Return of House Mudd

The Road to Seagard and the Twins

The journey from Raventree Hall to Seagard took Hosteen and his party through the rolling hills and fertile fields of the Riverlands. The land was vibrant, kissed by the early blush of spring, with wildflowers dotting the meadows and streams glinting in the sunlight. Villages along the way bustled with activity as farmers sowed seeds and traders brought their wares to market. Hosteen often slowed his pace to observe the people—his people now—who looked on curiously at the armed procession bearing the sigil of House Mudd.

His twenty guards rode in disciplined silence, their armor polished and tabards bearing the golden crown and emeralds of their lord's house. Hosteen had grown accustomed to their quiet loyalty, though he often wondered what they made of their new station. To march under the banner of a house long thought extinct carried with it an air of destiny, yet the weight of that history was something Hosteen bore alone.

As they drew nearer to Seagard, the smell of saltwater filled the air, carried inland by the cool breeze off the Cape of eagles. The imposing silhouette of Seagard loomed on the horizon—a fortress of grey stone, with high walls that spoke of strength and resilience. Its famous tower, built to guard against ironborn raiders, stood as a stark reminder of the Mallisters' vigilance.

When they arrived at the gates, the guards recognized the sigil of House Mudd and quickly sent word to Lord Jason Mallister. Hosteen and his party were granted entry without delay, their horses clattering across the cobblestones as they rode into the bustling courtyard.

Lord Jason Mallister stood waiting at the base of the castle steps, flanked by his own guards and advisors. Jason was tall and broad-shouldered, with a calm, confident demeanor and a face weathered by years of responsibility thrust onto him early in life. Despite the circumstances of their meeting, he greeted Hosteen with a cheerful smile and outstretched arms.

"Lord Hosteen Mudd," Jason said warmly, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "Welcome to Seagard. It seems I owe you congratulations on your elevation. Aerys is nothing if not full of surprises, wouldn't you agree?"

Hosteen dismounted, bowing slightly as he approached. "Lord Mallister, your hospitality does you credit. And yes, surprises seem to be a hallmark of our king."

Jason chuckled, clapping Hosteen on the shoulder. "Come inside. The sea air is brisk, and I'd rather discuss matters in the comfort of my solar. You must be weary from the road."

Hosteen nodded, allowing himself to be led into the keep. The interior was grand yet practical, its halls adorned with tapestries depicting naval battles and Mallister victories. The solar was a spacious room with wide windows overlooking the bay, the light shimmering on the waves below.

Jason gestured for Hosteen to sit, pouring them each a goblet of wine before settling into a high-backed chair opposite his guest.

"You'll forgive me for being direct," Jason began, swirling the wine in his goblet. "I imagine you're here to discuss the matter of the lands His Grace has so generously bestowed upon you."

Hosteen inclined his head. "You're correct, my lord. While I am honored by the king's favor, I recognize that this decision may not sit well with you—or with your vassals. I wish to make amends where I can."

Jason raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I appreciate the gesture, Lord Mudd. But let me be clear—I am not angry. Those lands were yours long before they were mine. My family has ruled them for only a fraction of the time your ancestors did. The truth is, the taxes and levies we received from those territories were not significant enough to cause alarm. And without them, we save on the costs of managing and defending the land. So, while the gesture was bold—and perhaps a touch presumptuous—I don't view it as theft."

Hosteen relaxed slightly but remained cautious. "Even so, my lord, appearances matter. If I am to establish myself as a lord of honor, I cannot have my neighbors—or their vassals—thinking I am ungrateful for what was taken, even if it was rightfully mine. I propose compensation. What sum would satisfy you?"

Jason leaned back, considering the offer. "You're quite the diplomat, aren't you? Very well. You're correct that my vassals need placating, and I won't deny that gold would make the transition easier. But the sum must reflect not just the value of the land, but the symbolic weight of the gesture. I'm thinking..." He paused, a gleam of calculation in his eye. "Ninety thousand gold dragons."

Hosteen tilted his head, suppressing a smile. "A fair sum, but a touch ambitious. Surely you wouldn't want me to impoverish myself before I've had the chance to rule."

Jason laughed. "I'm sure a lord of your stature will have deep coffers, especially with the King as a friend, Hosteen. But very well—let us haggle."

The negotiation that followed was amicable, both men aware of the importance of striking a balance between practicality and appearances. Hosteen praised Lord Mallister's fairness while gently steering the conversation toward a lower figure. In the end, they settled on eighty thousand gold dragons—a sum significant enough to satisfy the Mallister vassals but manageable for Hosteen's treasury or so he told Jason.

Jason rose, extending his hand. "Eighty thousand it is, then. You're a shrewd negotiator, Lord Mudd, and I respect that. Consider this matter resolved."

Hosteen shook his hand firmly. "Thank you, Lord Mallister. I hope this agreement marks the beginning of a strong and cooperative relationship between our houses."

Jason's expression softened, his earlier cheer returning. "Oh, I have no doubt of that. In truth, I've always admired the tales of House Mudd. It's good to see those ancient banners flying once more. The Riverlands could use a reminder of their heritage."

Hosteen nodded, his chest swelling with quiet pride. "And I will do my best to honor that heritage. You have my word."

As they left the solar, the sun was beginning to set, casting golden light over the bay. Hosteen couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. The journey to Seagard had not only secured a peaceful resolution with Lord Mallister but also reinforced the bonds of mutual respect and cooperation between their houses.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself a moment to reflect—not on the burdens of his newfound title, but on the possibilities it offered. The Riverlands were beginning to feel like home, and he was determined to leave his mark as a lord worthy of the name Mudd. But for now he had one more Lord to placate.

The journey to the Twins was less scenic than Hosteen's ride to Seagard. The road west from Seaguard grew progressively less hospitable, the landscape flattening out into wide, windswept plains and muddy riverbanks. As Hosteen approached the sprawling towers of the Twins, the sight before him was both impressive and dour. The two identical keeps stood on either side of the Green Fork, connected by a massive stone bridge. The architecture was imposing, but there was little warmth in it—just cold stone and the promise of tolls.

Hosteen's party of twenty soldiers rode in silence, their horses kicking up the damp soil of the riverlands. The banners of House Mudd flew high above their heads, but Hosteen couldn't help but feel a simmering disdain for the man he was about to meet. Lord Walder Frey had a reputation, and none of it was flattering. Entitled, petty, and greedy were words often spoken in the same breath as his name.

When they reached the gates, they were made to wait far longer than was appropriate for a lord of Hosteen's new station. The Frey guards exchanged glances, as if testing how long they could delay the new Lord of the Riverlands. Hosteen remained patient, though his jaw tightened. Finally, they were allowed entry, and a young Frey—likely one of Lord Walder's many children—led them into the courtyard.

Lord Walder Frey awaited Hosteen in the Great Hall of the eastern tower, seated on a high-backed chair that was just short of a throne. The hall was bustling with Frey children and bastards, their chatter and squabbling creating a chaotic atmosphere. Walder himself was a thin, wiry man with a sharp nose and a perpetual smirk that made him look more like a sly merchant than a lord. At fifty-two, his hair was still a dull brown, though his face bore the creases of a man who spent more time sneering than smiling.

When Hosteen entered, Walder didn't bother to rise. Instead, he waved dismissively, gesturing for Hosteen to approach.

"Lord Mudd," Walder said, dragging out the title as if it were a joke. "Or should I call you Prince Mudd? You're a long way from the Hammerford, aren't you? Or do you prefer to stay in Kingslanding nowadays"

Hosteen's lips tightened, but he kept his composure. "Lord Frey," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Thank you for granting me an audience."

Walder snorted. "As if I had a choice. When the king gives a man lands and titles, the rest of us are expected to fall in line, aren't we?" He leaned forward, his bony fingers gripping the armrests of his chair. "I hear you've been handing out gold to smooth things over with your new neighbors. So, tell me, Lord Mudd—how much is my goodwill worth to you?"

Hosteen's patience was wearing thin, but he forced a smile. "Your goodwill is invaluable, Lord Frey. After all, the Twins are a vital crossing, and House Mudd has always valued its neighbors."

Walder leaned back, a smug grin spreading across his face. "Invaluable, eh? Then I'd say ten thousand gold dragons would be a good start. Don't you agree?"

Hosteen paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Ten thousand? That's... ambitious, my lord."

Walder shrugged. "I have twenty children, Lord Mudd. Do you know how much it costs to feed and clothe them? And then there's the matter of my bastards—they're Freys too, after all. I'm sure a rich man like you can understand the burden of such a legacy."

Hosteen suppressed a sigh. The man was insufferable. He could feel the frustration building in his chest, but he refused to let it show. Instead, he focused on the magic that pulsed faintly within him—a legacy of the Peverells, a power that had been his alone to carry from his old world. He had used it sparingly since his arrival in Westeros, but now seemed an opportune moment.

"Lord Frey," Hosteen said, his tone calm and measured, "perhaps we can come to an agreement that benefits us both."

Walder leaned forward, his eyes glinting with greed. "Oh? And what would that be?"

Hosteen reached out subtly, letting his magic seep into the air between them. It was an ancient power, subtle and insidious, capable of bending thoughts and perceptions without the victim realizing they had been touched. Walder's expression faltered for a moment, his smugness giving way to a vague confusion.

"Two thousand gold dragons," Hosteen said, his voice low and steady. "It's a generous sum, considering the lands in question were never truly yours to begin with. And, of course, you'll save the costs of managing and defending them. A wise lord such as yourself would see the wisdom in this arrangement."

Walder blinked, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to work through a particularly difficult equation. Hosteen's words echoed in his mind, amplified by the magic, twisting his greed into satisfaction.

"Two thousand, you say?" Walder muttered, his tone uncertain.

Hosteen nodded. "More than fair, wouldn't you agree? And with that gold, you'll have plenty to care for your children and bastards. Imagine how far it will go if spent wisely."

Walder's lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he broke into a grin. "Aye... aye, you're right. Two thousand it is. A good deal, if I say so myself."

Hosteen inclined his head, hiding his relief behind a neutral expression. "I'm glad we could come to an understanding, my lord."

Walder clapped his hands, summoning a servant to bring parchment and ink. As they drafted the agreement, the old lord rambled on about his ambitions for his family, his plans to marry off his daughters, and his disdain for the other Riverlords. Hosteen endured it with quiet patience, knowing the end of the meeting was in sight.

When the agreement was signed, Walder leaned back in his chair, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "You're not so bad, Lord Mudd. A man who knows how to bargain—that's a man I can respect."

Hosteen forced a smile. "Your words honor me, Lord Frey. May this agreement mark the beginning of a fruitful relationship between our houses."

Walder waved him off. "Yes, yes, fruitful indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Those children of mine won't raise themselves, after all."

As Hosteen and his party rode away from the Twins, he couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. The visit had been unpleasant, but the outcome was more than satisfactory. Walder Frey believed he had made a good deal, and Hosteen had secured his goodwill for a fraction of what he had paid the Mallisters or the Blackwoods.

The road ahead stretched long and straight, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. Hosteen glanced back at the Twins, their grey stone towers fading into the horizon.

"Entitled fool," he muttered under his breath, though there was no malice in his tone—only quiet satisfaction.

The Riverlands were a patchwork of alliances and rivalries, but with each passing day, Hosteen Mudd was weaving himself into the fabric of its history. One deal at a time, he was building a legacy—not just as a lord, but as a man who could bend the tides of fortune to his will.