Return of House Mudd

The River Lord's Arsenal

The week passed, and Hosteen Mudd emerged not merely as a man recovering from injury but as someone piecing together the fragments of countless lifetimes. The memories within him formed an intricate tapestry, interwoven with the traditions of Westeros and the advancements of Earth. Knowledge of war, crafting, agriculture, and lordly etiquette mingled seamlessly with the forgotten magics of his forebears.

Hosteen's mind had become a battleground of eras, perspectives, and skills. From Tristifer IV, he inherited the wisdom of a River King—knowledge of the land, the intricate dance of feudal allegiances, and the burden of leadership. Tristifer's memories painted vivid portraits of the Riverlands' lords and their histories: the Blackwoods and Brackens, whose rivalry spanned centuries; the Freys, opportunistic and ambitious even in Tristifer's time; and the Tullys, who would later rise to prominence.

From Ignotus, Hosteen gained not only a deep understanding of magical theory but also a sense of pragmatism. Ignotus had lived in an era when death was ever-present, and his magic reflected that reality—subtle, defensive, and fiercely clever.

The memories from Earth were more fragmented but no less profound. Hosteen found himself recalling the forging of steel blades during the Middle Ages, the agricultural revolutions of the 19th century, and even the industrial and technological advances of the early 20th century. These glimpses of Earth's progression filled him with both awe and sorrow—he carried the weight of a history that no longer existed in this world.

The memories of war were perhaps the most vivid. Battles fought on Earth's fields and in Westeros' valleys unfolded in his mind like a series of vivid dreams. He saw himself—or rather, his ancestors—leading charges, defending keeps, and making impossible choices.

From Tristifer, he learned the tactics of Westerosi warfare: the use of shield walls, the importance of supply lines, and the art of negotiation with bannermen. From his Potter ancestors, Hosteen inherited a broader perspective on warfare, including Earth's devastating inventions like gunpowder and siege engines.

The knowledge of war was not without its cost. Hosteen often found himself overwhelmed by flashes of pain and loss—soldiers dying under his command, the cries of widows, the emptiness of victory. Yet, these memories also steeled his resolve. They reminded him that leadership was a burden, not a privilege, and that the strength of a lord was measured by the sacrifices he was willing to make.

Among the countless memories, Hosteen found a surprising solace in the skills of crafting and farming. His Potter ancestors had been innovators in many fields, and their knowledge now flowed through him like an endless river.

He knew how to forge a blade that could cut through chainmail as if it were cloth. He understood the delicate balance of alloys needed to create steel that was both strong and flexible. He could craft tools for farming, weapons for war, and even delicate jewelry engraved with magical runes.

The knowledge of farming was equally transformative. Hosteen recalled techniques for irrigation, crop rotation, and pest control that could revolutionize the lives of the villagers in Gravesham. The memories even included ways to harness the land's natural magic to enhance growth, an ability that felt almost miraculous in its potential.

The runes were a cornerstone of Hosteen's newfound power. Westerosi runes, crude but effective, had been used by the First Men for generations, and Ignotus's influence added a depth of precision to their usage. Earth's runes were more methodical, designed to enhance and refine spells, while Westerosi runes had a raw, elemental quality.

Hosteen practiced tirelessly, combining the two systems. He inscribed runes onto stones, weapons, and even his own skin, testing their effects. A rune for strength carved into a wooden staff allowed him to shatter rocks with a single blow. A rune for light etched onto a pendant illuminated the darkest corners of the forest.

Most impressive, however, was his ability to create protective wards. Combining Ignotus's defensive enchantments with the barrier spells of the First Men, Hosteen crafted a shield rune that could cover an entire room. He tested it by inviting Adden to throw a lit torch at him, grinning as the flame fizzled out upon contact with the invisible barrier.

Adden was less amused. "If you're so eager to set yourself on fire, at least warn me next time," the elder muttered.

Hosteen also spent time refining his demeanor. The memories of Ignotus and Tristifer offered invaluable lessons in etiquette and diplomacy. From Ignotus, he learned the subtleties of a lord's court: when to speak, when to listen, and how to wield words as weapons. From Tristifer, he gained the commanding presence of a king—the ability to inspire loyalty and respect with a single glance.

His Potter ancestors contributed a modern sense of humility and pragmatism. They had been pioneers, craftsmen, and scholars, but never aristocrats. Their perspective tempered the grandeur of Ignotus and Tristifer, reminding Hosteen that true leadership lay in service, not in pomp.

By the end of the week, Hosteen could move through the village with an air of quiet authority. The villagers began to look at him not just as a mysterious stranger but as a man of importance. Mya, in particular, seemed captivated by his transformation, though she often blushed and stammered when he spoke to her.

On the seventh day, Hosteen stood atop the hill overlooking Oldstones. The ruins of the ancient castle loomed before him, their crumbling foundations a testament to the passage of time. Yet, in Hosteen's mind, the castle was alive. He saw its halls filled with light, its banners fluttering in the breeze, and its great hall echoing with the laughter of lords and ladies.

"This was Riverpeak," he murmured, the name coming unbidden to his lips. The memories of Tristifer surged within him, showing him the castle as it had been in its prime. It had been a seat of power, a beacon of unity in the fractured Riverlands. And now, it was his inheritance.

Days later Hosteen Mudd sat across from Adden in the modest stone hall that served as the elder's home. The light from the hearth flickered across the room, casting shadows on the walls and illuminating Adden's face, which was a mix of curiosity and concern. The elder had seen much in his time, but the events of the past week—the mysterious magic Hosteen wielded, the aura of authority he carried—had unsettled him. Now, Adden sought answers.

Hosteen, however, had his own resolve brewing within. As Adden's questions weighed on him, his thoughts turned inward, to the determination that burned in his chest. He would not simply answer for himself—he would act. He would restore Oldstones to its former glory. He would reclaim the legacy of the River Kings. And he would forge a future where the Riverlands stood proud and united once more.

"You have power," Adden said, his voice low but firm. "I saw what you did. That torch didn't just go out—it was stopped, like it hit an invisible wall. That's no trick of the light, Hosteen Mudd. What is it you're hiding?"

Hosteen sighed, leaning back in his chair. He had prepared for this moment, knowing that the truth, in its entirety, was too outlandish to share. Instead, he offered a carefully crafted half-truth.

"It's nothing as grand as you might think, Adden," Hosteen began, his voice steady. "My family has knowledge—old knowledge. Runes passed down through the generations. They're not powerful enough to stop dragonfire or turn back an army, but they can shield against smaller threats—an arrow, a stray flame. It's nothing compared to what the lords of old wielded."

Adden's eyes widened, and he leaned forward, his intrigue obvious. "Runes, you say? The First Men's magic?"

Hosteen nodded, choosing his words carefully. "Some families—those favored by the Old Gods—were blessed with such knowledge. It can't be taught to just anyone. It's as much a part of us as blood and bone. A gift and a burden."

Adden's awe was palpable. He stared at Hosteen, as if seeing him for the first time. "A gift from the Old Gods," he murmured. "Truly, you are no ordinary man."

Questions and History

The conversation shifted as Adden, still captivated, began asking questions. How did the runes work? Could they be used for more than protection? Were there other families who held similar knowledge?

Hosteen deflected as much as he answered. He spoke vaguely about the nature of the runes, hinting at their connection to the natural world and the Old Gods, but he avoided specifics. His own understanding of runes—drawn from both the First Men and the wizarding traditions of Earth—was far too complex to explain in simple terms.

Still, Adden seemed satisfied, even honored, by the idea that his village harbored someone touched by the Old Gods.

When the questions finally subsided, Hosteen leaned forward, his tone turning serious. "Adden, I need to ask something of you. Do you have any books here? Histories, records—anything that could tell me more about the Riverlands?"

Adden frowned, confused. "You don't know your own lands?"

"I've been... away," Hosteen said, choosing his words with care. "Many years. Much has changed, I'm sure."

Adden nodded slowly, still perplexed but willing to help. "We don't have much. This is no lord's library. But we do have a book—a history that begins with the coming of the Andals. It's one the Citadel encourages every village to keep, though it doesn't say much about the First Men. They'd rather we forget."

Hosteen's jaw tightened at the mention of the Citadel. The "grey rats," as he had taken to calling them in his mind, had always sought to rewrite history, shaping it to suit their own narratives. The thought of the First Men's legacy being reduced to little more than a footnote filled him with quiet rage.

"I'll take whatever you have," Hosteen said, keeping his voice even. "It's a start."

Adden nodded, rising to retrieve the book. "It's old and not very well kept, but it should serve you."

Hosteen spent the next few days pouring over the tattered book provided by Adden, its pages laden with the Citadel's version of the Riverlands' history. What began as a reluctant read soon turned into a study of frustration and indignation.

The book began, unsurprisingly, not with the proud reign of the Mudds or the ancient tales of the First Men but with their fall. King Tristifer V, derisively referred to as "the Last," was depicted as an inevitable casualty of progress. His death marked the end of the River Kings, and with it, the Citadel proclaimed the end of the "old ways" of the First Men, which the text described with disdain. The First Men were framed as backward and primitive, their traditions incompatible with the civilization brought by the Andals. The maesters praised the arrival of the Andals, who, with their knights and Faith of the Seven, were portrayed as saviors bringing light to a savage land.

The text focused on the chaos that followed the Mudds' fall. For fifty long years, the Riverlands were a fragmented region of petty lords and warring factions, all vying for power. It was during this period that a bastard son of House Blackwood and House Bracken—a union born of scandal and mistrust—took up arms. This man, later known as Justman, claimed a name not bound by either house and sought to unite the Riverlands under a banner of justice and strength.

Justman's campaign to unite the Riverlands was long and grueling, spanning three decades of bloodshed and diplomacy. But in the end, his perseverance bore fruit. He was crowned the first Andal king of the Riverlands, and his dynasty became known as the Justmans. For three hundred years, they ruled as their name suggested—with fairness and respect for their subjects, weaving together the disparate peoples of the region into a cohesive realm.

The Justmans' reign came to a tragic end during a war against the Iron Islands. The last Justman king met his demise in what became known as the Bloody Keep of Pyke, a gruesome battle that shattered the dynasty. With their fall, the Riverlands descended into chaos once again, as dozens of lords declared themselves kings, yet none could maintain lasting authority.

A century later, Torrence Teague rose to power, his ascent fueled by an army of sellswords and ruthless ambition. The book's tone toward the Teagues was notably different, reflecting the widespread resentment their reign had engendered. Torrence's conquest was described as an unjust war, a brutal campaign that left a scar on the Riverlands. His dynasty's rule was marked by harsh taxation, constant rebellions, and a failure to win the hearts of the people.

The last Teague king sealed his family's doom by repressing the worship of the Old Gods, sparking rebellion among both First Men houses like the Blackwoods and Andal houses such as the Vances. House Tully, seizing the opportunity, joined the revolt. This coalition of old and new united to overthrow the Teagues, but the Riverlands paid a heavy price in blood.

In the aftermath, the Riverlands became a land caught between larger powers. For centuries, it fell under the dominion of the Storm Kings to the south and later the Ironborn, who ruled with cruelty and disdain for the region's people. It wasn't until Aegon's conquest that the Riverlands found a measure of stability—though not without its own controversies.

Aegon Targaryen named House Tully of Riverrun as Lords Paramount of the Trident, a decision that echoed across the Riverlands. While it brought an end to centuries of foreign domination, it did not mend the fractures within the region. Many lords refused to accept the Tullys' rule, seeing them as opportunists who had risen to prominence through rebellion rather than legacy. Even in Hosteen's time, whispers of dissent lingered in the Riverlands, a reminder of the region's turbulent past.

Hosteen's frustration deepened with each turn of the page. The narrative glorified the Andals and minimized the legacy of the First Men. The Mudds, the River Kings, the traditions they upheld—all reduced to footnotes in favor of Andal knights and Targaryen dragons. The erasure of his people's history was clear, and it ignited a fire within him. If the Citadel sought to diminish the First Men's legacy, Hosteen would make it his mission to ensure it was remembered.