RAVENTREE HALL
Late 1,384 B.AC
Months had passed, and winter had settled fully over Raventree Hall. Snow lay thick across the courtyards, blanketing every roof and parapet, and clung to the blackened branches of the great weirwood tree, its crimson leaves stark against the white like drops of frozen blood. Frost traced the ancient stone walls and towers, softening their hard lines and lending the keep an almost ethereal stillness, and even the wind seemed to move more gently, whispering through the battlements rather than cutting them with icy fingers. Raventree Hall itself seemed to breathe more quietly now, as if it understood that one age had ended and another poised on the threshold, waiting.
Yet despite the sorrow that lingered in its halls—the loss of a king, a father, a grandfather—the castle was not shrouded in mourning. A quiet warmth threaded through the air, a low, constant hum of voices, footsteps, and preparation, a gentle anticipation held carefully in check. Fires burned brighter than they had in months, hearths crackling with a life all their own; banners were brushed free of snow and stirred softly in the warmth, as if eager to witness what was to come. Servants moved with deliberate purpose, their faces faintly smiling through both reverence and excitement, carrying bowls of grain, polishing armor, adjusting robes, and arranging seats with practiced precision. This was a day not for lamentation, not for grief, but for beginnings—the careful, weighty birth of a new era for House Blackwood.
For this was the day that prince Daveth Blackwood would finally be crowned king. He was only sixteen—an age that, by custom, would have demanded a regent to rule in his stead. Yet custom had little hold over reality now. Daveth had already proven himself in ways that few men twice his age ever could. Through careful governance, judicious reform, and relentless attention to both land and people, he had brought unprecedented prosperity to House Blackwood, strengthening not only its coffers and strongholds but the lives of both lords and smallfolk alike.
And when war had come, he had proven himself in the harshest of crucibles—through blood and fire, strategy and courage—ending a rivalry that had endured for millennia. Alone, at the center of it all, he had shattered the vile house of horse-lords—the Brackens—and erased their line from history. No one spoke of regents anymore. There was no question that Daveth, boy though he was, held the strength, the mind, and the will of a true king.
On the morning of his coronation, the great hall of Raventree Hall stood filled beyond measure. Though the castle now rivaled Winterfell in sheer size, the hall was still overflowing with people—not merely with Blackwood vassals, but with envoys, nobles and royalty from almost every house of importance in the Riverlands, and even some from beyond its borders. They had come not only to witness a coronation, but to see for themselves the boy who had risen so quickly, the young man who would soon enter the endless treacherous game of thrones. Every gaze was measured, every whisper restrained, as the lords and kings, the knights and emissaries, waited to see what kind of ruler would emerge from winter's shadow.
Vassal lords of King Edmyn Tully stood in solemn assembly, grave and watchful beneath the vaulted ceiling of the great hall. Hardened men, they surveyed the chamber with measured calculation, their sharp eyes missing little of the ceremony unfolding before them—or of the boy who would soon wear a crown.
They were led by king Edmyn Tully's eldest son, prince Axel Tully, heir to the throne of Riverrun.
Prince Axel Tully cut an imposing figure, as he stood a full six feet and two inches in height, broad-shouldered and with a straight back, with the easy confidence of one long accustomed to ways of court. His hair—thick and red as autumn leaves—fell to his shoulders in loose waves, framing a strong, angular face. Blue eyes, cool and assessing, completed the unmistakable Tully look. He wore a doublet of rich crimson velvet trimmed with silver thread, the leaping trout of his house embroidered finely upon his breast.
When he spoke, his voice carried clearly across the hall—measured, courteous, and deliberate.
The Tully delegation had arrived several days earlier, granted guest right under Daveth's roof, with bread and salt. The invitation was more of a formality though, as it had actually been a gesture of diplomacy. Never had he and his council actually thought that they would actually accept.
Yet in hindsight, it shouldn't really be surprising considering the trade that goes on between their two lands was substantial and ever-growing. Not to mention that the fall of house Bracken, an ancient house that had existed since the arrivel of the First men. Who was by no means a weak house as they ruled one of the biggest domains in the region. Domains that were now getting incoporated into house Blackwood, a house still as ancient and with lands no smaller than their rivals. A matter far to important to ignore as the defeat of such a house had shifted the balance of power in the trident.
In times of change, wise rulers watched closely as new players entered. And so the Tullys had come. They came not merely to celebrate a ceremony, but to measure strength, to weigh opportunity, to consider alliances, and most importantly to see the boy who was responsible for it all.
When Prince Axel Tully had first arrrived he had praised the marvel of the Blackwood roads laid with "liquid rock", as the name had begun to travel. Giant smooth paved roads that cut across the countryside and reduced journeys that once took weeks to mere days. Prince Axel hand continued speaking of new trade deals and such, of increased caravans and merchant traffic between the two lands of Riverrun and Raventree Hall.
Daveth had listened with composed attention, though he had found that the prince had been queitly trying to inquire about a possible betrohal between his younger sister, princess Catelyn and him. He had said that a union between their houses would strengthen ties already bound by their trade and the closeness of their lands. A union his grandfather, Willem, also would of supported.
Though Daveth had politly refused citing that he had more pressing matters to attend before getting married. Such as matters of governance and security that required his full attention before any thoughts of marriage could be entertained. His tone had been respectful, leaving no insult where one might possible fester, yet decisive enough to discourage further probing. Marriage, after all, was no small affair, and alliances forged too hastily could bind tighter than chains.
-----------------------
Daveth's uncle, Jason Mallister—King of the Cape of Eagles—had arrived in person, as honor and blood demanded. Jason Mallister held himself tall and broad-shouldered, his bearing calm and resolute. There was pride in his gaze when it settled upon Daveth, but also something deeper—an understanding of the weight that now rested upon the young man's shoulders. He had arrived even before the Tully's yet not alone
At his side stood his lady wife, dignified and observant, and behind them their children, bearing the unmistakable look of House Mallister: fair blonde hair like the sunlit wheat and clear blue eyes of a calm sea. Their banners—deep indigo emblazoned with the silver eagle—had been raised proudly upon their entrance, a reminder that the western coasts stood firmly with their kin. They were followed by a retinue of loyal vassals, sworn knights in polished mail, and men-at-arms
Daveth had personally welcomed them into Raventree Hall, and while inside it his uncle spoke up. "My sister would have been proud of the man you have become, nephew". His uncle had said when they had gotten inside, and to that Daveth had only nodded.
After that his cousin Denys had approched.
"You did it," Denys said, his voice low but bright with feeling. "You truly won"
There was admiration there—unfeigned and warm. Yet as quickly as the triumph entered his expression, it softened.
"And I am sorry," Denys added more quietly, " sorry to hear about your grandfather, King Willem. He was a good man."
Daveth felt the familiar tightening in his chest at the mention of his grandfather's name. For a brief moment the hall seemed far to queit, cold and dull. Memories flased through Daveth's of when he was a boy, running through the halls Raventree as his grandfather chased after him. In thoses times they were simply a grandfather and grandson.
"Thank you cousin", Daveth had simply said shaking his head.
The weight of it might have lingered too heavily, but Denys, ever incapable of allowing solemnity to sit for long, had suddenly stepped back. With a straightened posture, clearing his throat, and dropping to one knee with a dramatic flourish that drew more than a few startled glances from the surroundings.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," he proclaimed loudly, pressing a fist to his chest and bowing his head in an overdone salute. "Shall I henceforth address you as such? Or would 'Your Radiance' better suit the occasion?"
A ripple of laughter broke through the tension. Even a few of the older people in the hall had allowed themselves thin smiles.
Daveth could not help it—the grin came unbidden, easing the tightness from his face. "If you call me 'Your Radiance' again," he said dryly, "I'll see you thrown out with your head first".
Denys looked up, feigning horror. "Cruelty already? You haven't even been crowned yet but it has already changed you, my dear cousin".
"It hasn't yet," Daveth replied. "But it may start with you."
Denys rose, brushing imaginary dust from his knee. "I suppose I shall have to remain merely your loyal cousin, then. Though I expect certain privileges. Preferably ones involving wine."
"You always expect privileges involving wine."
"And I always intend to earn them," Denys shot back with a grin.
The warmth between them was easy, unforced—the familiarity of shared childhoods and training yards, of whispered jokes during tedious feasts and reckless rides along the coast. For a moment, Daveth was not a king-to-be, nor a commander who had led men into battle. He was simply a cousin among kin.
The interruption came in the form of Cassana Mallister.
She approached with composed grace, her steps measured, her posture flawless. It was the first time Daveth had spoken to his other cousin in person, though letters had passed between them over the years—carefully penned correspondence filled with thoughtful reflections and subtle wit. Seeing her now, he understood why songs often lingered on the beauty of noble daughters.
Cassana shared Denys's coloring—blonde hair that caught the torchlight like spun gold, and blue eyes clear and penetrating—but where Denys carried easy mischief, Cassana bore quiet authority. She wore a gown of deep sapphire, embroidered with silver thread in the shape of soaring eagles. Every movement she made was deliberate, refined. She was regal without effort—a noble lady in every sense.
"Cousin," she said, inclining her head with perfect poise. "May I offer my congratulations as well? Victory in war is no small achievement. Nor is surviving it."
Her voice was smooth and controlled, yet Daveth sensed sincerity beneath it.
"You honor me," Daveth replied, matching her courtesy. "Your letters have often steadied my thoughts more than you know."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Then I shall have to write more often. Though I suspect governing a realm will leave you less time for reading."
Denys leaned slightly between them, lowering his voice just enough to keep the words from carrying too far.
"Aye," he said, the earlier humor fading from his expression, "a storm is coming. A big one. I just know it."
For once, there was no jest in him.
The laughter that had lingered around them seemed to dull at the edges, swallowed by the weight of what lay beneath his words.
Daveth met his cousin's gaze and gave a slow, weary nod. He had felt it too. The fall of House Bracken had unsettled more than a single house, and judging by what Daveth knew of what would come in the future, war would once more engulfe the region of rivers and hills.
Beside him, Cassana inclined her head as well, though her composure did not break. "Storms," she said calmly, "often gather long before thunder is heard."
Her eyes moved briefly across the hall. The hall was warm with torchlight and filled with murmured celebration, yet beneath it all ran an undercurrent he could not ignore. Ambition. Calculation. Opportunity. All would be revealed during his coronation.
"Yes," Daveth said quietly. "Let it come."
His voice was steady, though the weight behind it was undeniable. Whatever storm approached—political or otherwise—he would face it as king. And this time, he would not stand unprepared.
"I am glad you came," Daveth said, meaning it. "All of you."
Cassana's expression softened just slightly. "Family should stand together, especially in moments that shape history."
Denys clapped Daveth on the shoulder once more.
--------------------------
The time for the coronation was quickly coming as other houses soon arrived at Raventree, Houses such as the Smallwoods and Darrys, who had dispatched their envoys and representatives as well. These houses were long-time friends of Daveth's grandfather and could be counted as allies of House Blackwood. Considering these were some of the few First Men houses that still belived in the Old Gods.
Their faces was etched with respect and cautious curiosity as they entered Raventree. Gifts and respect were given where they were due. Though it would appear that the Smallwoods had the same objective as the Tullys as their envoy, grandson to the King made some small inquires about a possible bethrohal. It would appear that King Oscar Smallwood wanted one now more than ever.
Houses that had benefitted from trading with the Blackwoods had also sent delegations or envoys with gifts and congratulations. Hoping for further cooperation between their lands. Such as both branches of House Vance, alongside the Hartlons, the Wodes, and a host of other lesser houses. Some drawn by genuine interest, others by careful prudence. Every man, woman, and knight present had come to measure the young monarch to be, to weigh his strength, his mind, and his capacity to command not only loyalty but fear, if necessary.
Some banners though were missing from what would be know as the biggest gathering of assembeld lords and kings in the riverlands in almost a century. Not since the fall of the Justmans. The Charltons for one, who were long-time rivals of House Mallister and kin to the now fallen Brackens—had stayed away, their silence speaking louder than any words. Another were the Mootons of Maidenpool, distant and separated by the treacherous winter and snow, were excused, though some whispered that distance alone did not account for their absence.
Yet most suprisingly to those gathered, a Lannister delegation had arrived from the west just before Daveths coronation. The delegation was led by Prince Tommen Lannister himself, heir to the throne of Casterly Rock. He entered Raventree Hall beneath banners of crimson and gold, their color glinting in the firelight, accompanied by a retinue of seasoned western lords—the Marbrands, the Leffords, and others whose names carried weight and whose presence alone spoke of wealth, influence, and deliberate intent.
Their journey had been long and carefully orchestrated, each mile a signal of respect, caution, and strategic calculation. They had come at the direct command of King Tyland Lannister, to show a statement of power wrapped in the guise of courtesy due to the increasing trade from Raventree hall to the west, and Casterly Rock itself. With their attendance framed as a gesture of goodwill—a public affirmation of friendship between the Rock and Raventree.
The delegation from the west had been personally welcomed by Daveth himself, because of the high station of the newcomers as any other person would be to low of a rank, and it would seem as and insult. But also because Daveth was personally familiar with prince Tommen as they had met and talked during the tourney where Daveth had made his fame from.
Prince Tommen was a tall, comely man, broad of frame and fair of face, bearing unmistakably the look of House Lannister. His hair—bright as beaten gold—fell in smooth waves to his shoulders, catching the light of torches and chandeliers alike. His eyes were a clear, discerning green, sharp but not cold, thoughtful rather than cruel. There was a natural grace to his posture, the quiet assurance of one raised from birth to stand before courts and councils.
Unlike his younger brother, prince Joffrey Lannister, Tommen did not carry himself with restless arrogance or brittle pride. No, he moved with measured calm. He spoke politely, listened attentively, and treated even lesser lords with a courtesy that seemed rather genuine rather than rehearsed.
Yet his humility was by no means a sign of weakness.
There was steel beneath the skin. When pressed, his gaze hardened, and his words—though never raised in volume—could cut cleanly through argument and excuse alike. He did not need to shout to command a room; his authority lay in restraint.
Daveth had often thought that Tommen bore a striking resemblance to a younger version of Tyland Lannister from House of the Dragon. The same golden bearing, the same composed expression that masked careful thought. But in temperament, he was much closer to Kevan Lannister. From Game of Thornes. Pragmatic, steady, and loyal to family above all else. A man who understood that power was best exercised quietly, through influence and patience rather than spectacle
As Prince Tommen was given guest right and led inside his gaze swept the hall with open curiosity rather than disdain. His sharp eyes lingered on the crimson leaves of the weirwood banners, on the assembled nobility and kings, and finally on the young monarch-to-be, whose rise had already shaken the power balance within the Trident. Beside him, the Marbrands and Leffords remained silent, speaking little, their expressions unreadable, their watchful eyes taking in every detail of the ceremony.
Even without words, their presence carried weight: a reminder that the Blackwoods had connections as far as to Casterly Rock it self. Which made some assmbled lords uneazy.
--------------------------------------------------------------- Scene Break --------------------------------------------------------------------
Soon the coronation ceremony began and everyone was ushered into the great hall of Raventree. All eyes now turned toward the dais, where banners of House Blackwood was hung. Heavy and proud, their fabric steeped in generations of Blackwood history. The black raven sigil loomed above all, wings spread beneath the crimson leaves of the weirwood, a stark emblem against the high stone walls. Beneath it, a kingdom waited—uncertain, watchful, and ready to witness what kind of king would emerge. Every breath in the hall seemed held, every footstep hushed, as if even the stones themselves were attuned to the weight of the moment.
Banners of House Blackwood hung from the rafters, ravens in flight beneath the gnarled branches of the ancient weirwood, stirring gently in the warm currents rising from a dozen roaring hearth fires. Lords and retainers stood shoulder to shoulder along the stone walls, their darkened cloaks clinging damply from melted snow, boots leaving faint impressions in the cold, polished stone. Men-at-arms formed precise lines along the pillars, their polished mail catching the firelight, spears grounded with disciplined stillness, eyes fixed unflinchingly on the dais.
Behind them, some specialy selected crowd of smallfolk had been gathered in solemn honor. This was not a spectacle reserved only for kings and lords, but a moment meant for the people as well—the farmers and laborers, the smiths and woodcutters, the families who had endured raids, winters, and the tyranny of distant lords. They had come to witness the monarch-to-be who had brought peace where there had been war, security where there had been fear, and prosperity where there had once been only hardship. Faces were drawn, wary, hopeful; eyes wide with awe, glimmering in the firelight. Many believed that this boy—this king—would carry that peace forward for decades to come, his hand steady where so many before had faltered.
At the far end of the great hall stood the ancient seat of the Blackwood kings. The throne, carved from dark oak, seemed to drink in the firelight, its surface polished smooth by centuries of hands that had ruled, counseled, and judged from its heights. Ravens and twisting branches were worked into its high back and arms, their forms both elegant and severe, worn not by neglect but by the immense weight of generations who had sat there before, shaping the fate of the Blackwood lands and the Riverlands beyond.
Beside the throne, Maester Cyrwin stood, his chain glinting faintly in the flickering flames, each link a quiet testament to knowledge, service, and vigilance. At his side, Prince Tytos Blackwood—Daveth's uncle—stood tall, solemn, and composed, the lines of happiness and pride etched deep into his face. In his hands, resting upon a cushion of black and red velvet, lay the crown of House Blackwood: ancient, revered, and unlike any other in all of Westeros. Which is not said lightly.
Most kings across the continet of westeros wore a crown made from either gold or iron. With different kinds of jewles and gems inscribed upon. Symbols of wealth or war. Rare exceptions existed— such as the Gardeners, who had crowned themselves with woven vines and flowers in times of peace, and iron or bronze in times of conflict.
The Starks of Winterfell boasted a crown made from Valyrian steel, a thing of fearsome beauty and envy amongs the other great houses. Yet the Blackwood crown was different. For it was not made of gold or iron, it wasn't even made to glimmer in the sun or dazzle with gilded pride. No, for it was made from another materiel, a material that is deeply rooted into the history of westeros itself.
Obsidian
Smooth and dark as a starless night, the circlet caught the firelight in sharp, glassy reflections. In more distant, eastern lands it would have been called dragonglass; here, it was simply a gift from the old gods, a relic of a time when the forests themselves had shaped the fate of men.
The band was thin yet unbroken, its surface worked into subtle, intricate shapes: leaves curling and twisting, talons grasping, each edge honed with a precision no human smith could ever fully match. Dark red rubies glimmered like frozen drops of blood, scattered across the crown with deliberate care, each gem catching the light as if it remembered the countless kings who had worn the circlet before.
The Blackwood crown was not merely a symbol of rule—it was a testament of a enduring legacy. As it rested on the cushion, it seemed to hum with the memory of every hand that had ever touched it, every vow that had been sworn beneath it, and every life that had been lived in its shadow.
Though obsidian was said to shatter easily, this crown did not. No, for the crown was said to be as hard as iron—harder still, some believed—its strength defying the very nature of obsidian itself.
Legend claimed it had been given to House Blackwood in the dawn of days, when they were still Kings of the Wolfswood in the far North, long before their exile. A child of the forest, so the old stories claimed, had fashioned it by hand and gift, shaping it for a Blackwood king who had once saved it and later on swore before the old gods to guard the ancient ways and protect the deep, sacred places of the First Men and the Children of the Forest.
Whether truth or myth, the crown had endured. It had passed from brow to brow through uncounted generations, carried south when the Blackwoods were driven from the North, borne through war, loss, and millenia of survival. It had never been lost. Never shattered. Never yielded to time. It had crowned kings when House Blackwood ruled forests untouched by steel, and it would be worn once more now, as it had always been.
The great doors of the hall groaned open, their iron hinges crying out like distant thunder rolling across stone. Every head turned toward the widening seam of light that cut across the chamber floor with conversation faltered.
Through it stepped a column of heavily armed men.
They moved in tight formation, disciplined and deliberate, boots striking the stone in measured rhythm. Mail shimmered beneath dark cloaks, and the hilts of well-used blades rose above their shoulders. Their expressions were hard, ferocious in their stillness—men who had seen battle and survived it. They did not glance at the gathered assmebly of lords nor did they bow. They just guarded the lone figure at their center with silent precision.
They were the Raven's teeth.
Whispers rippled through the hall, and even some more weak willed lords cowered at the sight of them. The Raven's teeth were not some ceremonial guards. They were not ornaments for courtly display. They were veterans—Daveth's chosen blades—men whose loyalty had been forged in blood and fire.
At the heart of their formation walked the lone figure they protected.
He stood near six and a half feet tall, broad of shoulder and straight of back, his presence commanding without the need for proclamation. His sky-blue eyes were steady and unyielding, sweeping across the hall with calm authority. There was no uncertainty in his stride, no hesitation in the set of his jaw.
It was Daveth.
Daveth wore a tunic of deep velvet, dark as raven's wings, its cut simple yet unmistakably regal. The only adornment upon him was a heavy wool cloak, fastened at the shoulder by a clasp of black ravens wrought in dark metal, their wings frozen in mid-flight. Gold, silver, and fine jewels adorned his body, a dazzling display of the vast wealth of House Blackwood and a radiant symbol of the dawning of a new age.
He stepped down the center of the great hall with the Raventeeth following. His boots ringing softly against stone worn smooth by millennia of passing feet. Each measured step echoed, carrying with it the memory of generations long dead—kings, lords, knights and rulers who had walked this same path before him.
Every eye followed him now. From kins such as his aunt Ellys, his cousins Lucas and Eleanor, his uncle Tytos followed by his other family such as the Mallisters. Not with the idle curiosity once given to a prince, but with the full, unspoken gravity reserved for a king. Lords, pirnces and kings who had come to either judge a potential ally—or a future foe. Smallfolk who had prayed for his safety when war raged and feared his loss as their own. Vassals lords such as lord Tristan who had marched beneath his banners, bled at his command, and conquered in his name.
All of them watched.
Daveth felt their gaze settle upon him—not as scrutiny, not as doubt, but as a mantle laid across his shoulders. Heavy. Earned. Inescapable.
And he bore it without faltering.
At the far end of the hall, beneath the banners of House Blackwood, he came to a halt and sank to one knee before the ancient throne. Its dark oak seemed to pulse with the weight of millennia, polished smooth by kings long dead, yet somehow eternal. The Raven's teeth followed as they reached the center of the hall, forming a protective ring around him.
The murmur of the nobles fell into silence. And in that stillness, it was clear to all assembled: whatever boy they once knew was gone.
And a ruler stood in his place.
Maester Cyrwin stepped forward, his chain of office catching the firelight, the soft clink of silver rings upon its links marking each measured step. Age etched into the old man's face, but his voice was steady and resonant as he spoke.
"Today, we have come together on this joyous occasion to welcome a new era for House Blackwood. Today, we have come together to crown Daveth Blackwood, the First of His Name!."
His uncle stepped forward, solemn and composed, and presented the crown to Maester Cyrwin.
Cyrwin received it with measured reverence, then turned and lifted the obsidian circlet high above his head, so that all within the hall might see.
The hall seemed to hold its breath, as if even the stones themselves awaited the moment. The obsidian circlet descended slowly, dark and gleaming, catching the firelight in sharp, glassy reflections. It settled upon Daveth's brow as though it had been crafted for him alone—the weight firm yet natural, heavy not with gold or jewels, but with history, with responsibility, with the blood of generations.
The carvings of ravens and weirwood leaves seemed to shift in the flickering light, alive with memory and oath.
Maester Cyrwin stepped back, his voice ringing through the hall.
"Hail Daveth Blackwood! The First of His Name—King of Raventree! Lord of the Red Fork! Protector of the Blackwood Vale!"
For a heartbeat, the hall remained utterly silent, as though the walls themselves were absorbing the proclamation, testing its truth against centuries of memory before finally erupting in cheers.
Daveth rose.
He did so slowly, deliberately, allowing the weight of the silence to linger before breaking it. He did so as people continued cheering, their sound echoing in the great hall. He lifted his gaze and took in the hall before him: firelight flickering across ancient stone, banners stirring softly in the warmed air, snow-melt dripping from boots and cloaks onto the worn flagstones. Faces looked back at him—etched with pride, envy, happiness and calculation in equal measure. Each glance carried a story, each bowed head a promise.
The crown sat heavy upon his brow—not burdensome, not cruel, but unmistakably present. Its weight was the weight of duty: of lives entrusted to his judgment, of vengeance already taken, of peace won at great cost and now held in fragile balance.
The era of Willem Blackwood has ended and from it's ashes a new era has arrived, the era of Daveth Blackwood.