Return of House Mudd

 The coming of The Andals

The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and smoldering wood as King Tristifer IV Mudd, the last to bear the fabled title of "Hammer of Justice," sat upon his high-backed chair in the great hall of Riverpeak. The castle, ancient even by the reckoning of his forebears, seemed to groan under the weight of its own history. Its gray walls bore the scars of countless sieges, its floors polished smooth by the footsteps of kings and warriors long gone.

Tristifer IV was a man in the waning years of his strength, though his presence still commanded respect. His beard, streaked with white like frost on an autumn field, framed a face etched with the lines of hard decisions and endless war. His eyes, piercing and thoughtful, scanned the room where his four sons had gathered at his summons.

The eldest, Tristifer the Younger, stood nearest to his father. At thirty, he bore the physical strength and stature of a warrior, yet lacked the sharpness of mind or the steady hand of leadership that marked a true ruler. His broad shoulders and resolute jaw suggested a man of strength, but beyond appearances, he was ill-suited to command. While he had fought in battles, his skill with a blade was middling compared to that of his brothers or even his father in his prime. Leadership weighed heavily on him, not because he bore it well, but because it exposed his inadequacies.

Antioch, the second son, was leaner, with sharp eyes that missed nothing and a calculating mind that could read the battlefield—and the hearts of men—with uncanny precision. Cadmus, third-born, was the dreamer, but even his contemplative nature was balanced by a sword arm that could hold its own in the heat of battle. And then there was Ignotus, the youngest, barely twenty but already possessed of a fiery temper and a wit as sharp as the blade he carried.

The hall was dim, lit only by the flicker of torches and the embers of a dying hearth. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the shutters as though the world itself sought to intrude upon their deliberations. Yet the king and his sons paid it no mind, their focus fixed on the weighty matter at hand: the encroaching threat of the Andals.

"The Andals push ever closer," King Tristifer began, his voice low but resonant. "They come with their gods, their steel, and their endless hunger for conquest. Our victories hold for now, but they are not the tide. The tide will not be turned so easily."

Antioch leaned forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Father, our men fight with the strength of the old gods. Each battle we've met them in has ended with their blood soaking our fields. Let them come. We'll show them what it means to face the Riverlands."

The king regarded his second son with a weary smile. "Confidence is a virtue, Antioch, but so is caution. The Andals do not fight as we do. Their swords are forged of iron, stronger than the bronze we wield. Their faith unites them. They see their conquest not as ambition but as destiny."

Cadmus spoke next, his tone measured and contemplative. "They bring not just warriors, but settlers. Families, priests, craftsmen. They do not come to raid; they come to stay. Even if we drive them back, they will return, again and again."

"Then we should crush them so completely that they will think twice before setting foot on our soil," the eldest son declared, his voice sharp with fervor. "Father, give me a command. I'll take the fight to them and scatter their forces before they can regroup."

Ignotus placed a calming hand on his oldest brother's shoulder. "Patience, brother. Father is right. The Andals are unlike any enemy we have faced. If we are to defeat them, we must understand them. Their strengths, their weaknesses. Rushing into battle without a plan will only weaken us."

King Tristifer nodded in approval. "Well said, my son. Strength without wisdom is a blade without a hilt. Dangerous to all who wield it."

A silence settled over the hall, broken only by the crackling of the fire. The king's gaze turned inward, as though he were listening to the whispers of the past. Finally, he spoke again, his voice heavy with resolve.

"Our ancestors built this kingdom with their blood and their will. The Riverlands are not just a place; they are a legacy. A promise to those who came before us that we would endure. If the Andals mean to take it from us, they will find that the blood of the Mudds runs deep and strong."

He turned his gaze to his eldest son, his expression carefully neutral. "Tristifer, you will defend Riverpeak. This castle is the heart of our strength, and it must not fall. Should the worst come to pass, you will be the last line of defense."

It was a task chosen deliberately, though not out of confidence in Tristifer the Younger's abilities. The king knew his eldest son lacked the aptitude for leadership on the battlefield, and he could not risk putting the kingdom's future in such unsteady hands. Defending the castle—fortified and staffed with seasoned warriors—was a role where even his eldest son's shortcomings might cause the least harm. It was a station of importance, but one that would keep him out of the critical clashes where strategy and decisiveness would determine the fate of the Riverlands.

Tristifer the Younger inclined his head, accepting the weight of his charge with solemnity, unaware of the quiet calculations that had determined his role.

"Antioch, Cadmus, Ignotus," the king continued, his tone growing more urgent. "You three will ride north as envoys to King Brandon Stark. The North is strong and proud, and their enmity with the Andals runs as deep as ours. Convince him that our cause is his. Tell him we cannot win alone. The Riverlands begin to divide themselves between those who wish to keep their faith and ways of life, and those who see no harm in bending the knee to the invaders. We cannot afford to fracture further. If we are to survive, we must have allies."

Antioch and Cadmus exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of determination and concern. Ignotus, though visibly frustrated at being sent away from the battle, nodded his understanding. Each son knew the gravity of their mission and the precariousness of their kingdom's position.

The meeting concluded, each son departing to fulfill his role. Tristifer IV remained behind, gazing into the fire as though it held the answers to the questions that haunted him. The shadows danced upon his face, a silent reminder of the trials yet to come.

As the fire's glow began to dim, Tristifer IV found himself lost in memories. His mind drifted to a battlefield years past, where the Andals had first tested his mettle. It was a day of chaos and blood, the sun obscured by a haze of smoke and ash. The Andals had come with their iron swords and their zeal, but they had not yet faced the Hammer of Justice.

Tristifer, then a younger man, had stood at the head of his army. His warhammer, a massive weapon of bronze and oak, was an extension of his will. The battle had raged for hours, the lines shifting as men fell and others took their place. He remembered the weight of the hammer in his hands, the satisfying crunch as it met the shields and bodies of his enemies. He remembered the cries of his men, their voices lifted in defiance as they followed him into the fray.

At the height of the battle, when the Andals seemed poised to overwhelm them, Tristifer had roared a challenge that echoed across the field. "Come, invaders! Face me and see the strength of the Riverlands!"

The Andal leader, a towering man with a sword of gleaming iron, had stepped forward to meet him. Their duel was fierce, the clash of their weapons ringing like thunder. But Tristifer's strength and resolve had proved greater. With a final, mighty swing of his hammer, he had shattered the Andal's blade and crushed the man beneath the weight of his weapon.

The sight of their leader's defeat had broken the Andals' spirit, and they had fled. The Riverlands had triumphed that day, but Tristifer had known it was only the beginning. The Andals would return, stronger and more determined.

That night, as the castle slept, Tristifer IV sat at his desk, a quill in hand and parchment spread before him. The flickering light of a single candle illuminated his face, casting deep shadows that mirrored the weight of his thoughts.

He wrote with care, his words deliberate and measured. The letters were addressed to Lords Blackwood and Tully, his most trusted bannermen. The ink flowed as he poured his fears and his hopes onto the page.

"To my loyal lords," he began, "the Andals are not like the foes we have faced before. They come with iron, with gods, and with numbers that seem without end. Though we have won victories, I must tell you plainly: this war will not end as swiftly or as decisively as we might wish. The strength and resolve of the enemy cannot be underestimated."

He paused, his gaze drifting to the window where the night stretched out endlessly. The weight of honesty pressed heavily on him, but he owed his lords the truth.

"We must prepare for a prolonged struggle. Our unity is our greatest weapon, and we must wield it wisely. The Riverlands must stand as one, or we shall fall divided. Trust in the strength of our people and the wisdom of our ancestors. Together, we shall endure."

As he finished the letter and sealed it with the sigil of House Mudd, a sense of calm settled over him. He had done what he could to prepare his people for the trials ahead. Now, it was up to them—and the gods—to see their kingdom through the storm.

In the days that followed, the Riverlands stirred with activity. Messengers rode out under cover of darkness, carrying the king's words to his bannermen. Blacksmiths worked tirelessly, their forges glowing as they shaped bronze into weapons and armor. Farmers tilled their fields with renewed urgency, knowing that the harvest might be their last before war consumed the land.

At the heart of it all was Riverpeak, the ancient castle that had stood as a symbol of the Mudds' dominion for generations. Its walls, thick and unyielding, seemed to hum with the energy of the preparations. Within its halls, the sons of Tristifer IV worked tirelessly to carry out their father's commands.

Tristifer the Younger drilled the soldiers, his voice ringing out as he directed their maneuvers. He fought alongside them, his sword flashing in the sunlight as he demonstrated the techniques that had made his father a legend among their ranks. Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus prepared for their journey north, gathering the provisions and words they would need to win the North's favor.

As the days turned to weeks, the Andals drew ever closer. Their banners, emblazoned with symbols of their Seven gods, were a stark contrast to the sigils of the Riverlands. They came in waves, their numbers swelling with each passing day. Yet the Mudds stood firm, their resolve unshaken.

It was but the latest chapter in a conflict that had already raged for years. The war was no sudden storm but a grinding tide, each clash adding to the mounting toll on the Riverlands and its weary king. Every battle left its scars—on the land, on its people, and on the heart of King Tristifer IV Mudd.

One such battle unfolded on a mist-shrouded morning near the banks of the Trident. King Tristifer IV Mudd himself led the Riverlands' forces into the fray. The years had not been kind to him; the vigor of youth had faded, replaced by a grim resolve born of necessity. He rode at the head of his men, his hammer—a weapon as legendary as the man who wielded it—raising the morale of his soldiers even as their spirits grew weary of endless war.

The battle was brutal, the clash of bronze against iron echoing across the battlefield. The Andals fought with an unyielding ferocity, their faith driving them forward. King Tristifer, though no longer in his prime, stood as a towering presence, his hammer cleaving through enemies with the force of his will. Yet, even as they held their ground, the Riverlanders could feel the strain. Every victory seemed harder won, and each loss heavier to bear.

By day's end, the battlefield was a grim testament to the cost of resistance. The Riverlands had held the line, but the price was steep. Blood soaked the earth, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the prayers of the dying. As King Tristifer surveyed the carnage, he could sense the yearning for peace in the hearts of his men. They were loyal, unyielding, but tired. And he felt it too—the slow erosion of his strength, the weight of countless battles leaving their mark.

Meanwhile, back at Riverpeak, Tristifer the Younger remained, entrusted with the defense of the castle. The eldest son had not yet taken up arms alongside his father. The king, wary of the consequences of his son's inexperience, had chosen to keep him close, far from the most dangerous frontlines. Riverpeak was vital, and it was a task the king felt his son could manage without placing the kingdom in greater peril.

When word of the battle reached Riverpeak, the eldest son stood at the castle walls, gazing out toward the distant horizon. But it was the return of King Tristifer that made clear who bore the full weight of the news, a mix of pride and resignation settling over the heir. Victory was theirs, but the Andals would return, their numbers seemingly inexhaustible and he himself would need to stay and defend their ancestral keep while his father was going to fight.

As the fires burned low in the great hall of Riverpeak, King Tristifer found himself alone with his thoughts. The memories of countless battles waged, of friends and kin lost, crowded his mind. Kneeling before the godswood, he prayed for guidance, for the strength to endure. The weight of his crown, of his people's survival, pressed heavily upon him.

Yet, Tristifer IV Mudd was not a man to falter. The title "Hammer of Justice" was not simply an honorific—it was a vow. A vow to his people, to his ancestors, and to the gods that the Riverlands would not fall. As the storm of war gathered once more on the horizon, he steeled himself for the trials to come, determined to fight with every ounce of strength he had left.