Return of House Mudd

The village of Gravesham

The morning sun painted Gravesham in hues of gold and amber, the light filtering through the thin mist that clung to the fields. The village bustled with activity, the people carrying baskets of grain, tending to livestock, and repairing tools. Amidst the clamor, Hosteen Mudd stood at the edge of a newly tilled field, his gaze fixed on the dark, upturned soil.

It had been moons since his arrival, and in that time, he had transformed the village's agricultural practices. Drawing from the vast well of knowledge carried in his bloodline—both magical and mundane—he had introduced innovations that promised to shape the future of Gravesham.

A Revolution of the Plow

The first tool Hosteen shared with the villagers was the mouldboard plow, a design he remembered from the memories of his Potter ancestors. It was a revolutionary improvement over their simple wooden scratch plows, which could barely break the surface of the heavy, fertile soil.

"This," he said, presenting the prototype to a group of farmers, "is a plow that cuts deeper, turns the earth more effectively, and creates furrows that help water flow where it's needed most."

The villagers watched as Hosteen demonstrated its use, hitching the plow to a sturdy ox. As he guided the tool through the field, the soil flipped cleanly, revealing the rich, dark earth below. Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd.

The heavy plow, an even sturdier design, soon followed. Its iron blade was better suited for Gravesham's denser soils, and Hosteen carefully explained how its weight would allow for deeper tilling without requiring much additional effort.

Though the villagers were skeptical at first, the results were undeniable. Fields that once took days to till were now ready in half the time. Crops planted in the freshly turned soil grew taller and healthier, their roots thriving in the aerated earth.

The Art of Rotation

With the success of the new plows, Hosteen turned his attention to teaching the villagers about crop rotation.

"You cannot ask the same field to grow the same crop year after year," he explained to Adden and the assembled farmers one evening. "The land tires. It gives all it has until there's nothing left."

He outlined a simple system: dividing their fields into three sections and rotating crops among them. One section would grow grains, another vegetables, and the third would lie fallow, allowing it to recover its strength.

"Peas and beans are not just food," Hosteen added with a smile. "Their roots feed the soil, preparing it for the next crop."

Though it took time for the farmers to adjust to the new system, the benefits quickly became apparent. Yields increased, and the land itself seemed revitalized. For the first time in years, there was enough grain to store for the winter, with plenty left over to trade with neighboring villages.

Hosteen's efforts did not go unnoticed. While some had initially viewed him as an outsider, the results of his work earned him their respect and trust.

"He's not just another wanderer," one farmer remarked to another after the first harvest under Hosteen's guidance. "He's saved us from the brink of famine."

Adden, the village elder, watched these changes with a mix of pride and awe. One evening, as they sat by the hearth, he addressed Hosteen directly.

"You've given Gravesham a future, Hosteen," Adden said, his voice heavy with emotion. "These people look to you now—not just as a leader, but as a savior."

Hosteen, ever humble, shook his head. "I've only shared what I know. The land itself deserves the praise. It has always been generous to those who care for it."

The villagers soon began referring to Hosteen as "Chief," a title that carried as much affection as it did authority. Unlike Adden, who governed with the weight of tradition, Hosteen's leadership was marked by action and ingenuity.

He spent his days working alongside the farmers, guiding oxen as they pulled the new plows, inspecting irrigation ditches, and ensuring that every field received equal care. He even crafted tools and gadgets to make their work easier—simple machines that used counterweights or pulleys to lift heavy loads, all inscribed with subtle runes to enhance their durability.

"Your hands are those of a lord," one villager commented as Hosteen deftly repaired a broken plow.

Hosteen chuckled. "Perhaps, but they're also the hands of a man who knows the value of hard work."

As the weeks turned to months, Hosteen's thoughts often drifted to the ruins of Oldstones. He had not visited the castle again, but he felt its pull as surely as he felt the blood of the River Kings coursing through his veins. The memories of Tristifer IV and Ignotus whispered to him in quiet moments, urging him to reclaim his heritage.

But for now, his focus remained on Gravesham. The village had become his home, and its people had become his family. He was determined to leave them stronger than he had found them.

One evening, as the villagers gathered for a harvest feast, Hosteen stood at the edge of the crowd, watching them laugh and dance under the stars. Adden approached him, a tankard of ale in hand.

"You've given us more than we could ever repay," Adden said, handing Hosteen the drink.

Hosteen took it with a nod of gratitude. "You've given me something just as valuable, Adden—a place to belong."

The elder smiled, raising his tankard in a toast. "To the Chief of Gravesham. May his legacy live on."

Though Hosteen found joy in the simple life of the village, he knew it was only a matter of time before he would have to leave. The memories of his ancestors, the weight of their knowledge, and the call of his bloodline would not be silenced forever.

But for now, as he stood among the people of Gravesham, Hosteen allowed himself to revel in the warmth of their gratitude and the promise of a bountiful future.

The rhythms of life in Gravesham had become familiar to Hosteen. Nine moons had passed since he first arrived, and in that time, he had woven himself into the fabric of the village. He walked its dirt paths not as an outsider but as one of their own. Yet in the quiet moments, when the stars stretched endlessly above, he felt the pull of his greater destiny—a legacy that waited beyond the peaceful fields of Gravesham.

Hosteen had spent the past months cultivating relationships with the villagers. He had grown particularly close to three men: Edrin, the carpenter in his early twenties; Harvin, a farmer in his thirties; and Tomlin, a spirited sixteen-year-old without a profession. Each offered something different to his life in Gravesham.

Edrin, with his skilled hands and easy laughter, had become a steadfast ally. The young carpenter had a natural curiosity about Hosteen's designs and often worked alongside him on small improvements for the village. Harvin, pragmatic and hardworking, had a wealth of local knowledge that Hosteen often tapped into. Tomlin, however, held a special place in Hosteen's plans. Recognizing the boy's potential and boundless energy, Hosteen had taken him under his wing.

The two spent mornings training with swords carved from wood and evenings discussing tactics and battle strategy. Though Hosteen knew Tomlin wasn't ready for the rigors of real combat, he believed the boy could grow into a capable warrior.

"Why do you care so much about teaching me this?" Tomlin asked one day, wiping sweat from his brow after a particularly grueling session.

Hosteen handed him a flask of water, his expression thoughtful. "Because the day may come when this village needs someone to protect it. And I won't always be here."

The boy nodded, determination lighting his eyes. Hosteen saw in Tomlin the spark of something greater—a potential leader, perhaps, or at least a guardian for the people of Gravesham.

Mya, Adden's daughter, had also grown closer to Hosteen. The young girl, now more comfortable around him, often sought his company. Though she was only fourteen, there was an undeniable fondness in her gaze that made Hosteen tread carefully.

She often brought him small tokens—a freshly baked loaf of bread, a flower she had picked from the meadows, or a carved trinket. Hosteen accepted them graciously, always mindful of her youth and innocence.

One evening, as the two sat on a fallen log near the village's edge, she spoke hesitantly. "Do you think you'll leave us someday, Hosteen?"

He looked at her, his gaze soft. "Someday, yes. But not yet."

She nodded, her expression a mix of relief and sadness. "You've made this place better. I just… I don't want to lose that."

Hosteen reached out and ruffled her hair gently, like an older brother might. "You won't lose it, Mya. You're stronger than you think. This village will be just fine."

It was a crisp autumn morning when trouble arrived at Gravesham's gates. A tax collector, flanked by a half-dozen armored soldiers, rode into the village. He wore the sigil of House Pemford, a minor vassal of House Mallister, and his sharp eyes scanned the villagers with a mix of disdain and greed.

Adden greeted the man cautiously, bowing slightly. "Welcome to Gravesham, my lord. What brings you here?"

The collector dismounted, dusting off his fine cloak. "I've come to assess the harvest and ensure Lord Pemford receives his due. From what I see, your crops are bountiful this year. Perhaps your taxes should reflect that."

Murmurs of concern rippled through the gathered villagers. Hosteen, standing at the edge of the crowd, stepped forward. "If you wish to discuss taxes, perhaps we should speak privately."

The collector eyed him suspiciously but nodded. Inside Adden's modest hall, the two men sat across from one another. The collector was direct. "Your harvest is clearly better than previous years. The taxes will increase, or I'll have the soldiers take what they need."

Hosteen's calm expression didn't falter. With a subtle flick of his fingers under the table, he cast a Confundus Charm. The man's eyes glazed over slightly as Hosteen spoke in a measured tone.

"You'll find that the original tax agreement is more than fair," Hosteen said smoothly. "There's no need to burden the village further."

The collector blinked, his stern demeanor softening. "Yes… the original agreement… quite fair. No need to adjust it."

When they emerged, the soldiers and villagers looked on anxiously. The collector announced that no changes would be made to the tax rate, much to the relief of the villagers. As he and his guards departed, Adden shot Hosteen a questioning look but said nothing.

That evening, Hosteen sat with Adden by the hearth. The elder sipped his ale thoughtfully before speaking. "You have a way with people, Hosteen. That taxman left far too easily."

Hosteen smiled faintly. "Sometimes, words are all you need."

Adden didn't press further but changed the subject. "You're thinking of leaving, aren't you?"

Hosteen nodded. "Not yet, but soon. There are things I need to do. Places I need to see."

Adden sighed. "You've done more for this village than anyone could have hoped for. Just know that you'll always have a home here."

Hosteen placed a hand on the elder's shoulder. "Thank you, Adden. That means more to me than you know."

In the days that followed, Hosteen began preparing for his departure. He knew his journey would take him to Braavos, to the Iron Bank, where accounts tied to his ancestors awaited. The thought of reclaiming those resources—armor, weapons, and gold fit for a lord—filled him with purpose.

But leaving Gravesham wouldn't be easy. The village had become his sanctuary, a place where he had found peace and purpose. Yet he couldn't ignore the pull of his bloodline, the call to restore the Riverlands and reclaim the legacy of the Mudd kings.