toward the western coasts. The road's construction had required months of planning, bridging rivers, cutting through forests, and leveling hills, leaving behind a path that became the pride of both houses.
Daveth continued, "We should arrive in two to three days, a week at most, and the journey will be safe with the royal army patrolling along the route."
His grandfather leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his grey hair. "You two couldn't wait until after winter? With the growing cold, the maester says winter will be upon us soon, in a matter of weeks at most," he replied.
At that, Daveth chuckled and shook his head. "Denys says it's been far too long since he's been home. He misses his family. Besides, you know him as well as I do, grandfather—there's steel in him. Nobody can talk him out of something once he's set his mind to it."
The old king laughed along with his grandson for a brief moment, the sound warm and genuine, filling the study with echoes of years of shared memories. As silence fell once more, Daveth found his mind wandering. Why had his grandfather actually summoned him here? After all, they had discussed the route to Seagard many times already.
Willem sighed, his fingers brushing across a neat pile of letters upon the desk, as if he had only now noticed Daveth's confusion. "I've been receiving these for the last few moons," he said. "Letters offering betrothals between you and almost half the noble ladies of the Riverlands… and a few beyond."
Daveth winced. So this was the true reason for the summons—betrothals. He had dreaded this moment for as long as he could remember. True, he liked women, but speaking to them—highborn or low—had never been his talent. And the idea of marrying a stranger, someone chosen for alliance rather than affection, sent a flutter of uneasy butterflies racing through his stomach.
His grandfather's eyes softened, and a slight, knowing smile touched his lips. "I know you don't like the idea, Daveth, but it must be done. Our family needs to grow, and you need heirs, so that your sons and their sons can one day rule."
Daveth nodded grimly. His grandfather wasn't wrong, but knowing the necessity of it did little to make the prospect more palatable.
Willem leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his gaze steady. "I want your opinion on who you will marry, though. Besides, it will only be a betrothal. I won't put you through this without at least a say in it. It is just that… we need allies in the coming storm, and House Blackwood must stand strong."
Daveth nodded grimly at that. "Is it the Brackens again?"
Willem's expression tightened. "Aye. They've been jealous of our newfound wealth and strength, though they've seemed too cautious to act—ever since the war of the twin rivers ended. But with your father being… the way he is, and your uncle away on a business trip to Casterly Rock, the Brackens have grown bolder. They've been testing us, probing for weaknesses, ever since."
"Which is why we need allies, I suppose," Daveth said, a smirk tugging at his lips as he tried to ease the tension. "Though I take it, from the fact I'm sitting here, you've narrowed it down to a handful of your favorites."
Willem merely nodded, his face calm and unreadable. "I have. Three girls stand out—daughters of families either wealthy, of great lineage, or politically advantageous. Any of them would be a fitting bride and could strengthen alliances for House Blackwood."
Daveth nodded once more, bracing himself. His grandfather continued, "Meera Mooton is the same age as you. Everything I've heard says she's a rare beauty—the kind that comes once in a generation. Catelyn Tully is two years your junior, but she's said to be cheerful and lovely. And then there's Aemma Darry, from an old and proud house, also connected to a long-time friend of mine."
Sighing, Daveth ran a hand across his jaw. "Why not any other houses? I know King Oscar Smallwood has a granddaughter my age—he won't stop hounding me about her after all"
Willem chuckled softly. "I know. He's been pestering me as well." His face grew serious. "I do not wish to offend any other houses, but we need allies—strong allies, if we are to face the coming storms. And as respected as the Smallwoods may be, they cannot provide the strength we require."
Daveth nodded at that, his grandfather's logic making sense. Thinking of how Torrence Teague had went east a few years ago with a large amount of gold gained from raids in the west, he realized it wasn't perfect—Teague was likely consolidating his gains, hiring sellswords, and quietly planning his next moves in the coming years.
"I don't suppose I'll have much time to think about this? Maybe even meet them?" he asked.
Willem shrugged. "You may take the time if you wish. I'll begin making inquiries and suggestions to their fathers. As for meeting them…" He paused thoughtfully. "We'll see about that."
Daveth nodded and let his thoughts drift as the conversation turned to more mundane topics, answering his grandfather's questions automatically while his mind wandered. He found himself thinking of the three ladies he would eventually have to choose between, Meera Mooton, Aemma Darry or Catelyn Tully.
Just as both grandfather and grandson sat lost in their thoughts, the heavy oak door to the solar burst open with a thunderous crash. A guard stumbled inside, huffing and puffing, his helm crooked and his breath ragged from running.
Willem and Daveth both jolted in shock. For a heartbeat the room fell deathly silent—then Willem surged to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. Fury burned in his eyes like banked coals suddenly fanned to flame.
"HOW DARE YOU!" Willem roared, his voice filling the chamber. "I WILL HAVE YOU FLOGGED FOR THIS INSOLENCE. YOU BURST INTO YOUR KING'S SOLAR UNANNOUNCED—WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"
Before the trembling guard could answer, another figure stepped swiftly through the doorway. Godric, sworn shield and protector of the king, moved with practiced authority. His face was tight with embarrassment as he bowed deeply.
"Your Grace, I beg your forgiveness," Godric said quickly. "I ordered him to wait outside, but he would not listen." He turned sharply toward the intruder, reaching out to seize him by the arm.
The young guard, pale as milk and slick with sweat, wrenched himself free and dropped to one knee.
"WAIT! PLEASE, WAIT!" he gasped. "I bear an urgent message, Your Grace!"
Willem's fury only deepened. He took a step forward, towering over the kneeling man.
"A message?" he snarled. "A message? This—this—is why you defile my solar like a cornered beast? To deliver words that could have waited?" His hand clenched into a fist. "I should have you whipped for your impudence and sent back to the barracks in chains—"
"My king!" the guard shouted, desperation breaking through his fear. His voice cracked as the words spilled out. "Your Grace—your son—Prince Benjen… is dead."
The world seemed to stop.
"WHAT?" Daveth roared, leaping to his feet, disbelief and horror warring across his face. "What did you just say?"
Willem froze, the rage draining from him as though the life had been torn from his veins. His mouth opened, but no sound came. For the first time in years, the King stood speechless, the weight of a crown suddenly heavier than iron.
The solar, once warm with hearthfire and candlelight, felt cold as a tomb. Somewhere in the distance, bells began to toll—slow, solemn, and unforgiving—heralding a grief that would soon shake the kingdom to its very foundations.
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Hi, Author here to clear up some things.
House Blackwood commands two major vassal houses: House Blanetree and House Ryger, alongside numerous lesser sworn families. These minor houses are not traditionally styled as "landed knights," as the Blackwoods remain faithful to the Old Gods. Instead, these families are regarded as minor lords, holding land and authority under Blackwood rule without any Andal titles.
House Blanetree is led by Lord Preston Blanetree, accompanied most prominently by his grandson, Harlon Blanetree. While other members of the house exist, they will be introduced later in the story IF they become relevant. Lord Preston serves as the spymaster of House Blackwood. He is the brother of Daveth's grandmother, a trusted brother-in-law to King Willem, and the uncle of Benjen and Tytos.
House Ryger is headed by Lord Tristan Ryger, a commander within the Blackwood armies. He has two sons, Hoster and Edmure Ryger. As with Blanetree, other members of the family exist but remain unnamed for now. Tristan is the brother of Ellys Ryger, wife to Tytos, making him uncle to Lucas and Eleanor.
I know this isn't canon, so I've taken some creative liberties. If you have any questions or see something within the story that doesn't match, feel free to ask in the comments.