A tale of Love and Magic
2nd moon, 281 AC.
The great hall of Oldstones had never seen such splendor, not in the days of the ancient kings, nor in the faded tales that lingered in song and ruin. The chandeliers overhead were wrought of glass and bronze, casting soft, flickering light over the long tables below. The hall itself had been raised with the bones of the old, but its heart was new—pillars of stone, polished and carved with runes of protection and strength, overlooked every guest, while the banners of a dozen great houses hung high from rafter and arch: Blackwood and Mallister, Charlton and Stark, Piper, Vance, Reed, Flint, and more.
It was a sight to behold. Even the doubters—those who had come wary, or curious, or resentful—could scarce deny it now: House Mudd had returned not as a whisper in the crypts, but as a roaring force of gold, stone, and sacred fire.
At the high table, Hosteen Mudd sat upon a throne of stone, carved in likeness of the kings who came before him. The arms were wrought with wolves and stags, harts and bears, and in its back—the part no guest could see but which the lord himself could feel pressing against him like memory—was the scene of Tristifer IV, hammer raised high, surrounded by the fallen banners of seven Andal kings. It was a seat made not for comfort, but for presence. His bride sat beside him, draped in the cloak he had given her, dark with the crowned sigil of House Mudd: a golden crown rimmed with emeralds, set upon a field of muddy red-brown.
But before meat and mead could fill bellies, the guests came forward, one by one, bearing gifts for the new Lord and Lady of Oldstones.
Lord Jason Mallister was the first. Proud and broad-shouldered, with silver streaks in his auburn hair, he bowed low before the high table and declared, "May the seas ever serve you well, my lord, and may your keel find safe passage on every tide." His gift was a longship, built by the finest shipwrights in Seaguard, destined to be the first of the Mudd fleet once Hook Bay's western port was complete. Its sails bore no sigil yet—Hosteen would choose that himself.
Lord Tytos Blackwood followed, dark of hair and solemn of speech. He bore two bows of carved weirwood, etched with symbols of the Old Gods and strung with sinew dyed deep red. "For my sister," he said, and then, turning to Hosteen, "and for the man she has chosen. May your shots fly true, in peace and in war." There were few in Westeros who could work weirwood so finely; only the North, and perhaps Raventree Hall itself, had craftsmen capable of such reverence.
From the Twins came Lord Maynard Charlton with casks of Dornish wine and a chest of silk from the southern deserts—deep crimsons, sea-greens, and golden threads. "Not every treasure must be made of steel," he said with a laugh.
Lord Yohn Royce brought bronze armor, finely fitted and etched with runes older than Valyria, ancient protections whispered from the days when the First Men walked alone. Some murmured it was an extravagant gift, more fit for a king than a lord, but others said it was gratitude. Trade had come to Runeport in waves since the rise of Riverpeak. Lord Royce had not forgotten. Afterall the Royce's didn't say "We remember" as a joke.
Young Lord Howland Reed gave cloaks made from lizard-lion hide, supple and strong, dyed in green and gray. "They turn blades better than one might think," he said in his soft voice, "and wear light on water and wood."
Lord Rickard Flint brought seeds and cuttings—strange, hardy plants from the far northern fingers, gifted in hope they might take root in the southern soil of the Riverlands godswood.
Raymon Mooton gave gold, and Clement Piper brought barrels of wine, while Lymond Darry's gift was a tapestry woven in Braavos, showing the old kings of the Trident under a weirwood in red-leafed bloom.
Then came Lord Lucas Vance. He stepped forward without pomp, bearing a long, cloth-wrapped object in both hands. "This," he said slowly, "was forged six thousand years ago and taken in war when the Andals crossed the sea. It passed to my house in the days of conquest and blood. Yet now…" He paused, eyes sweeping the room, "...now the blood is washed clean, and the kings of the Trident rise again in name and honor. It is only right this returns to you."
When Hosteen unwrapped the cloth, silence fell. Before him lay a warhammer—its head blacked bronze covered in runes, its haft of dark ash, its pommel carved with a crowned trident and leaves. It was the hammer of Tristifer IV, the same weapon carved into his throne. Not a replica. The one.
Even Lord Rickard Stark, stoic as old ice, murmured something low beneath his breath.
Other gifts followed. Rickard Stark presented a haul of ironwood from the North, a gift not only from himself but also from Houses Glover and Forrester, whose forests supplied the hard, dark timber. "For shields, for halls, for ships," Lord Stark said.
From Riverrun, Brynden Tully presented a scroll bearing the seal of his elder brother Hoster: for five years, taxes owed by House Mudd to the Tullys would be halved, in recognition of their growing place in the realm.
Lord Wyman Manderly, stout and florid, sent a promise of lower tariffs for trade through White Harbor. "So long as the fish flow south," he wrote in a cheerful hand, "may the coin flow north."
The merriment within the great hall of Oldstones did not dim after the gifts were laid bare—in truth, it only grew more vibrant, as if the very stones themselves hungered for joy after so many centuries of silence and ruin. Flames danced in the braziers and hearths, flickering gold upon the carved walls and the long rows of polished oak tables. The chandeliers overhead cast light like stars on the gleaming goblets below, and everywhere, the air was thick with the warmth of food, the scent of spice and smoke, and the sound of laughter carried on song.
Before the first trenchers were carved and wine poured, Hosteen rose from his seat at the high table, and the hall quieted. His eyes swept across the gathered nobility—lords of hill and marsh, river and rock, north and east—and at last came to rest upon Alysanne, seated beside him in the black-draped finery of House Mudd. The emeralds on her cloak shimmered like wet leaves in the forest, and her face, though composed, bore the faintest flush of joy.
"In ancient days," Hosteen said, his voice steady and clear, "the queens and ladys of House Mudd wore jewels shaped by the river, born of the earth, green as the summer grove. In those days, they walked these halls as stewards of a land not yet broken by steel."
He reached into a small box of dark weirwood, and from it withdrew a pair of earrings, delicate yet proud, set with glimmering emeralds. The design was unmistakably First Men in craft: simple, strong lines curling into the shape of river reeds and crowned branches.
"I offer these," he said, "not as tribute, but as truth. Alysanne of House Blackwood, now Lady Mudd, you are the first to wear them in many lifetimes. May they mark not only your grace, but the rebirth of all that was once lost."
The applause was sincere, if subdued—no riotous cheering, only the murmuring approval of lords who knew the weight of such a gesture. House Mudd had risen again, yes—but now it had taken a queen.
The feast that followed was a marvel of both northern heartiness and Riverlander bounty. Whole trout were served with honeyed almonds and sage, their skin crisped over open flame. Venison, marinated in blackberry wine and slow-roasted with wild onions, was carved onto thick rounds of blackbread still warm from the ovens. There was roast boar stuffed with apples and garlic, pheasant glazed in lemon and mint, and a stew of beans, barley, and smoked eel that Howland Reed praised as "almost like home."
Cheeses from Seagard, breads from Maidenpool, spiced sausage from Pinkmaiden, and even rich Arbor wines—white and gold and deep summer red—flowed freely. Barrels of ale brewed in Riverpeak were cracked open for the first time, and the frothy foam was toasted as "the pride of the Muddlands," much to the amusement of Lord Piper, who claimed he'd trademark the name.
Music soon rose from the corners of the hall, played by minstrels dressed in black and green. Old songs were sung—ballads of the Trident's kings, of three brave prices that sought out help but never returned vanished from the face of the earth but not forgotten, and of Tristifer IV, whose hammer broke more crowns than oaths. The singers made room too for merrier tunes: drinking songs, love songs, and the ever-popular "The Fishwife's Fancy," which had Lord Royce red-faced with laughter.
Toasts rose like pillars of smoke. Lord Charlton praised unity and trade, his cup raised high for "the bridge between North and South, old and new." Jason Mallister toasted the Old Gods and the sea, "for both had guided this house to strength once more." Young Patrek tried to toast the trout, to general delight, while Lord Wyman Manderly lifted his cup and declared, "This wine is Arbor gold—but I wager Riverpeak ale will challenge it one day."
Even some of the minor lords from the Vale and Crownlands leaned forward in quiet conversation, whispering to each other between courses. There was talk of trade routes, of river access and marriage alliances, of new roads and lowered tariffs.
And in the midst of it all, Hosteen and Alysanne sat together—not simply as man and wife, but as something older, more enduring. Their union was a signal, a joining not just of house and house, but of story and future. Where once ruin had ruled, life now held court.
A few hours later, beneath the waning moon, while the lords of the Riverlands reveled deep into the night—voices hoarse from song, bellies heavy with venison and sweet Arbor wine—Lord Hosteen and Lady Alysanne were nowhere to be found.
Few noticed their absence. The high table remained adorned with flagons and half-eaten platters, the carved stone thrones vacant save for cloaks draped over them in careless mimicry. A few called out for the bedding, in jest more than earnest, but no one pressed the matter. It was as if some unseen hand had drawn their eyes elsewhere, had gently turned their thoughts from the newlyweds' absence and lulled them into forgetting.
And so, unnoticed, Hosteen and Alysanne walked alone atop the high battlements of Oldstones, hand in hand beneath a sky littered with stars. The stones beneath their bare feet were smooth with age and cool with dew. The wind carried the scent of pine, damp earth, and the far-off salt of the western sea.
Below them, the town of Riverpeak glittered in the night. Lanterns swayed like fireflies along the riverside, and the songs of drunken carousers drifted faintly from the great hall. The lights stretched on for miles now, far beyond what the ruins had once held. A dead place made new.
Alysanne looked over the lands—hers now, by name and bond—and her chest swelled with something that felt like pride, and fear, and wonder all braided together. "It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It is," Hosteen said, his voice quiet, but not absentminded. "Do you know the tale of the boy who was born twice?"
Alysanne blinked, amused. "A riddle?"
"No." He looked out across the horizon. "A story."
She waited, and he began.
"There was once a boy, born in a land touched by magic, though he did not know it at first. He had strength beyond others, though he did not seek it. He walked among the ordinary, but he was not of them—not truly. His life was full of sorrow, pain... but meaning, too. When he died, he was not judged as men are judged."
The wind whispered through the old stone arches.
"He was shown the truth—that his soul had wandered far from home. That he was descended from kings who ruled a land unlike any he'd known. A bloodline of greatness, long buried, lost to the dust. The gods—or something older—gave him a choice: remain beyond, or return. Reborn."
She said nothing, but her hand found his.
"He brought what he could back with him," Hosteen continued. "The strength he'd gained, the gold and knowledge he'd hoarded. Even the memories. And the magic. He was born again in the land of his ancestors, not as a child but as a man with all his former self intact... and something more."
Alysanne laughed softly. "You tell it well. A fine tale, though far-fetched."
Hosteen didn't reply.
And then he lifted his hand.
Not a word was spoken. Not a gesture made. He simply opened his palm toward the night sky.
And from the stones at their feet, leaves stirred. They rose—not tossed by wind, not caught by breeze, but lifted as if by unseen strings. They hovered, spinning slowly in the moonlight. A dozen of them, golden and red and brown. They swirled around her head in gentle loops, then passed before her eyes, silent and suspended. She could see each vein on their surface, every notch and tear.
"Hosteen…" she said, her voice low. "What… what is this?"
The leaves moved still, perfectly controlled, like dancers in a courtly waltz. They circled her once, twice, then came to rest again, gently settling back upon the stone.
She turned to him slowly, her face pale and full of wonder.
"It's not a story, is it?" she asked.
He met her gaze.
"No," he said. "Not for me."
Alysanne looked away, toward the heart of the godswood in the distance, dark and dreaming. "Then… the boy…"
"He walks here now," he said.
For a moment, silence hung between them like a curtain. Then she reached out, brushing her fingers over the place where the leaves had danced.
"I knew you were strange," she murmured. "But not this strange."
He laughed, and in it there was something soft and tired, like the voice of a man who had borne much and told little. "There is more," he said. "But not all at once. Tonight, I wanted you to know."
She turned to him again, studying his face with new eyes. "And you thought I would run?"
"I thought you might never look at me the same way."
"I won't," she said. "But that isn't a bad thing."
They stood close together, fingers entwined, beneath the stars and the sighing wind. Below them, Riverpeak glittered with firelight and life. The castle walls, once broken and worn by time, now gleamed with new stone and quiet power.
Alysanne leaned her head against his shoulder.
"And the boy," she whispered, "what did he do in this new life?"
"He built," Hosteen said. "He remembered. He reclaimed. And he loved."
And beneath their feet, Oldstones stood silent and strong.
It had waited a long time for its king to return.