RAVENTREE HALL
Late 1,390 B.AC
Daveth Blackwood sat quietly at the long oaken table in the great hall of Raventree Hall, breaking his fast among his kin. The scent of roasted oats, bread, and smoked trout lingered in the air, but his mind was elsewhere. As the meal concluded, he excused himself with a polite nod, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridors, each stride purposeful.
He made his way through the familiar passageways until he stood before a door marked with the carved emblem of a raven in flight. Raising a hand, he knocked thrice.
Moments later, the door creaked open. Maester Cyrwin emerged—a thin, silver-bearded man draped in grey robes, the links of his chain glinting faintly in the morning light. Despite his age, his eyes still gleamed with curiosity and kindness.
"My prince," Cyrwin greeted warmly, "you're early today. Lessons are not for some time yet. Dare I hope you've come simply to visit a weary old man?"
Daveth offered a faint smile, but his expression was firm. "Enough of that, Cyrwin. I'm here for the records."
The maester let out a mock sigh, shaking his head. "So cold-hearted in the morning. You wound me, truly," he quipped before stepping aside and motioning Daveth in.
Inside, the chamber was filled with the scent of old parchment and candle wax. Scrolls and books lay scattered across desks and shelves. Cyrwin made his way to a pile and began rummaging through the organized chaos.
"Everything you requested," he finally said, handing over a worn leather satchel heavy with documents. "Reports from the last few moons, inventories, and—of course—the census."
Daveth accepted the bundle with quiet gratitude. "Good," he said simply, though his mind was already racing with anticipation.
Cyrwin regarded him curiously. "May I ask what you're hoping to uncover, my prince?"
Daveth met his gaze. "Information. The kind that builds futures—or prevents ruin."
He offered the maester a respectful nod before exiting the chamber. Back in the solitude of his quarters, Daveth unfastened the satchel and spread the parchments across his desk like a battlefield map. The first he reached for was the census—one he had fought hard to make happen, against the initial resistance of both his father and grandfather.
That census had been a controversial move. It was not tradition. Lords preferred swords to quills, and banners to numbers. But Daveth had made his case clearly: no lord could rule wisely without understanding the true state of his lands, his people, or his strength. With Cyrwin's support, he had at last swayed his grandfather, King Willem Blackwood.
Unfurling the census, Daveth studied the figures with intense focus. His ancestors may have ruled through valor and bloodshed, but he intended to rule through insight.
The Blackwood lands spanned an impressive domain—approximately 120,000 square miles of thick forest, rich soil, and river-cut valleys nestled in the Riverlands. While not the largest holding in the Riverlands, it was among the biggest and most strategically located. The terrain offered natural defenses, abundant timber, and fertile farmland, bordered by the Red Fork to the south and the Green Fork to the east. The region was a cradle of both opportunity and danger.
Raventree Hall itself stood as a silent guardian—its towering, moss-covered stone walls steeped in the memory of a thousand years. Once kings of their own domain, the Blackwoods had descended from the First Men, having ruled the Wolf's Wood in the North before being driven south by the ancient Kings of Winter from House Stark. They became the Raven Kings of the Blackwood Vale—ever feuding with the Brackens, the Stone Kings of Stone Hedge.
But history alone could not sustain a house. Daveth understood that. Strength must be renewed in each generation—or it would crumble.
According to the census, the Blackwood lands held nearly 460,000 souls—farmers, hunters, craftsmen, and smallfolk. From these, House Blackwood could muster a fighting force of approximately 4,800 men if war came. It was a respectable number, drawn from the sturdy stock of the land. Yet even with such strength, they were not the richest house in the Riverlands.
The Brackens, their ancient rivals, thrived through commerce and their famed Redmane horses, traded as far as the Neck to the Trident. That edge gnawed at Daveth. The Blackwoods had deep roots and long memory—but their coffers needed filling. Their pride alone would not ensure survival.
Daveth rolled up the census and locked it in a drawer. He had what he needed. But knowledge alone was no solution. What mattered now was action.
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A few days later, he stood once more before the door to his grandfather's study. The guards announced his arrival, and Willem Blackwood waved him inside.
As always, his grandfather sat behind his desk, writing something, while maester Cyrwin stood at his side, handing him parchments and offering counsel.
Both men looked up as Daveth entered, a parchment in hand. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat in the chair across from the desk.
"Daveth," he said warmly, "I'm glad for a visit, it warms your grandfather's heart," Willem said with a smile".
Daveth smiled faintly but did not delay. "This is about more than company, Grandfather."
At that, Willem sighed, feigning disappointment. "I know, I know. But you could at least humor an old man." He chuckled softly.
Hearing the exchange, Maester Cyrwin smirked and added, "I, too, had hoped the prince sought my company out of the kindness of his heart. Alas, it seems duty is the only thing that ever calls me to his side."
Daveth gave a short chuckle at Cyrwin's words but quickly composed himself, as he unrolled the parchment he was holding and placed it on the desk.
"I've been working on something," he began, his tone shifting to one of quiet determination. "A new method of farming—one that could improve yields and make better use of our land, but I need your approval to proceed."
Willem arched a brow, leaning back in his chair. "A new method, you say? And what exactly does this entail?"
Daveth straightened in his seat, his enthusiasm barely contained. "It's a combination of techniques—crop rotation to prevent soil exhaustion, improved irrigation channels, and the use of composting rather than relying solely on manure. If it works as intended, we could increase food production without having to clear more land".
Maester Cyrwin peered over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with interest. "May I?" he asked.
Daveth nodded.
As Cyrwin studied the parchment, he began nodding slowly. "Remarkable," he murmured. "A truly promising idea. Too many lords concern themselves only with expanding their domains, yet true wealth lies in nurturing what one already possesses."
"Is it that good?" Willem asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice. He furrowed his brow, uncertain.
In response, Maester Cyrwin turned toward him with a patient smile, already preparing to explain. One by one, he outlined the benefits—the long-term stability, the reduced dependency on external resources, the prosperity that came not from conquest, but from careful stewardship. As he spoke, the doubt in Willem's eyes began to waver.
"Alright, alright," he said, raising a hand to halt the flow of words. His voice carried a mixture of weariness and decision. "I've heard enough. Your points are clear, and there's no need to repeat them. Let us see if your idea proves itself in time."
Willem remained silent for a long moment, eyes narrowing as he studied both the plan and his grandson. "Have you spoken to the farmers about this?"
Daveth nodded. "No, which is why I came to you, grandfather. I would like your permission to experiment on a small piece of land. If it fails, the losses will be minimal. But if it succeeds..." His eyes gleamed with ambition.
Willem studied his grandson for a moment before finally speaking. "Very well. You have my blessing to proceed—but on one condition. I want updates on the progress, and if there are any setbacks, I expect you to adjust accordingly. This is not just an experiment, Daveth. If you're serious about this, you must see it through properly."
A satisfied smile crossed Daveth's lips. "Of course, Grandfather. I wouldn't have it any other way."
Willem chuckled. "Good, there is a village a couple of miles south of here. You will conduct your experiment there. Now, go on. I'd rather not keep you from your grand farming ambitions."
With a nod of gratitude, Daveth rose from his seat and took his leave, determination burning in his chest.
As Daveth stepped out and the door clicked shut behind him, a heavy silence lingered in the chamber. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows. Willem stared at the door for a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning slowly toward Maester Cyrwin.
"That boy never ceases to amaze me," he said, a note of quiet admiration in his voice.
"Indeed," Cyrwin replied, folding his hands in front of him. "His mind is sharp—sharper than most men twice his age. There's a clarity in his thinking, a depth of understanding you seldom find even in seasoned lords."
"Which is why we must do everything in our power to sharpen his mind—to help him reach his greatest potential," Willem said, his voice steady with quiet conviction.
"Aye, Your Grace," Cyrwin replied with a respectful nod. "A mind like his is a rare gift—and it must be honed with care and purpose."
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Days later, Daveth arrived at the outskirts of a small village, accompanied by twenty men-at-arms and Eddard—one for protection, the other for companionship.
At the village entrance, a small crowd had gathered around an elderly man.
As the group of armed men approached, led by a young, handsome boy with another—older and sterner-looking—at his side, the villagers dropped to their knees in reverence.
Daveth brought his horse to a halt before the old man, who stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"My Prince," the elder said, his voice weathered but respectful, "you honor us with your presence."
Daveth gave a curt nod, his expression composed. "Rise," he said calmly. "You must be the ealdorman of this village?".
"That's right, my prince. I'm Tom," the old man said, rising slowly with a creak in his knees, his voice marked by age and reverence.
"Good," Daveth replied, his tone calm but purposeful. "That makes things easier." He paused, scanning the gathered villagers with a steady gaze. "Let us speak inside, my men are weary from travel and the horses need water and rest.
"Of course, my prince", Old Tom said while leading the way to the biggest building in the village. While inside and seated at the highest chair, Daveth, turned to Old Tom and the people patiently waiting to hear him speak.
"Do you know why I've come?"
Tom glanced around at the others before answering cautiously. "We've heard bits and pieces, Your Grace. Something about changes in how we farm. But truth be told, most of us don't rightly understand what that means."
Daveth gave a small nod of understanding. He stepped forward into the center of the village meeting hall, where a mixture of seasoned farmers, young fieldhands, and stewards had gathered. The hall smelled of straw, pipe smoke, damp wool, and the sweat of men who worked hard under the sun. The murmurs hushed as he took his place, his cloak trailing slightly behind him, and all eyes turned toward the young man.
"For generations," Daveth began, his voice carrying clear and steady, "your fathers and grandfathers have tilled these fields as their fathers did before them. You've worked hard, lived humbly, and endured much. But the land is changing—and we must change with it. The old ways, while familiar, are no longer enough."
The room stirred, brows furrowing, shoulders shifting uneasily. Wulfric, an elderly farmer with a face like dried bark and hands shaped by a lifetime of labor, cleared his throat.
"Begging your pardon, my prince," he said, voice rough but respectful, "but change brings risk. These fields are all we've got. We've seen bad years. If we try something new and it fails, our families go hungry. We can't afford to gamble with our lives."
Daveth listened without interruption, then gave a slow nod, acknowledging the fear in Wulfric's words.
"You are right to be cautious," he said. "This is your home, your livelihood. I do not ask you to take risks lightly. But what I offer is not a gamble—it is a certainty. And I would not bring it here if I were not sure it could help all of you."
He unfurled a rough parchment and laid it on the table—a hand-drawn diagram showing four fields in rotation.
"This is a new system. We divide your land into four sections. One will grow wheat, another barley or oats, the third will be planted with root vegetables like turnips, and the last with clover or legumes. Each year, the crops rotate. No field is left empty, but each is given a chance to recover in its way."
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. One young farmer leaned forward, intrigued. Another frowned, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Wulfric squinted at the diagram. "Turnips? Clover? We're not used to planting such things. What do we do with 'em?"
"Turnips feed livestock through the winter," Daveth explained. "Clover and legumes restore nutrients to the soil. They strengthen the earth instead of draining it. And with healthier fields, we can grow stronger crops year after year—without watching our harvests shrink."
Daveth continued. "Livestock fed well through winter give more meat and milk come spring. Their manure, spread across your fields, returns life to the soil. It's a cycle, not just a harvest. You feed the land—and it feeds you back."
Another farmer, younger and thoughtful, spoke hesitantly. "So... every field gives us something every year? No more fallow?"
"Exactly," Daveth said, meeting his eyes. "You get more food, more livestock feed, and more goods to sell or trade. It strengthens your homes, your village, and your children's future."
Still, the room remained tense. Suspicion lingered in their expressions. The unknown weighed heavily on them.
Daveth straightened his voice firm with conviction. "I do not ask you to bear the risk alone. House Blackwood will provide seed for the new crops. Tools, if needed. We'll help tend the first test plots alongside you, and if the harvest is poor, we will cover the losses. This is not a command—it is a partnership. You are not alone in this."
That struck a chord. Wulfric looked at him for a long moment, his jaw tight with pride but his eyes softer than before.
"Royalty that shares the burden..." he muttered, half to himself. "Not something we see every day."
He looked around the hall, gauging the mood. The others, once hesitant, now appeared more curious than afraid. A few nodded. One or two even looked hopeful.
Wulfric gave a slow, grudging nod. "If House Blackwood stands with us, then... aye. We'll try your way, my prince.
Daveth allowed himself the smallest of smiles. "Good. We begin with small plots, just enough to prove the method. If it works, we expand. This is the first step—not just toward a better harvest, but toward a better future for all of Blackwood Vale."
And in that hall of straw and smoke, something old began to shift. Not just in the minds of farmers—but in the heart of a land long bound by tradition.
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It is said that the rise of House Blackwood began not with sword or crown, but with the quiet, keen-eyed boy who would one day wear both. King Daveth Blackwood, remembered now as a warrior-king and wise ruler, showed signs of brilliance from his earliest years. As a child, he was sharper than his age would suggest, often found not at play with the other noble boys, but walking the fields, watching the way the earth cracked after drought or how the streams swelled after spring thaw. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did speak, his questions unsettled men twice his age.
By ten, he was fluent in the histories of Old and the accounts of Heroes such as Garth Greenhand, Brandon the Builder, and many more. At the same age, he beat boys older than him in sparring matches, not through brute strength, but with footwork, patience, and precise strikes that came from hours studying real battle accounts instead of songs.
Yet it was not on the field of battle, but on the soil of his lands that the first great step of his reign was made. While other heirs dreamed of conquest, Daveth rode alone to the far edges of his domain. One such place, a small and struggling village south of Raventree Hall, caught his attention. The land was weary, the people poorer still, and the harvests thinning with each passing year. Lesser lords had ignored it—too small, too wasteful. Daveth did not.
He spent days among the farmers, asking questions, observing their work, and understanding not just their toil but their fears. Then he proposed changes—radical ones at the time. Rotating crops, enriching the soil, and raising livestock in patterns foreign to the Riverlands. Some resisted. Most feared ruin. But Daveth promised support, and when the harvest came in stronger than ever before, their loyalty to him became unshakable. That once-forgotten village grew, trade followed the bounty, and in the decades that came, it would flourish into the jewel of his domain—the city of Ravenna.
Thus began the true rise of House Blackwood—not in glory sought, but in wisdom sown.
From the Excerpts ofThe Rise of King Daveth Blackwoodby Maester Cyrwin.
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Hi, the author here. I'm sorry for not posting on this story for months because of school, but now that it's summer I will be posting more. And if you are wondering then yes, I got fucked by the school, I mean royally.