Chapter 37

The Truth

2nd moon, 279 AC.

The road to Seaguard was well-trodden but damp with the remnants of an early autumn rain. The sky above stretched gray and heavy, the sea wind carrying the scent of salt and wet earth. Hosteen Mudd rode at the head of his retinue, his dark cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders against the chill. Jason Mallister rode beside him, his Seagard men in a disciplined column behind them.

Seaguard rose in the distance, a grim sentinel against the shore, its massive stone walls standing firm against both tide and time. The tower, crowned with the carved wings of a great seabird, loomed over the waves, a monument to the Mallisters' long-standing dominion over these lands. The keep itself was a fortress first and foremost, a stark contrast to the still-rebuilding Hammerford. Hosteen found himself comparing the two—where Hammerford was rising from the past, Seaguard had never fallen.

They rode through the open gates, past the banners bearing the silver eagle of House Mallister. The people in the courtyard went about their business with quiet efficiency, only pausing to bow as Jason passed. Hosteen took in the sight of the garrison drilling in formation, the scent of fish and brine mixing with the sharper tang of forge-fire. Seaguard was as much a naval stronghold as it was a fortress, its heart beating to the rhythm of both war and trade.

Jason dismounted and handed the reins to a stablehand before turning to Hosteen. "A few days yet before Charlton arrives," he said. "Plenty of time to make our own preparations."

Hosteen nodded, shaking the stiffness from his limbs as they ascended the stone steps into the keep. The halls of Seaguard were adorned with banners and trophies from past victories—shields of fallen foes, rusted swords taken from defeated raiders. The air here was thick with history, the weight of generations pressing down on the present.

In the great hall, Jason's steward approached and bowed. "My lord, shall I have chambers prepared for Lord Mudd and his men?"

"See to it," Jason replied. He turned back to Hosteen once the steward departed. "And tell me, Mudd—what exactly do you hope to gain from Charlton?"

Hosteen exhaled, glancing toward the high windows where the sea stretched beyond the walls. "Truth," he said simply. "And leverage and maybe an ally in the future."

Jason studied him. "Charlton is not a man given to loyalty, only to advantage. You're treading into dangerous waters."

"I know." Hosteen's voice was calm. "But I also know that Charlton has reason to be wary of Frey. I mean to see how deep that wariness runs."

Jason tapped his fingers against the edge of the nearest table, his expression thoughtful. "I've already set the story in motion—I've told my maester that Charlton is coming to discuss a loan for grain from the Reach. A poor harvest, simple enough."

Hosteen nodded. "Good. The maesters do not need to know more than that."

Jason arched an eyebrow, folding his arms. "You truly distrust them that much?"

Hosteen met his gaze, his face unreadable. "Who would make a better spy than a man who sits in every major castle, handling every letter sent by lords and kings?"

Jason frowned. "They are meant to be neutral."

Hosteen let out a quiet breath, glancing toward the upper levels of the keep where the maester's chambers lay. "So they say."

Jason studied him for a long moment. "You think my maester is passing word to Frey?"

"I think it would be unwise to dismiss the possibility," Hosteen said carefully. "Seaguard is a powerful seat, if they can pass word to the citadel whenever they wish why couldn't they do the same to a rival lord and Walder Frey is not the kind of man to ignore powerful seats—especially those not under his control."

Jason exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Seven hells... If Frey has eyes here, then he might learn of our meeting with Charlton before it even happens." His gaze flickered toward the high windows, thoughtful. "But here's the question: if the maester is indeed a spy, why would he report on something as simple as a grain loan?"

"He wouldn't," Hosteen said. "That's the point."

Jason narrowed his eyes. "You think Frey will dismiss Charlton's visit as just that?"

"He may," Hosteen allowed. "Or at the very least, he won't think much of it. But if Charlton were traveling to the Hammerford, that would be harder to explain away."

Jason let out a slow breath. "So that's why we meet him here." He shook his head. "You're clever, Mudd. But this is dangerous."

"Most truths are," Hosteen said simply.

Jason sighed, straightening. "Very well. We wait, then. When Charlton arrives, we will see where his true allegiance lies."

Hosteen nodded, but as Jason turned away, his thoughts lingered. A Frey bastard sitting as the maester of Seaguard—perhaps it was mere chance, but Hosteen did not believe in chance. Not in this. Not when his own maester was due to arrive at the Hammerford within the next moon. One Frey-trained maester could be overlooked. Two, placed in key Riverlands seats? That would be a coincidence he could not ignore.

Four days after Hosteen had arrived, Seaguard stirred with the arrival of Lord Maynard Charlton. The sound of hooves echoed off the stone walls as his small retinue rode through the gates—no more than a dozen men, most clad in simple, practical armor rather than ostentatious finery. For a man of his station, it was a modest escort, but perhaps that was the point.

Jason Mallister and his wife, Lady Elyana, stood in the courtyard to receive him, flanked by household guards and a handful of knights. Hosteen Mudd stood a few paces behind them, observing the man as he dismounted. Lord Charlton was in his late fifties, his once-dark hair now streaked with grey, and he carried himself with the weight of a man who had seen too many disappointments. His features were sharp, his mouth drawn in a thin line, and though he offered Jason the proper courtesies, his eyes flicked toward Hosteen with something unreadable.

"My lord," Jason greeted him. "Welcome to Seaguard."

Charlton bowed his head respectfully. "A pleasure, Lord Mallister." His gaze shifted briefly to Elyana, and he gave a deeper nod. "My lady."

She inclined her head in return, offering a polite smile. "Your journey was without trouble, I trust?"

Charlton exhaled through his nose, a hint of amusement crossing his face. "If there was trouble, my men didn't find it." He turned to Jason. "I appreciate your hospitality."

Jason gestured toward the keep. "Come. You must be tired from your travels. Tonight, we feast."

Charlton smiled thinly. "A feast sounds most welcome."

As the group moved inside, Hosteen lingered slightly behind, watching. He had met many men like Maynard Charlton before—lords who hid their true thoughts behind measured words and polite smiles. But there was something different here. A quiet, simmering anger beneath the surface.

Charlton had not come just for pleasantries.

The great hall of Seaguard was alive with warmth and music that evening. Roaring fires cast flickering light over the long tables, where platters of roasted venison, freshly baked bread, and spiced wine filled the air with a hearty aroma. Jason, as host, had ensured the meal was plentiful but not excessive—Seaguard was not a frivolous court, and Charlton was not a man to be impressed by mere displays of wealth.

The lords sat together near the head of the table—Jason at the center, his wife beside him, with Hosteen and Charlton seated nearby. Around them, knights, captains, and trusted men of each house filled the hall, drinking and speaking in quiet tones.

Throughout the meal, Charlton was reserved but polite, answering questions when spoken to, but offering little himself. When the talk drifted toward Frey and the state of the Riverlands, however, a tightness formed around his mouth.

Jason caught the shift in his demeanor. "You do not speak fondly of Lord Walder," he noted.

Charlton huffed, swirling the wine in his cup. "Few men do, unless they are seeking his favor."

Jason smirked. "And are you?"

Charlton's lips curled into something that was almost a smile. "Not in the slightest."

Hosteen watched the exchange in silence, noting the deliberate nature of Charlton's words. This was not a man who spoke idly.

As the evening stretched on, the hall began to empty. One by one, men excused themselves to their chambers, until only a handful remained drinking by the fire. Jason, Charlton, and Hosteen soon did the same, retiring for the night.

Tomorrow, the real conversation would begin.

Morning sunlight streamed through the windows of Jason's solar, casting a golden glow over the chamber. The room overlooked the Bay of Eagles, and from here, one could see the waves rolling toward the cliffs in the distance. It was a commanding view—one that reminded any who stood here why Seaguard had never fallen.

Charlton stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out at the sea. Jason sat at his desk, while Hosteen remained standing, arms crossed. The pleasantries of the night before were gone. This was now a meeting of men who understood the weight of what was to be discussed.

Charlton turned from the window, his face unreadable. "I will not waste time. You know why I am here."

Jason leaned back in his chair. "Enlighten us."

Charlton exhaled sharply. "Lord Walder Frey is a failure." His tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the disgust behind it. "My house has long been subordinate to the Freys. That is not new. But in the past, we could stomach it. Now?" He shook his head. "Now, we are led by a man who breeds like a mongrel and governs like a merchant. He plays at being a great lord, but he is nothing more than a parasite on the Riverlands."

Hosteen watched him carefully. "You confirm that Frey backed the Pemford Pretender?"

Charlton nodded. "He did. He sought to weaken you, Lord Mudd. To make you seem incapable of holding your lands. If you could not protect your people, they would turn against you." He paused. "That much, you likely suspected. What you may not know is that my involvement was forced. I did not fund the bandits, but I was made to provide them with arms."

Jason frowned. "Why?"

"To cover Frey's tracks," Charlton admitted. "He needed a way to distance himself. My house was already in a position of servitude—if anything went wrong, it would be my name, not his, that was whispered in dark halls."

Hosteen narrowed his eyes. "And yet you marked the weapons."

A small, satisfied smile touched Charlton's lips. "Indeed."

Jason's expression darkened. "You wanted us to find them."

Charlton stepped forward, reaching into his coat. "I wanted this meeting to happen." He placed a stack of documents on the table. "These are records. Letters, financial transactions, correspondences—proof of Frey's schemes. Against you, against me, against several other Riverlords." He tapped the top parchment. "But most importantly, against House Tully."

Jason's brow furrowed as he glanced at the papers. "Why bring this to us?"

Charlton's expression hardened. "Because Walder Frey cannot be challenged directly. He has too many children, too many bastards, too many eyes everywhere. If I moved against him alone, I would suffer an unfortunate accident before the ink dried on my first letter." His gaze flickered between the two men. "But together… together, we could bring this to Lord Tully. And once Tully sees the extent of Frey's treachery, we could see him stripped of his position."

Hosteen's expression did not change. "And in return?"

Charlton met his gaze evenly. "House Charlton will not forget who stood beside us. When the time comes, we will pledge our banners to either House Mallister or House Mudd—whichever is in the position to lead."

Silence hung between them.

Finally, Jason let out a slow breath. "We will discuss this."

Charlton nodded. "Of course." He gave them a small, knowing smile. "I will await your answer."

With that, he turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Jason ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "Well." He looked up at Hosteen. "That was unexpected."

Hosteen remained silent, staring at the documents. He had expected deception, half-truths, perhaps even a trap. But instead, he had been handed something far more dangerous.

Truth.

Hosteen Mudd knew it was the truth.

Charlton had spoken without deception, without hesitation, and without the careful evasions of a man trying to weave a lie into something believable. He had told them everything—Frey's schemes, the forced involvement of House Charlton, the proof of Frey's treachery against the Riverlords and House Tully. Every word had been honest, and Hosteen knew it for a fact.

He knew it because he had looked into Charlton's mind.

It had not been a deep read, not the sort that left a man's thoughts stripped bare, but it had been enough. Enough to know that Charlton's hatred for Frey was genuine, that he had longed for a chance to break free from his liege lord's grip. Enough to know that his offer of alliance was not a trap, but an opportunity.

But knowing the truth and proving the truth were two very different things.

Charlton had given them documents, yes, but Lord Walder Frey was not a fool. A man who had spent his life building a dynasty through lies and betrayals would not be undone so easily. The moment these records were brought before House Tully, there would be counterclaims, accusations of forgery, and, most of all, questions about why Hosteen and Jason had believed Charlton so readily.

Jason Mallister was a reasonable man, but he was no fool. If Hosteen told him that he simply "knew" Charlton was telling the truth, Jason would ask how.

And that was the dilemma.

For all his years spent walking the halls of power, Hosteen had never revealed his gift to another lord. Magic was an ancient thing, a relic of the past, a power that men feared more than they respected. The lords of the Riverlands, except the Blackwood's of course, raised under the influence of the Faith of the Seven, had no love for things they did not understand.

But Jason… Jason was different.

Hosteen had brushed against his mind before, not deeply, not forcefully, but just enough to see glimpses of the man beneath the armor. Jason had little patience for the Faith. He had been raised to worship the Seven, but he had seen the corruption of the septons, the greed of the holy men who sold indulgences like merchants at a market stall. He was a skeptic of their righteousness, and that skepticism had left him more open to the idea of the old ways, the whispers of the Weirwoods, the ancient gifts that men once wielded before the Andals came.

It was a risk, but one that had to be taken.

So Hosteen made his choice.

Jason sat at his desk, his hands clasped together, staring at the documents Charlton had left behind. His brow was furrowed, his thoughts turning like stormy waters beneath a calm surface.

Hosteen stood across from him, arms crossed. He had weighed the words in his mind before speaking, but no amount of preparation could soften what he was about to say.

"We have to move carefully," Jason muttered, his eyes still on the papers. "If these records are true, then we have enough to bring Frey low—but we need to be certain."

Hosteen exhaled slowly. "We are certain."

Jason glanced up. "And how, exactly, do you know that?"

A pause. Then, finally, Hosteen said, "Because I can see into the minds of men."

Silence.

Then Jason chuckled. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "That's good," he said, smirking. "I needed that. Gods, after that meeting, I needed a laugh."

"I am not jesting," Hosteen said calmly.

Jason's smirk faltered as he saw the seriousness in Hosteen's face. His amusement faded into something more wary. "You… you're serious."

Hosteen nodded. "I have magic, Jason. I have had it for years. It is not a trick, nor a lie. I can see into the minds of others. I can move things without touching them. I can cast protections over a place to ward against invaders. And I can do more—much more."

Jason stared at him, his lips parted slightly as if about to speak but unsure of what words to use. He blinked, shook his head slightly, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. "You… you expect me to believe that?"

Hosteen sighed. "I expected you to doubt."

He turned his head slightly, glancing at the sword mounted on the wall. With a slow breath, he reached out—not with his hand, but with his will.

The sword lifted from the wall, floating through the air as if held by unseen hands. It hovered there, suspended in the middle of the room, before gently lowering onto Jason's desk.

Jason bolted to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor. "What in the name of—" He stepped back, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt. His breathing quickened, his eyes wide. "That… that is not possible."

Hosteen lifted a hand and waved it in a subtle arc. A calming charm, nothing more. The tension in Jason's shoulders eased, the panic in his face softened, and his grip on his dagger loosened. He did not slump, nor did he become sluggish, but his fear ebbed away, replaced by cautious curiosity.

Jason exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "Seven hells…" He looked back at Hosteen, studying him with an expression that was no longer fearful but deeply, profoundly uncertain. "You're serious."

"Yes," Hosteen said simply.

Jason sat back down slowly, still eyeing the sword on his desk. "And you can read minds?"

"To a degree," Hosteen admitted. "I do not hear every thought a man has, I could, but it is more complicated and requires the person to look me directly into the eyes. But I can glimpse his intentions. His truths. His lies. That is how I know that Charlton spoke honestly."

Jason swallowed. "And me? Have you…?"

Hosteen inclined his head. "Once. Just before this conversation. I needed to know if it was safe to reveal myself."

Jason's jaw clenched, but he did not look enraged—just unsettled. "Does anyone else know?"

"Not yet," Hosteen said. "But in time, perhaps Lord Blackwood. Perhaps Charlton, should it be necessary. But no one else at least not now."

Jason ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "This is… this is a lot to take in."

"I understand," Hosteen said. "And I do not ask you to believe it all at once. But know this—my magic does not give me command over everything. It is not a weapon I can wield in war, if I want to stay hidden. It is a tool. A shield. A means of defending my home, of protecting what is mine."

Jason met his gaze. "So you cannot simply… use it to turn Frey's mind against him?"

Hosteen shook his head. "There is such magic, but it has limits. I cannot bend the will of an entire house simultaneously at least if it is as big as House Frey, nor can I erase the memories of men without consequence, I need the new memories to be believable or at least possible, else the charm cannot take a good hold on the mind and a strong mind overcome it in time." He gestured to the documents. "Which is why this… all of this… must be done carefully."

Jason Mallister sat in silence for a long time. The weight of what he had just learned pressed heavy upon him, as if the air in his solar had thickened. He stared at the documents Charlton had left behind, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere—turning over the revelation that magic still lived in the world, that it existed not in stories or the minds of old crones but in the man sitting before him.

Hosteen Mudd watched him, saying nothing. He had given Jason time to process, knowing that no amount of words would soften the sheer enormity of what had just been revealed. It was not only the existence of magic but also the implications of it—what it meant for the world, for the way Jason saw power, for the very faith he had been raised in.

At last, Jason exhaled. His fingers drummed against the wooden desk before stilling.

"I believe you," he said.

Hosteen inclined his head.

"I cannot ignore what I've seen," Jason continued. "Magic… the Old Gods… I never paid much heed to either, but now—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "I have spent too many years thinking the Seven were no different from the men who claim to speak for them. The septons who preach piety while lining their own pockets. The holy men who turn a blind eye to corruption." His gaze flicked toward the window, where the Bay of Eagles stretched beneath the rising sun. "Perhaps I have been looking in the wrong place all along."

Hosteen did not press the matter. He knew a man's faith was his own, and if Jason Mallister had begun to question what he had once believed, that was a journey he would walk at his own pace.

Instead, he leaned forward. "Then we have an understanding?"

Jason met his gaze. "We do."

A slow nod. Then Jason straightened and called out, "Bring Lord Charlton back in."

A guard outside the door moved swiftly, and moments later, Lord Maynard Charlton strode into the solar, his expression carefully neutral. His sharp eyes flickered between Jason and Hosteen, as if searching for any sign of discord.

"Well?" Charlton asked. "Have you come to a decision?"

Jason leaned back in his chair, folding his hands before him. "We have." He exchanged a glance with Hosteen before turning back to Charlton. "We will accept your proposal."

Charlton exhaled, a glimmer of relief breaking through his composed exterior.

"But," Jason continued, "this must be done carefully. If Frey catches even the scent of this, he will twist the truth before we can deliver it."

Charlton nodded. "That is why I came to you both. We cannot strike at Frey with open force, not yet, but these documents…" He placed a hand on the stack of papers he had provided earlier. "With these, we can prove his treachery. If we bring them to Lord Tully, there may be a path forward—one that ends with Frey's removal."

Hosteen crossed his arms. "Then we must deliver them ourselves."

Charlton arched an eyebrow. "Yourselves?"

Jason nodded. "We cannot entrust this to a raven. Nor to messengers who could be waylaid." His jaw tightened. "Too many things go missing when Frey's interests are at stake."

Charlton considered for a moment, then smiled. "A bold choice."

"A necessary one," Hosteen corrected.

Charlton took a step forward, his expression turning grave. "Then you should leave soon. The longer we wait, the more time Frey has to cover his tracks."

Jason exhaled. "Agreed."

Charlton extended his hand.

Jason glanced at it, then clasped his wrist firmly. "We will see this through, Lord Charlton."

Charlton smirked. "Let's hope we live to see the other side of it."

Hosteen watched the exchange in silence, feeling something shift.