Return of House Mudd

Dreams of Power and the Titan's Shadow

The second day aboard The Silver Star dawned with a pale sun struggling to break through the overcast skies. Hosteen stood at the bow, the chill wind tugging at his cloak as the ship sliced through the choppy waters of the Narrow Sea. He felt the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves beneath his feet, the faint creak of the wooden hull beneath him, and the distant cries of gulls overhead. The openness of the sea was both freeing and unsettling, a vast expanse that reminded him of how far he was from the lands he sought to reclaim.

His thoughts drifted as they often did during moments of stillness. With the Riverlands far behind him and Braavos ahead, Hosteen turned his mind to the question that had gnawed at him since his awakening: How would he restore the legacy of House Mudd?

The most direct path, of course, was through strength. He could raise a host, gather loyal bannermen, and carve out his place through conquest. But Hosteen dismissed the notion as impractical—he lacked men, arms, and allys. Besides, open rebellion would invite annihilation, and he was in no hurry to become another tragic figure in the annals of history.

The subtle path was far more appealing. His mastery of magic, his cunning, and his wit could be his weapons in a world that did not yet understand the full extent of what he was capable of. But how to begin?

Hosteen's thoughts turned to Lord Pemford, the minor lord whose lands encompassed Gravesham. The man was no great figure—a vassal of House Mallister, who in turn bent the knee to Lord Tully. If Hosteen could ingratiate himself into Pemford's service, perhaps as a landed knight, he could lay the groundwork for a claim to land and title.

The vision began to take shape in his mind. He would serve faithfully, proving his worth through diligence and competence. When the time was right, he could subtly manipulate Pemford using his magic, guiding the lord to see Hosteen not just as a servant, but as an indispensable ally. From there, it would be a matter of ambition and patience.

Hosteen allowed himself a brief smile as the pieces of his imagined plan fell into place. Once he had the trust of Pemford and perhaps even a modest holding of land, the next step would be to seek the favor of the Tullys. Lord Hoster Tully ruled as the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, a man whose loyalty to House Targaryen was as well-known as his loyalty to power and those that can bring it to him.

Convincing Lord Tully to raise a minor lord to the status of high lord was no small feat, but Hosteen had no intention of relying on conventional methods. A subtle Confundus Charm here, a carefully placed word there, and he could nudge the Riverlands' ruler toward granting him the lands and title he needed.

Hosteen's stomach twisted at the thought of King Aerys II, the so-called Mad King. The man's paranoia and cruelty were legendary, but his instability might also be an advantage. A careful spell, a whispered suggestion, and the Mad King might issue a decree in Hosteen's favor without ever realizing why.

It was a bold plan, audacious even, but Hosteen relished the challenge. The thrill of outmaneuvering those who believed themselves above him, of seizing what should rightfully belong to his bloodline, was intoxicating.

Lost in his thoughts, Hosteen barely noticed the sound of boots on the deck behind him until a shout broke through his reverie.

"Braavos in sight!"

The words snapped him back to the present, and he turned toward the voice. One of the sailors stood at the stern, pointing toward the horizon. Hosteen moved to join the gathering crew, his heart quickening as he strained to see what lay ahead.

At first, Braavos was nothing more than a faint smudge on the horizon, a shadowy outline rising from the sea. But as the ship drew closer, the details began to emerge.

The towering figure of the Titan dominated the view, its massive form carved from black basalt and iron. It stood astride the entrance to the lagoon, a sentinel that had guarded the city for centuries. Hosteen had read of the Titan in his memories, but no description could truly capture the awe-inspiring scale of it. The statue's eyes gleamed with reflected sunlight, its features stern and imposing, and its raised arm held a brazier that would light the way for ships during the night.

Beneath the Titan, the city of Braavos sprawled across a network of islands, its canals weaving between buildings of stone and wood. The domes of temples, the spires of towers, and the wide arches of bridges created a skyline that was both chaotic and beautiful.

The harbor itself was a frenzy of activity. Dozens of ships crowded the waters, their sails bearing the sigils of distant lands. Merchants bartered loudly from the decks of their vessels, while sailors swarmed over the piers, unloading cargo and securing lines.

As the ship eased into the harbor, the sounds of Braavos enveloped Hosteen. The clang of hammers, the calls of street vendors, the distant hum of a thousand conversations—all blended into a cacophony that spoke of a city alive with commerce and intrigue.

The smells were equally vivid: the salt of the sea, the tang of fish markets, the earthy aroma of fresh bread, and the faint, acrid scent of forge fires. Hosteen inhaled deeply, letting the city's energy fill him.

This was a place of power, a place where fortunes were made and alliances forged. Braavos was unlike any town in the Riverlands—a city of freedom, wealth, and ambition.

The sight of Braavos from the deck of the ship had been nothing short of breathtaking. The Free City sprawled out before Hosteen, a labyrinth of canals, bridges, and buildings that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the horizon. It was unlike anything he had seen before, even in the depths of his ancestral memories. There was a vibrancy here, a sense of unyielding life and commerce that pulsed through the very air.

When the ship docked, Hosteen disembarked with purpose but also a tinge of curiosity. He had a task ahead of him, but Braavos called to him like a siren, its mysteries begging to be explored.

The docks were a cacophony of noise and activity. Sailors shouted to one another as they unloaded crates of goods, merchants haggled over prices, and children darted between the bustling crowds, laughing and playing games. The air was thick with the smells of salt, fish, and spices, mingling in a heady cocktail that was unmistakably Braavosi.

Hosteen's eyes roved over the scene, taking in the diverse crowd. There were men and women from all corners of the known world, their clothing and accents as varied as the goods they traded. Here, a merchant from Volantis displayed fine silks, while a Qohorik blacksmith demonstrated the strength of his wares. There, a Norvoshi priest preached to a small crowd, his great axe resting at his feet.

It was overwhelming, but Hosteen's sharp mind quickly adjusted. He made his way through the crowd with ease, his bearing commanding enough to part the sea of people without drawing undue attention to himself.

As he ventured deeper into the city, the scale of Braavos became even more apparent. The canals wound through the city like veins, their waters reflecting the sunlight in dazzling ripples. Gondolas glided over the surface, piloted by gondoliers whose singsong calls echoed through the streets.

The buildings were a testament to the city's eclectic history. Some were tall and narrow, their upper stories leaning precariously toward one another, while others were squat and wide, with facades of weathered stone. Balconies adorned with wrought-iron railings jutted out over the canals, and colorful banners fluttered in the breeze.

Hosteen passed workshops where artisans crafted everything from jewelry to ship sails. The streets were alive with the sound of hammers striking anvils, saws cutting through wood, and the occasional burst of laughter from within the taverns that lined the canals.

The markets were a riot of color and noise. Merchants displayed exotic wares: spices from Asshai, glass from Myr, and even rare tomes written in languages Hosteen didn't recognize. He paused at a stall selling intricately carved figurines of ivory and onyx, marveling at the craftsmanship before moving on.

Eventually, Hosteen found himself in a quieter part of the city. The bustling markets and noisy workshops gave way to narrow streets lined with unassuming buildings. It was here that he first saw it: a structure that seemed to exude an air of solemnity and mystery.

The House of Black and White stood apart from its surroundings. Its facade was starkly divided into two halves, one black and the other white, and the building seemed to radiate an unsettling stillness.

Hosteen felt an inexplicable pull toward the place. Something about it stirred his curiosity, a sensation he couldn't quite explain. He took a step closer, then another, but a faint sense of foreboding stopped him in his tracks.

He didn't know what the building was, but he could sense its importance. Whatever secrets lay within its walls, they were not meant for him—at least not yet. Shaking his head, he turned away, resolving to put the strange place out of his mind.

The path back to the docks brought him once more into the lively heart of the city. The noise and energy were almost comforting after the eerie stillness of the House of Black and White. Hosteen made his way to the harbormaster's office, a modest building near the water's edge.

Inside, the harbormaster—a wiry man with a bushy beard and shrewd eyes—looked up from his ledger. "What can I do for you?" he asked, his voice rough but businesslike.

Hosteen leaned casually against the counter. "I've come across a peculiar building in the quieter part of the city. Black and white, very distinct. Do you know of it?"

The harbormaster's expression changed subtly, his brows furrowing. "The House of Black and White," he said, his tone cautious. "It's a temple. Not like the others you'll find here, though. It's a place of... endings."

"Endings?"

The man nodded slowly. "The priests there serve the Many-Faced God. Death, some call it. It's said they can grant a swift end to those who seek it—or to those they're sent for. If you've any sense, you'll stay clear of that place. It's not for the likes of us."

Hosteen hid his reaction behind a thoughtful expression. "Thank you for the advice."

The harbormaster grunted and returned to his work, leaving Hosteen to mull over the cryptic explanation.

With his curiosity about the House of Black and White temporarily sated, Hosteen turned his attention to the Iron Bank. The building was as imposing as he had expected, its dark stone facade looming over the surrounding streets. The massive iron doors, adorned with intricate carvings, seemed to radiate power and authority.

Inside, the air was cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the lively chaos of the city outside. Rows of clerks sat at desks, their quills scratching across parchment as they recorded transactions and tallied accounts. Guards in polished armor stood watch, their eyes sharp and alert.

Hosteen approached a desk where a clerk, a thin man with a pointed nose and spectacles, looked up expectantly.

"I have business here," Hosteen said, his tone measured. "An account to discuss."

The clerk nodded, motioning for him to follow. "This way."

As Hosteen was led deeper into the bank, his thoughts briefly returned to the House of Black and White. Braavos was a city of secrets, and he had only begun to uncover them. But for now, his focus was on the task at hand. The resources of the Iron Bank would be the foundation of his plans—a step toward reclaiming his legacy and forging a future worthy of the name Mudd.

The room Hosteen was led into was understated but exuded an air of quiet authority. The desk was polished to a mirror sheen, and rows of ledgers, some centuries old by their appearance, lined the walls. A man sat at the desk, his quill scratching against parchment, unbothered by their approach. His thin-framed spectacles rested precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his movements were precise and mechanical.

As Hosteen and the clerk stopped before him, the secretary didn't immediately look up. Instead, he finished the line he was writing before pausing, his gaze lifting to acknowledge them.

"Name?" the secretary asked curtly, his quill hovering above the inkpot.

"Hosteen Mudd," came the reply, his voice calm and steady.

The scratching stopped. The secretary froze mid-motion, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he set the quill down and looked up fully, his spectacles glinting in the candlelight.

"Wait here a moment," he said, rising from his chair.

Hosteen inclined his head politely, stepping aside to let the man leave. Minutes ticked by, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. When the secretary returned, two others followed him.

The first was a tall man with a severe face and silver-threaded black hair. His robes bore the insignia of the Iron Bank, and his demeanor was one of unshakable authority. "I am Orlys Dannor, keyholder of this bank" he said, his voice resonating like a bell.

The second man was shorter but carried himself with equal confidence. His sharp features and piercing eyes gave him a hawkish appearance. "And I am Ferron Lynt, also a keyholder of the Iron Bank."

They exchanged a brief glance before Orlys continued. "The account of House Mudd is well-known to us. In fact, it is the largest single-family account in the Iron Bank's possession. Its history extends to the founding of the bank itself."

Ferron added, his tone contemplative, "But what is peculiar, Lord Mudd, is that despite its prominence, there is no record of a key to the account ever being issued. This omission has raised questions over the centuries."

Hosteen nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "I thank you for your candor. If it eases your concerns, I have the means to open the vault myself. All I ask is that you allow me to proceed."

The two keyholders exchanged another glance, this one loaded with meaning. Finally, Orlys nodded. "Very well. But for security, we will accompany you. Guards will also be present. The Iron Bank takes no chances with treasures of such significance."

Hosteen nodded again, showing no sign of the flicker of amusement he felt. "Understood."

Eight armored guards joined them as they began their descent into the deeper levels of the bank. The torches along the walls cast flickering shadows as they traversed a labyrinth of corridors and staircases. The air grew cooler, the stone walls lined with ancient carvings that told stories of the bank's origins.

The guards moved in practiced formation, their halberds gleaming. Orlys and Ferron led the way, their expressions calm but watchful. Hosteen followed, his eyes scanning every detail of the path.

Finally, they reached a large chamber, its centerpiece a massive steel-and-stone door. The sigil of House Mudd—a spiked crown with emeralds in its base—was engraved into its surface, unmistakable even after centuries.

Orlys gestured toward it. "This is the vault of House Mudd."

Hosteen approached slowly, the weight of the moment settling over him. The sigil, carved with such precision, seemed almost to pulse with ancient energy. As he drew closer, he extended his magical senses, letting them wash over the door.

Beneath the layers of steel and stone, he found it: a hidden compartment, designed to reveal itself only when activated by magic. Hosteen reached out discreetly, letting a subtle pulse of his power flow into the mechanism.

With a soft click, a section of the door slid aside, revealing a keyhole.

The guards shifted uneasily at the sudden movement, but Hosteen remained calm. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a simple iron key, its appearance mundane enough to draw no suspicion. To the others, it seemed as if he had simply produced it from his robes.

He inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The vault door groaned in protest, its ancient hinges resisting before finally yielding.

The air that escaped was cool and dry, carrying with it the faint scent of age and metal. Hosteen stepped back, allowing the others to see that the vault was now open.

As Hosteen stepped into the vault, the torchlight revealed the splendor and history housed within. The air inside was cool and dry, preserved by magic that hummed faintly in his senses. This was not merely a vault; it was a treasure trove of three intertwined legacies—House Mudd of Westeros, House Potter and Black of his old world, and the enigmatic House Peverell.

The room seemed meticulously organized, each section a testament to the care taken by the Iron Bank or perhaps the magic woven into the vault itself. The first thing to draw Hosteen's attention was the sheer volume of wealth.

Three massive sections were dedicated to coins. The largest gleamed with gold dragons that seemed not to end, stacked in neat rows that reflected the flickering light. To their right, smaller stacks of silver stags shimmered, while to the left, piles of copper pennies formed the most modest but numerous collection.

Hosteen knelt by the nearest stack of dragons, examining the coins closely. They bore the unmistakable stamp of Westerosi mints—dragons, stags, and other emblems of power etched into their surfaces. These were not the galleons, sickles, and knuts of his old world.

"It's as if the magic of this place transformed the currency," he murmured to himself.

He reached out, letting his fingers brush the edges of the gold. There was a solidity to it, a weight that spoke of its real-world value. This wealth would serve him well in his plans, providing the foundation for his return to prominence in the Riverlands.

Beyond the coin sections lay shelves upon shelves of books. The leather-bound tomes were arranged with a methodical precision, some bearing titles in the Common Tongue of Westeros, others in the elegant scripts of his old world.

The books seemed to be categorized—one section focused on magic, with titles that spoke of both familiar wizarding spells and the runic magic of Westeros. Another section was devoted to history, with works on the ancient River Kings, the Age of Heroes, and even accounts of the Andal invasion, but nowhere was the history of his old world, perhaps magic had altered them too to what lay before him now.

Hosteen's eyes narrowed as he scanned the spines. Many of these volumes were long thought lost to history. Some titles, written in the angular script of the First Men, sparked a pang of recognition. These were the legacies of his ancestors, both magical and mundane.

"I'll need time to study these," he thought, his mind already cataloging the wealth of knowledge within reach.

Toward the back of the vault, Hosteen saw them: weapons and armor displayed with reverence. He approached, his steps measured as his gaze took in the craftsmanship. Swords, spears, and shields gleamed, their edges sharp and their surfaces unmarred by time.

What struck him most, however, was the absence of any sigils from his wizarding heritage. There were no crests of House Potter, no marks of House Black, and no symbols of the Deathly Hallows tied to the Peverells. Instead, every weapon and piece of armor bore the sigil of House Mudd.

Hosteen ran his fingers over a breastplate, its steel cool and polished to a mirror shine. The sigil was embossed at its center, its design imbued with a subtle magical resonance.

"Magic has altered them," he realized. "These were meant for me."

It was as though the vault itself had reshaped these artifacts, erasing ties to his wizarding past and anchoring them firmly in his current reality. It was both unsettling and empowering.

Stepping back, Hosteen took in the entirety of the vault. This was more than wealth; it was the essence of four great houses distilled into one space. The riches of House Mudd, the wisdom of House Potter and Black, and the mysteries of House Peverell were here, waiting for him to claim them.