The Raven and the Crown
2nd moon, 281 AC.
The gates of Oldstones yawned wide for the first time in more than six thousend years, not for war, nor for vengeance, but for celebration.
Long had the castle been spoken of only in songs, as a place where kings had walked and died, where a queen had mourned by the river, and where only ghosts kept company with the ivy-covered stones. But now, the ghosts had found themselves disquieted, for the dead castle lived again.
Beneath its towering walls, the banners of a dozen great houses flapped in the spring wind. The muddy red of House Mudd flew highest, crowned in gold and green. Beneath it, the weirwoods whispered, and the Blue Fork shone like a mirror.
Lords and knights, envoys and ladies, had come from across the Riverlands and beyond to see what had risen from the ruin.
Lord Rickard Flint came from the frozen north from Flints Finger, wrapped in sable and wary silence. Lord Yohn Royce arrived from Runestone, his ceremonial bronze armor gleaming, his gaze sharp as a raven's beak. From White Harbor rode Lord Wyman Manderly, vast and ruddy-faced, with his bannermen at his side and soft laughter rolling from his lips like thunder on the waves. His eyes missed little, though many mistook him for a man easily pleased.
From the Twins came Lord Maynard Charlton, lean and silver-haired, bearing news and a gift of fine Arbor wine. Young Lord Howland Reed drifted into Oldstones with no fanfare, quiet as a marsh wind and twice as slippery but what could one expect from a boy no older than five and ten that has a dying father at home, his eyes flickering to the trees more often than to the lords gathered under them. Lord Lymon Darry had brought his proud chin and sober raiment from Castle Darry, and Raymon Mooton came from Maidenpool, ever gallant and golden-haired, flanked by richly dressed kin. Clement Piper's retinue from Pinkmaiden are said to have sang as they rode, all the way to the castle gates, and Lucas Vance of Wayfarer's Rest brought a gift of river pearls and a smile as smooth as his tongue.
None of the guests failed to note who had not come.
The black-and-red of House Bracken was nowhere to be seen. Nor did the knights of Lord Walter Whent ride through the gates, though it was said the lord of Harrenhal was deep in preparations for some tourney of note—"a great one," said rumor, "the greatest of this generation." Others whispered that the real reason was pride, or fear, or quiet jealousy. Oldstones had risen too quickly, they said, and no good could come of such swift success.
But that did not stop the eyes and whispers.
They saw the way the walls gleamed, smooth and unmarred by time. They saw the towers with their colored glass, the runes inscribed along the parapets, the long line of guards in armor not of steel but a dark alloy that shimmered like river rock in the sun. They smelled the food, they tasted the wine, they saw the silver coinage of House Mudd, and they understood—something powerful had taken root here.
And then came the Blackwoods.
Raventree's full strength rode in through the gates, headed by Lord Tytos himself—black-haired and dark-eyed, grim in his bearing, yet proud in the way a stormcloud is proud. His knights bore black cloaks, and their helms were topped with raven feathers. At his side rode his sister Alysanne, the bride, white-gowned and raven-eyed. Her beauty was not soft, but keen—cut from the same obsidian as her brother's resolve.
Behind them flew the banners of Seaguard, silver eagles on indigo fields. Lord Jason Mallister rode tall in his saddle, his hair touched with grey, his gaze steady. His wife Della Keath rode beside him, smiling politely to all she passed. Little Patrek, not yet five, clutched a carved eagle in his hands, carved from driftwood and ash.
Even Lord Hoster Tully, who had long held aloof from the growing power of Oldstones, had sent his steward and his younger brother, Brynden the Blackfish, to witness the vows. Though no Tully banner flew from the walls, their presence said much.
But it was the man who came last who drew every eye.
He came in the dusk, his banner bearing the direwolf of House Stark. His men wore furs, and their faces were northern and pale. Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, had ridden all the way from Winterfell with no host of a thousand knights, only a dozen sworn swords and his two sons: Brandon, wild-eyed and charming, and Benjen, solemn and observant. It was said he had crossed the Neck in silence, slept beneath trees, and spoken often to the reeds and frogs of Crannogmen land.
Some said he had come only to bear witness to the rise of a new power. Others said it was a quiet warning: that those who remembered the Old Gods stood together still.
Hosteen Mudd had invited him not for politics, but for reverence. For if there was a greater living voice of the Old Gods in Westeros, no man had met him. Lord Rickard was their chosen officiant, not Tytos Blackwood, though he stood proud among the trees.
At sunset, the castle of Oldstones burned gold, and the godswood rustled in the warm breeze, awaiting the vows that would follow.
Hosteen stood in his hall and watched it all unfold, and in his heart, he knew: the old world had not died. It had merely been waiting to be reborn.
Twilight fell soft and golden through the boughs of the godswood, turning the mossy floor to velvet green and dappled bronze. Lanterns of pale glass hung from the lower branches, their light flickering like fireflies as evening breezes stirred the leaves. The scent of pine needles, wildflowers, and damp stone filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of sweet oil and fresh bark.
Oldstones' godswood had once been a place of ruin and rot, its roots twisted with centuries of abandonment. Now it stood proud and whole again. The old trees had been cleared of ivy and shadow, the paths remade with pale river-stone and crushed shell and all-around new trees and plants had been planted. At its heart stood the weirwood, vast and solemn, its pale bark seeming to glow in the darkening wood. The carved face within its trunk wept red sap as if it had for countless ages, its eyes soft and watchful in the firelight.
The guests gathered in silence, their rich cloaks and house colors muted by reverence. Lords of the Riverlands stood shoulder to shoulder with knights and noble daughters, many bearing no faith in the Old Gods but bound by custom and honor to witness what was to come. Even among those unfamiliar with the ancient rites, few dared speak as they stood in the presence of such a sacred thing.
Beneath the boughs of the tall weiwood, Lord Rickard Stark stood waiting. Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, solemn in gray and white wool trimmed in black bear fur. A longsword hung at his side, unadorned and well-worn, and his great cloak fell from broad shoulders like a stormcloud. He had come not as a lord, but as a servant of the gods he held as sacred as blood.
It was not his right to officiate—Tytos Blackwood or any lord of the Old Gods would have sufficed—but Hosteen had sent his invitation north with respect and cunning both. For what stronger claim could he make before the Riverlords, than to bind his name to the gods of the forest, with the Lord of Winterfell as witness?
Now the guests turned, for the bride had come.
Alysanne Blackwood walked barefoot across the stones of the godswood, her pale feet light as air. Her brother Tytos walked beside her, tall and quiet, his face unreadable beneath the flickering lanterns. She wore a gown of purest wool, snow-white and flowing, its sleeves long and trailing like wings. Embroidered across the hem and bodice in black thread were ravens in flight—dozens of them—some perched mid-wing, others soaring skyward, their wings outstretched like shadows against the moon. Her dark hair was unbound, braided with red weirwood leaves and ribbons of black silk.
As she stepped into the light before the heart tree, the guests stirred. Jason Mallister, his young son Patrek cradled in one arm, exchanged a glance with Lord Maynard Charlton. Lord Wyman Manderly, broad as a boar, grunted softly with appreciation. Even Brynden Tully's face seemed touched by awe.
And Hosteen Mudd stood waiting.
He wore no armor—only the deep muddy red of his house, trimmed in soft gold thread. His tunic was finely cut, its collar high and stiff, the sigil of House Mudd—a golden crown ringed with emeralds upon a field of muddy red-brown—displayed across his chest in worked gold and green enamel. His cloak was of midnight black wool, the inside lined with emeralds set in subtle glimmer, catching the lantern light like stars. His hair had been brushed and pulled back, and though he wore no crown, he stood as if he might have.
The owl hooted again.
Lord Stark stepped forward and raised his voice—not loud, but strong, like the rush of wind in the woods. "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"
Tytos Blackwood stepped forward, his voice firm. "Alysanne, of the House Blackwood, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods."
"And who comes to claim her?"
Hosteen answered in turn. "Hosteen of House Mudd, trueborn heir to the Riverkings' line."
Rickard's gaze did not shift. "Who gives her?"
"I do," Tytos said, and bowed once, before stepping back among the crowd.
Lord Stark looked between them, then stepped aside. "Then speak your vows before gods and kin."
Rickard turned first to Hosteen. "Do you take this woman?"
"I take this woman," Hosteen said, and the certainty in his voice was iron.
Rickard turned then to Alysanne. "And do you take this man?"
"I take this man," she said, quiet but clear, and the weirwood leaves rustled as if stirred by breath.
"Then you may kneel and cloak the bride."
Hosteen stepped forward, his hands steady, and removed the maiden's cloak from her shoulders—black, with the Blackwood tree embroidered in silver thread. In its place, he settled a new cloak over her, bearing the crowned sigil of House Mudd. The emeralds along the trim caught the weirwood's red light, shimmering like tears of joy.
Together, hand in hand, they knelt before the heart tree. No words were spoken now—none were needed. They bowed their heads in submission to the gods, their faces washed in the red saplight.
Time passed like a breath.
When they rose, the crowd watched in reverent silence. The ravens rustled in the trees, and far off, a horned owl gave its hoarse cry once more.
Then, as was custom, Hosteen bent low and lifted Alysanne into his arms. She smiled faintly, one hand resting over his heart.
Without another word, the groom carried his bride through the wood, toward the castle and the feast to come.
As they passed beneath the tall trees, beneath the lanterns swaying gently in the dusk wind, the hush of the godswood held fast. The only sound was the faint rustle of leaves overhead and the soft crunch of bare feet and booted heels on gravel and moss.
Lord Rickard Stark stood unmoving as they went by, his great gray eyes solemn beneath his brow, and as Hosteen carried his bride past him, the Lord of Winterfell inclined his head a fraction. His lips moved, barely, in some ancient prayer known only to his house and gods, in words older than the wall, older than Winterfell, older than the First Men.
The old gods spoke not, but the silence they left in their wake was full and profound. Not a raven cried. Not a breath stirred the branches overhead. The heart tree, its carved face streaked with sap like blood tears, seemed almost to glow as the last of the daylight vanished into the lantern-glow. Its eyes watched the departing pair—not with judgment, but with knowing.
Something sacred had happened beneath those crimson boughs. Even the Southron lords, unfamiliar with the ways of the old gods, felt it. There were no trumpets, no septons, no long sermons on duty and honor and fruitfulness. And yet the rite felt heavier, more solemn, as if it had been carried down from the days before steel and stone, when men had knelt in snow and leaf and sacrificed to gods who listened.
The guests stood still as statues. Jason Mallister held his young son close against his chest, the boy's wide eyes fixed on the great white tree. Tytos Blackwood lingered at the edge of the path, his face unreadable, hands clasped behind his back, though there was the faintest upturn to his lips—pride, perhaps, or something older. Brynden Tully, sharp-eyed and skeptical, said nothing, but he too had not turned away.
From behind the pair, the heart tree looked on.
Its face did not move, nor did the crimson leaves stir more than they ever did. But beneath its red canopy, something had taken root once more. A marriage not only of man and maid, but of past and present, river and root, lost name and found purpose.
The godswood of Oldstones, once wild and forgotten, had borne witness to vows spoken true. And the Old Gods had watched. That was enough.