Return of House Mudd

Return to the Riverlands

The salt-spray of the Narrow Sea whipped against Hosteen's face as he stood at the bow of the ship, the familiar hum of waves beneath him. His thoughts were heavy with the weight of his decision. Leaving Braavos behind, he was heading back to the Riverlands, to Gravesham, the small village that had become his home since his arrival in this strange world.

For months, he had immersed himself in the secrets of his vault and the mysteries of Braavos, but now it was time to act. The next step on his journey would take him directly into the lion's den—Lord Pemford's domain. Whether he would usurp the lord or seek a position in his service remained uncertain. Both options carried risks, and both required careful planning.

Hosteen glanced down at himself, reassured by his new attire. Gone were the odd, out-of-place robes he had worn when he first appeared in this world. Now, he looked the part of a man of status.

The armor he wore was a masterpiece—bronze, engraved with intricate runes that blended the magic of the First Men with the spells of his old world. The result was a set of armor that was both durable and lightweight, keyed specifically to him. To any observer, it gleamed faintly in the sunlight, as though touched by an otherworldly power.

The sigil of House Mudd adorned the chest piece, a golden crown with emeralds set into its base. It was a bold declaration of his lineage, one he had chosen to wear proudly now that he understood the weight of his heritage.

Though he wore his bronze armor, he was well-prepared for any occasion. At his hip hung a finely tooled leather pouch, deceptively small but enchanted to hold far more than its size suggested. The enchanted pouch was a practical tool, a relic of his former world, and within it lay the trappings of his newfound role.

Inside the pouch were finely tailored clothes he had commissioned during his months in Braavos. Crafted by the city's most skilled tailors, the garments were a blend of Braavosi and Westerosi styles, elegant yet practical, befitting a man of noble lineage. Each outfit bore the colors and sigil of House Mudd—emerald green and gold, with the crowned emerald-adorned sigil subtly embroidered into the fabric. The craftsmanship was exquisite, with soft yet durable materials that whispered of wealth and sophistication.

The pouch also held a small fortune in gold—about 2,000 gold dragons, alongside silver stags and copper coins for more common transactions. Hosteen had ensured he was prepared for anything, whether it was outfitting a retinue, securing passage, or simply handling the necessities of travel.

In total, the pouch contained around twenty outfits for various occasions: formal wear suitable for a lord's hall, sturdy traveling clothes, and even lighter garments for warmer weather. Each piece had been selected with care, a deliberate step toward crafting the image of a nobleman with the resources and authority to match his ambitions.

His sword was equally impressive, forged of fine steel and inscribed with runes of sharpness and durability. Though it looked like any other finely crafted blade, it could cleave through armor with ease, and its edge would never dull.

Hosteen knew the appearance he cultivated wasn't just for show. Traveling through the Riverlands required more than strength—it required presence. A man who looked like a lord or knight was less likely to be harassed by common thieves, and more likely to command respect from those he encountered.

As the ship carried him closer to Maidenpool, Hosteen allowed himself a moment to reflect on Gravesham. The village had embraced him as one of their own, and he had, in turn, poured his knowledge into improving their lives. The fields were more fertile, the tools more efficient, and the people healthier than before his arrival.

Yet, as much as he cared for Gravesham, he knew it was not enough. The village was too small, too vulnerable. If he truly wanted to reclaim the legacy of House Mudd, he needed power—land, men, and influence.

Lord Pemford was the first obstacle in his path. A minor lord under the rule of House Mallister, Pemford controlled the lands surrounding Gravesham. He was not an overly ambitious man, but he held authority over the village and could pose a significant threat if Hosteen acted rashly.

By the time the ship docked in Maidenpool, the sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows across the bustling port. Hosteen disembarked, his armor catching the light and drawing the eyes of dockworkers and merchants alike.

He moved through the crowded streets with purpose, keeping his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The journey ahead would take him across the Riverlands, and while the armor and sword would deter most threats, he knew better than to let his guard down.

The journey from Maidenpool to Gravesham was long and arduous, but Hosteen was no stranger to hardship. He traveled along well-worn roads, passing through villages, some of them had changed little since the time of his ancestors.

As he rode, he observed the people he encountered—farmers tending their fields, children playing in the dirt, and soldiers patrolling the roads. The Riverlands were a patchwork of loyalties, with small lords and petty disputes often leading to skirmishes.

Despite the dangers, Hosteen pressed on, his thoughts focused on the task ahead. He would need to tread carefully when dealing with Lord Pemford. The man was no fool, and any overt display of power could invite retaliation.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Hosteen found himself sharing a campfire with a small group of travelers. They were merchants, heading to Seagard to trade their wares.

"You're a knight, aren't you?" one of them asked, eyeing his armor with admiration.

"In a manner of speaking," Hosteen replied, keeping his tone neutral.

The merchants spoke of the unrest in the region—raiders along the borders, disputes between lords, and whispers of rebellion against the crown. Hosteen listened carefully, gleaning what information he could.

"Lord Pemford's men have been seen near the Trident," one of the merchants said. "They're gathering supplies, or so it seems."

Hosteen nodded thoughtfully. It was a reminder of the power structure he would soon have to navigate.

By the time Hosteen reached the outskirts of Gravesham, he felt a strange mixture of relief and anticipation.

As Hosteen neared the familiar borders of Gravesham, an unsettling sense of wrongness crept over him. The village that had once been a lively, thriving community now felt hollow, drained of its essence. The dirt path he walked on, which had always been lined with the sound of children laughing or villagers calling greetings, was unnervingly quiet. Even the birds seemed to avoid the area, their songs absent from the crisp morning air.

He slowed his pace, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. The wooden fences that lined the fields were in disrepair, with sections sagging or entirely collapsed. Weeds choked the edges of the path, an intrusion that would never have been tolerated before. As he drew closer to the heart of the village, the emptiness of the streets struck him more profoundly. A few villagers moved about, their heads low and their steps sluggish, but the energy and camaraderie he remembered were gone.

Where was the warmth? The laughter? The life?

Hosteen's unease deepened as he continued his journey through the eerily silent streets. The fields that had once been a testament to his efforts and the villagers' hard work looked forlorn and untended. The tools he had crafted with such care—his innovations to ease their burdens—were nowhere to be seen. The thought sent a pang of frustration and confusion through him. Had they been stolen? Discarded? Or was the situation in the village so dire that even these tools could no longer help?

Determined to find answers, Hosteen headed toward the home of Edrin, one of his closest friends in the village. The small stone house had always been tidy and welcoming, with flowers blooming around its entrance. Now, the garden was overgrown, and the shutters on the windows hung at odd angles. Hosteen's frown deepened as he knocked firmly on the wooden door.

"Edrin! It's Hosteen!" he called out, his voice carrying in the silence.

There was no answer.

He knocked again, louder this time, and waited. The door remained closed, and the only response was the faint creak of a distant windmill turning in the breeze. Hosteen stepped back, glancing around the street. It was just as desolate as before, the silence pressing in on him like a physical weight.

Maybe Edrin wasn't home, he reasoned, though the excuse felt thin. He decided to try Harvin's house next. The journey there was brief, but with every step, Hosteen couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking through a ghost town.

Harvin's house, which had always been marked by its vibrant and well-kept garden, now bore the same signs of neglect as Edrin's. The once-pristine rows of herbs and vegetables were choked with weeds, and the wooden fence around the yard was broken in several places. Hosteen hesitated before knocking, dreading another unanswered door.

"Harvin!" he called, rapping on the wood. "It's Hosteen. Are you in there?"

He waited, his ears straining for any sound from within. Nothing. He knocked again, harder this time, the hollow sound of his knuckles on the door echoing faintly. "Harvin, it's me. Please, open up."

Still, there was no response.

Hosteen stepped back, his jaw tightening. Two houses, two absent friends. His unease grew heavier with each passing moment. Something was deeply wrong here, and he needed answers.

He turned toward the village hall, where he hoped to find Adden or Mya. If anyone could tell him what had happened, it would be them. The walk through the village felt surreal. The streets were devoid of their usual bustle, the handful of people he passed offering only fleeting glances before hurrying away.

The sight of the hall brought a faint flicker of hope. The sturdy building had always been a place of gathering, where decisions were made, and the village's problems were addressed. If Adden or Mya were anywhere, it would be here. But even the hall felt wrong. The windows were dark, and the usual hum of conversation was absent. Hosteen pushed open the door, stepping into the dim interior.

The hall was cold and quiet, the only sound the faint crackle of a fire in the hearth. It was a stark contrast to the warmth and activity he remembered. His boots echoed on the wooden floor as he moved further inside, scanning the room. Then he saw him—Adden, seated in a chair by the fire.

The elder looked smaller than Hosteen remembered, as if the weight of the world had pressed down on him in Hosteen's absence. His shoulders sagged, and his face was etched with lines of worry and exhaustion. He stared into the flames, seemingly oblivious to Hosteen's approach.

Hosteen moved closer, his concern mounting. "Adden," he said softly, lowering himself into the chair beside the elder. "What's happened here? Why is everyone so... broken?"

Adden didn't respond. He didn't even look up. The light of the fire flickered across his face, deepening the shadows under his eyes. For a moment, Hosteen thought the man hadn't heard him, but as the silence stretched on, it became clear that Adden simply wasn't ready—or able—to answer.

Hosteen waited, hoping the elder would speak, but no words came. The weight of the silence was suffocating, filling the room like a tangible force. Hosteen looked around the hall, his gaze falling on the empty chairs and barren tables. The sense of loss was overwhelming, and a knot of frustration and sadness tightened in his chest.