Return of House Mudd

A Stranger Among Shadows

The room was cold. The chill seeped into Harry's—or was it Hosteen's?—bones even before he opened his eyes. He was lying on a rough wooden pallet, the texture of the blanket coarse against his skin. Somewhere nearby, the sound of dripping water echoed faintly, and the scent of damp stone filled the air.

He sat up abruptly, his head swimming. The room was dimly lit, the flickering of a single torch casting long shadows on the walls. He was in a hall of some sort, with high ceilings supported by thick stone arches. Banners hung limply along the walls, their colors faded, their sigils unrecognizable. He reached up to rub his temples, only to stop when a piercing, searing pain shot through his skull.

Harry clutched his head, gasping. The pain wasn't like anything he had felt before—it wasn't the sharp, focused agony of a curse or the dull throb of exhaustion. This was something deeper, as if his very mind was tearing itself apart and putting itself back together again.

Memories began to flood his consciousness—memories that were not his own.

He saw a great castle perched atop a hill, its towers reaching toward the sky. He saw fields stretching out below it, dotted with farmers tending crops, mounted warriors riding patrols, and banners fluttering in the breeze. A name surfaced in his mind: Riverpeak.

The vision shifted. He was no longer standing atop the castle walls but in a chamber filled with men. They were arguing, their voices rising and falling as they debated strategy. One of them turned toward him, his face worn and weathered, his eyes sharp. "Tristifer" the man said, his voice steady. "We must make a decision."

Tristifer.

It was his name—or at least, it had been a name of his ancestors once.

The pain in his head grew worse, and he fell to his knees, gripping the edges of the pallet to steady himself. More memories surged forward. Battles fought on muddy fields. Long rides through the Riverlands. Nights spent in halls much like this one, where the songs of minstrels blended with the clatter of tankards. Faces he couldn't place but that stirred a deep sense of recognition in him.

And then the knowledge. A flood of information that threatened to drown him. He saw the weaving of banners, the forging of steel, the construction of keeps. He understood the art of governance, the complexities of feudal loyalties, the histories of the great houses of Westeros. Magic—old and wild, far removed from the structured spells he had once studied at Hogwarts—seeped into his awareness. He could feel the land beneath his feet, the rivers winding through it, the bloodlines that had shaped it.

When the pain finally subsided, Harry—or Hosteen—was left trembling and drenched in sweat.

The sound of the door creaking open pulled Hosteen from his thoughts. He turned to see a girl no older than fourteen step hesitantly into the room. Her hair was braided neatly, though a few loose strands framed her youthful face. Her dress was simple, the fabric patched in places that spoke of a life of modest means. Her wide brown eyes lit up with a mixture of relief and curiosity when she saw him awake.

"You're alive!" she exclaimed, stepping further into the room. "Father wasn't sure if you'd make it, but I told him you'd pull through. You were just sleeping too deeply." She stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushing. "I mean, I'm glad to see you awake."

Hosteen managed a small smile. The girl's enthusiasm was a welcome contrast to the oppressive weight of his swirling memories. "Thank you. I… suppose I have you and your father to thank for helping me?"

The girl nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes! We found you outside the village, just lying there like you'd fallen from the sky. No one knew what to do at first, but Father said we couldn't just leave you there. So we brought you to the hall, and I've been checking on you every day."

Hosteen inclined his head in gratitude. "You have my thanks…?"

The girl's eyes widened. "Oh, I'm sorry! I should've introduced myself. My name is Mya. I'm the eldest daughter of the village leader." She curtsied awkwardly, the motion more earnest than polished.

"Hosteen," he replied. "Hosteen Mudd."

Mya tilted her head slightly, her expression puzzled. "Mudd? That's not a name I've heard before. Are you a noble?" Her gaze flicked over him, taking in his clean appearance and the fine, if simple, cut of his clothes. "You must be. No one dresses like that unless they're highborn."

Hosteen hesitated. He couldn't exactly explain the truth—not yet, not when he was still piecing it together himself. Instead, he reached into the knowledge that had been painfully etched into his mind. With a subtle effort of will, he focused on Mya's thoughts, probing gently with the magic of Legilimency. Her surface thoughts were a mix of confusion, curiosity, and awe. She genuinely didn't recognize the name Mudd, though there was a faint flicker of suspicion.

He withdrew before she could sense anything amiss and offered a carefully composed explanation. "Mudd is… an old name. My family once held lands, but that was many years ago. Time has not been kind to us."

Understanding dawned on Mya's face, and she nodded slowly. "Oh. I suppose that makes sense. There are a lot of old families around here that don't have much left. Some don't even have lands anymore." She flushed slightly, realizing how her words might sound. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"There's no offense taken," Hosteen assured her. "It's the truth."

Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Hosteen. And thank you for telling me. I'm sorry if I was rude before. Father says I've got more curiosity than sense."

Hosteen gave a faint chuckle, though the lighthearted moment was short-lived. His thoughts turned inward again, and the haziness that lingered from his earlier awakening made him bold. "Mya," he asked carefully, "could you tell me the year?"

Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head in confusion. "The year?"

"Yes," Hosteen said, his voice steady. "I… I've been unwell for some time. My memory is hazy. The year would help me make sense of things."

Mya studied him for a moment, then nodded. "It's 276. The 276th year after Aegon's Conquest. Does that help?"

Hosteen felt his stomach drop. Aegon's Conquest. He didn't know the name, its significance. The memories he had gained were clear about much, but the ongoings after the death of King Tristifer the "Hammer of Justice" were not in his mind how could they, he gained the knowledge of the line of Ignotus Mudd beginning by his father who was the first and the last of the Kings whose memories he held. But hearing the year spoken aloud made the reality of his situation feel all the more tangible, for he really knew nothing about it.

He was centuries removed from everything he had once known—Hogwarts, the wizarding world, his friends, his enemies. The ache of that realization was sharp, but he forced himself to focus. This was his reality now, and he had to make sense of it.

"Yes," he said finally, offering Mya a faint smile. "That helps a great deal. Thank you."

Mya seemed relieved that she had been able to assist and hesitated for a moment before asking, "Is there anything else I can do for you? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Father says you should rest more, but you don't look like you need it."

Hosteen considered her offer and nodded. "Food would be welcome, thank you. And perhaps some water as well."

"I'll fetch some right away," Mya said, her smile brightening. She turned to leave but paused at the door. "Oh, and if you're feeling up to it later, Father will want to speak with you. He's been curious about where you came from."

"I'll be ready," Hosteen promised.

Mya nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving Hosteen alone once more. He sat back on the edge of the pallet, his mind racing. The pieces of his past—both his life as Harry Potter and the knowledge of the Mudds—were jumbled together like a puzzle he couldn't quite fit together.

But one thing was clear: he was in a time and place where the name Mudd carried no significant weight. If he wanted to survive—and perhaps rebuild the legacy of his ancestors—he would have to tread carefully.

With a sigh, Hosteen leaned back, staring at the flickering shadows on the ceiling. He had no answers yet, but he had a path. And that was enough. For now.

Hosteen barely had time to collect his thoughts after Mya left when the door creaked open again. This time, it wasn't the eager young girl who entered but an older man with weathered features and a commanding presence. His shoulders were broad, though age had stooped him slightly, and his face was framed by a short, graying beard. His eyes, sharp and calculating, fixed on Hosteen as he stepped into the room.

"Good day," the man said, his voice steady and deep. He clasped his hands in front of him and offered a small bow—not too deep to suggest servitude but respectful enough to acknowledge the possibility of nobility. "I am Adden. Adden of Gravesham, the elder of this village."

Hosteen straightened where he sat, instinctively matching the man's formal demeanor. "I am Hosteen Mudd," he replied evenly, offering a faint nod of his own.

At the mention of the name Mudd, Adden's brows lifted slightly. He stroked his beard, a flicker of recognition sparking in his gaze. "Mudd, you say? That's a name I've not heard spoken in some time. When I was a boy, the old storytellers used to speak of the River Kings—the Mudds and the Justmans, lords of this land long before the Tullys came to Riverrun."

Hosteen's heart quickened at the words, though he kept his expression composed. Adden's knowledge confirmed what the memories flooding his mind had told him: the Mudds were a part of this land, though their legacy had been reduced to little more than a whispered legend.

"I see the tales of old endure, even here," Hosteen said carefully. "Though I must admit, much of my family's history is a mystery to me. We lost our lands long ago, and with them, much of our lineage."

Adden nodded thoughtfully, his expression sympathetic. "A common story in these times. Still, it is no small thing to bear a name like Mudd. Even now, the bones of the River Kings rest in these lands."

Hosteen took in the elder's words, filing them away as he considered his next move. The room, small and humble, offered few clues about his surroundings. He needed more information—not just about Gravesham, but about where he had awoken and how he might begin to piece together his new existence.

"Forgive my ignorance," Hosteen said, his tone measured. "But I have been… unwell. My journey here has left me disoriented. Might I ask where I am?"

Adden tilted his head slightly, studying Hosteen before answering. "You are in the Riverlands, my lord, near the heart of the old River Kings' domain. Our village, Gravesham, lies to the south of Seagard, near the coast of the Bay of the Hook. East of here is Raventree Hall, seat of House Blackwood."

Hosteen nodded slowly, absorbing the information. The geography matched what he already knew, but Adden's description filled in some blanks. "And the castle nearby? I passed it on my way here, I think. Its ruins seemed… ancient."

Adden's expression darkened slightly. "Ah, Oldstones. A name that echoes like a ghost in these parts. It's all that remains of a great fortress, its name and masters long since lost to time. My grandfather used to tell me that the Mudds once held it, though whether that's true or just another tale is hard to say."

Hosteen's lips moved before he could stop himself. "Riverpeak," he murmured, the name surfacing unbidden from the flood of ancestral memories in his mind. It was a faint whisper, but Adden caught it.

"Riverpeak?" the elder repeated, his brow furrowing. "I've not heard that name before."

"It was… something my family once spoke of," Hosteen said quickly, masking his slip. "Perhaps a name for what is now Oldstones. It's hard to say how much of the old tales are true."

Adden nodded, his curiosity not entirely satisfied but tempered by respect. "Well, my lord, you are welcome here in Gravesham for as long as you need. We don't have much, but what we have is yours. If you wish to visit the ruins, you'll find them less than a league to the west. Some say the spirits of the past still linger there, though I wouldn't put much stock in such tales."

Hosteen inclined his head in gratitude. "Your hospitality is appreciated, Adden. I will not forget it."

Adden's expression softened into a small smile. "A guest is a gift from the gods, as we say here. Rest for now, my lord. Should you need anything, my daughter or I will see to it."

With a final nod, Adden left the room, leaving Hosteen alone with his thoughts once more. He sat in silence, the name Riverpeak echoing in his mind. The memories of his ancestors clawed at the edges of his consciousness, demanding attention. He knew he would have to visit Oldstones—or Riverpeak, as it once was. There, perhaps, he would find answers.

For now, he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes as the weight of his new reality settled over him.