Return of House Mudd

A Farewell to Gravesham

The morning Hosteen Mudd set out from Gravesham was heavy with mist. The village, cradled in the soft light of dawn, seemed to hold its breath as he made his final rounds. Each face he passed was etched with a mix of gratitude and sadness. Over the moons he had stayed, Hosteen had become more than just a guest—he was a leader, a protector, and for some, a symbol of hope.

Yet, his heart told him it was time to go. The legacy of his ancestors called to him, as did the unspoken promise he had made to himself: to reclaim what was lost and carve a path worthy of his name.

Tomlin was the first to greet him that morning, his wooden training sword tucked under one arm. His youthful face betrayed a sense of unease. "You're really leaving, aren't you?"

Hosteen nodded, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I am. But remember what I've taught you. Stay vigilant, stay strong, and protect this village."

Tomlin tried to hide the disappointment in his eyes, but his voice wavered. "Will you come back?"

"I'll try," Hosteen said, his tone gentle yet firm. "But the world is vast, and there's much I need to do."

He turned to the small group that had gathered to see him off. Edrin, Harvin, and Adden stood among them, their expressions varying from stoic to sorrowful. Mya lingered near the back, her gaze fixed on the ground, though her flushed cheeks betrayed the emotions she couldn't voice.

"Listen to me," Hosteen began, his voice carrying the authority of a leader. "If the men of Lord Pemford return, you must give them what they ask for. This village cannot fight them, not yet. It is better to endure and survive than to risk everything in a futile stand."

Adden nodded solemnly. "We'll heed your advice, Hosteen. You've given us the tools to thrive. We'll honor that."

Hosteen exchanged a final round of handshakes and embraces. When he reached Mya, she looked up at him, her eyes shining. "Thank you for everything," she whispered.

"You're strong, Mya," Hosteen replied softly. "Never doubt that."

With that, he shouldered his pack and set off down the well-worn path leading away from the village. He didn't look back, knowing the sight of their faces would make the journey all the harder.

The Riverlands unfolded before him, a patchwork of rolling hills, winding rivers, and scattered settlements. Hosteen traveled on foot, his stride steady and purposeful. Each step took him further from the life he had built in Gravesham and closer to the unknown.

The journey had been uneventful for the first few days, the tranquil beauty of the Riverlands lulling him into a contemplative state. But as he approached a bend in the road one misty afternoon, the serenity shattered.

The first sign of trouble was a faint rustling in the underbrush. Hosteen stopped, his sharp eyes scanning the treeline. He caught a flicker of movement—a shadow where there should have been none.

"Step no further," a gruff voice commanded.

From the foliage emerged a group of seven men, their mismatched armor and ragged clothing marking them as bandits. Each carried a weapon—a rusty sword, a club, or a crude dagger. Their leader, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward.

"Well, well," the scarred man sneered, his eyes raking over Hosteen. "What's a fancy lad like you doing out here all alone?"

Hosteen's expression remained calm, though his senses sharpened. "Passing through," he said simply.

The leader chuckled darkly. "You'll be passing your coin and anything else of value to us, or we'll have to take it the hard way."

The other bandits snickered, their confidence bolstered by their numbers.

Hosteen took a slow breath, his hands loose at his sides. "I carry nothing of value," he replied, his voice steady. "And I suggest you let me pass."

The leader's smirk faltered, replaced by a scowl. "Think you're clever, do you?" He raised his club, signaling the others to advance.

As the bandits rushed forward, Hosteen's body moved with practiced ease. He raised his hand, and with a muttered word, the first attacker was hurled backward by an invisible force, slamming into a tree with a sickening thud.

The remaining bandits hesitated, their bravado wavering. Hosteen didn't give them time to regroup. He extended his fingers, and flames erupted from the ground, forming a wall of fire that separated him from his attackers.

Panic set in as the bandits tried to circle around the flames. Hosteen focused on the leader, who was shouting orders to his men. With a flick of his wrist, the man's club flew from his hands, clattering to the ground.

The others charged, but Hosteen was ready. He swept his hand through the air, and a powerful gust of wind sent two bandits tumbling to the ground. Another lunged at him with a dagger, only to find himself frozen in place, his limbs locked by an unseen force.

The remaining two bandits turned to flee, their courage shattered. Hosteen let them go, his attention returning to the leader, who now knelt on the ground, trembling.

"Mercy," the man stammered, his earlier bravado completely gone.

Hosteen stepped closer, his gaze cold and unyielding. "I gave you a chance to walk away." He waved his hand, and the fire surrounding them extinguished. "You won't get another."

The leader scrambled to his feet and ran, disappearing into the trees. Hosteen watched him go, his expression unreadable.

After nearly a fortnight, as Hosteen Mudd crested the final hill, the sprawling sight of Maidenpool unfolded before him. The town sprawled along the edge of the Bay of Crabs, nestled in the embrace of the coast. The sight struck him with an odd mix of awe and melancholy. It was a testament to human ambition—a hub of trade, labor, and life. And yet, to Hosteen, who carried the memories of a thousand lifetimes, it seemed both crude and wondrous.

A wall of weathered gray stone encircled the settlement, standing as a barrier against raiders and invaders. Beyond it, rooftops of slate and wood jutted against the overcast sky, smoke curling from chimneys to mingle with the salty tang of the sea air. The harbor bustled with life, its waters dotted with ships of varying sizes. Their masts rose like skeletal fingers, sails painted with sigils both familiar and strange, flapping gently in the breeze.

Compared to the humble village of Gravesham, Maidenpool was a marvel. But to Hosteen, shaped by memories of towns and cities both more advanced and more ancient, it felt quaint.

The gates of Maidenpool were imposing, flanked by guards in mismatched armor. Their spears gleamed dully, and their expressions were weary but alert. As Hosteen approached, they eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and indifference.

"State your business," one of them barked, his tone rough and impatient.

"I seek passage," Hosteen said evenly, keeping his voice calm and measured.

The guard's gaze lingered on his face for a moment before he shrugged and gestured for him to pass. "Keep out of trouble."

Hosteen nodded and stepped through the gates, entering the heart of Maidenpool.

Inside the walls, the town was a hive of activity. Streets of packed dirt wound their way between uneven rows of buildings, some leaning precariously as though about to topple. Merchants called out their wares from wooden stalls, their voices competing with the clang of hammers from a blacksmith's forge and the occasional bray of a mule.

Hosteen moved through the throng, his senses bombarded by the sights, sounds, and smells of the bustling town. A butcher hacked at a side of pork, blood dripping onto the cobblestones. A tanner stretched a hide over a frame, the acrid stench of curing leather mingling with the salt air. Nearby, a baker pulled loaves from a brick oven, their golden crusts steaming in the cool morning.

It was a world apart from the quiet rhythm of Gravesham, where every task was shared and life moved at a steady, unhurried pace. Here, everyone seemed consumed by their own struggles and ambitions, their movements quick and purposeful.

Hosteen's steps led him to the market district, where traders from distant lands had set up their stalls. The goods on display were a testament to the reach of Maidenpool's trade. Barrels of salted fish and crates of dried fruits sat alongside bolts of fine wool and flax. Spices from the Summer Isles, their colors vivid and alluring, were displayed in small glass jars.

At one stall, a merchant extolled the virtues of a length of silk. "Soft as a maiden's touch," he said, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

Hosteen lingered briefly, observing the ebb and flow of trade. He had no coin, and the realization was a stark reminder of his situation. He might have the knowledge of kings and warriors, but here, now, he was nothing more than a stranger.

Approaching a merchant selling travel provisions, Hosteen fixed the man with a steady gaze. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he cast a Confundus Charm, his voice calm but insistent. "I've already paid for these," he said, gesturing to the dried meats and hard cheeses displayed on the table.

The merchant blinked, his brow furrowing briefly before he nodded. "Of course. Take what you need."

Hosteen thanked him and collected the provisions, tucking them into a sack. The process was repeated at another stall where a tanner sold sturdy boots. By the time he left the market, his pack was filled with the necessities for his journey.

The sun hung low in the sky as Hosteen made his way toward the docks. The harbor was a cacophony of noise and activity. Sailors shouted orders as they loaded cargo onto ships, children darted between crates, and seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries piercing the din.

Hosteen's eyes swept over the ships moored at the docks. Each had its own character, from battered fishing boats with patched sails to sleek merchant vessels with polished wood and painted hulls. The ships bore sigils and markings that hinted at distant lands and exotic trades—a reminder of how small the Riverlands were in the grander scheme of the world.

One ship caught his eye. Its hull was painted a deep purple, and its sails bore the image of a silver starburst. The name painted on the bow read The Silver Star.

It was a Braavosi trading vessel, larger and sleeker than most of the other ships in the harbor. Its crew moved with practiced efficiency, hauling crates and barrels aboard. The captain, a middle-aged man with a thick beard streaked with gray, stood on the gangplank, barking orders in a language Hosteen vaguely recognized from his ancestors' memories.

Hosteen approached the captain, his demeanor calm and confident. "I seek passage to Braavos," he said.

The captain eyed him warily. "Do you have coin?"

Hosteen met the man's gaze, his expression unreadable. "We've already made arrangements," he said, weaving a Confundus Charm into his words.

The captain hesitated, his brow furrowing. Then he nodded slowly. "Aye, I suppose we have. You'll have a berth below deck."

Hosteen inclined his head in thanks and stepped aboard.

That night, Hosteen lay in the narrow cot assigned to him in the cramped quarters below deck. The ship rocked gently with the tide, and the muffled voices of the crew drifted down from above. Sleep came slowly, his mind buzzing with thoughts of what lay ahead.

The journey to Braavos would be the first step in a greater plan—a plan to reclaim his family's legacy and restore the glory of the Riverlands. But the path was fraught with uncertainty, and Hosteen knew he would need every ounce of his cunning and strength to succeed.

The following morning, The Silver Star set sail. Hosteen stood at the stern, watching as Maidenpool receded into the distance. The town's walls and rooftops became a blur on the horizon, eventually disappearing altogether.

As the ship cut through the waves, Hosteen's thoughts turned to the stories of old. Maidenpool had once been part of the lands ruled by House Fisher, petty kings of the Riverlands in the days before House Mudd. The Fishers had ruled from the Misty Isle, a place shrouded in legend. Some said it was the Isle of Faces, a mysterious place tied to the Children of the Forest. Others believed it was a small isle at the mouth of the Trident, now lost to time.

Hosteen's ancestors had ended the reign of House Fisher, uniting the Riverlands under the banner of House Mudd. Yet even in their greatness, they had been undone, their legacy reduced to ruins and whispers.

Turning away from the horizon, Hosteen felt the weight of his purpose settle on his shoulders. He would not let his ancestors be forgotten.