RAVENTREE HALL
Late 1,384 B.AC
A few weeks later
Daveth returned to Raventree Hall beneath a sky choked with low, iron-gray clouds. Winter had finally claimed the Riverlands, pressing over the land with a weight that seemed almost physical. Snow fell in slow, swirling sheets, carried by a wind so sharp it cut through his cloak and made the banners of House Blackwood snap and thrash like war-drums along the road. The raven-and-weirwood sigil stood stark against the pale sky, visible long before the walls themselves, a symbol of enduring blood and memory.
Before leaving Stone Hedge, Daveth had ensured that the army was properly dismissed. The hosts that had shattered House Bracken were broken apart with care and discipline—banners furled, companies sent back to their keeps and villages scattered across Blackwood lands. Each man had been promised reward—coin, land, or advancement—once the realm had settled. Victory meant little if it bred complacency. Nor had he left the former Bracken lands unguarded. Blackwood men now stood watch at crossroads, river crossings, and holdfasts throughout the conquered territory, enforcing order where chaos might have taken root. Hostages were taken from the Bracken vassals—not in cruelty, but in necessity. Loyalty, after all, was best secured early.
Of those vassals, only two truly mattered: House Terrick and House Lolliston. The others were little more than landed knights and minor lords, their strength broken and ambition neutered with the fall of their liege. Many had fled into exile with their families; others were stripped of titles, banished, or reduced to irrelevance. House Bracken was no more, and its lands were already being reshaped beneath Blackwood rule.
The road home told its own story. Soldiers lined the way first—men who had marched with Daveth to the Red Fork and returned alive. They stood straighter now, veterans hardened by blood and fire, their scarred faces, missing fingers, and bandaged arms marks of survival rather than glory. They did not cheer. They did not shout. Their training held them still, silent and disciplined, fists pressed to chests and heads bowed as Daveth rode past. Respect and adoration, was their offering.
Beyond them came the smallfolk. They cheered freely, voices rising despite the cold, blessings and prayers spilling from lips red from wind and frost. Some knelt in the snow as he passed, murmuring thanks to the Old Gods; others wept openly. To them, the end of House Bracken was not banners and titles—it was the end of raids, levies, burned fields, and sons marched off to die. Daveth was no longer merely their prince; he was their shield, the living promise that their homes and families were safe at last.
At last, Raventree Hall appeared through the falling snow. Its ancient walls rose from the white like something carved from memory itself, dark stone crowned with watchtowers and torches burning bright despite the pale winter light. The gates stood wide, bells tolling softly, welcoming its prince home.
Daveth rode through the great gatehouse into the courtyard, and the sight struck him harder than expected. The great weirwood still dominated the yard, its bark black and twisted with age, crimson leaves stark against the snow and stone. The branches stretched upward like grasping fingers, ancient and watchful, as though they had borne witness to this moment long before Daveth had drawn his first breath. Snow gathered at its roots, melting slowly against the red-stained leaves. Servants, men-at-arms, and household retainers gathered in hushed clusters as he passed, whispers rippling through the yard. Word of the Battle of the Red Fork had reached Raventree long before him. They knew of the annihilation of House Bracken's army, of the siege and fall of Stone Hedge, of a feud older than memory ended in a single, terrible campaign. Millennia of hatred. Generations of blood. Ended.
Daveth dismounted in the lower yard, handing his reins to a stable boy whose hands trembled as he took them. Awe shone plainly in the boy's eyes. Daveth felt the weight of every gaze upon him, heavier than any armor he had worn. Once, he had been the Blackwood prince—clever, disciplined, dangerous with a blade and sharp of mind. Now, he was something more. Something far heavier. A man who had ended a house. A man who had redrawn the Riverlands. A man who would be remembered—whether in praise or fear. A conqueror.
He did not linger in the yard. He followed the steward into the heart of Raventree Hall. The corridors were achingly familiar—ancient stone warmed by roaring hearths, banners stirring faintly in the draft, the air thick with pine resin, smoke, and old history. Servants lined the passageways as he passed. Some bowed stiffly; others forgot themselves entirely, simply staring. Whispers followed him like ghosts.
The doors to the great hall stood open. Inside, none other than his uncle Tytos, waiting. For a long moment, Daveth did nothing but look at him. Tytos seemed smaller somehow, the weight of grief and duty carving deep lines into his face. His shoulders were drawn tight, his dark hair streaked with gray Daveth did not remember. Yet the instant their eyes met, Tytos crossed the hall in hurried strides, abandoning all pretense of princly restraint. They embraced—hard, sudden, and wordless.
"You came back," Tytos said at last, voice rough. One hand gripped Daveth's shoulder, firm and grounding, as if he needed to feel bone and muscle to believe this was real.
"I did," Daveth replied. His voice was steady, though his chest felt tight. "Thank the Old Gods for that."
Tytos pulled away just enough to look him over, searching for wounds both seen and unseen. "You shouldn't have had to," he said quietly. "Not you. Not so soon."
Daveth met his gaze. "There was no one else." The words hung between them. Tytos nodded once, slowly—acceptance, pride, and sorrow warring openly in his eyes. Behind him stood his aunt Ellys and his cousins. Ellys looked thinner, her face pale with weeks of fear, but her smile was real. She pressed a trembling hand to her lips as though holding back tears. Lucas stared at Daveth with open awe, as if looking at a living legend, while Eleanor lingered close to her mother, tears tracking silently down her cheeks.
Daveth knelt at once, lowering himself to their height. "You're safe," he told them gently. "All of you. I swear it." Lucas straightened at that, chest puffing with pride. Eleanor stepped forward and clutched Daveth's sleeve, nodding through her tears. Daveth rested a hand on her shoulder, warm and solid. For the first time since the war began, something inside him eased. Home.
But the moment could not last. Tytos placed a hand on Daveth's arm, his grip gentler now. "He's awake," he said quietly. "Your grandfather. He's been asking for you."
Daveth's breath caught. "Is he—"
"Alive," Tytos said. "But weak."
That was enough. Daveth rose at once. "Then I'll go to him." Together, they turned away from the warmth of reunion and toward the chamber where the weight of victory—and its cost—waited to be faced.
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Willem's chamber was silent in a way that pressed against the chest, a quiet made heavier by the flickering of low, weak flames and the faint hiss of candle wicks. The air smelled of herbs, smoke, and old stone, heavy with the scent of centuries and sickness. A small fire in the hearth gave off warmth but little light, casting long shadows that trembled across the walls and ceiling.
The old king lay propped against a mound of cushions, blankets drawn high across his chest. The broad shoulders that had once borne his mail, his cloak, the weight of a house, were now narrow and fragile. His skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched over sharp bones, veins like faint ink across his hands. And yet—his eyes. Grey, unyielding, and alive. Sharp, as if they still held the fire of a man who had commanded armies and ruled for decades.
Daveth entered quietly, his boots soft on the stone floor. Willem's head turned slowly, eyes fixing on him. The silence stretched long, until the old king's voice, rough and wheezing, finally broke it.
"There you are," Willem said, each word deliberate, measured. "The victor of the Red Fork."
Daveth went to one knee without hesitation. "Grandfather."
Willem's eyes roamed over him. They lingered on Daveth, the way he carried himself—tall, steady, weighted by responsibility, by the memory of bloodshed, by the unspoken burden of a house now secured. Willem's gaze softened, almost imperceptibly, and then hardened again. "You have done what no Blackwood has been able to do for thousands of years," Willem said at last. "You ended House Bracken. You… finished what generations could not."
Daveth's throat tightened. "I did what had to be done."
A faint, tired smile touched Willem's lips. "Aye, a duty some forget. That is all any of us can ever do. The choice is never easy, and the cost is never small." He coughed softly, then raised a weak hand, gesturing at him. "Stand. You kneel too often, my boy, for a man such as yourself."
Daveth rose, stepping closer. He was careful not to crowd the bed, to respect the fragility of the man who had raised him, who had taught him discipline, strategy, honor and how to properly govern.
"They will tell stories," Willem continued, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Of your march, your trap, of the Red Fork running red. Some will call you hero, some a butcher, craven, cunning and so on… Lies will spread in their own way." He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Remember that. Lies travel fast in Westeros, but the truth… the truth is yours to bear."
His hand, trembling, reached for Daveth's. It was small, frail, but insistent. Daveth clasped it, his own calloused fingers curling around the older, weaker ones.
"I am proud of you, so proud of you, my child," Willem said quietly, almost reverently. "Proud that you protected our people and our lands. Proud that you did not falter when the moment came. Proud… that you came back alive".
The old man's eyes glimmered with unspilled tears, and his grip tightened, fragile but firm. "If only your parents were here to see the man you've become", Willem added, voice softening into something almost like longing.
Daveth felt the weight of the words strike harder than any sword. Pride, grief, and responsibility mingled inside him, making him swallow hard. Victory had brought no joy—not truly. Only weight. Only duty. Only the knowledge that the Blackwood name rested squarely on his shoulders now.
He wanted to speak, to tell his grandfather that it had not been easy, the sheer stress if he would perhaps fail, but words failed him. Instead, he only held his grandfather's hand, drawing a small measure of warmth and solace from it.
Willem watched him for a long moment, then finally let a faint, satisfied smile break across his face, as though seeing the house secure and the boy he had trained fully grown and unbroken was enough to ease the years from his shoulders.
"Rest now," Willem whispered, voice fading, but with a strength that belied his frailty. "You've done well, Daveth. Very well…".
Daveth remained kneeling, silently promising that he would carry the weight, the memory, and the honor of House Blackwood for as long as he lived. For a time, they spoke softly, their voices kept low more out of habit than necessity. They spoke first of the campaign—of the roads taken and those left unguarded, of fields trampled beneath marching boots, of villages that would need grain before winter truly settled in.
Daveth spoke of the garrisons he had placed along the newly conquered lands and the Red Fork, of hostages taken from former Bracken vassals, and of the men left behind to keep order and peace. Willem listened with intent focus, his eyes half-lidded yet sharp, missing nothing. "Do not overburden them," he said quietly at last. "A defeated people will obey out of fear, but they will only serve out of habit. Let them keep their fields. Winter is no time to make enemies of smallfolk."
Daveth inclined his head. "I've ordered grain and foodstuffs sent to the places most at risk. Taxes and levies are suspended until spring."
"Good," Willem murmured. "As long as the smallfolk are fed, safe, and have a roof over their heads, they will not care who rules them. They will remember what we gave them far longer than they will remember the Brackens and the blood."
Willem then asked after men by name and villages by memory, his recall unerring. Once or twice he corrected Daveth, a faint, stubborn smile touching his lips—proof that even now, decades of rule had not loosened their hold on him.
"The mill at Green Hollow," Willem said softly. "That one floods come winter. Best not to station men there." "I'll remember," Daveth replied without hesitation. "See that you do," Willem said, the smile flickering again. "The land will teach you, if you listen closely enough."
They spoke then of justice—of when punishment was necessary and when mercy would serve better, of when a sword was required and when quieter measures would hold longer. Willem's voice grew weaker as the moments passed, but his words carried the same weight they always had.
"He who rules only by fear must always keep his hand on the hilt," he said. "Rule well now, and you may yet sleep with both hands free."
Gradually, the effort of speaking began to show. Willem paused more often, drawing shallow breaths between thoughts. His grip on Daveth's hand loosened, strength fading like embers settling in a dying hearth. His eyes fluttered, heavy now, exhaustion finally claiming what pride had held at bay.
At last, he sighed—a long, weary breath—and his gaze softened.
"Go," Willem murmured. "There will be enough time for councils and judgments." A faint curve touched his lips. "For tonight… be my grandson."
Daveth bowed his head deeply, reverence and affection bound together in the gesture. He gently eased Willem's hand back onto the blankets, careful not to disturb him.
Without another word, Daveth withdrew from the solar, carrying with him not only a victory hard won, but the quiet lessons of a ruler who ruled until the very end, even as his strength failed. Outside the solar, the corridor lay drowned in silence.
The door closed behind Daveth with a muted thud, the sound smothered by thick stone and tapestries faded by centuries of smoke and time. The warmth of the chamber did not follow him. Beyond the threshold, the air was colder—dense, almost expectant—as though the castle itself had felt the words spoken within and chosen to remember them.
Maester Cyrwin waited beneath a guttering wall sconce, its flame wavering and casting long, uncertain shadows across the corridor. He did not step forward. He did not bow. He merely watched Daveth approach—and in that still, unblinking gaze lay every answer Daveth had not yet found the courage to ask.
Daveth halted a few paces away.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
The question carried no ornament, no courtesy. It was stripped bare, like a blade drawn for its final use. Hope had no place in it.
Cyrwin drew a slow, deliberate breath. He folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his grey robes, the links of his chain whispering softly as they settled against one another. For a moment, he said nothing—long enough that Daveth felt the silence press in around his chest.
"Weeks," the maester said at last. "A month, perhaps two, if the gods show mercy." He met Daveth's eyes. "No more than that." The words landed without cruelty, but with unmistakable finality.
Daveth's gaze drifted back to the closed door of the solar. Only moments ago, Willem had spoken clearly. Had corrected him, gently. Had smiled—tired, but warm, unmistakably there. It felt wrong, almost obscene, that a life so present could already be measured in dwindling days.
"Are you sure?" Daveth asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Aye, my prince," Cyrwin replied. "Your grandfather has lived longer than most men are granted." His voice remained steady, practiced. "More than that—he has carried grief few survive. The loss of your father hollowed him in ways no medicine could mend. His body endured only because his will demanded it."
Daveth swallowed, his throat tight. "He knew," he said. It was not accusation—only recognition. Cyrwin nodded once. "For quite some time now."
Silence followed—heavy, oppressive. Daveth felt it settle into him, pressing against memories he had not allowed himself to touch since boyhood.
"He held on for you," the maester continued, his tone softening despite himself. "Every day, he asked after you—where you were, what roads you traveled, whether you were wounded or whole. Every night before sleep, he prayed that you would return in one piece, healthy and strong." Cyrwin paused, as if weighing the words. "I have seen men cling to life for lesser reasons. Never with such purpose."
Daveth's hand curled slowly into a fist. "To see you stand before him again," Cyrwin said, "that gave him peace. It bought him what little time remains."
Daveth exhaled—a long, measured breath, held in check by discipline learned too young. The victory at the Red Fork felt distant now, reshaped into something dull and heavy. Triumph had no meaning here. "Is there truly nothing more to be done?" he asked.
Cyrwin did not look away. "Nothing beside dulling the pain and easing his rest but nothing else my prince. I cannot mend what is already ending." His voice was quiet, but unyielding. "His days are no longer measured by strength, but by moments."
Daveth nodded once.
For a heartbeat, he remained motionless—caught between the boy who had once sat at Willem's knee, listening to stories of old kings and lost wars, and the man the realm now demanded he be. Grief threatened to pull him backward. Duty urged him forward.
At last, he straightened.
His shoulders squared—not in defiance of loss, but in acceptance of it. "Then I will not waste what time remains," Daveth said. "He will spend it on what truly matters to him. I will see to that." Cyrwin inclined his head, solemn, approving. "That is all any man can do when faced with the inevitable."
Daveth turned back toward the solar door. He rested his hand against the wood for a moment longer than necessary, as if drawing strength from the faint life still beating on the other side—committing its warmth to memory before the cold could claim it forever.
That night, Daveth told his uncle. They spoke in Tytos's chambers, the fire burning low, shadows stretching long across the stone. Ellys had already taken the children to bed, and for a while neither man spoke. Daveth stood near the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, staring into the embers as if searching for words that did not wish to be found.
"He does not have long," Daveth said at last. There was no ceremony to it. No softening. "Weeks. Perhaps a month or two.
Tytos closed his eyes. Memories of his childhood flickered through his mind like firelight dancing on stone walls. He saw himself and his older brother Benjen in the courtyard of Raventree Hall, the winter sun glinting off the pale stone as they ran in wild circles, chasing each other with the reckless abandon of boys untouched by war and the grim duty that came with being a prince of house Blackwood. They tackled one another onto the cold, hard ground, laughing and shouting, their tunics streaked with mud and dirt, smeared across elbows, knees, and sleeves. Their mother, Allysa Blackwood née Blanetree, would appear at the edge of the yard, hands on her hips, lips pressed in a thin line of exasperation, scolding them for the mess they made—yet her eyes sparkled with amusement.
And their father, Willem, would follow close behind, his deep voice booming with laughter, clapping them on the back as he joined the chase. He had taught them how to stand tall, how to strike with strength, and how to bear the weight of honor, but he had also taught them the lighter lessons: how to play, how to find joy, how to feel alive even amidst the responsibilities of a house like the Blackwoods. In those moments, he was larger than life, a mountain of a man with a laugh that could shake the walls and a warmth that could chase away any fear.
Tytos still remembered the day the twins were born, Lucas and Eleanor. He could still hear the sharp cry of new life cutting through the quiet of the hall, and the laughter of his father, so unguarded, so free, echoing through the chambers. Willem had laughed like a boy himself, a wide, radiant laugh that filled the rooms with joy and pride. Even in that solemn, sacred moment, he was alive with the delight of family, of legacy, of the endless continuity of House Blackwood.
And now, the same man lay in that darkened chamber, body weakened by time and grief, veins faint beneath thin, pale skin, eyes dimmed by the passage of days counted rather than lived. The weight of his life, the burdens of his house, the losses he had endured—all pressed down upon him, quiet and relentless. Tytos's chest ached, a hollowness spreading through him, for the father who had taught him what it meant to be a man, to be a Blackwood, to bear both sword and honor, now so small, so fragile, in that dim, still room. The contrast was sharp, almost cruel: the giant of his childhood, the laughter and warmth, reduced to breath and shadow, waiting for the inevitable.
Yet in that memory, the boyhood laughter, the mud-streaked tunics, the gleam of sun on stone, the joy of birth and family—they all lingered, vivid and unbroken, like a flame Tytos would carry forward. Even in grief, even in the shadow of loss, those moments reminded him of the man his father, Willem, had been, the lessons he had given, and the love that had shaped him.
When he opened his eyes again, they were rimmed with red, the faint traces of sleepless nights and held-back grief etched into their edges, yet the clarity within them remained, steady and unwavering. He gave a single, deliberate nod, slow as though each movement carried the weight of understanding too long kept at bay. "I thought as much," he said, his voice low, quiet enough to carry only to Daveth, yet heavy with unspoken sorrow. "He has been holding on… by sheer will alone."
Daveth turned to him, eyes shadowed with the weight of what he had just learned. "He held on for us. For me," he said, the words barely above a whisper, yet heavy with truth and grief. Each syllable seemed to carry the years of suffering, loss, and love that had bound their family together.
Tytos's jaw tightened, the lines of worry and sorrow etched deep into his face. He drew in a slow, measured breath, and when he spoke, his voice was firm, resolute. "Then we will not fail him now."
They shared a quiet understanding in that moment—no further words were necessary. The room seemed to shrink around them, filled with a weight of inevitability, the silence pressing in like the shadows of the long winter outside. There was nothing left to say, nothing that could alter what was coming. The air between them carried a solemn pact: they would be steadfast, steadfast as the walls of Raventree Hall itself, holding the line of their house through the storm of grief and duty that awaited.
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The days that followed were strangely gentle, almost as if the world itself had softened in deference to the man who had shaped it. Willem lingered longer than anyone had expected—nearly three months—each day quieter than the last, his presence shrinking yet lingering, like a shadow that refused to leave the hall. Daveth visited often, sometimes to speak of matters of rule, of garrisons and roads and the careful management of newly conquered lands; other times, he simply sat in silence, letting the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of curtains mark the passage of hours while the old king rested.
His uncle came often, shoulders heavy with worry and his expression taut with controlled grief. His aunt Ellys brought herself and the children, sometimes lingering at the threshold, hesitant to intrude, yet called forward by Willem's quiet insistence. Lucas stood stiff, uncertain, unsure how to behave in the presence of a man who had once seemed unassailable. Eleanor, smaller, more sensitive, wept openly for her grandfather, her tears leaving tracks down her pale cheeks. Willem smiled at them both, thin but warm, a fragile echo of the man who had once roared with laughter through the courtyard. "You will grow strong," he told them, his voice soft but steady, like a promise as much as instruction.
He slept more, each day a little longer than the last. He ate little, his appetite diminished by the slow retreat of life, yet he never seemed afraid. Even as his body weakened, there was a calmness in him—a patient, measured acceptance that spoke of a lifetime of rule, of battles fought, and of grief endured.
And then, when the end came, it was as gentle as the winter snow settling on the land outside. A servant found him just after dawn, lying as he had for weeks beneath the heavy quilts, hands folded upon his chest, the air around him still and hushed. The candles had burned low in their holders, and the first pale light of morning crept through the shutters, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone floor. There was no struggle, no convulsion, no sign of pain. Only a faint, serene smile lingered upon his lips, as if he had been waiting for this moment and welcomed it quietly.
The castle seemed to hold its breath. Quiet bells tolled in acknowledgment, their tones soft and measured, as though even they mourned with restraint. Daveth's cousins, Lucas and Eleanor had cried openly, Lucas clinging to his mother's skirts, his grief raw and unfiltered, shaking his small frame with each sob. While Eleanor buried her face against Ellys's shoulder, silent tears soaking her hair, while Ellys held them both, murmuring comforts she scarcely felt, her own voice trembling with the weight of loss.
His uncle on the other hand, Tytos, remained apart at first, rigid, pale, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, as if the world had ceased to exist beyond the chamber door. Only when Daveth placed a firm hand upon his shoulder did Tytos bow his head, a single breath hitching as grief welled in him, before he mastered himself once more, regaining the composed strength that had carried him through countless trials. In that moment, silence hung over them like a thick, tangible blanket, the weight of legacy, loss, and duty pressing down, unspoken yet utterly understood.
House Blackwood did not wail. It did not cry out in the storm of grief, for grief, here, was a quiet, enduring thing. It mourned in silence. The wind whispered through the bare, skeletal branches of the ancient weirwood, carrying a faint, mournful sigh that stirred the crimson leaves overhead. Snow drifted lazily across the dark earth, melting against the stone markers as Daveth stepped forward, his cloak drawn tight against the cold, stiff wind.
Before him lay the gathered household—lords and retainers, Preston Blanetree, Tristan Ryger, men-at-arms, Kevan and his son, Eddardand smallfolk alike—faces solemn, eyes downcast, heads bowed. The hush that fell over them seemed to stretch from one end of the yard to the other, as if the very air itself had been tempered by reverence. Behind him rested the stone that marked Willem Blackwood, placed carefully beside that of his son, at last reunited in death.
Daveth did not raise his voice. He did not need to. His presence alone carried the weight of the moment, of generations, of memory. "Today," he said, steady and clear, each word deliberate, "we have come to mourn our king." He paused, letting the words settle like the first fall of snow over the silent earth. "A wise king. A just king. A king who ruled not with cruelty, nor with softness, but with care."
His gaze swept slowly over the crowd, lingering on faces etched with sorrow, on hands clasped tightly against coats and cloaks, on the children who shivered quietly at the edges. Then it returned to the grave before him. "My grandfather believed that land is not held by swords alone, but by memory—by knowing the names of villages, the bends of rivers, the people who till the fields and mend the roads." He drew a faint, shivering breath. "To his people, he was a ruler who listened. To his bannermen, a ruler who remembered both loyalty and service. To his enemies, he was unyielding."
Daveth's voice softened, almost to a whisper. "To me, he was a grandfather." Some heads lifted, catching the weight of the confession. "He was not gentle," Daveth admitted, voice steady but quiet, "he was stern. He expected much, and he accepted no excuses. He taught me that a ruler's duty does not end when the battle is won, nor when the crown is placed upon one's head. He taught me that mercy must be earned, and justice must be carried out—even when it is heavy to bear."
His jaw tightened, just for a moment, as memory and grief pressed against him. "But he was also patient. He corrected me when I was wrong. He trusted me when I had yet to earn it. And when I faltered, he did not turn away—he waited, and made me stand again." Daveth turned slightly, letting his hand rest upon the cold stone. The roughness of its surface grounded him, a tactile connection to the legacy that now rested on his shoulders.
"He buried his son," he continued, voice low, reverent. "He endured grief that would have broken lesser men. And still, he ruled. Still, he cared. Still, he held on—long enough to see his house safe, his people defended, and his grandson returned." The wind stirred the red leaves above, a gentle rustle like whispered approval.
"He did not seek glory," Daveth said, voice gaining firmness. "He sought peace. He did not crave songs, nor statues, nor praise. He cared only that House Blackwood and its people were safe." Daveth straightened, shoulders squared—not with pride, but with resolve. "I swear before gods and men that I will remember his lessons. I will rule as he taught me—not perfectly, but honestly. And when I am judged, let it be said that I was shaped by Willem Blackwood, and that I did not squander what he gave."
He bowed his head slowly. "Rest now, Grandfather. You are home. And we will carry the rest."
Silence followed—deep, reverent, and unbroken. Then, one by one, the Blackwoods bent their heads, the small gestures a quiet tide of respect washing over the graves. Willem was given to the earth with honor, laid to rest beside Daveth's father, Benjen. The funeral took place beneath the ancient weirwood, its crimson leaves falling like drops of blood upon the dark, frozen soil. Benjen's grave lay waiting, stone cold, familiar, and inevitable. Father and son were reunited at last, a final thread of continuity across generations, watched over by the long line of Blackwoods—both carved in stone and living in memory.
Daveth stood at the head of the mourners, the winter wind tugging at his cloak, cold and sharp against his skin, carrying the scent of pine, earth, and snow. He did not weep—not then. His grief was quieter, heavier, pressed deep into his chest where it would remain for years to come, a companion more enduring than sorrow itself.
When the earth was filled in and the rites completed, when the lingering Blackwoods had departed with bowed heads and slow, measured steps, Daveth lingered. Alone, save for the whisper of the wind through the weirwood's crimson leaves, he spoke softly, almost to himself, almost to the past itself. "I will remember," he said, voice low and steady, carrying across the frozen yard, "both of you."
The wind stirred the weirwood's branches in answer, a faint rustle, as if the ancient tree itself had heard him, as if the past had acknowledged his vow. And in that moment, Raventree Hall passed into a new age, the weight of memory, grief, and duty now resting squarely upon Daveth's shoulders, tempered by the lessons of the generations that had come before him.
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Author here, if there is any inconsistancies within the text please let me know in the comments.