The Blackwood’s Might (My Version)

RAVENTREE HALL

Mid 1,394

Outside the window of one of the grand, shadowed rooms in the ancestral seat of House Blackwood perches a raven. At first glance, it appears like any other bird that might frequent the ancient estate, but upon closer inspection, this raven is far from ordinary. Its feathers are not just black—they shimmer like the void of the deepest night, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Most unnerving of all, it has three eyes, each as dark and piercing as the other, set unnaturally in its eerie visage.

The raven sits silently, unmoving as if carved from onyx, its unblinking eyes fixed on the room beyond the window. A sense of unease fills the air, as though the creature's presence carries a weight far beyond its diminutive size. 

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A maid slips quietly into the room, her footsteps as soft as whispers on the polished wooden floor. She moves with practiced care, her every motion measured to avoid disturbing the serene stillness that blankets the space. A child lies fast asleep on the richly adorned bed beneath a canopy of fine silk and embroidered drapery, their small chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm.

The maid glances over her shoulder, ensuring the child remains undisturbed. Satisfied, she begins her work, her hands deft and silent as she tidies the room. She straightens the ornate curtains, dusts the polished surfaces, and adjusts the small details with an almost reverent precision. Every move is deliberate, each action performed with the quiet grace of someone who understands the weight of their presence in this hallowed place. 

With her final task complete, the gentle parting of the heavy curtains to let in the pale morning light, the maid turns her attention to the sleeping child on the bed. Her movements are tender, her steps as light as a feather on the plush carpet. As she approaches, her eyes soften, and the faintest shadow of a smile graces her lips, a fleeting expression of quiet affection.

Reaching the bedside, she leans down carefully, her hands resting gently on the edge of the mattress. With a delicate touch, she rocks the boy, her voice low and soothing as she speaks, the words drifting into the room like a lullaby. There is a warmth in her tone, an unspoken bond between her and the slumbering child that speaks of both care and familiarity.

"Wake up, little prince. It is time," Sarra said softly, her voice warm and coaxing. The boy stirred beneath the heavy covers, shifting and struggling to obey her gentle command. His sleepiness resisting her efforts, Sarra smiled, her patience unbroken, and tried a different approach.

"Wake up, little prince," she teased with a playful lilt, "or I shall have to tell your lady mother."

At this, the boy's eyes snapped open. He sat up abruptly, rubbing at them with small fists before letting out a long, sleepy yawn.

"I'm up, Sarra, I'm up. No need to bother Mother," he muttered, his voice still thick with sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and began the slow, groggy process of climbing down.

Sarra stepped back, allowing him space to rise, her expression softening as she got a better look at him. The boy—Daveth Blackwood—had just seen his sixth name day, but even at such a young age, he bore the unmistakable traits of his storied lineage. His raven-black hair, slightly tousled from sleep, fell to the nape of his neck, framing a face with sharp, youthful features. His stormy grey eyes, so striking and clear, were a hallmark of Houses with roots tracing back to the ancient blood of the First Men.

"Come now, little prince," Sarra said with a faint smile, reaching out to straighten the collar of his nightshirt. "You wouldn't want to keep the day waiting, would you?"

The boy nodded, still shaking off the remnants of sleep, and with a determined little step, he began to ready himself for the day ahead.

"Sarra, could you prepare a bath first? I don't want to greet my family looking unpleasant. And stop calling me 'little prince,'" Daveth said, his voice carrying the slight indignation of a boy trying to sound older than his years.

Sarra suppressed a smile at his tone, her hands folding neatly in front of her. "Certainly, my prince," she replied with a gentle bow of her head, the faintest hint of amusement in her voice.

Turning gracefully, Sarra moved toward the adjoining bathing chamber to fulfill his request, her footsteps light and deliberate. Behind her, Daveth remained seated on the edge of the bed, his small legs swinging back and forth in an absent rhythm. His stormy grey eyes, still heavy with sleep, now seemed distant, as though his young mind were caught in some deep, unspoken thought.

For a moment, the room fell silent, save for the soft rustling of Sarra's movements and the faint creak of the floorboards. Whatever weighed on Daveth's mind, he kept it to himself, the hint of his serious expression betraying a maturity beyond his six name days.

-----

It has been six years since I was reborn into the world of George R.R. Martin, Daveth thought, his small hands gripping the edge of the bed as he stood, now fully dressed in fine but practical clothing befitting a young lord. His damp hair, still slightly tousled from the quick drying Sarra had insisted upon, fell neatly to the nape of his neck, the raven-black strands gleaming faintly in the soft light filtering through the window.

Ever attentive Sarra lingered nearby, her sharp eyes inspecting him for any sign of disorder. Satisfied, she gave a small, approving nod and tidied the bed behind him. Daveth barely noticed; his thoughts were elsewhere, as they often were these days.

Six years. Six long, surreal years since he had awoken in this world, a newborn with memories of a past life. He had spent much of that time reconciling his modern knowledge with the stark realities of Westeros.

How had he realized where he was? Beyond being an avid reader of Martin's works, the proof was unmistakable. All he had to do was look outside the window.

There, towering in the distance, stood the massive weirwood tree, its pale bark gleaming faintly even in the soft morning light. The eerie red sap oozing from its carved face looked unsettlingly like blood, and the solemn expression etched into the wood seemed alive as if it were watching and waiting.

It was a sight Daveth had once read about but never dreamed he'd see with his own eyes—yet here it was, as real as the bed he sat on. But this wasn't Westeros, with giant dragons or immortal ice zombies in the show. No, this was Westeros before the coming of the dragons, this was the "Age of a Hundred Kingdoms" around 1,400 years before Aegon's conquest. 

The realization had shaken him to his core in the early days. At first, he thought it was a dream or some cruel trick of the mind. The question lingered in Daveth's mind daily, as persistent as a shadow that never left his side: How had I even been reborn? Who—or what had done it?

It was a mystery he had no answer for, no matter how much he dwelled on it. Was it the work of the old gods, whose eerie presence emanated from the weirwood tree outside?

He wasn't particularly pious, nor had he been involved in anything that might have marked him for divine—or infernal—intervention. He had been a reader, a fan of the world George R.R. Martin had spun so masterfully. He knew the story, its characters, twists, and bloody truths. And then… nothing.

That was all he could remember of his old life—just fleeting, disconnected images. Towering skyscrapers that seemed to pierce the heavens, the endless hum of moving cars, and the long, monotonous hours spent buried in his studies. It wasn't much, just fragments of a world far removed from this one, but they were enough to remind him of what he had lost and could never return to.

He had no family, faces, or real sense of who he had been beyond those brief glimpses of modernity. The life he had once lived was like a dream fading with each passing day, replaced by the reality of this new existence. It was a world of stone keeps and roaring hearths, where honor and bloodlines meant everything, and death lurked around every corner.

Those images of the skyscrapers and cars felt like relics of another universe, their very nature so foreign here in Westeros that Daveth sometimes doubted if they had ever been real and had all been some elaborate illusion. Or worse, was this the illusion, and he was trapped in a waking dream spun by forces he couldn't comprehend?

Whatever the truth, he knew one thing—this was his life now. Westeros was his reality; whether he had been brought here by design or accident, he would have to survive.

Sarra's voice, soft yet firm, broke through his thoughts. "Your family will be waiting, my prince. Shall I escort you to breakfast?"

Daveth blinked, pulling himself back to the present. "Yes, Sarra," he replied, calm and composed. "Let's not keep them waiting."

With that, he straightened his posture, brushing aside his lingering doubts. He had a role to play—a prince of House Blackwood. And in this world, roles were everything.

-----

They walked silently for five minutes, the only sound being the soft echo of their footsteps against the stone floors of Raventree Hall. Daveth's sharp grey eyes roamed over the towering walls, lined with faded tapestries depicting the storied history of House Blackwood. The air carried the faint scent of old wood and stone, a reminder of the ancient roots of this place, steeped in the traditions of the First Men.

Sarra walked a step behind him, her quiet presence steady and unobtrusive, allowing Daveth the space to absorb the majesty of his surroundings. Though this was the only home he had ever known, he still couldn't help but marvel at the weight of history that seemed to press down on every stone, every creak of the wooden beams above.

Finally, they reached the end of the hall, where two massive oak doors guarded by two guards loomed before them, their surfaces dark and worn with age. Intricate carvings of ravens in flight adorned the wood, a testament to the skill of the artisans who had crafted them centuries ago. These doors led to the great hall, where his family—and whatever awaited him this day—would be found.

Daveth paused momentarily, his small hand brushing against the edge of the door as he took a steadying breath. The weight of his new reality always seemed heavier in moments like this, standing at the threshold of expectations he had yet to grasp fully.

Sarra stepped forward, sensing his hesitation. "Shall I announce you, my prince?" she asked softly, her tone gentle but reassuring.

Daveth gave a subtle nod, his expression unreadable, signaling Sarra to proceed. With practiced precision, she grasped the door handle, opening it carefully so as not to draw attention. The faint creak of the door hinges was the only sound as they slipped inside, their movements deliberate and silent, like shadows gliding into the room.

Sarra prepared to announce his presence, her breath poised on the edge of speech, but the muffled voices drifting from within stopped her mid-motion. The others were already deep in conversation, their words indistinct but tinged with urgency, as if unaware of the new arrivals just beyond the threshold.

"NO, AGAIN I SAID!" a deep voice boomed, tinged with irritation.

At the side of a long, ornately carved table, his father, Benjen Blackwood, sat in the middle of the grand hall. Though still in his late twenties, his commanding presence and sharp gaze gave him the air of a seasoned lord.

"HAHAHA! BROTHER, NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, I WILL ALWAYS WIN!" another voice echoed, full of amusement. The speaker was Tytos Blackwood, Benjen's younger brother, seated opposite him. Barely past twenty, Tytos carried a youthful energy, his laughter ringing with confidence and mischief.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY, YOU INSOLENT TWAT?" Benjen growled, his tone sharper, anger beginning to creep into his words.

"You heard me, you brute," Tytos shot back with a smug grin, his face alight with humor even as his laughter ceased, daring his brother to retaliate.

"Why, you little—" Benjen couldn't finish before a sharp pain shot through his side.

"Enough, you two! Stop acting like little children. Honestly, I still don't know why you insist on playing this ridiculous game," scolded his mother, Alys Blackwood née Mallister, as she firmly pinched her husband's side.

"OUCH! OUCH! OUCH! Alright, we'll stop! Please stop pinching!" Benjen yelped in protest.

And they call him Benjen the Fierce, Daveth thought with a scoff.

"HAHAHAHA! That's what you get, Ben—" his shriek of pain abruptly cut off Tytos's laughter.

"Why are you laughing? Didn't you hear Alys telling you to stop?" asked Elyn Blackwood née Ryger, Daveth's now aunt, as she twisted Tytos's ear with surprising vigor.

"OKAY, OKAY, OKAY! Please release me, my love," Tytos pleaded softly, wincing with every word. 

"HAHAHAHAHAHA! Harder! These two idiots deserve a proper beating," a new voice cut through the chaos, its tone booming with authority yet laced with warmth. Daveth didn't need to look to know who it was—his grandfather, Willem Blackwood, the current king, and a man whose presence commanded both respect and affection from all who surrounded him.

At the same moment, two high-pitched shrieks of laughter erupted, drawing Daveth's attention to the seats just to his aunt's right. There, two two-year-olds sat in their high chairs, gleefully smashing bits of bread and fruit into unrecognizable shapes. His baby cousins, Lucas, and Eleanor Blackwood, were oblivious to the commotion of the adults, far more interested in turning their mealtime into a riotous game. Eleanor giggled uncontrollably as she flung a piece of apple toward her brother. At the same time, Lucas responded by slapping his hands into a bowl of porridge, sending droplets flying onto the table and his face.

Elyn, their mother, turned to look at her mischievous twins with an exasperated sigh. Yet, despite her frustration, the corners of her lips betrayed a soft smile. "Stop playing with your food, sweetlings," she chided gently, her voice carrying more affection than a reprimand. She leaned closer, pulling out a cloth and attempting to wipe the sticky porridge from Lucas's round, chubby cheeks. Lucas squirmed in protest, his laughter bubbling over like a babbling brook.

Eleanor, meanwhile, took full advantage of the distraction, seizing another piece of fruit and cramming it into her mouth with an innocent look that only a toddler could muster.

Now free from his wife's twisting grip, Tytos turned to face his father, still holding his ear with one hand. "Would you stop laughing, you stinking old man?" His voice carried a sharp edge of irritation and barely contained anger, though his defiance was undermined by the comical sight of him clutching his ear like a child holding a treat from their parents.

The change in his grandfather's demeanor was instant. His laughter ceased, and his gaze snapped toward Tytos with burning fury. "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY, BOY?!" Willem roared, his voice booming like thunder. The room seemed to freeze for a moment. "You dare speak to me like that?"

Daveth couldn't help but think, This old man has a temper. His mind wandered back to countless memories of his grandfather losing his cool, his anger flaring in ways that were always both terrifying and strangely quite funny.

Tytos, however, wasn't deterred. He squared his shoulders and stood tall, his eyes burning with defiance. "You heard me. Shall I repeat it? Stop laughing, you stinking old man," he shot back, his voice steady.

However, the sight of him attempting to look tough only made him seem even more ridiculous, given the way he was still holding his ear.

"YOU FUCKING LITTLE CR—" Willem began, his rage intensifying, but he was cut off mid-sentence as two voices hastily intervened.

"Father, stop! Think about the children!" Elyn's voice rang out, a note of urgency in her tone as she pointed to the toddlers still playing with their food, oblivious to the rising tension.

Her words seemed to reach him, but before Willem could respond, Alys spoke as well, her voice calm but firm. "Elyn is right, think about the example you're setting for your grandchildren." She quickly stopped pinching her husband, which relieved her pained husband.

Willem, at last, relented to the combined pleas of his two good daughters. The fiery anger in his eyes softened, and the room was still for a moment. But it didn't take long before a glint of mischief returned to his gaze as he locked eyes with his youngest son.

"Just wait, this isn't over," he growled, his voice low but full of devilish amusement. "I'll be dealing with you in the yard."

Tytos's defiant facade cracked instantly, his bravado evaporating as he looked momentarily fearful, his skin glistening with a thin sweat. His mouth opened, but no words came out. The threat from his father was enough to make him falter, and before he could muster a response, Alys finally noticed her son's presence.

"Ah, Daveth, you're here," Alys said warmly, her tone softening as she smiled at her son. At her words, every head in the room turned toward him, and the eyes of the gathered family settled on him in unison.

"Yes, Mother," Daveth replied slowly, his voice laced with an amused calm. "I arrived some time ago, but I didn't want to interfere with… ehm the fun." He gestured vaguely toward the ongoing chaos.

"Hahaha, no problem, my child," his grandfather said, his anger visibly melting away. A genuine smile played at the edges of his lips. "Why don't you go ahead and sit? The servants will be here any moment now, and we'll break our fast together." His voice had softened, and the glint of amusement remained.

"As you wish, grandfather," Daveth replied with a respectful nod. He made his way to the long table, sitting opposite his cousins, just to the left of his mother. The twins, noticing him, shrieked with happiness and bounced in their chairs, excited by his presence.

Daveth smiled warmly at them before turning to his aunt, Elyn. "How are my favorite cousins so far, Aunt Elyn?" he asked, his voice light with affection as he watched the toddlers continue their antics.

"Sometimes they behave, while at other times, they make it quite difficult," Elyn replied, her voice tinged with weariness as she glanced at her mischievous twins.

A look of understanding crossed Daveth's face. He smiled softly before offering, "If it's difficult, why don't I help? I'm quite good with these troublemakers." His tone was light, yet his words had an underlying sense of confidence.

Elyn's smile deepened, but she shook her head. "Thank you, sweet child, but you don't have to. Though, I could certainly use some help from my useless husband," she added with a playful glint in her eye as she turned to her left.

Tytos, still lingering in the aftermath of his father's threat, was visibly confused. His face was frozen in a dazed expression as he responded, "Did you say something, love?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," Elyn replied with a sigh, her smile remaining but her patience worn thin.

Turning away from the conversation between his aunt and uncle, Daveth shifted his attention to his father. "Father," he asked, his curiosity piqued, "what game did you play before I got here?"

Benjen glanced at his son, momentarily distracted from rubbing the side of his stomach. "Oh, that," he said with a sheepish smile. "Well, your uncle and I played chess. Though I'm not exactly used to the rules yet." His tone was light, clearly amused by his confusion.

A flicker of realization passed over Daveth's face. Chess, he thought, his mind racing as he recalled the game he had invented during a long stretch of boredom. There was little to do in these times besides reading or attending lessons with maester Cyrwin—lessons he had only just begun. The thought of the game, which had served as his escape from the monotony of his days, made him chuckle to himself. 

"How you came up with that game still confuses me," Alys remarked, her brow furrowing slightly as she regarded her son.

Before Daveth could answer, his grandfather interjected, his voice carrying the weight of generations. "There's nothing to be confused about," Willem said, his tone firm yet full of pride. "Daveth was born blessed by the Old Gods, and let's not forget, he's a Blackwood. With those two reasons combined, it's only natural." He spoke as though the very notion of Daveth's brilliance was undeniable as if it was woven into the boy's blood and destiny.

Alys exchanged a look with Benjen, but said nothing, allowing her father-in-law to continue.

"Besides," Willem added with a flick, "We Blackwoods have been gifted with certain… talents, thanks to our bloodline. Not like those craven Brackens." His voice hardened slightly at the mention of the rival family, his disdain palpable as he spat the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Daveth, listening quietly, couldn't help but think to himself, Thank god people in this time are so devoted to their faith, otherwise, I'd probably be seen as some demon the moment I spoke my first words. He briefly wondered what would have happened if he'd been born in another place, another time—perhaps he'd be feared, or worse, shunned for being "unnatural." Instead, in this world, his intellect was seen as a blessing by the gods, and a mark of his "bloodline". He couldn't help but feel a little grateful for how backward Westeros was.

He was pulled from his thoughts as the servants finally arrived with the day's first meal. Today, breakfast consisted of white bread, roasted ham, and crispy bacon, which was accompanied by boiled eggs and some watered-down fruit wine, though he had specifically requested water instead, along with a small portion of vegetables—much to the confusion of his family.

As the food was served, the lively chatter and playful banter around the table stopped. Everyone focused on eating. Even his grandfather paused whatever argument he had had with his uncle and dug into his plate. Daveth, too, began eating, though his appetite was smaller than usual. Something weighed heavily on his mind.

Today is the day, Daveth thought, shoving a piece of ham into his mouth. The salty taste barely registered; his thoughts were elsewhere, racing ahead to what was about to come. Today, I'll finally ask to begin my training.

This wasn't some passing notion, no fleeting whim sparked by the stories of knights and their glory. Daveth had turned the idea over in his mind for months, perhaps longer, weighing the risks and rewards. He had seen firsthand how the strong survived in Westeros. This was no fairytale land of noble deeds. It was Westeros—the same bloody, backstabbing Westeros that would be no different even more than a thousand years later, in Aegon's age. Strength was everything here. Strength won battles, earned respect, and most importantly, kept you alive.

He glanced around the dimly lit hall, where servants moved briskly, laying out bread, ham, and fruit wine for the household. The air smelled faintly of smoke and meat, but Daveth hardly noticed. His gaze flickered to his father, seated at the right of the head of the table, next to his grandfather. The man exuded a quiet authority even if sometimes he acted like a child, making it impossible for Daveth to imagine raising the subject of training in anything but the most carefully chosen words.

Would he approve? Would he laugh? Or would he dismiss Daveth outright, telling him he wasn't ready? The boy's jaw tightened as he tore off another bite of ham. I must succeed, Daveth thought to himself, I have to.

It wasn't just the fear of rejection that gnawed at him. It was the knowledge that every day he waited, the more time he would waste playing around like a child. He is wasting time, which he could instead use to grow stronger and be prepared for when something happens. 

No, today was the day. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Strength shapes destiny, and he would carve his own—whether his father approved or not. He thought quietly. 

As the final dishes were emptied and the servants moved swiftly to clear the table, the soft clatter of plates and murmured conversation filled the hall. The flickering glow of the candelabra cast a warm light across the polished wood, mingling with the fading aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine. Daveth sat quietly, though his heart pounded in his chest, a heavy knot of anticipation tightening with each moment. This might be his only chance.

Across the table, Benjen leaned slightly toward his wife, Alys, their low voices weaving through the room's din. Alys's gentle laughter chimed like silver, her fingers briefly brushing her husband's hand as she spoke. The sight should have comforted Daveth, but it only deepened the weight pressing down on him.

Swallowing his nerves, he straightened in his chair, his grip tightening on the table's edge. His breath was slow and deliberate as he willed himself to speak.

"Father, there's something I'd like to ask you," Daveth said at last, his voice steady but somewhat urgent. He turned toward Benjen, his gaze fixed and unyielding.

Benjen, hearing the unexpected interjection, glanced up from his conversation with his wife. His expression shifted, the warm ease of their moment replaced by a look of restrained curiosity. "Yes, Daveth? What is it?" he asked, his tone measured but firm.

Alys's smile lingered, though her attention now shifted to her son. Her eyes searched his face, a flicker of questioning passing through her features. Benjen leaned back slightly, his focus entirely on Daveth, awaiting his response with the steady composure that had always marked him as a man not easily shaken.

Daveth took a deep breath and said, "I want to start my training."

The hall fell silent. Servants exchanged knowing glances, an unspoken understanding passing between them. They quickly resumed their tasks, tidying the table and clearing the remnants of the meal with quiet efficiency before slipping out of the room.

His uncle and aunt shared a worried look, their expressions heavy with concern. Even the twins, usually oblivious to the undercurrents of adult conversations, stopped their chatter and glanced around, sensing the tension in the air.

His grandfather remained motionless, his face an unreadable mask of serenity, betraying no emotion.

Finally, Daveth turned to his parents. His father looked puzzled, his brow furrowed in confusion, though a faint glimmer of understanding seemed to dawn in his eyes. His mother, however, sat frozen, her gaze locked on him as if she were staring at the stranger himself.

"What did you—" his father began, but he didn't get the chance to finish.

"Not!" his mother snapped, her voice sharp enough to make the servants retreat.

Benjen turned to her, his brow furrowed. "Alys, why don't we at least—"

"No!" she cut him off, her passionate tone rising. "I won't allow it! He's just a boy!"

Benjen exhaled slowly, trying to maintain control. "Love, he must have a reason for bringing this up. Can we hear him out first?"

"Reason?" Alys's voice was incredulous now, her anger bubbling over. "You want to hear his reason? You would send my little boy to train?" Her words came out as a near-shout, filled with disbelief and fury.

Daveth clenched his jaw, annoyance flashing at being called a boy. Inwardly, he reminded himself that, mentally, he had the soul of a grown man— mid-twenties, by his count. He decided to step in, hoping to calm the storm.

"Mother," he said, keeping his tone steady and measured, "I'm only asking to train with the other boys. It's not like I'm volunteering for war."

For a moment, the room held its breath. Then Alys rounded on him, her expression fierce.

"Quiet!" she shouted. "I am still your mother; you will listen to me!"

She froze as if struck by a thought. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Where did this even come from?" she demanded. "Why would you ask something like this? You're just a boy—a boy of six! Boys your age should be playing with toys, not thinking about armor or swords. You could get hurt!"

Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, the anger giving way to fear. She didn't bother to hide the emotion.

Daveth hesitated, weighing his response carefully. The fire in her eyes told him one thing: no amount of logic or diplomacy would sway her tonight. Before he could say anything he heard his father speak up. 

"Enough!" Benjen's voice cut through the room like a blade, sharper and louder than before. He rose to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor. His usually calm demeanor was gone, replaced with an authoritative edge.

"You're right—he is a boy," he said firmly, locking eyes with Alys, "but if he has reasons, then I intend to hear them." His tone left no room for argument, the fire in his voice silencing any further protest.

That tone would have silenced anyone—but not Alys. Not when it came to her son.

"Are you mad?!" she snapped, her voice laced with disbelief. "There's nothing to discuss, Benjen. He's a child! He must at least turn twelve before I'd even consider it."

Her words sent a chill through Daveth. Must I turn twelve before you'd even consider it? No! What?! The thought rattled him, frustration and fear swirling inside him. His hands clenched into small fists as he spoke up, his voice louder and fiercer than a six-year-old's usually was, though it still carried the tremble of youth.

"Mother, I'm no longer a boy!" he declared, the words sharp and deliberate. He drew a breath and continued, his voice rising. "I just want to train. There's nothing wrong with that. Why can't you understand?"

Benjen turned to his son, irritation flashing across his face. His voice was firm and cold as he replied, "Watch your tongue, boy. That is your mother—and my lady wife—you're speaking to."

Daveth flinched, startled by his father's reprimand. He opened his mouth to retort, the frustration still bubbling, but before he could, loud wailing pierced the tense atmosphere.

"WAAAH! WAAAH! WAAAH!"

His two-year-old cousins, Lucas and Eleanor, had started crying, their tiny voices trembling with fear at the chaos erupting around them.

"MOMMY! HELP! I'M SCARED!" Eleanor wailed, clinging to her brother.

Their mother, Elyn, immediately rushed over to them, her arms wrapping around their small forms in a protective embrace. She rocked them gently, her voice soft and soothing.

"Hush now, my sweetlings," she murmured, kissing their tear-streaked cheeks. "Mother's here. It's all right. You're safe."

Even as she comforted her children, her sharp gaze flicked to her husband, Tytos, who watched all of this concern. Her look was clear: Do something.

Tytos swallowed hard, understanding the look his wife was giving turned to his father Willem. Willem in turn who had been watching the scene unfold in silence. 

"Father," Tytos said, his voice steady but with urgency, "with your permission, we'd like to take Lucas and Eleanor outside to calm them down."

Sitting at the head of the room, Willem didn't move much beyond a slight wave of his hand. His expression remained a mask of control, honed over decades of rulership. He didn't need to speak; the gesture alone was enough to convey his approval.

Tytos inclined his head respectfully and crossed the room to his wife. Elyn was crouched low, still cradling Eleanor, who clung to her with tear-streaked cheeks, while Lucas's sobs echoed softly against her shoulder.

"It's all right," Tytos murmured to his wife as he gently scoped Lucas into his arms. The boy resisted at first, his small fists gripping Elyn's gown, but Tytos soothed him with a few quiet words, patting his back as he lifted him. Lucas buried his face in his father's shoulder, hiccupping with the aftershocks of his tears.

Elyn took Tytos's free hand, her other arm wrapping protectively around Eleanor as she rose. "Let's step outside," she whispered, her voice soft but firm, trying to mask her unease as she glanced at the tension still crackling in the room.

As the family made their way toward the exit, Tytos paused briefly when he reached Daveth. The older man said nothing for a moment, simply studying the boy's tense expression. Then, leaning slightly closer, he whispered, "Good luck," his voice low enough that only Daveth could hear.

The words carried a quiet weight, spoken with an understanding that seemed deeper than the moment itself. Tytos gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile before continuing, his steps steady as he led his wife and children out of the room.

Daveth stood still, his mind whirling. The chaos around him had been deafening, but in that moment, Tytos's gesture felt like an anchor—a quiet affirmation in a sea of disorder.

Daveth was jolted from his thoughts by the escalating argument between his parents. He opened his mouth, intending to interject, but before he could speak, a calm yet commanding voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Quiet."

His grandfather's voice carried an authority that left no room for defiance. The room fell silent instantly, every pair of eyes turning to Willem as he slowly rose. His movements were deliberate, his presence commanding as he looked to his son, then his daughter-in-law, and finally, Daveth.

"Enough, all of you," Willem said, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Daveth, I want to hear your reason. And I mean the real reason." His gaze pierced Daveth, daring him to offer anything less than the truth.

He paused, then added, "Don't insult me with childish fantasies about becoming a gallant knight rescuing fair maidens from bandits." His words were blunt, almost harsh, but not unkind. "I know you're smarter than that. Now, tell me—why do you want this? Speak honestly, and I will decide."

Willem stepped closer, his piercing eyes locking with Daveth's. His presence was overwhelming, the weight of his years as king bearing down on the boy.

"Father, you can't!" Alys blurted out, her voice tinged with panic. She stepped forward, clutching her hands together as she pleaded, "He's just a boy, chasing after a wild dream! This is nothing but—"

"Enough!" Willem snapped, his gaze turning to Alys with the precision of a predator. "I am the king, and you will treat me as such. Do you understand? Do not interrupt me again."

The cold authority in his voice made Alys flinch. Her lips trembled as she backed away, her posture shrinking under his piercing stare.

Benjen, seeing his wife's distress, instinctively stepped forward. "Father, there's no need to—"

"Boy, quiet," Willem said curtly, cutting him off without a glance. "I'm not speaking to you."

Benjen stopped mid-step, his mouth hanging open in stunned silence.

Willem turned his full attention back to Daveth, his imposing figure towering over the boy. "Well?" he demanded, his voice steady and commanding. "I'm waiting."

Daveth swallowed hard as his grandfather's intense gaze bore into him. He could feel the weight of the room's silence, every pair of eyes watching, waiting for his answer. His small fists clenched by his sides, and he stood a little straighter, determined not to falter.

"I want to grow stronger," Daveth began, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "Not to play at being a knight or to chase some childish fantasy." He lifted his chin, meeting Willem's gaze head-on.

"I've read the histories," he continued, his tone growing firmer. "The Riverlands have been a battleground for centuries—divided, weak, and torn apart by every kingdom around them. They are ripe for the taking, yet no one dares to seize them properly. No one has the strength or the will to do what must be done."

His voice sharpened, surprising even himself. "But I do. One day, I will make the Riverlands ours. Not just another vassal, but a true extension of our house. I will bring order to those lands, and through them, I will make our house stronger."

The room remained utterly still, the weight of his words settling over the assembled family. Daveth glanced at his grandfather, searching for any sign of approval or condemnation in Willem's stoic expression.

"Do you think me foolish, Grandfather?" he asked, his voice quieter now but still resolute. "Do you think my ambitions too grand for someone my age?"

Willem's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the boy before him. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice measured.

"You speak boldly for one so young," Willem said, his tone revealing neither approval nor scorn. "But ambition alone is not enough. Strength must be earned. Discipline, patience, and cunning make a conqueror, not merely desire."

The king's gaze lingered on Daveth, his presence as imposing as ever. "If you truly wish to pursue this path, you must prove yourself. Not to me or your parents, but to the gods themselves. Do you understand?"

Daveth nodded sharply, determination burning in his eyes. "I do, Grandfather. And I will prove it."

Willem straightened, his commanding presence radiating once more. "Then so be it. But know this, boy—this path you seek is not easy. If you falter, no one will catch you."

"I know, Grandfather," Daveth replied respectfully, his voice steady but carrying a hint of nervous energy.

"Good," Willem said with a curt nod. He turned toward the door, his steps firm and deliberate. As he reached the threshold, he glanced back over his shoulder. "Meet me in the yard. We'll start your training a little earlier than expected."

With that, he strode out of the hall, his presence leaving a lingering weight in the air.

Daveth stood frozen for a moment, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and apprehension. He turned his head toward his parents. His mother's expression was a storm of emotions—anger, worry, and something bordering on betrayal. She looked as though she wanted to drag him back by the ear and lock him in his chambers.

His father, on the other hand, had a conflicted look in his eyes. There was pride there—pride for his son's resolve—but also hesitation as he gently rubbed Alys's shoulder, murmuring soft reassurances she seemed too distraught to hear.

Before Daveth could speak, his grandfather's commanding voice rang out from beyond the hall.

"Boy! Are you coming? And bring Benjen with you!"

The sharpness of the call snapped Daveth back to reality. He exchanged a look with his father, who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement, though his expression remained guarded.

"Go," Benjen said, his voice low but firm. "You've made your choice. Don't keep him waiting."

Daveth swallowed hard and nodded. Without another word, he stepped forward and followed his grandfather's voice. His father trailed behind him, his footsteps steady but quieter, as though lost in thought.

As Daveth walked out into the corridor, he felt the full weight of what he had just committed to—and he resolved not to falter.

---------------------------------Scene break-------------------------------

"All right, son, are you ready?" Benjen asked, his voice calm but firm as he placed a reassuring hand on Daveth's shoulder.

The two stood in the expansive yard of Raventree Hall, the air filled with the sounds of clashing steel, grunts of exertion, and barked orders. Men-at-arms sparred with each other, guards practiced formations, and even a few stable boys watched curiously from the edges of the training ground.

But what caught Daveth's attention most was the center of the yard, where his grandfather and uncle were locked in a sparring match. Willem, despite his fifty-two name days, moved with a speed and precision that defied his age, wielding his blade as if it were an extension of himself. His strikes were relentless, each one calculated to test his opponent's limits.

Tytos, by contrast, was visibly struggling. Though younger and undoubtedly strong, he was on the defensive, forced to pour every ounce of focus into blocking and deflecting his father's blows. Each clash of their blades echoed through the yard, drawing the attention of onlookers.

"Ha! No more hiding behind your woman now, eh boy?" Willem taunted, his voice carrying over the din. He moved with an ease that came from decades of experience, a faint smirk on his face as he pressed his advantage.

Tytos gritted his teeth, saying nothing, too preoccupied with the onslaught of strikes. Sweat dripped down his brow, and his boots scraped against the packed dirt as he scrambled to stay upright.

"What was it you said? That I was a stinking old man?" Willem circled his son, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Tytos barely had time to react before his father lunged again.

"Well, this stinking old man is about to put you on your ass." Willem chuckled, his voice edged with confidence.

Tytos braced for the attack, his muscles tensed. But it was a feint. The moment he raised his arms to block, Willem twisted, sweeping his son's legs out from under him.

Tytos hit the dirt hard, a grunt escaping as dust billowed around him. Willem stood over him, grinning.

"Still think I'm just an old man?"

Tytos, now flat on his back, looked up at his father with the same cocky smirk as always. "Yes, yes, I do," he said smugly.

Willem froze. He stared at his son, eyes narrowing. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, his expression shifted from shock to something far more dangerous.

"OH, THAT'S IT YOU LITTLE CUNT. NO MORE MERCY"

With a dramatic flourish, he tossed his sword aside. Tytos barely had time to blink before Willem pounced, swinging his fists like a tavern drunk looking for trouble.

"Wait—WAIT! NOT THE FACE!" Tytos yelped, trying to shield himself.

His grandfater then picked up a handful of dirt and hurled it at Tytos's head like a madman.

"Dirty moves, old man!" Tytos sputtered, spitting out dust.

"Dirty?!" Willem barked a laugh as he ruffled his son's hair with his knuckles. "Boy, you just called me a stinking old man. I'm only living up to the title!"

Daveth and his father who had both been watching the whole thing shared a look. THAT, is our king? he couldn't help but think. 

Turning from his brother and father's antics, Benjen couldn't help but look down at his son, saying. "Alright, let's get on with your training".

Daveth, dressed in worn leather armor, stood before his father, his expression full of eager determination. "Yes, Father, I'm ready," he said, though a hint of uncertainty lingered in his voice. "But… am I not training with Kevan, the master-at-arms?"

Benjen, observing his son's enthusiasm, gave a small, amused snort before ruffling Daveth's hair affectionately. "Not today, boy," he replied. "Today, I'll be the one to teach you. And since you're only six, we'll focus on building your strength first. You need a solid foundation before you can begin proper training."

Daveth nodded, understanding more than he let on. Even in the remote corners of Westeros, one thing was certain: the art of training knights and warriors had been perfected over generations.

Benjen's voice was firm as he gave his instructions. "Start by running around the yard ten times, wearing that armor. Once you've finished, I want you to swing your sword at the training dummies—two hundred times, while I will correct your stance in the meantime. 

Daveth glanced around the vast yard before looking back at his father. "You want me to run ten times?" he asked, incredulity in his voice as he gestured to the expansive grounds. He couldn't help but marvel at how enormous the castles of Westeros were. Raventree Hall, with its towering weirwood tree and a yard large enough to fit a soccer field, always left him in awe. He always wondered what castles like Winterfell, Storm's End, and even Harrenhall looked like. 

Benjen let out a hearty laugh, clearly amused by his son's reaction. "Hah! You wanted to train, didn't you? No complaints, or you'll have no training at all." His laughter echoed as he watched Daveth's antics, his heart warmed by the boy's spirit.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," Daveth said, his voice tinged with annoyance as he started jogging around the yard, his legs not yet used to the weight of the armor. This would be his life for the next 4 years. 

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Hi, Author here! I'm finally here with a real chapter. I'm sorry if I haven't had the time to write a chapter, but I'm very busy with school work so that's why. Well, not anymore, because my schedule has been cleared so now I can finally start writing again.