RAVENTREE HALL
Late 1,384 B.AC
Daveth sat upon the ancient throne of House Blackwood, a very unusual thorne for it was a seat carved from pale weirwood tree centuries before his birth. Its gnarled branches formed the arms of the throne, worn smooth by the hands and weight of generations of forebears who had ruled before him. Upon his brow rested the obsidian crown—a stark circlet of black stone whose jagged points seemed to swallow the light cast by the hall's torches, with the red rubies gleaming in the light.
Above him, the vaulted rafters disappeared into darkness, while long banners of black, white and crimson hung perfectly still in the heavy air. Upon each was embroidered the black raven and the white wierwood tree of House Blackwood, with the raven spreading it's wings wide as if silently bearing witness to the birth of another reign. The scent of woodsmoke drifted through the hall, mingling with the earthy smell of ancient stone and polished oak.
The great hall of Raventee Hall was almost filled from end to end, despite the castle's recent expansion. Representatives from almost every house and kingdom in the Riverlands had come and some from beyond, despite it being winter. Their watchful gaze falling upon the throne and the youth, no not a youth any longer. Their gaze falling upon the man now sitting on it. Some faces in the hall bore pride while others had uncertainty and a hint of concealed ambition behind carefully practiced smiles. All understood the gravity of this day.
A kingdom and a house once thought weakened and on the verge of destruction due to the unexpected death of the heir to the throne and the sudden attack of the Brackens had instead flourished beyond all expectation. Rather than falling into ruin, House Blackwood had emerged stronger than ever before, destroying their ancient rivals and doubling their lands throughout the Riverlands. Their rise had upset the balance of power, and after nearly fifteen years of uneasy peace, tensions across the region had begun to stir once more.
The prosperity of the Blackwood realm had not gone unnoticed. Well-kept stone roads stretched across their lands, carrying merchants and travelers under the watchful protection of the king's soldiers. Trade flourished, harvests grew richer with each passing year, and villages became bustling market towns as wealth flowed steadily into the kingdom.
Yet the greatest surprise to visiting lords and envoys was the city of Ravenna and the mighty castle of Raventree itself.
In little more than a couple of years, Ravenna had grown into a thriving city of nearly eighty thousand souls, becoming one of the greatest centers of trade in Westeros and the beating heart of commerce in the Riverlands. Towering above it all stood Raventree, no longer merely the seat of House Blackwood, but a fortress worthy of kings. Larger and stronger than ever before, its towering walls and formidable keeps rivaled those of some of the most powerful houses in the Seven Kingdoms.
A great castle was more than stone and mortar—it was a symbol of a house's wealth, power, and ambition. As the representatives of the great kingdoms looked upon Raventree's towering walls, they could not help but wonder just how much stronger House Blackwood had become. It was a thought they would carry home to their kings.
Though the kitchens labored without pause and servants hurried to prepare the coronation feast, there remained one final rite before the celebrations could commence. It was a custom older and so deeply ingrained into westerosi tradition, , the lords of House Blackwood would speak the ancient words that had bound their loyalty, blood, sword and obediance to their kings for generations.
One by one, the sworn lords of House Blackwood would step forweard and would come before their new king, and beneath the gazes of their fellow lords would kneel down on the cold stone. There, with one hand upon the hilt of their sword and the other laid over their heart, they would renew the ancient oath spoken by their father, grandfather and their grandfather's father before him. An unbroken chain stretching back through countless generations—an oath that, in time, their own sons and grandsons would kneel to swear as well.
It was more than ceremony. With those words they would pledge their lands, their banners, and the swords of their houses to the new king who now sat upon the weirwood throne of House Blackwood. Only when the last lord had risen from his knees and the final oath had been spoken would Daveth's coronation be complete, and he would from now on be King Daveth Blackwood. The King of Raventree, Lord of the Red Fork and Protector of the Blackwood Vale.
Only then would the crown truly be his.
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Before the throne stood the lords of House Blackwood, clad in their finest silks and wool, their cloaks fastened with silver brooches and their swords hanging proudly at their sides. Each had come adorned in the wealth and honor of his house, for none wished to shame either his own name or that of his king before the greatest gathering the Riverlands had seen since the days of House Justman.
Daveth's gaze passed over them, calm and unwavering. Beneath the obsidian crown rested not only the burden of a kingdom, but the legacy of those who had worn it before him. The great hall fell silent.
The first to step forward was Lord Preston Blanetree. Age had silvered his hair and his back but most defenitly not his presence. He came first on account of his seniority—uncle to Daveth's father, Benjen, and toTytos, brother to Daveth's grandmother, and a long steady hand within the house's inner workings, such as being the spymaster that would help ensure that House Blackwood continued to be well informed and protected from any plot. None doubted his loyalty, nor his skill in overseeing the quiet network of spies and whispers that keeps House Blackwood informed.
He knelt without hesitation, drawing his sword and swore anew his fealty, the same one he swore to Daveth's grandfather Willem so many years ago.
"I, Preston Blanetree, Lord of Greenford Keep, swear my fealty to King Daveth of House Blackwood and to his future lawful heirs. I pledge my loyalty, and shall defend your crown against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. This I swear before the Old Gods and the New."
"Then rise, Lord Preston," Daveth said. "Rise as a loyal lord of my realm."
Lord Preston inclined his head, rose from one knee, offered a final bow to his king, and returned to his place among the assembled lords.
The person to kneel after Blanetree was Lord Tristan Ryger, brother to Lady Cassana née Blackwood, who was also wife to Tytos, uncle to Lucas and Eleanor. Making him in turn a direct relative to the crown and to Daveth himself. He carried himself with composed dignity as he bent the knee before Daveth and spoke his oath clearly for all to hear.
"I, Tristan Ryger, Lord of Willow Wood, promise to be faithful to King Daveth, and his future heirs. I pledge fealty to you and shall defend against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and New".
Daveth said the same thing he said to Preston Blanetree to Tristan Ryger, after Lord Tristan stood, bowed before his king, and returned to his place as the line continued.
Then came the lesser lords, masters of small keeps and modest lands whose banners seldom flew beyond their own borders. One by one they knelt before the throne, spoke the ancient words as their fathers had before them, and returned to their places. Few paid them much heed, for theirs were not the great names of the realm, yet their oaths were no less binding beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods.
The hall had already begun to loosen beneath the promise of celebration. Servants lingered near the walls with brimming pitchers of mulled wine, waiting only for the signal to begin. Musicians stood ready in the gallery, hands resting lightly upon harp strings and drumheads. The smell of roasted meats drifted faintly from the kitchens beyond the great doors, warm and inviting against the cold breath of winter that still crept through the ancient stones of Raventree Hall.
Then Daveth raised a hand.
He did not rise from the throne, nor did he need to speak. That single, deliberate gesture was enough.
The murmurs died at once. A laugh faded unfinished, a goblet lingered halfway to a lord's lips, and conversation gave way to silence. It spread through the hall until only the crackle of the hearths and the soft drip of melted snow upon the stone remained. Beneath the banners of House Blackwood, the great hall stood still, waiting for what would come next.
Daveth sat straight-backed upon the ancient wierwood throne, the obsidian crown dark against his brow. Firelight caught in its polished surface, casting sharp, glasslike reflections across his face. In that moment he did not look like a boy newly crowned. He looked composed, deliberate, and entirely aware of the weight he carried.
His gaze moved across the people in the room before settling with quiet intent.
"Uncle," he said, his voice steady and carrying to the furthest wall, "come forward and kneel."
A murmur of confusion swept through the hall. Lords exchanged uncertain glances, brows furrowed as they waited to see what would follow.
Yet Tytos Blackwood did not hesitate.
He stepped forward from his place beside the dais, boots striking softly against the worn stone floor. The lords parted slightly to allow his passage, their eyes following him with sharp curiosity. When he reached the foot of the throne, he lowered himself to one knee with controlled dignity and bowed his head.
It was not long before Daveth spoke once more.
"Uncle," Daveth said quietly, his voice carrying through the silent hall, "I do not think I have ever truly thanked you."
His eyes met Tytos's, and for a moment the king seemed less a ruler than the boy he had once been.
"When my father fell into depression the weight of a kingdom was placed upon shoulders too young to bear it, you never sought to carry that burden for me. Instead, you taught me how to carry it myself. You stood beside me through every council, every lesson, every mistake. You taught me that a king must listen before he commands, think before he acts, and never mistake kindness for weakness."
A faint smile touched Daveth's lips.
"When doubt clouded my judgment, you gave me clarity. When grief threatened to consume me, you reminded me of my duty. When others saw only a boy, you made certain they would one day see a king. You corrected me when I erred, praised me only when I had earned it, and never once allowed me to settle for less than the crown demanded of me."
He paused, the silence in the hall growing heavier with every word.
"Everything this kingdom has become, the victory we have won, every hardship we have endured... I did not face them alone. Your counsel has guided this realm as surely as mine. There is not a stone laid upon these roads, not a harvest gathered from these fields, nor a banner flying over these lands that has not, in some measure, borne the mark of your wisdom."
Daveth inclined his head.
"For that, Uncle... and for all the years you gave in service to me, to my father, and to House Blackwood, I thank you."
"You have done more for this house than any man could have been asked to do," Daveth continued. "Not for glory, nor for reward, but because it was your duty. You gave your years to my grandfather, to my father, and when they couldn't be there for me in certain times you were there. You asked for nothing in return."
Tytos smiled faintly.
"Only now do I see the countless burdens you carried in silence, the sacrifices you made so that I might stand here today. I cannot repay those years, nor all that you have done for me. But I can ensure that neither you nor your children are forgotten."
The hall remained utterly still.
"It is not fitting that a man who has done so much for House Blackwood, should leave his descendants, my beloved cousins, with only a modest inheritance. You have earned far more than that."
Daveth's voice rang clear across the hall.
"Therefore, by my authority as King, I grant to you, Tytos Blackwood, and to your lawful heirs after you, the castle of Stone Hedge, once the seat of House Bracken, together with all its attended lands, villages, and rights, to hold in perpetuity beneath the Crown of House Blackwood to the end of times. To found a cadet branch of House Blackwood".
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then applause broke like distant thunder rolling across the stone. Lords struck their hands together. Men-at-arms grounded their spear shafts with sharp rhythm. Even some of the smallfolk allowed themselves a cheer. The birth of a new house was no small matter. It was legacy made tangible.
Yet beneath the sound of approval lay currents more complex.
Daveth watched them all carefully. Pride shone openly upon the faces of his cousins. Relief softened the expression of his aunt Ellys. Others hid their thoughts behind careful masks, their eyes weighing the meaning of what had just been granted. And among them, subtle but unmistakable, was unease.
His gaze settled upon the King of the Cape of Eagles, his uncle, Jason Mallister. The older man's expression remained calm, yet thoughtful. He knew well that the rise of cadet branches was not without its dangers.
History had shown that even those born of the same blood could one day become rivals. The tale of House Greystark still lingered in the minds of many—a branch of House Stark that had grown too powerful, too quickly, until ambition turned their swords against the very kin they were sworn to serve.
It was a lesson no wise ruler would ever forget.
Daveth had considered that history carefully.
Stone Hedge was a great seat that was true as it was one of the most remarkable in the Riverlands, a seat worthy of respect which would suffice as a reward, but he had not granted his uncle an entire realm of his own. No, for the lands given to Tytos were no greater than those held by other sworn houses of the Blackwoods. No larger than the holdings of the Blanetrees or the Rygers. It was enough to restore dignity, to honor a man who had given so much, but not enough to ever stand as a rival to Raventree Hall should the day ever come.
Yet this was not merely a matter of calculation.
Tytos deserved Stone Hedge because he was family. He had stood beside Daveth through the hardest years of his life, guiding him when the crown felt too heavy and offering wisdom when he lacked it. He had been there not only as a counselor, but as an uncle—comforting him through the grief of losing Benjen and Alys, and reminding him that even kings were allowed moments of sorrow.
For all that Tytos had given him, Daveth believed he deserved no less.
Daveth's attention soon returned to the kneeling figure before him. "Have you chosen a name for your new house?" he asked. At that his uncle lifted his head.
"Aye, Your Grace. It shall be House Blackstone of Stone Hedge."
A low murmur passed through the hall at the sound of the name.
Blackstone.
It was a name that carried both legacy and promise. The Black came from the ancient blood of House Blackwood, a reminder of the roots from which they had grown, while the Stone came from their new seat of Stone Hedge, a symbol of the strength and permanence they hoped to build.
It honored their past without being bound entirely by it. They would remain kin of House Blackwood, forever tied by blood and history, yet they would stand as their own house with their own banners, their own legacy, and their own place among the lords of the Riverlands.
Daveth inclined his head once in approval. "It is a fitting name."
In truth, the matter had been planned long before this day. Daveth had not reached this decision on a whim, nor had the creation of a new house been something spoken of lightly. He had discussed the matter at length with Tytos and Maester Cyrwin, weighing both the honor it would bring and the risks that came with granting a cadet branch its own name and seat.
Every detail had been considered.
The banners had already been designed, the sigil chosen, and the lands surrounding Stone Hedge carefully surveyed. The strength of the holding, its resources, and the number of men it could raise had all been measured before the decree was ever spoken. Daveth knew that creating a new house was not merely a reward—it was the beginning of a legacy that could last for centuries.
A decision of such magnitude could not be left to impulse or sentiment alone. It required foresight, patience, and careful calculation, for the bloodline he created today would one day shape the future of House Blackwood itself.
(PS: The Blackstone banner is a large black tree on a field of red sitting atop a stone with its deep dark roots digging into the stone. With no ravens)
Daveth rose slowly from the throne, the movement drawing every eye once more. "Then rise," he said, his voice carrying the authority of law. "Rise, Lord Tytos Blackstone, Lord of Stone Hedge."
Tytos stood.
Not merely as the uncle of the king. Not merely as a prince of House Blackwood. But as the founder of a new house, one that would rise beneath the shadow of the old and carve its own place into history.
The thought was not lost on Daveth. The Brackens would have lost their mind at what had become of their ancestral home, their proud halls now passing into the hands of the very family they had fought for millenia.
Though, Daveth thought, it mattered little now.
The Brackens were gone, their banners fallen and their bloodline ended. Stone Hedge remained, and it would not stand empty. It would serve a new purpose, under a new name, carrying the legacy of those who had claimed it rather than those who had lost it.
Tytos rose unhurriedly and made his way back toward his family, the low murmur of gathered lords and ladies trailing off behind him like the dying echo of distant surf. One by one, voices faltered into silence. The expectant hush that followed seemed to press against the vaulted ceiling of the great hall itself.
Torchlight guttered along the ancient stone walls, flames bending and straightening in restless drafts. Their glow shimmered across polished helms and gilded breastplates, caught the facets of emerald pendants and ruby-studded goblets, and stretched long, wavering shadows over the rush-strewn floor. The scent of smoke and hot wax mingled with roasted meats and spiced wine, hanging thick in the air. Every eye followed Daveth.
He did not rush. His measured steps carried him to the center of the dais, where he turned at last to face the assembly. For a heartbeat he said nothing, letting his gaze travel across the sea of banners and bright surcoats.
"My lords," Daveth began, lifting one hand—not sharply, but with quiet authority. Though none had dared to interrupt, the gesture sealed the stillness. His voice carried easily, steady and resonant, filling the chamber without strain. "Before we set aside matters of crown and sword, before we turn our thoughts to feast and revelry, there are oaths yet unspoken and honors yet to be granted."
A ripple of confusion stirred the crowd—subtle, but unmistakable.
Daveth paused deliberately, allowing the weight of his words to settle like a mailed fist upon the hall. He let the silence stretch, let anticipation coil and draw taut. In that charged stillness, beneath the flicker of torchlight and the watchful eyes of friend and foe alike, it was clear that this night had not yet yielded its final decree.
"I would have Kevan, master-at-arms, and lord Rodrick Terrick step forward and kneel before the throne."
Bootsteps echoed across the hall as the two men advanced. Kevan, stern and battle-worn, bore himself with the quiet confidence of a seasoned commander. Beside him walked Lord Rodrick Terrick, cautious and uneasy, his cloak marked with the sigil of his house. Together they came before the dais and bent the knee.
Daveth descended a single measured step from the throne—not so far as to diminish the crown he wore, yet enough to show that the oath about to be spoken was not taken lightly. The movement drew every eye in the chamber. Gold and scarlet banners stirred faintly in the torchlit air, and the scrape of boots against stone echoed and then fell away into silence.
"Lord Rodrick Terrick," Daveth declared, his voice carrying across the great hall, "for generations, your house stood beside House Bracken and raised its banners against my own. The blood of Blackwood and Terrick was spilled upon the same fields, not once, but many times, as our ancestors fought for old grievances and ancient claims."
He allowed the silence that followed to linger.
"But the world has changed. The wars of our fathers need not become the wars of our sons. A wise lord knows when to hold a grudge, and a wiser one knows when to set it aside. The strength of a realm is not built upon endless vengeance, but upon loyalty, unity, and the willingness of great houses to look beyond the wounds of the past."
Daveth's gaze remained fixed upon Lord Rodrick.
"House Terrick has endured when others have fallen. You have held your lands, preserved your name, and kept your banners standing through years of uncertainty. That resilience is not something I seek to punish, but something I seek to bind to my own."
He leaned slightly forward upon the weirwood throne.
"Today, before the eyes of the Riverlands, I offer House Terrick the chance to begin anew. Not as enemies of Blackwood, nor as remnants of an older conflict, but as sworn lords beneath my crown. Your lands shall remain yours, your name shall remain yours, and your swords shall be honored as those of loyal men rather than remembered as those of former foes."
His voice hardened.
"But such a bond requires more than words. It requires trust. If you accept this place among my vassals, then speak your oath before this court. Let every lord gathered here witness that House Terrick binds its lands, its swords, and its future to House Blackwood."
The hall waited in silence for Lord Rodrick's answer.
A breath seemed to pass through the chamber like a wind through dry leaves.
Without the slightest pause, Rodrick Terrick stepped forward. There was no hesitation in his stride, no lingering glance toward the gathered lords, no sign that the weight of generations pressed upon his shoulders. Whatever doubts he had carried into the hall had been left beyond its doors.
Before the throne, he sank smoothly to one knee. The muted scrape of steel against leather was the only sound that accompanied the movement as he bowed his head in solemn submission.
"I, Rodrick Terrick, Lord of Castle Terrick," he declared, his voice firm and unwavering, "do swear my fealty to King Daveth Blackwood and to House Blackwood. From this day forth, I shall serve you faithfully. I shall defend your person, your lands, and your rights against all enemies, known and unknown. I shall keep your counsel, uphold your peace within my domains, and answer your summons with all the strength of my house."
He lifted his head, meeting the king's eyes without flinching.
"I pledge to you the swords of House Terrick, the loyalty of my people, and my own life, should duty demand it. This I swear before gods and men, by the Old Gods and the New."
His words rang clearly through the great hall, leaving no room for doubt. The oath had been given freely, without reluctance or reservation. A hush lingered over the assembled court before murmurs began to spread among the gathered lords. Whatever they thought of the old feud between Blackwood and Terrick, they had all witnessed the same thing: Lord Rodrick Terrick had bent the knee without hesitation, and House Terrick now stood among the sworn vassals of House Blackwood.
When the oath was given, Daveth inclined his head in grave acceptance. The gesture was restrained, regal, yet unmistakably binding. In that simple nod, the allegiance was sealed—before gods and men alike.
"Then rise, Lord Terrick, sworn man of my crown," Daveth proclaimed.
Rodrick obeyed, rising from his knee as the Daveth continued, his tone measured but not unkind. "Your lands, your titles, and your ancient rights shall remain yours, so long as your loyalty does not falter. Stand firm beside me, and you shall find no truer ally in this realm."
He turned then, the heavy folds of his cloak whispering across the stone, and fixed his gaze upon Kevan.
"And you, Kevan—faithful servant, proven in war and steadfast in counsel—your valor at the Fork has not gone unseen." His voice deepened, carrying both memory and iron. "When the river ran red and banners fell in the mud, you did not yield. You did not retreat. You held."
A faint tightening crossed his expression.
"With Lord Randyll Lolliston fallen upon that bloody field, and his kin scattered to exile in distant courts and foreign lands, the keep and holdings of House Lolliston stand without a master."
A murmur rippled outward through the hall—soft, speculative, edged with anticipation. Lords leaned toward one another, whispering of fortunes rising and old names extinguished.
Daveth did not allow the murmurs to swell. He raised his hand, and silence returned.
"By my authority as king, I grant you the keep of Lolliston, with all its lands, incomes, vassals, and rights, to hold for yourself and for your heirs for all time. What was broken in war shall be reforged in loyalty."
He gestured to a waiting herald. With deliberate ceremony, the man stepped forward and unfurled a crimson-and-silver standard. The fabric caught the torchlight, its new sigil gleaming bright where an older one had once flown.
"From this day forth, you shall found a new house—House Redbrook. Let the old banners be lowered, and yours raised in their stead. May the rivers run strong beneath your rule, and may your walls never again tremble with treachery."
Kevan bowed deeply, lower than before, the enormity of the grant settling upon him like armor newly clasped. The weight of land, of legacy, of expectation—these were burdens no sword-arm could bear lightly.
"But loyalty," Daveth continued, his gaze sweeping between the two men who now stood bound to him by word and by fortune, "is not forged by words alone. Nor is it secured by land and title."
He let the silence stretch, sharp and deliberate.
"It must be strengthened by blood."
The implication settled heavily over the gathered lords with them nodding in understanding.
"To bind your houses beyond doubt or rumor, beyond whisper or intrigue, I decree a marriage between Kevan's son, Eddard, and Lord Rodrick Terrick's daughter. Their union shall stand as living proof of trust and shared destiny. Through them, your houses shall be joined—by oath, by land, and by blood."
Applause followed—only solemn acknowledgment. This was not spectacle but cold hard calculation.
Daveth ascended the final step and returned to his throne, reclaiming the height of it as though the realm itself settled back into place beneath him.
He lifted his goblet, the wine within catching the firelight like liquid ruby.
"Rise, Lords Redbrook and Terrick. Take your places at my table now let us feast in its honor."
In truth, this was no simple act of mercy and reward.
It was calculation.
Every lord who had ridden beneath the Bracken banners had either perished upon the Red Fork or fled with what remained of their family. Their halls stood empty, their lands leaderless. A kingdom could not afford such a void. Leave those lands untended, and outlaws, ambitious hedge knights, and quarrelsome neighbors would soon carve them apart. New lords had to be raised if order was to endure.
That was why the neighboring vassal houses of the Blackwoods had each received a portion of the former Bracken domain. Those who already knew the land, its people, and its roads would govern it far better than some strangers ever could. It rewarded loyal service while ensuring the realm remained stable, each house becoming invested in protecting the peace they had been granted.
But there was another reason.
Daveth's eyes swept across the hall, lingering not upon his own bannermen, but upon the gathered envoys and rulers from across the Riverlands. They had come expecting to witness a young king celebrate his coronation. Instead, they were witnessing how he intended to rule.
By sparing old enemies, rewarding loyalty without greed, and offering honorable men a place within his realm regardless of their past allegiances, Daveth was planting a seed in every mind present. If one day his banners crossed into the rest of the Riverlands, the lords who opposed him would remember this day. They would remember that surrender did not mean ruin, that loyalty was repaid, and that he could be both strong enough to conquer and wise enough to forgive.
It was a lesson worth far more than another victory upon a battlefield.
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FInally with the last oath sworn and the final decree proclaimed, the feast at last began.
The great doors of the kitchens swung open as servants streamed into the hall, bearing silver platters laden with every manner of delicacy the kingdom could provide. There were roasted boar glazed with honey, venison seasoned with herbs from the nearby woods, whole river trout wrapped in herbs, buttered turnips, fresh-baked loaves still warm from the ovens, rich meat pies, wheels of aged cheese, and bowls overflowing with berries and orchard fruits. Between each course came sweet pastries, honey cakes, and creamy custards drizzled with blackberry syrup.
Casks of the finest drinks were rolled into the hall. Dark ales and strong liquors from the North stood beside fine Arbor golds, rich Dornish reds, sweet hippocras, whiskey, rum, vodka, all kinds of brandy and lastly many rare vintages that had been brought to Ravenna by wealthy merchants. Goblets were never left empty, servants moving constantly among the tables to refill them.
Soon the solemn silence of the coronation gave way to warmth and celebration. Minstrels filled the hall with lively melodies played upon harps, fiddles, flutes, and drums, while laughter echoed beneath the ancient rafters. Lords toasted old friends and new allies, merchants spoke of fortunes to be made, and nobles from every corner of the Riverlands marveled at the wealth displayed before them.
It was a feast worthy of a king, and one that none present would soon forget. Yet everyone present understood that something far more enduring than celebration had just taken place. King Daveth Blackwood had reshaped the structure of his realm.
As the feast carried on and the music swelled through the great hall, a familiar figure made his way toward the high table.
Prince Tommen Lannister approached with a goblet of rum in hand, a warm smile upon his face.
"Your Grace," he said with a courteous incline of his head. "Allow me to congratulate you on your coronation. It has been a ceremony worthy of remembrance, and a feast worthy of a king."
His green eyes wandered briefly across the hall, where servants moved between the endless rows of tables, goblets overflowed with fine wine, and laughter mingled with the music of harps and fiddles.
"I have attended many feasts in Casterly Rock, Lannisport, and even in HIghgarden" Tommen admitted, "yet I must confess this rivals the finest among them. Your cooks have outdone themselves, and your cellars..." He raised his cup with a faint chuckle. "I suspect some of these vintages are worth more than a knight's ransom."
Daveth smiled. "Ravenna has become a city rich in various things and they insist on bringing their finest wares, and I would have been a poor host had I not shared them."
"So I have noticed," Tommen replied. "The city has grown remarkable and is fast becoming even bigger. Trade is flourishing, your roads are secure, and merchants speak of Ravenna as though it were the next great market of Westeros. It is... impressive."
"It has taken many years," Daveth answered. "Years of planning, investment, and patience. Prosperity is not won in battle alone."
"No," Tommen agreed thoughtfully. "Though it often proves far more valuable."
The prince took another sip of his wine before lowering his voice slightly.
"I imagine there are a number of matters our kingdoms should discuss in the coming days. Trade between the Westerlands and Ravenna could be expanded further, and I believe there are opportunities that would benefit us both."
Daveth gave a small nod.
"I would welcome those discussions. There is always profit to be found when sensible men sit around a table instead of a battlefield."
Tommen laughed softly.
"A sentiment I hope more rulers come to share."
He raised his goblet once more.
"Congratulations again, Your Grace. May your reign be long, prosperous, and peaceful."With that, the Lannister prince offered one final nod before returning to his place among the guests, where fresh wine, fine food, and easy conversation soon reclaimed his attention.
Not long after Prince Tommen had taken his leave, another figure approached the high table.
King Jason Mallister of the Cape of Eagles.
Unlike the others, he came without fanfare. He carried no goblet, nor did he wear the smile of a man caught up in celebration. His expression was warm, but tempered by the wisdom of long years.
"Your Grace," Jason said, inclining his head just enough to honor the crown while still greeting his nephew as kin. "Congratulations."
Daveth rose from his seat and embraced him briefly.
"Thank you, Uncle."
Jason rested a hand upon his shoulder.
"I wish your mother could have seen this day." His eyes wandered across the hall before returning to Daveth. "She would have smiled to see you crowned."
A faint smile crossed Daveth's face.
"And your father..." Jason continued. "Benjen would have been proud beyond words. So too would your grandfather. Everything they fought to preserve has not merely endured—it has flourished. You have turned it into one worth admiring."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jason's expression grew more serious.
"But do not mistake admiration for acceptance."
Daveth's smile faded.
Jason's gaze drifted across the great hall, lingering upon the foreign banners and the visiting rulers' representatives seated among the feast.
"Look around you," he said quietly. "Every kingdom of the Riverlands has sent eyes to witness this day. They have seen your wealth. They have seen your armies, your new roads, your city, your castle, and now the loyalty of your lords. Before this moon has passed, every one of those men will return home and tell their king the same thing."
He paused.
"House Blackwood is no weak kingdom clinging to survival."
His eyes met Daveth's.
"It is becoming a major power, a formidable one at that."
Jason lowered his voice further.
"And powers breed fear."
"They will wonder how long before your ambitions stretch beyond your borders. They will question whether your prosperity is merely the prelude to conquest. Some will seek friendship." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Others will begin sharpening their swords."
Daveth followed his uncle's gaze around the hall.
"I know."
"I believe you do," Jason replied. "But knowing and living through it are different things. The peace we have enjoyed these past years is beginning to crack. Every envoy seated in this hall will carry home more than tales of a magnificent feast. They will carry reports of a a growing kingdom lead by a young king whose realm has grown rich, whose people are loyal, and whose influence reaches farther with every passing year."
He placed a firm hand upon Daveth's shoulder once more.
"A storm is coming, nephew. Perhaps not this year, nor the next... but it is coming. When it does, remember everything that we may know may get destroyed. So be creful nephewthat kingdoms are not undone because they lack strength. They fall when their rulers forget that every victory changes the fears of their neighbors."
Jason's stern expression softened.
"But for tonight, let them talk. You have earned this day."
He offered Daveth a proud smile before clasping his forearm.
"Your mother, your father, and your grandfather would all be proud of the man you have become."
With those words, the King of the Cape of Eagles gave a final nod and returned to the feast, leaving Daveth alone with both the praise... and the warning.
Many others came forward throughout the evening to offer their congratulations.
His cousins Lucas and Eleanor Blackwood were among the first, embracing him warmly and they were followed by his Mallister cousins, Denys and Cassana, who brought well wishes from the Cape of Eagles.
His aunt Ellys offered a quiet embrace, telling him that both Alys and Benjen would have been proud to see him crowned.
Lords, knights, merchants, and captains followed in an almost endless procession. Some came to toast the new king, others to present gifts or seek a brief audience, and many simply wished to offer their respects. Daveth greeted each with patience and courtesy, sharing a few words before the next guest stepped forward.
By the time the evening drew on, the faces had begun to blur together, but the goodwill shown by his family and subjects alike was something he would remember long after the feast had ended.
-------------------
The celebrations did not end with a single night.
For three days and three nights, Raventree Hall remained alive with feasting, music, and merriment. Every morning the halls were filled anew with the aroma of fresh bread, roasted meats, and sweet pastries, while each evening the tables groaned beneath fresh courses and overflowing cups of wine and ale. Minstrels, singers, and mummers entertained the gathered nobles, tournaments of archery and friendly contests of arms filled the castle yards, and throughout it all, old friendships were renewed and new alliances quietly forged.
Yet even the grandest celebrations must come to an end.
On the fourth morning, the great courtyard of Raventree Hall stirred with activity as wagons were loaded, horses saddled, and banners unfurled. One by one, the lords and ladies took their leave, offering their farewells to the new Raven King before setting out through the castle gates.
The lords and envoys returned to their own realms, accompanied by their knights and retainers who had witnessed the coronation. The great lords of House Blackwood rode back to their castles and keeps, while the lesser nobility departed for their villages and manors, carrying tales of the coronation to every corner of the kingdom.
Soon the roads that had been crowded with noble processions began to empty once more. Raventree Hall grew quieter with each passing hour until, by the setting of the sun, only the king's household and permanent garrison remained within its walls.
The feast was over.
But the memory of it—and the stories carried home by every guest who had attended—would travel far beyond the borders of House Blackwood.