Chapter 1: The King Is Dead
In the heart of the Riverlands, where the waters of the Trident kissed the earth with a gentle caress, there was a boy named Arthur. He had grown tall and strong, much like the ancient oaks that whispered secrets in the winds of his homelands. His eyes, as blue as the distant mountains of his mother's tales, held a spark of curiosity that often led him into trouble. Arthur was fifteen, a lad on the cusp of manhood, with a destiny as murky as the waters of the Green Fork that snaked through the lands he knew.
His journey to Muddy Hall was fraught with excitement and trepidation. The call to arms had echoed through the lands, a solemn chant that could not be ignored. King Tristifer IV Mudd, his father in blood but not in name, had summoned an array of bannermen to bolster his ranks against the invading Andals. Their ships had arrived with the dawn, a flotilla of dragon-prowed monstrosities that marred the tranquil horizon. The air was thick with the scent of iron and the promise of war.
Arthur's heart hammered in his chest as he approached the imposing wooden keep, its towers stained by time and rain. The cobblestone path was lined with banners fluttering in the breeze, each one a declaration of loyalty to the Mudd Dynasty. Men-at-arms in gleaming armor and foot soldiers in patchwork leathers mingled with the squires and archers that had answered the call. The sounds of clanging bronze and the snorts of restless horses filled the air, punctuated by the occasional bark of a command. The Mudd colors - brown and gold - were a stark contrast to the shimmering bronze and the verdant fields beyond.
As Arthur dismounted, the castle's gates groaned open, revealing the bustling bailey within. Retainers and lords milled about, discussing strategies and troop movements with furrowed brows and solemn tones. The boy felt a sudden weight upon his shoulders, heavier than the chainmail vest he wore for the first time. This was not a place for a child's games, but the stage for a grim dance that would shape the fate of the realm. His half-brother, Prince Tristifer, stood at the center, his blond hair shining in the sun as he listened to a grizzled soldier recounting the Andals' movements.
The prince's gaze fell upon Arthur, a look that was both welcoming and appraising. "Brother," he called out, his voice carrying the nascent power of a future king. Arthur approached, his boots echoing in the enclosed space. "Father wishes to see you. He's in the solar with the other lords."
Tristifer's hand clasped his forearm firmly, the gesture a silent affirmation of their brotherhood. They moved through the throng, passing under the arched entrance into the keep's interior, where the air was thick with the scent of beeswax candles and the murmur of men planning for battle. The solar was a chamber of rich tapestries and heavy oak, the light from the windows casting a warm glow upon the faces of the men gathered around the map-laden table.
King Tristifer IV looked up as they entered, his gaze sharp despite the weight of years etched into the lines of his face. "Ah, Arthur," he said, his voice deep and measured, "you've come to stand with your kin." The king's eyes searched his son's, a mix of pride and concern. The room fell silent as Arthur stepped forward, feeling the gravity of the moment.
The map laid before them was a tapestry of rivers and lands, a testament to the tumultuous history of the Riverlands. The Andal invasion had painted a crimson path across the green and brown threads of the region. The seven Andal kings had united under a banner of conquest, their names as fierce as their reputations: Armistead Vance, the Knight of the Three Towers and lord of Wayfarer's Rest, Edgar Storm, the Ironfoot, Harrolt Whitehill, the Dark-Hearted, and others whose names struck fear in the hearts of the native First Men. Their forces amassed like a dark tide threatening to engulf the Mudd Dynasty.
Around the table, lords spoke in hushed tones, their faces a canvas of worry and determination. Arthur's eyes scanned the unfamiliar faces, searching for any sign of the valor and wisdom that could stand against the invaders. His heart swelled with the desire to prove himself, to show that his Andal blood was not a weakness but a source of strength. His hand rested on the pommel of the sword of his Grandsire, from his mother's side. It was a sword made of steel, a rare sight in the armies of the First Men, who still carried bronze and in rare cases iron to battle.
The king's hand fell upon his shoulder, and Arthur felt the weight of his lineage and destiny. "My son," King Tristifer said, his eyes shining with a mix of pride and sorrow, "you stand before me a man, ready to fight for your homeland." The room grew quiet as the words hung in the air, each man present understanding the gravity of the moment. Arthur nodded, his voice steady. "I am ready, Father."
The strategy meeting was long and fraught with tension, the air thick with the scent of ale and sweat. The lords debated fervently, each offering their own insights into the minds of the Andal invaders. Arthur listened closely, his mind racing with questions and theories. He noticed that some of the men cast sideways glances at him, a mix of curiosity and skepticism. They knew he was the bastard son, born of an abominable union.
Lord Edmure Tully spoke first, his voice carrying the wisdom of the ancients. "We must fortify the fords and crossings along the Trident," he suggested, his finger tracing the waterways on the map. "Their strength lies in their numbers, but we can turn the rivers into barriers that slow their advance."
Lord Blackwood, a man with eyes as dark as the bark of the weirwood trees, interjected with a firm tone. "The harvest approaches, my king," he said, his hand cutting through the air with urgency. "If we linger too long, we risk our lands starving come winter." The room grew tense, the clinking of goblets and the crackling of the hearth fire seeming to echo louder in the sudden silence.
The lords murmured in agreement, their eyes flicking to the windows where the day's light was beginning to wane. The reality of their situation settled in the pit of Arthur's stomach. The Riverlands had seen war before, but never had they faced such a formidable foe.
Lord Blackwood's proposal was a stark contrast to Lord Tully's methodical approach. "We must strike swiftly, like the river currents," he said, his eyes alight with urgency. "The Andals are bold, but they are not without vulnerabilities. If we harry them, cut off their supplies, and hit them where they least expect it, we can turn their numbers against them."
The room grew still as the lords considered the gravity of his words. The harvest was indeed upon them, and the thought of their people starving was a specter that haunted every decision. The need for swift action was undeniable. Yet, the thought of charging into battle with an untested strategy against such a powerful enemy was as daunting as facing the wrath of the gods themselves.
It was then that Lord Mallister of Seagard, a man known for his cunning and valor, spoke up. His eyes were the color of the sea during a storm, and his words carried the weight of the waves that crashed against his own lands. "Your Grace," he began, "perhaps there is another path we may consider." The room quieted once more as all eyes fell upon him. "We could send forth a smaller, elite force, comprised of our most skilled warriors, to check the Andal advance during the harvest season, once the harvest is completed we can call upon the full strength of the Riverlands. These men would strike swiftly and decisively, buying us time to gather our full strength."
King Tristifer's gaze sharpened as he considered the proposals. The room held its collective breath. The king leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard in contemplation. "Your counsel is wise, Mallister," he said finally, his voice firm with resolve. "We shall split our forces as you suggest. A swift and deadly vanguard to harry the Andals, keeping them at bay while we ensure our people do not go hungry."
The lords nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the decision. Arthur felt his heart swell with the call to arms, eager to prove his worth and protect the lands of his birth. His father's hand reached out to him, a warm, calloused grip that spoke of battles fought and won. "You shall stay here, under the tutelage of Lord Bracken he will educate you on the craft of war," the king declared, his eyes never leaving Arthur's. "Prove yourself worthy of your name."
The boy felt a pang of disappointment, but he knew his place. The Mudd Dynasty had not survived for generations by allowing inexperience to rule their battles. "As you wish, Father," he said, his voice steady and firm.
Lord Bracken was a gruff man with a beard as thick as the mists of the Neck. His eyes held a glint that spoke of battles won and lost, of wars waged and strategies born in the heat of combat.
"You're to come with me, boy," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. Arthur nodded, eager to learn from the seasoned warrior. As they stepped out of the solar, the castle was abuzz with activity. Men were donning armor, horses were being saddled, and supplies were being loaded onto carts. The air was charged with the anticipation of battle, and Arthur felt it in his very bones.
Lord Bracken led him to the training yard, where his son, Jonos, was already waiting, his sword drawn. The young warrior was built like a bull, with a mop of curly hair and a beard that was still patchy with youth. He eyed Arthur with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "You're to spar with my son," the lord said, his voice carrying the weight of an order. "I wish to see the extent of your prowess, assuming you have some training."
Arthur drew his own sword, feeling the familiar balance of the steel. He had spent countless hours under the tutelage of his father's master-of-arms, a man named Ector, learning the ways of the blade. His heart pounded in his chest as he stepped into the makeshift circle, surrounded by men who had seen battles he could only dream of. The yard was a sea of mud, churned by the hooves of horses and the booted feet of soldiers. The smell of rain-soaked earth and the distant scent of cooking meat filled his nose as he took his stance.
Jonos Bracken was not one to waste time with pleasantries. He charged at Arthur with the ferocity of a boar, his sword a silver blur in the fading light. Arthur parried, his movements swift and sure, a testament to his training. The clang of steel on steel rang out, echoing off the castle's walls, a sound that seemed to resonate within his very soul. The watchful eyes of the lords and their men bore down on him, their silent judgment a palpable force.
The spar was grueling, each blow a lesson in strength and strategy. Arthur felt the strain in his muscles and the sting of sweat in his eyes, but he pushed forward, driven by the fiery need to prove himself. The dance of swords grew more intense with every passing moment, the mud sucking at their boots as they circled each other, searching for an opening.
Jonos was a skilled fighter, his strokes a blend of brute force and precise skill. Arthur, on the other hand, relied on his agility and speed, his blade darting like a serpent's tongue as he sought to outmaneuver his opponent. Their swords met time and again, steel scraping against steel in a cacophony of sparks and grunts. The watching men grew silent, their eyes glued to the unfolding spectacle.
The spar was a dance of death, a prelude to the battles to come. Arthur could feel the eyes of the lords upon him, judging his every move, searching for any sign of weakness or inexperience. Yet, as he parried and riposted, something within him awoke - a fierce determination born of his heritage and the love for his lands. He knew that his fate was entwined with that of the Riverlands, and he would not allow them to fall without a fight.
With a swift feint and a powerful thrust, Arthur found an opening in Jonos's defense. His sword sang through the air, slicing through the mud and the fading light, and met its target with a resounding crack. The impact sent Jonos's blade flying from his hand, clattering to the ground. The watching men gasped, their eyes wide with surprise. Arthur had not only held his own but had bested the son of a great lord.
Lord Bracken's expression was unreadable, but there was something in his gaze that spoke of newfound respect. "Well done," he grunted. "You have the makings of a fine warrior. Now, let us see if you can handle the real dance."
Arthur nodded, sheathing his sword as Lord Bracken led him back to the keep. The feast hall was a cavernous chamber with high arched ceilings, the air thick with the scent of roasting meats and the sound of men's laughter. The long wooden tables were already crowded with lords and soldiers, their faces flushed with drink and the warmth of the roaring hearth. The walls were adorned with the heads of beasts slain in the hunt, their eyes glinting in the flickering torchlight. The rafters held banners that had seen generations of battles, each stitch a silent testament to the Mudd Dynasty's endurance.
Lord Bracken pulled out a chair at the high table, gesturing for Arthur to sit beside him. "Tell me, young Arthur," he began, his eyes assessing as he took a sip of wine, "what do you know of the Andals and their tactics?"
Arthur took a deep breath, his mind racing through the lessons he'd learned from the ancient texts and the tales spun by his mother's people. "They are fierce and honorable, my lord," he said, his voice strong and confident. "They fight with a passion that burns like the sun, and they value valor above all else. They favor heavy cavalry and the charge, seeking to break our lines with their fury."
Lord Bracken's gaze remained steadfast. "Fierce? Yes, but they are far from honorable. Now, how do you propose we counter that?" His question was a challenge, a test of the boy's tactical acumen as much as it was a genuine inquiry.
Arthur took a moment to gather his thoughts, his eyes scanning the room as he formulated his response. The warmth of the fireplace reflected off the gleaming armor and the sharpened bronze of the swords that adorned the walls. The chatter of the men at arms grew distant as he focused on the battlefield that existed only in his mind.
"We must meet their charge with a charge of our own," Arthur suggested, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty. "Our foot soldiers can hold firm, and our archers can pick off their horses at a distance."
Lord Bracken's expression grew stern. "Aye, a charge is a mighty weapon in the hands of riders and lords," he said, his words clipped and precise, "but what of the common foot soldier, the backbone of our army? Would they hold firm as you suggest, or crumble before the Andal horselords like leaves before the autumn wind?"
The weight of Lord Bracken's question settled upon Arthur. He knew the truth of it; the average soldier was not bred for valor or strategy but for survival and obedience. Yet, he could not let his people's fate rest on such a bleak outlook. "We must train them," he replied, his voice steady despite the doubt that had crept in. "We must instill in them the courage and discipline to stand firm in the face of the enemy."
Lord Bracken's expression softened slightly, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he regarded the young man. "Training, yes," he said, "but time is not our ally, Arthur. The Andals march upon us as we speak, and our men are green as the spring grass. To teach them the intricacies of war in so brief a time... And think of the cost, to pay the trainers, to keep the men off of their fields for an extended period of time." He trailed off, his voice thick with the unspoken truth.
The room had gone quiet, the only sounds the crackling of the fire. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the weight of impending battle. Arthur felt the eyes upon him, the unspoken doubt of the men who had seen war and knew its horrors. He took a deep breath, the scent of roasting venison and mead mingling with the smoky air. "Then we must find a way to make them strong," he said, his voice carrying a newfound conviction. "We must inspire them, show them that we fight for more than just our lands, but for the very essence of what it means to be men of the Riverlands."
Lord Bracken's eyes searched Arthur's face, seeking the truth behind his words. For a moment, it seemed as if the very walls of the feast hall held their breath. Then, a slow nod. "Aye, that we must," he said gruffly. "But inspiration alone will not stop a charging destrier."
The conversation at the high table remained hushed for the rest of the feast. Arthur picked at his food, his thoughts racing as he considered the tactics and strategies that could bolster the defenses of the Riverlands. The weight of his father's expectations bore down upon him, and he knew he must not disappoint. The room was filled with the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of men discussing the battles to come, but it was as if a veil of silence had fallen over the table where he sat.
The night passed in a blur of preparations and restless sleep. The next morning dawned cold and gray, the fog clinging to the battlements like a shroud. Arthur watched from the castle's ramparts as the vanguard formed up in the courtyard below, a sea of bronze with steel speckled in and mud-splattered banners. His father, King Tristifer, sat astride his warhorse, a figure of stoic resolve at the head of the column. Prince Tristifer was at his side, his dark hair in melody to the grim visage he bore.
Lord Mallister's eyes searched the horizon, the sea-green of his gaze as sharp as the blade he carried at his side. Lord Tully, ever the pragmatist, spoke in low tones with the castle's steward, ensuring that the supplies and logistics for the advance were in order. Lord Blackwood, his expression tight, mounted his steed, his eyes reflecting the urgency that had driven his earlier words.
The vanguard set out, the sound of their horses' hooves a solemn rhythm that matched the beating of Arthur's heart. The Mudd banners fluttering in the early morning breeze. He watched until they disappeared into the mists that clung to the rolling hills like ghosts of battles past.
Lord Bracken clapped a firm hand on Arthur's shoulder, pulling him from his reverie. "You have your own battles to prepare for, lad," he said, his tone softer than Arthur had ever heard it before. "The war will not wait for you to grow into a man."
The training began that very day, with dawn's first light. Arthur was pushed to his limits and beyond, his body a canvas of bruises and his mind a whirlwind of strategy and tactics. Lord Bracken was a harsh but fair mentor, pushing him to understand not only the art of swordplay but the intricate dance of war itself. They worked on horseback and on foot, with sword and shield, spear, and bow, until Arthur's muscles burned with the promise of tomorrow's battles.
Days turned into nights and back again, the cycle unbroken by the relentless march of time and the looming shadow of war. On the twelfth day, as Arthur was in the midst of a grueling archery drill, the sound of a distant horn pierced the air. The training ground fell silent, the thud of arrows halting in mid-flight. The horn grew closer, its mournful wail echoing through the castle, a prelude to the grim tidings it heralded.
A rider, mud-spattered and weary, galloped into the Muddy Hall's courtyard, his steed blowing hard and foam flecking its muzzle. The man dismounted, staggering slightly as he approached the castle's entrance. His cloak bore the tatters of battle, the once proud emblem of House Mudd almost obscured by grime and blood. Lord Bracken's eyes narrowed, and Arthur felt his heart clench as he watched the lord stride towards the newcomer.
The messenger, a young man by the looks of him, knelt before Lord Bracken, his voice trembling as he delivered the dire news. "My lord," he began, "I come from the battle at Stone Mill. The king... the king is dead."