Chapter 14

Forging Bonds and Building Foundations

The days following Hosteen's ascension as the new lord of Hammerford were a blur of activity and decision-making. Each dawn brought a cascade of responsibilities, but Hosteen embraced the challenge, knowing that his success—or failure—would determine the future of his house and his lands.

One of his first acts was appointing Adden as his castellan. The man had proven his loyalty and competence time and again, and his deep knowledge of the local people and customs was invaluable. The burden of managing both the castle and the surrounding lands was immense, and Hosteen knew he could not shoulder it alone. Adden, with his steady demeanor and practical wisdom, was the perfect choice.

"Adden," Hosteen had said during the meeting where he officially granted the title, "you are to act with my authority in all matters of governance. If there is anything urgent, bring it to me, but otherwise, I trust your judgment."

Adden had bowed deeply, a rare display of formality. "Thank you, my lord. I will serve faithfully, as I always have."

With the administrative weight lightened, Hosteen turned his attention to the castle garrison. Early each morning, he joined the soldiers in the training yard, his presence drawing a mix of curiosity and respect.

At first, the men had been cautious around him, unsure of what to make of their new lord. Most were holdovers from Pemford's rule, wary of change, while a few others were newly appointed by House Mallister to bolster security. Hosteen understood their hesitance; he was an unknown quantity to them, just as they were to him.

To break the ice, Hosteen stepped onto the sparring sands himself. Dressed in plain leather armor and wielding a simple longsword, he challenged any soldier willing to face him.

"Come on, then," he had said with a wry grin during his first bout. "Show me what you've got. Don't worry about hurting me; I'm sturdier than I look."

The first few matches had been hesitant, with the soldiers holding back out of deference. But when Hosteen disarmed one of the more confident young men with a quick parry and riposte, the tone shifted. They began to take the matches more seriously, and the sparring became a true test of skill.

Over the next several days, Hosteen learned much about the garrison. Some soldiers were seasoned fighters, their movements precise and disciplined, while others were raw recruits, still learning the basics of combat. Hosteen made mental notes of those with potential, intending to develop their talents further.

But the most valuable aspect of these sessions was not the improvement in martial skill—it was the camaraderie they fostered. By training alongside his men, sweating and bleeding with them, Hosteen earned their respect and, slowly, their friendship. They began to see him not just as their lord but as one of their own, a leader willing to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with them.

When not in the yard or addressing immediate issues, Hosteen spent hours in his solar, poring over documents detailing the lands under his control. These records were as much a revelation as they were a source of frustration.

The domain of Hammerford was fertile and well-populated, but it lacked the natural resources that could elevate it to true prosperity, or at least no one had looked for them. The only active mine was an iron mine, discovered centuries ago not by a lord of the land but by an ironborn invader. That single mine had sustained the local economy for generations, but it was clear that much of its potential had been squandered under Pemford's rule.

Hosteen's fingers tapped rhythmically on the edge of his desk as he studied the ledgers. There was no mention of systematic surveys for other resources—no search for gold, silver, or other valuable minerals. Even timberlands, which could have supported a thriving trade, were underutilized.

"Short-sighted fools," Hosteen muttered under his breath. He couldn't help but wonder how much wealth and opportunity had been left untapped, simply because no one had bothered to look.

Determined to rectify this, Hosteen began drafting a plan for a thorough survey of his lands. He would hire skilled prospectors and foresters to search for hidden resources, ensuring that nothing of value went unnoticed. It would be a costly and time-consuming endeavor, but Hosteen saw it as an investment in the future.

By the end of the week, Hammerford was beginning to feel less like a foreign castle and more like Hosteen's domain. The wards he had placed provided a sense of security, and the changes he implemented—both large and small—were starting to take root.

The people of Hammerford and its surrounding lands were still wary, but Hosteen could see signs of hope in their eyes. They were beginning to believe that he was different from Pemford, that he could be a lord who cared for their welfare and fought for their interests.

Sitting by the hearth in his solar one evening, Hosteen allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. He thought of his ancestors, of the proud lords and Kings of House Mudd who had ruled the Riverlands in ages past. Their legacy was a heavy burden, but it was also a source of strength.

Lord Brynden Blackwood sat in the high-backed chair of his solar, the aged oak creaking faintly beneath his weight. In his hand, he held a letter—carefully penned, sealed with a sigil he had not seen in his lifetime but had heard spoken of in reverence and awe. The letter bore the name Hosteen Mudd, and its contents were as unexpected as they were intriguing.

Brynden's dark eyes scanned the parchment again, his lips pressing into a thoughtful line. The new Lord of Hammerford had made two requests. The first was for a sapling from Raventree Hall's great weirwood, the heart of Blackwood lands and history. The second, though cloaked in diplomatic language, was an overture for an alliance—one that harkened back to the days when House Mudd and House Blackwood had stood together as bulwarks against the encroaching Andals.

The letter felt heavy in his hand, though it weighed less than a feather. Brynden set it down gently, smoothing the edges with his fingers.

"House Mudd," he murmured to himself, his voice a blend of curiosity and respect. It was a name that carried the weight of legend, a name he had grown up hearing in tales told by firelight. His grandfather's voice came back to him as if the old man were sitting beside him now.

"There was once a king, Tristifer IV, the Hammer of Justice," his grandfather had said, his eyes alight with the memory of a tale well-worn but no less powerful for its repetition. "It took seven Andal lords to bring him down, and even then, his sons held Oldstones so fiercely that the Andals called upon the Vale for aid. That was a dynasty of warriors, of strength, and of justice."

Brynden leaned back in his chair, staring at the high-beamed ceiling of the solar. Those tales were more than just stories to him—they were warnings and lessons, chronicles of what it meant to rule in the Riverlands. The Blackwoods had been allies and vassals of House Mudd in those ancient days, and it was Tristifer IV himself who had foreseen the need for House Blackwood to adapt when the Andals came. That alliance, forged in blood and hardship, had once been a cornerstone of their shared history.

Brynden rose from his chair and moved to the window, gazing out over the lands of Raventree Hall. The gnarled and ancient weirwood tree dominated the view, its bare trunk and stony surface echoing the loss of power of the first man and old gods in the Riverlands.

The tree was more than a symbol; it was a testament to the resilience of his house. While other noble families in the Riverlands had forsaken the old gods, the Blackwoods had held fast to their faith. Brynden had always believed it was part of what made his house strong—rooted, steadfast, unyielding in the face of change.

The idea of sending a sapling from that sacred tree to Hammerford was not one he took lightly, even when the tree was nearly dead it still held meaning. Such a gift was not merely a token of goodwill; it was a bond, a recognition of shared history and purpose. If he sent the sapling, it would signify that House Blackwood saw something in House Mudd's resurgence worth nurturing.

But was Hosteen Mudd worthy of that honor?

The question gnawed at Brynden's mind. The letter painted the picture of a man determined to restore his house, a man who understood the value of alliances and the importance of legacy. But words on parchment were easy to craft. The true measure of a man lay in his deeds.

Brynden turned from the window and pulled the bell cord, summoning his brother, Lucas, and his steward, Maester Roderick. If he was to decide the fate of this sapling and the potential alliance it represented, he would need their counsel.

Lucas arrived first, his lean frame and sharp features betraying his restless energy. He carried a bow slung over his shoulder, his hands calloused from years of archery practice.

"You rang, brother?" Lucas asked with a smirk, though his tone was respectful.

Brynden gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Sit. We have something to discuss."

Before Lucas could reply, Maester Roderick shuffled in, the weight of his chain clinking softly with each step. He was an older man, his white hair cropped short and his eyes sharp with intelligence.

"Lord Brynden," the maester greeted with a small bow. "You called for me?"

"I did," Brynden said, motioning for both men to take seats. "I've received a letter from Hosteen Mudd, the new Lord of Hammerford. He has requested a sapling from our weirwood and proposed an alliance."

Lucas's eyebrows shot up. "A Mudd? I thought their line was gone."

"So did I," Brynden admitted. "But it seems the stories of their demise were exaggerated. He claims to have been installed as a vassal of Lord Mallister, and he has taken steps to rebuild his house's legacy."

"Interesting," Roderick murmured, stroking his chin. "And what is your initial impression of this Lord Mudd?"

Brynden tapped the letter on the desk. "Ambitious, certainly. But ambition alone is not enough. He writes well, and his proposal shows an understanding of history and politics. Still, I need to know more before I can commit to anything."

Lucas leaned forward, his expression skeptical. "If he's a vassal of Mallister, what does he want from us? Isn't that allegiance enough for him?"

"Perhaps," Brynden said. "But he may see the benefit of multiple alliances. Or perhaps he values the history our houses share. The question is whether we see the benefit of allying with him."

Maester Roderick adjusted his chain, his brow furrowed in thought. "A sapling from your weirwood is no small thing. It would signify not just an alliance but a kinship, a shared bond of faith and purpose. If he truly means to restore House Mudd, this could be a powerful statement of support."

"And if he fails?" Lucas countered. "If we tie ourselves to him and he brings ruin to his house again, we'll be tarnished by association."

Brynden nodded. "That's the risk. But consider the reward. If he succeeds, and if we are seen as the first to recognize his potential, we could gain a valuable ally in the Riverlands. An ally with ties to House Mallister, no less."

The room fell silent as the three men considered the possibilities.

After a long pause, Brynden rose from his chair, his decision made.

"We will honor his request," he said firmly. "But with conditions. I will send him a letter outlining the history of our weirwood, its poisoning and its significance. He must understand the weight of what he is wants.

"Additionally, I will invite him to Raventree Hall. If he is sincere in his intentions, let him prove it here, before me and my court."

Lucas nodded, though his expression remained cautious. "A fair compromise."

Maester Roderick inclined his head. "Wise, my lord. This will show that we value tradition and potential while safeguarding our own interests."

Brynden moved to the desk, pulling out fresh parchment. As he began to draft the letter, he felt a sense of purpose. The Riverlands had always been a place of shifting loyalties and ancient grudges, but perhaps, in this alliance, there was a chance to restore some measure of stability and honor.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the name of Mudd would once again echo proudly through the halls of the Riverlands.

So he wrote:

To Lord Hosteen Mudd, Lord of Oldstones,

I trust this letter finds you in good health and with a steady resolve as you embark upon the restoration of your ancient and storied house. It was with great interest that I received your correspondence, for the name of Mudd stirs memories of times long past—times when our houses stood as allies, united in the defense of the Riverlands against the tides of change.

Your request for a sapling from the weirwood at Raventree Hall is not one I take lightly. The weirwood is the heart of our lands, the living symbol of our faith and our connection to the old gods. To gift a sapling from it is to extend not only trust but a profound bond of shared heritage and belief.

However, there is something you must understand before such a gift can be bestowed. Our great weirwood was poisoned long ago, during the days of the Andal invasion, by enemies who sought to sever us from our gods and our strength. Though the tree still stands, ancient and mighty, its vitality has never fully recovered. Any sapling taken from it carries the shadow of that ancient wound. I cannot guarantee that such a sapling will grow, even in the most fertile and well-tended soil.

This uncertainty, however, does not diminish the significance of the gift. If we are to entrust you with such a sacred offering, it must be with the assurance that you will treat it with the reverence it deserves. The weirwood is not merely a tree; it is a living connection to our history, our faith, and our ancestors. To mistreat it would be an affront not only to my house but to the old gods themselves.

In addition to this matter, I would hear more of your plans for the restoration of House Mudd and your vision for the future. To that end, I extend to you an invitation to Raventree Hall. Come as my guest in two moons time, and we shall discuss your proposal and the terms of a potential alliance.

It has been many generations since a Mudd walked these lands as a peer among the great houses of the Riverlands. Perhaps, in you, the strength and justice of your forebears might find new life.

I look forward to your reply and to the possibility of meeting you in person.

May the old gods watch over you.

Lord Brynden Blackwood

Lord of Raventree Hall,