Return of House Mudd

The Departure from King's Landing

The morning Hosteen Mudd departed King's Landing, the city was alive with its usual cacophony—vendors hawking their wares, children darting between narrow streets, and the ever-present hum of gossip and intrigue. He stood at the gates of the Red Keep, flanked by his twenty soldiers, each bearing the banner of House Mudd. Their sigil—a golden crown set with emeralds on a field of red-brown—gleamed in the sunlight, freshly painted and as yet unweathered by the elements. Hosteen's horse, a sturdy bay destrier, pawed at the cobblestones impatiently.

He glanced back at the towering spires of the Red Keep, its red stone walls casting long shadows over the city. Hosteen had spent days immersed in the machinations of court life, accepting congratulations and well-wishes from lords and courtiers alike. Yet beneath the smiles, he had sensed the whispers—curiosity, doubt, and, in some cases, outright disdain. A minor lord elevated so swiftly was bound to attract jealousy and suspicion.

"Let's ride," Hosteen commanded, his voice steady. The gates creaked open, and his party moved out in disciplined formation, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoing through the streets. Commoners paused to watch them pass, their faces a mixture of curiosity and awe at the sight of the reemergent House Mudd.

The Riverlands unfolded like a tapestry, its beauty both stark and serene. The first few days of travel took them along the Kingsroad, a well-traveled artery lined with inns and hamlets. Hosteen made a point to stop at each village they passed, ensuring his men rested and shared supplies with the locals. He spoke with farmers and merchants, inquiring after their needs and offering words of reassurance. These gestures, small though they seemed, were part of a larger strategy: to build goodwill among the people who would soon fall under his lordship.

The road became rougher as they turned westward, leaving behind the bustling trade routes and entering quieter, more wooded lands. Autumn had painted the landscape in hues of gold and crimson, and the crisp air carried the earthy scent of fallen leaves. Streams crossed their path, their waters clear and cold, reflecting the pale sky above. Hosteen's men took turns hunting and foraging, supplementing their provisions with fresh game and wild berries.

One evening, as they camped by the banks of a winding river, Hosteen sat by the fire, watching the flames dance. His men were in good spirits, sharing tales of their exploits and dreams of the future. Yet Hosteen's thoughts drifted to the task ahead. Raventree Hall loomed in his mind as both a destination and a challenge. He knew the Blackwoods would not take kindly to the King's decree, and it would fall to him to mend what Aerys's arrogance had fractured.

On the seventh day, Raventree Hall came into view. Its dark walls rose like a fortress out of the rolling hills, their ancient stones weathered by centuries of wind and rain. The weirwood tree at its heart was unmistakable, its massive trunk pale as bone against the muted landscape. As they approached, Hosteen felt a strange reverence settle over him. This was a place steeped in history, its roots entwined with the very essence of the Riverlands.

At the gates, a party of Blackwood retainers awaited them. Their armor, adorned with the sigil of a black raven perched on a white tree, gleamed in the fading sunlight. At their head stood Tytus Blackwood. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties, with sharp features and the pale skin that marked his ancestry. Despite his youth, there was a solemnity about him, an air of responsibility that seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders.

"Lord Mudd," Tytus greeted, inclining his head. His tone was polite, but his expression was guarded. "Welcome to Raventree Hall."

Hosteen dismounted, bowing respectfully. "Lord Blackwood, the honor is mine. I offer my condolences for the loss of your father. He was a man of great renown."

Tytus's face softened briefly, but the grief in his eyes was unmistakable. "Thank you, Lord Mudd. It was... unexpected. A fever took him swiftly."

Hosteen inclined his head again, his voice sincere. "The loss of a father is a wound that does not heal easily. If there is any way I might ease your burden, you need only ask."

Tytus's lips pressed into a thin line, and he gestured toward the gates. "Come. We will speak further in my solar."

The solar was a testament to House Blackwood's storied past. Tapestries depicting ancient battles and alliances adorned the walls, while shelves laden with books and scrolls hinted at the intellectual pursuits of its lords. A fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth a welcome reprieve from the chill that had begun to settle over the land.

Tytus poured two cups of wine, handing one to Hosteen before seating himself across from his guest. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.

"Lord Mudd," Tytus began, his tone measured, "you've come far to speak with me. I trust it is not merely a social call."

Hosteen nodded, setting his cup aside. "You are correct, my lord. I have come to apologize for the King's actions. The granting of lands that have been under Blackwood stewardship for generations was done without your counsel. It was... a slight, one that I wish to address."

Tytus's expression hardened, though he kept his composure. "A slight, indeed. When I read the royal decree, I was furious. These lands have been ours since the fall of your house. To have them taken and given away so cavalierly—" He stopped, taking a steadying breath. "But I am no fool, Lord Mudd. I know these lands were once yours. The histories are clear on that."

Hosteen leaned forward, his voice earnest. "Then perhaps you understand my position. I did not ask for this, my lord, but I cannot refuse the King's command. Yet I do not wish for discord between our houses. If there is any way I might make amends, name it."

Tytus studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes piercing. "There must be recompense. An alliance between our houses, perhaps through marriage, would be a start. But that is a matter for later. For now, I ask for compensation—gold, to account for the loss of taxes and levies."

Hosteen inclined his head. "A reasonable request. What sum do you propose?"

Tytus's gaze did not waver. "Fifty thousand gold dragons. It is not a small amount, but it is fair."

Hosteen exhaled, relief washing over him. "You are more than fair, Lord Blackwood. I accept your terms and will see to the payment without delay."

Tytus's expression softened, and for the first time, he allowed a faint smile. "Then let this be the beginning of a new chapter for our houses, Lord Mudd. May it be one of peace and prosperity."

Later that evening, after the formalities of their agreement had been settled, Hosteen and Tytus lingered in the solar, the atmosphere less formal but still charged with the weight of history. Hosteen sipped his wine thoughtfully before broaching the subject that had lingered in his mind since he first heard tales of Raventree Hall.

"There is one more matter, Lord Tytus," he began, setting his cup down. "Moons ago, I wrote to your father about a certain weirwood sapling I had heard of in your godswood. His response was... cryptic. But now, seeing the godswood myself, I wonder if you might enlighten me."

Tytus tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes. "The sapling? You've an interest in weirwoods, Lord Mudd?"

"Not merely an interest," Hosteen replied. "A fascination. Their roots run deep, not only in the soil but in our history. They are living memory."

Tytus leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Then you'll appreciate the tale, though I warn you—it's not a happy one."

Hosteen gestured for him to continue, and Tytus took a long sip of wine before speaking.

"Blackwood and Bracken have been at odds for as long as anyone can remember," Tytus began. "Even in the histories of the First Men, our ancestors were described as 'disagreeable neighbors.' But the feud, as it stands now, began with the fall of King Tristifer IV."

Hosteen nodded. "The Hammer of Justice. He was a great king—one of the last First Men to resist the Andals."

"Indeed," Tytus said, his voice heavy with reverence. "When Tristifer fell in battle, his defeat broke the backbone of First Men resistance in the Riverlands. The Andals were cunning, and they sought to consolidate their power by turning the remaining houses against one another. They approached the Brackens, who, unlike us, had begun to embrace the Faith of the Seven. Promises were made—land, power, protection. The Brackens turned on us, their own kin, and joined the Andals."

Hosteen frowned. "And the weirwoods? What of them?"

Tytus's expression darkened. "The Brackens felled their weirwoods to show their loyalty to the new order. But their betrayal did not end there. They poisoned ours. We believe they used a mixture of rare herbs and dark alchemy, a concoction meant not only to harm but to curse. The weirwood in our godswood began to wither—not as ordinary trees die, but slowly, painfully, turning to stone. The process has taken centuries, but the tree has become more rock than wood. It is a monument to their hatred and treachery."

Hosteen leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "And a sapling? Would it share the same fate?"

"It would," Tytus said grimly. "It would grow, yes, but its growth would be stunted. Its bark would be as pale and brittle as our tree, and its leaves never fully bloom. The curse lingers in the roots. I fear it is beyond saving."

Hosteen was silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of the tale. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. "Lord Tytus, what I am about to say may sound strange, but I ask for your trust. Can you keep a secret?"

Tytus blinked, clearly taken aback. "A secret?"

Hosteen nodded, his expression serious. "A secret that must not be spoken of—not to your bannermen, not to your family, not even to the ravens. Swear it on your house, your honor, and the Old Gods themselves."

Tytus hesitated, suspicion and curiosity battling within him. At last, he nodded. "Very well. I swear it. On my house, my honor, and the Old Gods."

Hosteen rose from his seat. "Then lead me to the godswood."

The moon hung low in the sky as Tytus guided Hosteen through the darkened halls of Raventree Hall, their footsteps muted against the cold stone. Outside, the air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of fallen leaves and damp earth. The godswood stretched before them, silent and solemn, a sacred place that seemed to breathe with its own ancient rhythm.

As they approached the weirwood, its gnarled branches twisted skyward like grasping fingers. The tree stood at the center of the clearing, its bark pale and hardened, almost stone-like, its once-vivid red leaves replaced by brittle, lifeless remnants. At its base stood the sapling—small, fragile, and sickly, a shadow of the powerful life it should have been.

Hosteen halted before the ancient tree, his gaze steady and full of purpose. "Remember your promise, Lord Tytus," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of what was to come.

Tytus nodded, though his expression betrayed a mix of curiosity and confusion. "I do. But what are you about to do, Lord Mudd?"

Without answering, Hosteen sank to his knees before the weirwood, his movements deliberate and reverent. He placed both hands on the roots, the cold, rough texture grounding him as he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

He reached inward, calling upon the magic that had been passed down through his bloodline, ancient and potent, a legacy of his old world. This was not the power of the Old Gods or the Andals, but something far older—something from the time of the Peverells, whose knowledge of life, death, and the mysteries of the world had shaped him.

A faint golden glow began to emanate from Hosteen's palms, spreading into the roots like veins of light threading through the earth. The glow traveled upward, pulsing softly as it reached the base of the tree and crept along its bark.

Tytus gasped as the transformation began. The brittle bark softened, its stone-like texture giving way to supple wood that seemed to shimmer faintly under the moonlight. The glow intensified, suffusing the branches with warmth and vitality. Slowly, impossibly, vibrant red leaves began to unfurl, their deep, rich color like the blood of the earth itself.

The godswood seemed to hold its breath. The tree swayed gently as though in gratitude, its leaves rustling with a sound like whispers of approval.

When Hosteen finally withdrew his hands, the glow lingered for a moment before fading. He rose unsteadily, his face pale and drawn from the effort, but his expression was triumphant. The weirwood stood transformed, its crimson leaves gleaming in the moonlight like rubies.

Tytus stood frozen, his mouth agape, his eyes wide with awe. "This... this is a miracle. How... how is this possible?"

Hosteen placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, his voice firm yet kind. "It is not for others to know, my lord. What you have witnessed here is a gift—one that must be kept secret. The Old Gods, and powers far older still, have seen fit to restore this tree. Let it stand as a symbol of renewal, of hope, and of the bond between our houses."

Tytus nodded slowly, his awe gradually giving way to a sense of deep gratitude. "I... I will not forget this, Lord Mudd. Nor will my house. You have done more for us than we could ever have imagined."

Hosteen turned his gaze back to the sapling. "Tell me, Lord Tytus—would this tree now be able to supply a sapling? A healthy one?"

Tytus blinked, his thoughts still reeling from what he had seen. "A sapling?"

Hosteen nodded. "Yes. If its roots are cleansed and its life restored, it should be able to propagate. What say you, Lord Blackwood?"

Tytus hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Yes. I... I believe it would work now. The curse is lifted. A sapling would flourish." He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "In truth, there is no need to discuss further alliances or recompense. What you have done here is beyond gold or treaties. If it pleases you, let our houses be bound together as they were in ancient times—by faith and friendship and perhaps marriage in the future?"

Hosteen regarded him thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But for now, let this tree stand as our covenant. The rest will follow in time."

As they stood beneath the newly restored weirwood, the night seemed brighter, the air warmer, as if the godswood itself rejoiced. The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying a sense of ancient approval and the promise of a renewed bond between House Blackwood and House Mudd.