Return of House Mudd

The Vault of Legacy

The days in Braavos passed with an unfamiliar rhythm for Hosteen. After the adrenaline of reclaiming his family's vault and the enormity of its treasures, he settled into a slower pace, allowing himself time to assess, plan, and learn. His stay extended far longer than he had originally intended—four moons of exploration, preparation, and quiet reflection.

The Iron Bank had eagerly taken up the task of cataloging the vault's wealth and artifacts. Every morning, Hosteen received updates from Orlys and Ferron, who oversaw the counting and inventory process with precision. The results were staggering.

The Wealth of House Mudd

The final tally of coins revealed immense fortune: 12 million gold dragons, a staggering sum even by the standards of the Iron Bank. In addition to this, there were 3 million in silver stags and copper pennies, neatly sorted and piled into gleaming mounds.

This wealth placed Hosteen in a unique position. It wasn't just enough to secure his immediate needs—it was a fortune vast enough to reshape the Riverlands themselves. Roads could be built, villages fortified, armies raised.

And yet, Hosteen was cautious. Money was a tool, but it had to be wielded wisely. He spent hours each day poring over records from the Iron Bank and Braavosi merchants, learning how to navigate the world of trade and finance.

The artifacts within the vault proved even more intriguing than the wealth. Hosteen devoted entire afternoons to examining the contents, guided by both his memories and his innate curiosity.

Armor

The vault contained ten sets of armor, each uniquely crafted. Of these, three stood out: bronze armors etched with the runes of the First Men.

The craftsmanship was undeniable—plates fitted together seamlessly, and the runes shimmered faintly in the torchlight. But the magic inscribed into these runes was weak by Hosteen's standards. The spells offered minor enhancements: a touch of durability, some resistance to cuts and bruises. These would do little against a seasoned warrior or a well-placed arrow.

Still, Hosteen felt a sense of reverence as he handled the bronze pieces. These armors were relics, a tangible connection to the age of his ancestors.

Weapons

The weapons collection was diverse and deadly. There were daggers, swords, and spears, all forged with the skill and artistry of bygone eras. Most bore the sigil of House Mudd, but one weapon stood apart.

A halberd, its shaft of dark wood and blade gleaming like silver, rested on a pedestal. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and Hosteen could feel the faint hum of magic within it. Though the enchantment wasn't as potent as those from his old world, it was enough to make the halberd a formidable weapon.

Then there was the warhammer. Hosteen's breath caught as he approached it. The design was unmistakable—a replica of the warhammer wielded by King Tristifer IV in his youth. The weapon was massive, its head engraved with intricate patterns, and its haft wrapped in leather worn smooth by use.

He ran his fingers over the engravings, his memories of Tristifer vivid in his mind. The king had wielded such a weapon with unmatched skill, striking down enemies with bone-shattering force. To hold this warhammer or even a replica was to hold a symbol of power, justice, and defiance.

"This is more than a weapon," Hosteen thought. "It's a promise—a reminder of what House Mudd once was and could be again."

After he discovered the weapons the vault in Braavos became Hosteen's refuge, a place where the echoes of his two lives seemed to merge into one. He spent countless hours within its cold, stone walls, lit by torches that cast flickering shadows over the treasures and relics of a bygone era. The wealth and weapons were important, but it was the books that called to him most.

Organized neatly on carved wooden shelves, the collection ranged from mundane tomes on agriculture and trade to the history of Westeros, treatises on magic and alchemy. Many of the magic books bore the crests of House Potter, House Peverell, or House Black, and Hosteen approached them with both excitement and caution.

The Familiar Knowledge of Potters and Peverells

The books from House Potter and House Peverell were intriguing at first, but they offered little new to him. With the memories of his forebears so vividly ingrained in his mind, reading their words felt like revisiting old friends' letters.

The Potter texts were practical and reliable, filled with spells for protection, healing, and dueling. They were a reflection of the family's legacy: noble and steadfast, wielding magic as a shield rather than a sword.

The Peverell books delved deeper into the arcane, particularly their mastery over alchemy and the magical constructs they had created. Hosteen recognized the spells, enchantments, and theories within them as if he had written them himself.

"Useful, but not unexpected," he muttered, setting the last of the Peverell tomes aside.

The Dark Allure of the Black Family's Knowledge

The books of the Black family, however, were an entirely different matter. They exuded a dark, almost sentient presence, as if the magic within them yearned to be unleashed. Hosteen could feel the weight of generations of cunning and ambition pressing against his senses as he opened the first grimoire.

The writing was meticulous, the ink dark and unyielding, as if the words themselves had been etched into the pages by force of will. These were not the careful, structured spells of the Potters or the theoretical musings of the Peverells. These were weapons—spells crafted for domination, vengeance, and pain.

Hosteen leafed through the pages, his breath catching as he read about the curses the Black family had developed over the centuries.

Hosteen found numerous accounts of curses meant to torment not just individuals, but entire bloodlines. One curse would doom every male heir of a family to be born with dwarfism. Another condemned a rival house to baldness, a petty but enduring humiliation.

"These seem almost childish," Hosteen thought, flipping through pages that detailed more severe hexes. Then he found one that made him pause.

The Generational Curse of Death: This spell ensured that one child in the victim's family would die in every generation. The power of such a curse was horrifying, the lingering shadow of its effects stretching across decades or even centuries.

The Skinning Curse: A spell that peeled the skin from a victim's body while ensuring they remained alive to feel every agonizing second. The description was clinical, the incantation simple, as if to underscore the cruelty behind its design.

At the center of one particularly ominous volume, Hosteen found a spell that made the others pale in comparison. The Black family's Severance Curse was a masterpiece of dark magic, designed to strip its victim of their magical ability and transfer that power to the caster.

The incantation was written in an ancient, spiraling script, accompanied by detailed instructions and warnings. The spell was noted to be both rare and perilous, having only been used twice in recorded history.

The first use was by the curse's creator, whose name was conspicuously absent from the records. The second use was by Walburga Black, who had attempted to cast it on her own son, Sirius, when he defied the family's traditions and values.

The account of her failure was chilling. Because Sirius was the heir to the Black family at the time, the spell had backfired, leaving Walburga herself cursed for the rest of her life. The records were vague about the specifics of her suffering, but Hosteen could imagine the anguish such a reversal would bring.

"It's no wonder the Blacks valued power above all," Hosteen thought. "To wield magic like this requires more than skill. It demands a darkness within."

Hosteen closed the book and sat in silence, the weight of the knowledge he had uncovered pressing down on him. The spells in the Black family's grimoires were powerful, yes, but they were also dangerous—to both their victims and their casters.

He could feel the temptation of that power, the allure of magic that could destroy his enemies and bend the world to his will. But Hosteen was no stranger to the cost of such ambition. He had seen the ruin it brought, both in the memories of his ancestors and in his own life.

"These curses are tools," he muttered to himself, "not solutions. They will have their place, but only when there's no other path."

Still, Hosteen couldn't deny the utility of some of the spells he had found. He copied the incantations he deemed potentially useful into a personal notebook, ensuring that he would have access to them even if he left the vault.

As Hosteen delved deeper into the Black family's grimoires, he came across a series of texts dedicated to wards—ancient enchantments that protected the Black estates and holdings. These were no ordinary spells. The wards described were intricate, layered with redundancies and enhanced by blood magic.

Hosteen felt a chill as he read the detailed instructions and accounts of their creation. The wards weren't just protective—they were aggressive, hostile, and uncompromising. They spoke of a family that trusted no one, not even their own.

The first and most formidable of the wards were blood wards. These enchantments used the very essence of the Black family's lineage as their foundation.

The Killing Ward: Anyone who entered a protected space without the blood of the casters family—or without an explicit invitation—would find themselves dead in seconds. The descriptions were chillingly precise: veins collapsing, lungs seizing, and hearts stopping as if crushed by an invisible hand. The ward was designed to leave no survivors, no exceptions.

The Informant Ward: Another layer of the blood wards didn't kill but instead alerted the head of the family whenever an uninvited guest breached their domain. The grimoire described how the head would feel a prickling at the base of their neck, accompanied by a mental image of the intruder.

"These wards are more than protection," Hosteen muttered, his voice low. "They are declarations of supremacy. The Blacks don't just defend their homes—they make them fortresses of fear."

The second type of ward Hosteen discovered was designed to repel all external magic. The caster could seal a space so that no spell, charm, or enchantment could penetrate it.

"It creates a void," the text explained, "a place where magic outside the caster's design cannot exist. No interference, no infiltration, no counterspells."

The implications of such a barrier were staggering. Hosteen imagined how it could be used in a duel or a negotiation, trapping an opponent in a space where only the caster's magic could function.

"It's brilliant," Hosteen thought, his admiration tinged with unease. "But it's also dangerous. A ward like this doesn't just protect—it dominates."

One ward, in particular, intrigued Hosteen: the Lie-Binding Ward. The enchantment created a space where no one but the caster could lie.

The grimoire described its applications in vivid detail. The ward could be used in negotiations, interrogations, or even family disputes. The caster could ensure that everyone else spoke only the truth, while they retained the ability to deceive at will.

"This is the kind of power that ruins trust," Hosteen thought, shaking his head. "It's manipulative. But… I can see why the Blacks valued it."

The moons passed swiftly as Hosteen delved into the treasures and knowledge hidden within his vault. The books he read expanded his understanding of magic, particularly the darker, more complex branches mastered by the Black family. Yet, even as he uncovered the secrets of his ancestors, a persistent curiosity gnawed at him—the enigmatic House of Black and White and the imposing Titan of Braavos.

Both seemed to radiate an energy he couldn't explain. It was different from the magic he had known, ancient and unyielding, and it called to him in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling.

The House of Black and White was a place of quiet mystery. From his first glimpse of its unassuming yet foreboding façade.It stood at the edge of the Quiet Isle, where the waters lapped softly against its stone foundation.

When he passed the House of Black and White on his walks through the city, Hosteen felt a subtle pull to go inside. It wasn't just curiosity; it was as though the building itself invited him. He resisted each time, reminding himself of the caution his magical training had instilled in him. "Never walk blindly into power you don't understand," he muttered under his breath.

Still, his resistance grew weaker with each passing day.

The Titan, in contrast, was a figure of brazen strength and defiance. Hosteen could see its colossal form from nearly every part of the city. It stood guard over the entrance to the lagoon, its massive stone-and-bronze frame casting a shadow over the waters.

The Braavosi spoke of the Titan with pride, claiming it was both a symbol of their independence and a literal protector. It housed soldiers, weapons, and great bells that would ring out across the sea in times of peril.

But to Hosteen, the Titan was more than a symbol or a fortress. When he gazed at it, especially during the quiet hours of dawn or dusk, he felt the faint hum of power coursing through its ancient stone. It wasn't magical in the traditional sense—no spells or enchantments surrounded it. Instead, it felt alive, as though the Titan itself were watching and waiting.

Determined to distract himself from the allure of these mysterious places, Hosteen threw himself into exploring the rest of Braavos.

The city was a labyrinth of winding canals, arched bridges, and narrow streets, bustling with life at all hours. Merchants hawked their wares from gondolas, calling out prices for spices, silks, and jewels. Musicians played lively tunes on the corners, their melodies weaving through the chatter of the crowd.

Hosteen found himself drawn to the artisan districts, where workshops buzzed with activity. Blacksmiths hammered steel into swords and armor, potters shaped clay into delicate vases, and weavers created tapestries that shimmered like water under the sun.

Despite its beauty and vibrancy, Braavos hummed with an undercurrent of tension. Hosteen could feel it in the air, the same way he sensed the energies of the House of Black and White and the Titan. It wasn't fear, exactly, but a kind of readiness, as though the city were bracing itself for something.

"Braavos is a place of masks," he thought as he watched a masked courtesan glide gracefully through a crowded plaza. "Everyone here hides something. Power. Secrets. Intentions. And yet, it all flows together in harmony."

It was an odd sensation for him. In his old world, power had always been more overt—palaces, wands, and open displays of strength. Here, it was subtler, woven into the fabric of daily life.

One evening, after a day of wandering through the markets and observing the Braavosi at their trade, Hosteen found himself standing before the House of Black and White once again. He hadn't meant to come here; his feet had carried him almost involuntarily.

The setting sun bathed the building in golden light, casting long shadows across its black-and-white doors. He felt the pull stronger than ever, an almost magnetic force urging him to step inside.

"What are you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The doors remained silent, their inscrutable surface giving no answers. Yet the feeling persisted, a constant whisper at the edge of his mind.

Unwilling to succumb to his curiosity just yet, Hosteen decided to seek more information. He made his way back to the docks, where the harbormaster, a wiry man with sun-weathered skin named Karos, was tallying the arrival of a shipment.

Hosteen waited patiently until Karos finished his work, then approached.

"Good evening," Hosteen said with a polite nod.

Karos glanced up, squinting at him. "Evening. What do you need?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me about the House of Black and White."

Karos froze for a moment, his quill hovering over the ledger. He set it down carefully, then looked up at Hosteen with narrowed eyes.

"Why would you want to know about that place?"

"Curiosity," Hosteen replied smoothly. "It seems... significant."

Karos snorted, shaking his head. "Significant, aye. But dangerous. That's the temple of the Many-Faced God, the god of death. Folk go there seeking mercy, or vengeance. The priests inside grant both—if you pay their price."

Hosteen raised an eyebrow. "Vengeance? I thought it was a place of mercy."

Karos gave him a sharp look. "Mercy comes in many forms, stranger. Don't go looking for it unless you're prepared to pay."

In the end he didn't know much more than he already did.

(We are, by the way, at around the 3rd moon of 277 AC.)