Return of House Mudd

4th moon, 278 AC.

The Builders of Oldstones

As Tomlin returned with the workers, carpenters, builders, architects, and craftsmen of various professions, he was not alone. Alongside the labor force he had gathered, another 200 families had joined him—smallfolk from Lord Darklyn's lands, seeking a new life under Hosteen's rule. These families, like those before them, had heard whispers of the prosperity and fairness that governed his lands, and they had chosen to leave the hardships of Duskendale behind in favor of opportunity.

The arrival of these new people marked another step in the rapid expansion of Hosteen's domain. Most of them were directed toward the new settlement by Oldstones, a growing village that would one day become a thriving city. However, not all of them would settle there. Some families were strategically placed in already existing villages, bolstering their population and providing much-needed labor. These villages, which had begun to flourish under Hosteen's agricultural reforms, could now sustain a larger workforce, helping them further develop trade, production, and stability.

After Tomlin's return, Hosteen called for a meeting. The solar was arranged into a large conference space, the wooden table now covered in maps, sketches, and ledgers. Seated around the table were the chief architects, engineers, and master carpenters, along with representatives of the builders and masons. This gathering would determine the direction of Oldstones' reconstruction, the creation of vital infrastructure, and the overall organization of labor across Hosteen's growing territory.

Hosteen took his place at the head of the table, the candlelight flickering against the ancient stone walls of the keep. He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the assembled men.

"Welcome, all of you," he began, his deep voice carrying across the room. "We stand on the brink of something great. Our task is rebuilding Oldstones—not merely as a Castle or village, but as a stronghold, a thriving city, and a symbol of House Mudd's resurgence. What we build here will echo through history. However, such an undertaking will require careful planning, discipline, and cooperation between all of our trades."

The men around the table nodded in agreement, some murmuring amongst themselves.

Hosteen gestured toward the carpenters, who were seated together on the left side of the table. "You will have multiple responsibilities. First and foremost, you will ensure that every village under my rule has the tools they need. Plows, wagons, and any other implements that farmers and craftsmen require must be produced at a steady rate. Secondly, your expertise will be needed to furnish homes and public buildings—not just in Oldstones, but across our settlements. When the time comes, you may also be called upon to contribute to the physical reconstruction of Oldstones itself, reinforcing wooden scaffolds, doors, supports, and more."

The lead carpenter, a burly man named Garrik, stroked his graying beard before responding. "That is a fair demand, Lord Hosteen. We can produce tools and furniture without issue, but if we are to aid in building Oldstones, we will need a steady supply of seasoned wood. Green lumber is ill-suited for such a task."

Hosteen nodded. "Arrangements have already been made for that. Woodcutters from the northern forests are sending shipments of cured oak and pine. You will have what you need."

Garrik grunted in approval and folded his arms.

Next, Hosteen turned to the architects and engineers. "The heart of this project lies with you. Oldstones was once a proud seat, but time has eroded its walls, and nature has reclaimed much of its structure. I have tasked the scribes with searching for any old maps or layouts of the original castle. When they are found, they will be given to you for study. However, we must be prepared to adapt and improve upon what once was. We need stronger walls, a more defensible structure, and a layout that accommodates both the city and the keep."

One of the chief architects, a scholarly man named Edran, adjusted the spectacles resting on his nose and leaned forward. "I will need a team to survey the ruins, to determine which parts of the original structure remain stable and which must be rebuilt from the ground up. If we can salvage existing foundations, it will save us significant time and resources."

"Agreed," Hosteen said. "Take whoever you need. Begin immediately."

Another man, a stonemason named Varric, who had built fortifications for several other Riverland lords, spoke next. "Stone must be quarried, not just for the walls, but for the roads, the harbor, and the buildings themselves. We have access to deposits of limestone and granite in the hills near the mines. I will need a workforce to extract and transport the stone."

"You will have them," Hosteen promised. "And we will ensure that the roads leading from the mines to Oldstones are properly maintained to facilitate the transport of materials."

As the meeting concluded, Lord Hosteen Mudd dismissed the gathered architects, engineers, and craftsmen. The discussions had been fruitful—roles had been assigned, expectations made clear, and now, work could begin. But before a single stone could be laid or a beam raised, they needed materials. Wood, stone, and skilled hands to shape both.

Hosteen sat in his solar, the dim candlelight flickering against the old stone walls. He reached for a blank parchment, dipping his quill into fresh ink. There was no steward or scribe—this was a matter for his own hand. If Oldstones was to rise again, its lord would be the one to set it in motion.

"To Lord Flint of Flint's Finger,

Greetings from Oldstones,

As you may know, Oldstones is being rebuilt, its halls and walls rising once more from the ruins of time. However, no castle, no city, no fleet is built without timber, and for that, I must turn to you.

The forests of the North are rich with strong pine and oak, well-seasoned for construction. I seek a shipment of such wood—enough for scaffolding, beams, and homes for the growing settlement around Oldstones. If you have foresters and lumbermen willing to work, they will find fair coin in my service.

In return, I offer payment in silver, trade, or future alliance, should you find need of it. I await your terms.

By my hand,

Lord Hosteen Mudd"

Hosteen let the ink dry, then pressed his seal into the cooling wax. He set the letter aside and reached for another parchment.

"To Lord Royce of Runestone,

Lord Royce,

I write to you as one who seeks to restore the past—to raise Oldstones anew, not as a ruin, but as a castle fit to endure for generations. To do so, I require stone, and the Vale's quarries are known to yield the finest.

Marble for the halls, limestone and granite for the walls and towers. In exchange, I offer silver, trade, or a future arrangement should you have need of a loyal friend in the Riverlands.

Let me know your terms.

By my hand,

Lord Hosteen Mudd"

Again, he sealed the letter with wax and set it aside.

Hosteen took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had settled there. This last letter was perhaps the most important of them all. Timber and stone would build his walls, but knowledge—knowledge would build his house. Without it, no amount of lumber or granite would keep Oldstones from crumbling into irrelevance. A lord who ruled with only steel and coin would soon find himself outmatched by those who understood the game of power. That, he could not allow.

A castle without a maester was a ship without a navigator, left to the mercy of storms. Trade, correspondence, record-keeping—these were just as vital as swords and shields. Hosteen had always known this, but now, as he sat in his solar with his letters spread before him, he understood it more deeply than ever. If he truly meant to build something that would last, he could not afford to govern in ignorance.

With a deliberate hand, he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill into the dark ink. The words needed to be chosen carefully. The Citadel did not send its men lightly, nor would they be impressed by empty titles and grand promises. He had to make them see that Oldstones was not a fading ruin, but a land worth their consideration.

To the Archmaesters of the Citadel,

I, Hosteen Mudd, Lord of Oldstones, write to request the service of a maester for my house and my lands.

Once, Oldstones was the seat of my forebears, kings of the Riverlands before the coming of the Andals. Their rule was lost to time, their name nearly forgotten, and their great halls left to ruin. That will not be my fate. Oldstones is rising again, and with it, a new future for those who call these lands their home.

But no lord can rebuild alone. Stone and timber will raise the walls, but knowledge will ensure they stand. If my house is to endure, if Oldstones is to thrive, I will need a man trained in the wisdom of the Citadel—a maester whose mind is as keen as a sword's edge.

I require one well-versed in history, for there is much to learn from the past if one is to avoid its mistakes. Trade, too, is essential, for the lifeblood of any settlement is its ability to prosper beyond mere sustenance. And healing—there is little more precious than a steady hand to mend wounds, whether on the battlefield or in the sickbed.

A maester bearing links of gold, silver, Valyrian steel, and black iron would serve Oldstones well. If a man of such knowledge is available, I will provide him a place of honor in my halls, with fair payment and all necessary accommodations. Links of lead and iron, while not my priority, would be of benefit should the Citadel deem them necessary.

Oldstones will not be a forgotten ruin. A maester who serves here will not linger in obscurity but take part in the rebirth of a land long thought lost to history.

By my hand,

Lord Hosteen Mudd

Hosteen read the letter over once, twice, making sure the tone was right. Not begging, not demanding, but making it clear that the maester who came to Oldstones would not be serving a house on the decline, but one on the rise.

He reached for the wax, watching as the dark red liquid dripped onto the parchment. Then, pressing his seal into the still-warm wax, he left the mark of House Mudd—the black crown of the old river kings—upon the letter.

He sat back for a moment, exhaling slowly. The weight of what he was doing settled upon him fully now. These were not just letters; they were the first true steps toward making Oldstones a power in its own right.

A maester, if the Citadel granted one, would not just be a healer or a scribe. He would be the voice of wisdom at Hosteen's side, an advisor in times of uncertainty. He would manage ravens, sending and receiving letters from lords and merchants alike, ensuring that Oldstones was never cut off from the wider world. And if the man wore a link of Valyrian steel, that meant knowledge of higher mysteries—knowledge that could prove invaluable in a world where dragons had once flown, and perhaps might again.

Hosteen had always believed that power lay in blood and steel, but as he grew older, he realized that power lay just as much in knowledge. And the Citadel was the greatest well of knowledge in Westeros.

That settled, he turned his attention to the messengers.

He summoned the first rider, a lean man with a sharp face and quick eyes, the kind who knew every road and river of the Riverlands. "You," Hosteen said, handing him the letter to Lord Flint, "ride north. Deliver this to Flint's Finger and wait for a reply."

The man took the letter, tucking it carefully into his satchel. "Aye, my lord."

Next, Hosteen turned to a broad-shouldered rider, one of his more trusted men. "You will go east, to Runestone in the Vale," he said, passing him the letter for Lord Royce. "Do not waste time. Make all haste."

The man bowed and left without a word.

Finally, Hosteen looked to the courier he had chosen for the longest journey. A man past his prime, but experienced—one who had been as far south as Dorne and back again. "You will go south, to the Citadel in Oldtown." He handed him the final letter, the weight of it almost heavier than the parchment itself. "This is not a journey to be rushed, but do not tarry overlong. The future of Oldstones may well rest on this."

The old courier gave a nod of understanding, tucking the letter safely away.

As the last rider departed into the cold dusk, Hosteen Mudd sat back in his chair, his fingers idly drumming against the wooden table. The solar was quiet now, save for the crackling of the hearth. The letters had been sent, and with them, the first steps toward Oldstones' restoration. But mere letters were not enough. If he was to rebuild his house's seat, he needed more than just ambition—he needed a vision.

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift into the past, searching the depths of memory, where the echoes of his ancestors lingered. The blood of the River Kings still flowed in his veins, and with it came their knowledge, their triumphs, and their tragedies. He reached back, deeper and deeper, until he could see it—not the ruined shell that now stood atop the hill, but Oldstones as it once was.

It was not like the great castles of the Andals, with their slender towers reaching toward the heavens. No, Oldstones had been built in the manner of the First Men—a fortress of strength and endurance, a castle that stood like a mountain against the passage of time.

At the heart of it stood the Great Keep, a monolithic structure of dark grey stone, vast and powerful. Unlike many other great castles, its height did not come from a single towering spire but from its sheer bulk, a behemoth of walls, staircases, and massive halls, a fusion of beauty and warcraft. The keep was adorned with ancient carvings—scenes of Rivermen warriors, great stags and direwolves, and First Men runes etched into the very stone. They told stories of the kings of old, of their battles and victories, of their oaths and betrayals. Some spoke of glory; others whispered warnings.

The Great Hall lay within this keep, a chamber grand enough to host seven hundred men in feast. Its high, vaulted ceiling was supported by thick pillars carved with the sigils of the First Men houses, while a massive hearth at its center blazed with fire, warming the vast space. Long wooden tables stretched across the room, their surfaces scarred by the feasts and councils of centuries past. The high seat of House Mudd sat upon a raised stone dais, its arms carved in the shape of leaping salmon, a tribute to the waters that sustained the Riverlands.

From the keep, four towers jutted outward, standing apart yet connected by arched bridges and stone walkways, forming a structure both majestic and fearsome.

The Tower of the King stood tallest, reserved for the ruler of Oldstones and his spouse. From its high, narrow windows, one could gaze upon the lands for miles, the rivers snaking through the valleys below. A private solar, a war chamber, and a grand bedchamber fit for a king had once graced its floors.The Tower of Kingsmen was a place of diplomacy and honor, where visiting kings and great lords were housed. Its walls bore tapestries woven with the deeds of past rulers, reminders of those who had once feasted and made war within Oldstones' halls.The Tower of Scholars had been set aside for the learned men of the castle—the administrators, scribes, and those who dealt in knowledge rather than steel. Here, scrolls and tomes were kept, and in its highest room, a great rookery had once housed ravens that carried messages across the land.The Tower of Kin was meant for the family of the ruling lord—the children of House Mudd and their guardians, a place of security and sanctuary within the castle's embrace.

Each of these towers, despite their differing purposes, shared one defining trait: they were not merely halls of residence, but strongholds in their own right, built to resist siege and to rain death upon attackers from above.

Surrounding the keep and its towers was a vast courtyard, where the life of the castle thrived.

Barracks and training yards lined one side, where the men-at-arms drilled daily, the clash of swords and shields ringing through the air.The stables housed the steeds of knights and couriers alike, their wooden beams dark with age and polished by the hands of generations of stablemasters.The servant quarters, hunting lodges, and guest houses filled the rest of the yard, ensuring that all who lived within Oldstones had a place and purpose.The kitchens were a kingdom unto themselves, vast and bustling, with enormous hearths where whole boars could be roasted and ovens that could bake bread for an army.

To the east of the keep, a great Godswood stood. The Weirwood tree at its heart was ancient, its bark white as bone, its leaves blood-red, whispering in the wind with the voices of ages past. Kings of House Mudd had prayed beneath its boughs, seeking wisdom and guidance before battle or great decisions.

Beneath Oldstones, carved deep into the hill, lay the crypts, as was the way of the First Men. There, in the cold darkness, the bones of the River Kings rested, their tombs marked by runes too old for most to read. The crypts were said to be vast, stretching far beneath the keep, a silent testament to the might of House Mudd in days long gone.

Beyond the inner castle, a high wall enclosed Oldstones, its grey stones standing defiant against time. Watchtowers lined the perimeter, their torches once burning bright through the night, their sentinels ever vigilant. Below, a deep moat connected to the Blue Fork wrapped around part of the fortress, its waters forming a natural barrier against invaders. A mighty drawbridge led to the main gate, a structure of iron and oak so thick that no battering ram could break it easily.

Hosteen exhaled, his eyes opening slowly.

It had all come back to him, as if his ancestors themselves had whispered it into his ear. The Oldstones of legend had once again taken shape, no longer a forgotten ruin, but a living, breathing vision in his mind.

He turned to the empty parchment before him, his heart pounding with purpose. He would not let this vision fade.

Taking up his quill, he began to sketch, first in broad strokes, then in fine detail. The Great Keep, the towering spires, the mighty walls and the Godswood, the crypts beneath—each part of Oldstones as it was meant to be.

By the time he set his quill down, the plans of Oldstones lay before him in ink and parchment.