Return of House Mudd

The Red Keep

Once the servants had left him alone, Hosteen closed the door to his chambers with a quiet click and surveyed the room carefully. The accommodations were far more opulent than what he was accustomed to, even for a lord. The bed alone could have fit three men his size, its frame carved from dark oak and adorned with twisting patterns of dragons and flames. Crimson and gold blankets were folded neatly over a mattress that looked as soft as freshly fallen snow. The heavy rug beneath his feet was a tapestry of deep reds and muted blues, depicting some great Targaryen victory.

A large hearth dominated one wall, the fire within crackling softly, casting flickering shadows across the room. The walls were lined with polished stone, their surfaces dotted with tapestries that told the stories of the Targaryen kings who had come before. A writing desk stood in one corner, made of fine mahogany and stocked with quills, ink, and fresh parchment. A decanter of wine and a goblet sat invitingly nearby.

Despite the luxury, Hosteen's mind was elsewhere. The Red Keep had been built by Maegor the Cruel, a king infamous for his paranoia and ruthlessness. The tales of secret passages, hidden doors, and vanishing servants filled his thoughts. He could almost feel the weight of history pressing down on him as he began his search.

He started at the hearth, running his hands along the stone mantelpiece, pressing on the carved dragons and flames to see if any would give way. Finding nothing, he moved to the walls, tapping lightly with his knuckles and listening for hollow spaces that might indicate hidden passageways. The tapestries were lifted one by one, revealing only smooth stone behind them.

Hosteen crouched to inspect the floor, his fingers tracing the edges of the wide planks for any signs of movement. He even examined the ornate bed frame, running his hands along its underside and pulling at the posts in case one concealed a lever or latch. The longer he searched, the more he felt the ghost of Maegor's paranoia creeping into his own mind.

Finally, he stood in the center of the room and closed his eyes, allowing his magic to flow outward in a gentle pulse. The room shimmered faintly, his spell seeking any hidden mechanisms or wards. When the magic returned to him empty-handed, he let out a small sigh. It seemed his chambers were safe, at least for now.

Turning his attention to more immediate matters, Hosteen approached his magical bag, which rested innocuously on a chair near the bed. He unbuckled the flap and reached inside, his hand disappearing into the enchanted space. Moments later, he withdrew the garments he had carefully chosen for occasions like this.

Hosteen laid the clothing out on the bed, each piece meticulously arranged to ensure nothing was out of place. The doublet was the centerpiece of his ensemble, its rich, muddy brown fabric evoking the earth and heritage of his house. The golden embroidery on the shoulders and sleeves was intricate yet bold, depicting the sinuous curves of winding rivers that shimmered faintly in the firelight. These golden threads seemed to flow like water, a nod to the legacy of House Mudd and its connection to the rivers of the Trident. Across the chest, emerald-green gems were sewn in a careful pattern, the green fabrics catching the light and evoking the crown that adorned his family's sigil.

The trousers, tailored to perfection, were a matching shade of brown, their seams reinforced with subtle stitching that mirrored the flowing river designs of the doublet. The boots, crafted from dark leather polished to a mirror-like sheen, bore golden buckles at the ankles. Their inner lining of emerald-green velvet provided comfort while tying the ensemble together with a touch of luxury. As Hosteen pulled them on, he admired how the boots balanced practicality with elegance, suitable for both a lord and a warrior.

From his magical bag, he retrieved a wide leather belt dyed in a reddish-brown hue that mirrored the muddy tones of his sigil's field. Embossed in gold at the center of the belt was the crown of House Mudd—a regal golden circlet with emeralds set into its base, their brilliance a sharp contrast against the muted background. The belt also bore a ceremonial dagger at his side, its sheath inlaid with brass and green stones, completing the look with a sense of both authority and readiness.

For the final touch, Hosteen donned a cloak of deep emerald green that draped elegantly over his shoulders, its weight reassuring yet not cumbersome. The cloak was fastened at the neck with a clasp shaped like the sigil of House Mudd—a golden crown with emeralds set along its base. The cloak's hem was embroidered with flowing golden lines that mirrored the river designs on his doublet, emphasizing the heritage of his house while exuding an air of dignity and power.

He finished by tucking a pair of supple leather gloves, dyed in a soft tan with subtle green accents, into his belt. They were a practical accessory but also a mark of refinement. Stepping back, Hosteen inspected himself in the polished bronze mirror on the wall.

The reflection that met his gaze was one of quiet strength and calculated poise. The muddy browns, vivid greens, and gleaming golds harmonized to create an outfit that not only displayed his house's proud legacy but also underscored his place among the lords of the realm. Every detail of his attire, from the flowing river designs to the regal crown clasp, spoke of a man who embraced his lineage while charting his own course.

Hosteen adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves one final time, his movements deliberate. Satisfied, he turned from the mirror, ready to step into whatever awaited him in the halls of the Red Keep. His attire was more than clothing—it was a statement, a silent reminder of the enduring legacy of House Mudd and the man who now carried it forward.

As he dressed, Hosteen glanced occasionally at a polished bronze mirror mounted on the wall. The reflection that stared back at him was not just that of a lord but of a man who carried himself with purpose. The ensemble transformed him, elevating his bearing to one of quiet authority and pride. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, smoothing the fabric one final time.

Satisfied, Hosteen took a step back and surveyed the room once more. The faint scent of woodsmoke from the hearth mixed with the richness of the woven tapestries. The Red Keep might have been built by a paranoid tyrant, but tonight, Hosteen Mudd would wear his legacy with poise and confidence. Whatever awaited him in the coming hours, he would meet it as a man determined to carve out his place in the annals of history.

After dressing in his ceremonial garb, Hosteen took a deep breath, adjusting the clasp of his emerald-encrusted cloak one final time. The reflection staring back at him from the polished bronze mirror seemed regal, almost foreign. But the Red Keep, with its imposing walls and layered history, demanded such a presence. He stepped out of his chambers and into the echoing corridors of the castle, feeling the weight of the day settle upon him.

There was a strange pull within him, an inexplicable calling that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep in the heart of the Red Keep. It wasn't loud or urgent, but it was persistent, like a whisper just out of reach. Hosteen decided to follow it, allowing his instincts to guide him through the castle's labyrinthine halls. The sensation ebbed and flowed, stronger in some places and weaker in others, but it was undeniable.

Before delving into the depths where the pull was strongest, Hosteen found himself drawn to a quieter place. He thought he was heading toward a garden—perhaps a respite from the weighty aura of the castle—but as he entered the space, he realized it was no ordinary garden. It was a godswood, though calling it that seemed overly generous. Unlike the sprawling woods he had heard of in Winterfell or Riverrun, this was merely a cluster of trees dominated by a single heart tree at its center.

The heart tree stood alone, its white bark gleaming under the midday sun, and its red leaves rustling faintly in the breeze. The face carved into its trunk was simple yet profound, its red eyes seeming to pierce through time itself. Hosteen felt the faint call of the place, a subtle hum that resonated within him. Though the pull from this spot was weaker than the deeper calling he felt elsewhere, it was still significant.

He approached the heart tree slowly, almost reverently. Something about its presence commanded respect. As he stood before it, he hesitated for a moment, then reached out and pressed his hand against its rough, pale bark.

The moment his skin touched the tree, a cascade of images flooded his mind.

The first vision was of battle—chaotic and desperate. Men and women fought against creatures that defied logic, twisted forms of the dead that moved with unnatural ferocity. He saw a man with a flaming sword, his blade cutting through icy figures that seemed to radiate death itself. The visions shifted, and he saw the heart tree again, standing as silent witness to countless generations of Targaryens. Some knelt before it in prayer; others lingered in its shadow, lost in thought or despair.

Finally, the vision sharpened into a great wall of ice, stretching endlessly across a frozen landscape. Though Hosteen had never seen it himself, he knew what it was—the Wall, the northern boundary of the known world, a sentinel against something ancient and terrible. The images ended abruptly, leaving Hosteen breathless and shaken.

He stepped back from the heart tree, his hand trembling. The visions were unlike anything he had experienced before, vivid and laden with meaning. He tried to piece together their significance, but the harder he thought, the more elusive the answers seemed. With a deep breath, he turned away from the godswood, the pull from the depths of the castle now stronger than ever.

Hosteen let the strange pull guide him through the castle, his footsteps echoing in the silent halls. The deeper he went, the stronger the sensation became, urging him forward. It was as though the very stones of the Red Keep whispered to him, guiding him through its twists and turns. His thoughts were still clouded by the images he had seen in the godswood, and he moved almost on autopilot, allowing the strange energy to lead him.

When his mind cleared, he realized he was in a cavernous chamber, standing before a massive object that took his breath away.

A dragon's skull.

The skull was enormous, its jagged teeth glinting faintly in the dim torchlight. Its hollow eye sockets seemed to gaze into his very soul, and its sheer size was a reminder of the power and majesty of the creatures that had once ruled the skies. The air around it was thick, heavy with a sense of history and latent power. The pull he had felt earlier now radiated from the skull, strong and insistent.

Compelled by forces he didn't fully understand, Hosteen stepped forward and placed his hand on the cool, ancient bone.

This time, there were no chaotic images of battle or the Wall. Instead, there was a sensation, a feeling so vivid it was as though he were living it. He felt weightless, soaring through the skies with a sense of freedom he had never known. The wind rushed past him, carrying with it the scent of the open air and the heat of the sun. But it was not the controlled, mechanical feeling of riding a broom—it was raw, powerful, and alive.

He could feel the dragon beneath him, its massive wings cutting through the air with each powerful beat. The bond was palpable, a connection so deep and ancient it felt as though it had always been a part of him. The exhilaration was unlike anything he had ever experienced, a heady mix of power and freedom that left him breathless.

When the sensation faded, Hosteen pulled his hand back, his breathing unsteady. The skull seemed to stare at him, as if aware of the connection they had just shared. He stepped away slowly, his mind racing with questions and possibilities.

As he made his way back to his chambers, Hosteen's thoughts swirled. The godswood, the dragon's skull—both had shown him glimpses of a world far beyond the one he knew. The visions, the sensations—they were a reminder of the depth of the Red Keep's history, of the power that still lingered within its walls. And they hinted at something greater, something tied to his own magic and the ancient forces that shaped the realm.

By the time he reached his chambers, Hosteen felt both invigorated and uneasy. The day had revealed much, but it had also left him with questions he was determined to answer. The pull of the Red Keep was undeniable, and he knew that his time here would be anything but ordinary.