A Muddy Legacy

by perseusTheDestroyer15

Tristifer Mudd, the descendant of the legendary Hammer of Justice, is determined to resurrect his near-extinct House from obscurity. As Robert's Rebellion throws the realm into chaos, Tristifer seizes the chance to rise by any means necessary. In a world where chaos is a ladder, will House Mudd reclaim its place in history, or will it vanish forever?

23. The Beggar King

The Beggar King

Varys stood perfectly still, his gaze fixed, even as he saw his fellow councilors shifting in discomfort or, in the case of Lord Mace Tyrell, capitulating completely by sinking into a chair. It was one of those absurdly extravagant chairs that only Lord Tyrell would own—gaudy, far too opulent for the occasion, as expected of the Rose Lord. He owned no shame, or perhaps he had simply mastered the art of concealing it, for he sat with a heavy, satisfied posture, observing the petitioners kneel and grovel before the throne—and the man who occupied it.

Lord Paramount Tristifer Mudd, the Iron Hand, was a figure to behold, clad in a resplendent black doublet adorned with golden stitching that formed intricate, commanding patterns. Draped across his lap was the sheathed Lady Forlorn, though it had been refitted and renamed—now Torrent. Varys, despite his usual preference for a dagger, couldn't help but admire the new craftsmanship of the blade.

The hilt was a thing of beauty, crowned with a five-pronged design—a nod to House Mudd's coat of arms and the five major rivers that traversed the Riverlands. The three forks, of course, the Tumblestone, and the Blackwater Rush. Set within the crown was an emerald, one that could very well have come from the Royal treasury—though no one would dare voice such a suspicion aloud in this hall. For who could question the Iron Hand—the Dragon's savior—and his modest gifts in comparison?

Queen Dowager Rhaella apparently if his reports were accurate, but after a brief ceremony with Lord Mudd she and her children had been sequestered back to Dragonstone with a company of gold cloaks for their 'protection' pushing her off the game board—for now, at least.

Varys had, of course, considered the potential advantages of deepening this divide. It was a strategy worth weighing, even if it chafed his pride to find himself serving yet another set of red dragons.

This Rebellion had unfolded in ways that even he hadn't foreseen. He had seized the opportunity when introduced to the young gold cloak officer, offering assistance where he could and building a rapport almost instinctively, as he always did with rising men of influence in the city. It had become second nature to him, ingrained from years of playing the game.

But when Mudd had mobilized the City Watch and marched into the Red Keep, the entire foundation of Varys' carefully laid plans had crumbled. His ambitions for the officer, once a pawn in his grand scheme, had turned to dust. He had been caught utterly off guard, watching in stunned silence as his plot for the Dragon's fall unraveled before his eyes, leaving no hope of redemption.

It was only the shock of that moment, the disarray it caused, that had prevented him from doing something reckless in the days and moons that followed. His anger had festered in his windowless chambers deep within the Red Keep, the weight of his failure pressing on him as he stewed in frustration after Mudd's swift rise to Hand.

It wasn't until the dual victories over Baratheon at the Kingsroad and Lannister beneath the very walls of this city that Varys finally chided himself for his earlier, almost childish reaction to his failed plans. Had he truly endured all this torment—the humiliation of serving the killers of his ancestors—only to let a setback drive him into a tantrum? A significant setback, certainly, but far from a permanent one. If there was one thing Varys was certain of, it was that he would find a way to turn the tides in his favor again, as he always had.

In his quiet... tantrum, Varys had managed to lay low and even end up on the victors' Small Council. Now, he was not dealing with a mad Targaryen, but a dangerously ambitious man with similarly large boots to fill from his forefathers, just as Varys had.

Despite their differing methods, Varys couldn't help but draw parallels between the two of them. Both, at least seemingly, were lowborn individuals thrust up to the highest rungs of society, equally feared, revered, and looked down upon.

It was a shame, however, that Mudd seemed to be hitching his wagon to young King Aegon, seeking to influence the future monarch for his own gain. Varys recognized the brilliance in Mudd's ambition—had the child not been a Targaryen, Varys would have wholeheartedly thrown his support behind the man. Together, they would have been unstoppable: the marshal statesman and his shadowy ears and daggers, guiding a malleable young king into the greatest ruler the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen.

The loyalty and pledge Varys held to his own family rendered such a partnership impossible in the long run. Ultimately, the cruel game of politics always persevered, and the wheel kept turning, indifferent to personal desires. Varys found himself wondering whether Mudd would ever recognize this harsh truth before it was too late—or if he would stubbornly continue on his path, blind to the inevitability of his own downfall.

Robert Baratheon had proven a failure, undone by circumstances that tripped Varys' horse mere strides before the finish line. Only a foolish or sentimental man would continue betting on a lame horse simply because it once showed promise. Varys, however, was neither. He wasn't even a man in the conventional sense—so why imitate their follies?

The circumstances had changed dramatically since Varys first saw potential in Robert Baratheon and begun his machinations.

Lately, he had begun to wonder if a war of some kind would have erupted regardless of his intervention. Aerys Targaryen, after all, was far from a stable man even before Varys introduced a subtle concoction he had discovered in the East into the king's meals. The poison had been a masterpiece of subtlety, its effects nearly undetectable, if one did not know what to look for of course.

Unlike the infamous poisons favored by assassins, it was rarely lethal, even in high and sustained doses. Instead, it dulled the mind, like milk of the poppy but with entirely different characteristics—ones so obscure that even the Citadel's highest maesters would have overlooked them. It was perfect for his purposes, sowing instability in Aerys without immediately arousing suspicion.

Unfortunately, this careful work had been undone by Lord Tyrell's staffing changes during Mudd's absence on campaign. With a single stroke, the dismissal of every kitchen hand within Varys' influence severed his control over the king's meals.

By then, however, Varys had long since lost interest in that particular endeavor. Aerys' death had rendered the effort moot, and while years of meticulous recruiting had gone to waste, the loss was not as devastating as it might once have been. King Aerys' reaction to the concoction had, in any case, proven... unpredictable.

The Darklyn situation, a debacle in which Varys had little to no hand, had only exacerbated the volatility of the king's behavior. Aerys had spiraled beyond anyone's ability to predict or control, even Varys'.

All this was irrelevant now. Just days before Mudd's return from the Second Battle of the Trident, Varys had received a messenger from his friend Illyrio, bearing news of great significance—the birth of a son. The boy, sired by Illyrio upon Varys' last remaining living cousin, had come into the world with a head of striking platinum-blonde hair, a legacy of their shared forebears.

'Their Aegon,' Illyrio had proclaimed in his message. Varys supposed there was a certain poetry to it. If they succeeded, songs would undoubtedly be sung of the black and red Aegons.

The final victorious black dragon, the second Conqueror.

He was roused from his thoughts as he saw Mudd rise to his feet, raising a hand to signal the end of the session. "This concludes today's court," Mudd declared, his voice carrying through the hall. "May the Seven grant you all safe travels home."

Some of the petitioners grumbled, their frustrations left unvoiced, but all bowed deeply before filing out, escorted by gold cloaks. With Mudd's current support it seemed unlikely for him to fall for quite some time.

---

Sarra couldn't suppress her permanent smile, even as the carriage bumped and jolted along the cobblestones. Tears of joy threatened to spill over, though she fought to keep them at bay. Across from her sat her father, a grin plastered across his face, while her mother sat beside him, visibly nervous yet brimming with excitement. Sarra could hardly recall a time when she had seen her mother wear both emotions so openly.

Her mother's unease drew Sarra's gaze downward once more, to the gown she wore—a gift courtesy of the Street of Silk's finest artisans. Tristifer had been tight-lipped about the cost, insisting it was nothing for her to worry about. Still, from what she'd gleaned, the gown had come at a nearly criminal discount, granted for her soon-to-be husband's position and his actions in the defense of the city.

The whole city seemed to shine with a near-reverent respect and gratitude for her Tristifer. Sarra had, of course, read of his exploits in the missives he sent during the war and overheard countless rumors, but seeing the tangible consequences of those actions now opened her eyes to the true weight of his deeds. Tristifer was an ambitious man—she had known that from the moment their eyes first met. Sarra was sheltered and naïve; she wouldn't deny it. Yet, their letters during his campaigns had been a revelation.

While he had rarely delved into the specifics of his schemes, actions, or plans in his writing, his way of thinking had bled through the lines. She had found it fascinating. Many men, she knew, were ruled by emotion—for good and ill. Tristifer, however, was something different altogether. His calculating mind, his precision, and his ability to see the bigger picture were unlike anything she had encountered before. It was a new and thrilling world, and she admired it deeply.

He was, without question, the perfect husband for her. Tristifer lived with purpose, a clarity of ambition that she had been blind to before. But now, she saw it clearly, and she knew she had to rise to meet it. This was why she had ensured her gown was immaculate, her every detail perfect. She would not let him down. She could not.

The gown was exquisite—a snow-white masterpiece adorned with swirling Myrish lace details along the skirts, the delicate patterns mimicking the flowing currents of a river in soft shades of blue. It was designed to highlight her beauty without crossing into crudeness, and it succeeded magnificently. Yet even as she admired its craftsmanship, her thoughts drifted to the maiden's cloak of yellow and black draped over her shoulders. She longed for the moment when she would exchange it for her husband's, leaving behind the curses and tragedies that clung to Harrenhal like an unwelcome shadow. The fates of her brothers were proof enough of its blight. Today marked the beginning of a new chapter, and Sarra was eager to embrace it.

She pushed those heavy thoughts to the back of her mind, choosing instead to reflect on the changes the gods had wrought in her over recent years. She supposed no one would have ever called her homely, even as a pudgy-cheeked girl. She had been the fair maiden at their tourney, after all, though she hadn't yet grown into her full form. But now, she had.

She had seen the way Tristifer looked at her, his desire clear in those piercing blue-green eyes. It seemed the gods, in their mercy, had seen fit to grant her this happiness to balance all they had taken. And yet, despite this, irrational fears would sometimes creep in from the recesses of her mind. Would Tristifer find her lacking? Would his desire wane at the sight of her now?

Sarra shook her head, chiding herself for even entertaining such foolish thoughts. Today was her day, and nothing—not even her deepest insecurities—would cast a shadow over it.

At that moment, the carriage shuddered to a halt, and the buzzing sounds of the crowd outside finally registered in Sarra's ears. Barked commands from the Gold Cloaks rang out, adding to the commotion. Her heart pounded fiercely as the door creaked open, flooding the dim interior with bright daylight for the first time since their departure from the Red Keep.

Her mother was the first to disembark, moving with a grace born of noble upbringing. Her father followed, pausing only briefly to offer Sarra a look of encouragement. She took a shuddering breath, steadying herself as resolve replaced her nerves. Rising from her seat, she stepped out into the sunlight, her gown catching the light and shimmering faintly as she moved.

On one side of the stairs descending from the carriage stood her father, hand extended to help her down. On the other side was Ser Desmond Mallister, a man as steadfast as the sigil of his house. Though of a similar age to her father, Ser Desmond carried himself with the strength and poise of a man half his years, a reliable anchor among the Kingsguard ranks. Unlike the younger, freshly appointed knights—Ser Valtris, Ser Jammos, and Ser Jaremy—he exuded a calm, seasoned authority.

Sarra placed one hand in her father's, the other carefully lifting her gown to keep it from brushing the ground. Her heart raced, but her steps remained steady as she descended the stairs. The weight of countless eyes on her was unmistakable, their cheers ringing through the air in a wild cacophony that sent a rush of nerves and anticipation coursing through her veins.

As a child, she had never been comfortable in large crowds, and even her time in the tourney—though transformative in many ways—hadn't fully prepared her for this. Now, with seemingly half the city gathered to watch her, their exuberance both thrilled and unnerved her. It was a momentous occasion, one that demanded all her composure.

Her father suddenly guided her hand to rest on his arm, steering her forward through the parted throng. Gold Cloaks formed a shield wall on either side, creating a wide corridor that led straight to the towering, ornate doors of the Great Sept of Baelor. The sight of it took her breath away. Tristifer had spared no expense, ensuring that the event would be etched into the memories of all who witnessed it.

It had been debated, of course, whether such a grand wedding was necessary, but Tristifer had insisted on it as a show of stability and unity. It was not lost on her that they would be the first non-Targaryen couple married within the Great Sept, a space traditionally reserved for royal ceremonies. The decision was bold, even provocative, yet undeniably fitting for the man who had already reshaped the political landscape of the realm.

The grand set of doors of Baelor's Sept swung open, revealing the breathtaking Hall of Lamps. The entrance chamber lived up to its name, with suspended leaded glass globes in an array of vibrant colors and shades casting a kaleidoscope of light onto the polished marble floors below. The walls, also of marble, gleamed with an almost ethereal light.

At the far end stood another set of ornately adorned doors, their intricate carvings hinting at the grandeur of the sept beyond. Sarra's breath caught at the beauty of the hall, but her awe was quickly overtaken by the anticipation of what lay ahead. No crystal, gold, or precious stone could distract her from the moment she had been waiting for—the sight of Tristifer waiting just beyond the next threshold.

Before she realized it, she was standing beside her father, the two of them positioned before the final doors. Her mother stood a respectful step behind them, her presence a quiet comfort for once. Sarra glanced up at her father, his expression one of profound solemnity and pride as he looked down at her. She met his gaze with a firm nod, her resolve shining through.

With that silent exchange, her father turned and made a subtle gesture to the guards stationed at either side of the doors. Without hesitation, they moved into action, their movements deliberate and reverent as they pushed the heavy doors open. The low groan of ancient wood echoed through the Hall of Lamps, accompanied by the gradual shift of light spilling into the cavernous sept beyond. The effect was immediate: a blanket of silence settled over the assembled crowd, any hushed conversations fading into nothingness as all attention turned to the opened doorway.

Sarra's gaze swept the sept, though her focus narrowed with every passing moment. The high windows and the intricate glass dome above allowed sunlight to cascade in colorful streams across the polished floors. She barely registered the massive stone statues that lined the space, each representing the aspects of the Seven, save for two. Her eyes lingered only briefly on the statues of the Father and the Mother, towering sentinels that flanked the altar where all sacred unions were blessed.

And there, standing between them, was Tristifer.

Everything else seemed to fade away as Sarra's gaze found Tristifer. Her heart quickened, and she took in the sight of him. He wore a deep black doublet, rich and expertly tailored, embroidered with golden thread in intricate patterns reminiscent of the rivers that crisscrossed his lordship—the lands they would soon share. The design was subtle yet striking, a perfect fit for the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. It bore a quiet grandeur, slightly more opulent than what previous Tully lords might have chosen, but then the Mudds were of royal blood. It was only fitting, she supposed.

Draped over his shoulders was a golden silk cape, a nod to his service in the City Watch, yet elevated in its refinement by the choice of silk over wool. The cape was fastened with a silver brooch shaped like the Mudd crown, its golden spires gleaming in the light. His dark breeches and polished boots completed the ensemble, understated yet undeniably authoritative—a blend of practicality and elegance.

At his hip hung Torrent, the Valyrian steel blade he had recently renamed. Though its faintly red-tinted blade with swirling patterns remained hidden in its sheath, the crown-shaped pommel and embedded emerald stood out, gleaming proudly. Sarra thought the name fitting, a testament to its lord and his domain. Torrent must surely rank among the most valuable Valyrian blades in the Realm, though its worth, like all of its kind, was nearly impossible to measure. Only a desperate man or a fool would ever part with one willingly.

Tristifer stood tall, his posture composed and confident, yet his gaze softened as it settled on her. There was warmth in his eyes, a quiet assurance that steadied her nerves and reaffirmed that she was exactly where she belonged—at his side, ready to face whatever challenges their future might bring.

Her thoughts, however, briefly turned to the matter of his bastard son. It was a shadow on her mind, though one she believed she could dispel in time. Once she had provided him with a strong heir to secure his position, the burden of keeping the boy so close might lessen. After all, Tristifer was nearly the sole surviving member of his house, and in such circumstances, even natural children were difficult to cast aside. But surely, with their own children, he would feel secure enough to let the boy take a step back.

This rationalization allowed her to set the matter aside, at least for now. There were far more pressing things to focus on today. This moment was hers, theirs—a union that would surely prove to be the start of something great.

Her father had been steadily guiding her closer to the altar, to Tristifer and the waiting Septon, while her thoughts had wandered. They passed row after row of benches, each one filled to capacity with family, friends, lords, ladies, and other prominent figures of the city. Sarra even thought she caught sight of a few delegates from across the Narrow Sea—undoubtedly here to curry favor with Tristifer, though she imagined the same could be said for almost all the other guests as well bar a few.

Finally, they reached the altar. Sarra came to a stop beside her father, her gaze lifting to meet Tristifer's before briefly flickering to the Septon. The man offered her a pleasant, polite smile, his demeanor calm and composed. He was a high-ranking member of the Faith, though not the High Septon himself. It had been agreed that having the High Septon officiate their wedding would seem far too presumptuous, even for a Lord Paramount and Hand of the King.

She suppressed a small smirk, recalling Tristifer's remark that the Septon standing before them was one of the favored contenders to succeed the aging High Septon. It was those subtle moves, those small yet meaningful details, that fascinated her most about Tristifer. He was neither a pushover nor a brute, preferring compromise and cunning over mindless aggression when solving problems. That balance, she thought, made him truly remarkable.

"Now, I do believe the time has come?" the Septon asked, his voice soft yet carrying effortlessly across the chamber, bringing a hush over the room. The stillness was palpable as all eyes focused on them.

The Septon looked at her first, a silent question in his gaze. Sarra nodded, her hands clasped tightly to steady herself. He then turned to Tristifer, who inclined his head with equal solemnity.

"Wonderful. Blessed be the Seven, who have brought you two together," the Septon murmured, his words meant only for their ears. Sarra felt warmth bloom on her cheeks, a faint blush she couldn't suppress. She stole a glance at Tristifer, whose small smile was calm and composed. Yet his eyes—his eyes told a different story, shining with emotions far deeper than his outward demeanor revealed.

"Blessed be the Seven, who watch over us with their eternal wisdom and grace. We gather here today to unite this man and this woman in holy matrimony, an eternal bond before gods and men." The Septon now addressed all in the room his words reverberating

The Septon turned to Sarra, his kind eyes resting on her. "Lady Sarra of House Whent, do you come here freely and without reservation to join yourself to this man?"

"I do," Sarra replied, her voice steady despite the emotions swelling within her.

The Septon then faced Tristifer. "Lord Tristifer of House Mudd, do you come here freely and without reservation to join yourself to this woman?"

"I do," Tristifer answered, his tone firm, his gaze unwavering as it rested on Sarra.

The Septon nodded, satisfied, and raised his hands in a gesture of reverence. "Then let us honor the gods and continue."

He began a series of solemn prayers, his voice resonating through the sept. First, he called upon the Father, beseeching him to bless the union with justice, fairness, and the strength to protect their household.

Next, he turned his prayers to the Mother, seeking her blessing for fertility, love, and compassion in their life together.

The Maiden followed, as the Septon spoke of Sarra's purity and the virtue she carried into this union.

Sarra stood quietly, her hands folded in front of her, but she couldn't ignore the growing impatience that stirred within her. Though she followed the Faith, she couldn't help but question the justice of the gods who had allowed such misfortune to befall her family. How could they be called good when they had seemingly turned a blind eye to her prayers in times of desperate need? These theological musings lingered in the depths of her mind, remnants of countless unanswered pleas that had worn away her once-pious heart.

Still, she held her composure, her thoughts drifting as the Septon continued to lead the prayers with deliberate solemnity.

Finally, he invoked the Crone, asking for wisdom to light the way ahead for them.

"Crone, with your eternal lantern, illuminate their path. Grant them wisdom in their choices and the understanding to navigate the unknown as they walk this journey together."

The prayers concluded, and the Septon lowered his hands. "With the blessings of the Seven, we now proceed to the sacred exchange of cloaks, a symbol of love, unity, and protection under the eyes of the gods."

Her father stepped to her side, his expression a mixture of pride and sorrow. He looked deeply into her eyes as he carefully drew the black-and-yellow cloak from her narrow shoulders, his hands steady but his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Folding the fine fabric with great care, he held it to his chest for a moment, as if saying a silent farewell to the role it symbolized.

Sarra offered him a warm smile—a reassurance for him, but also for herself. Her heart swelled with love for the man who had guided her through life, even as she prepared to step into this new chapter under another's care.

Her gaze shifted to Tristifer, who stood tall and steady, his presence commanding but his expression soft as he looked at her. At his side, his cousin Robin stepped forward, holding a folded cloak on his outstretched arms with a ceremonial precision. The fabric was deep green, adorned with an embroidered emerald-studded crown on the back that shimmered faintly under the light of the sept. The edges were lined with fur—not quite the heavy pelts of the North, but neither the light, airy cloaks of the Reach or Dorne.

Tristifer took the cloak from his cousin with deliberate care, unfolding it as he stepped closer to Sarra. She turned slightly, her head held high, and allowed him to drape it over her shoulders. The weight of the cloak settled around her, heavier than her maiden's cloak but imbued with a comforting warmth. It was not just fabric; it was a promise, a symbol of the protection and partnership she was stepping into.

As he adjusted the clasp at her throat, Tristifer's fingers brushed against her collarbone, and for a fleeting moment, his hands lingered. He gave her shoulders a slight but firm squeeze—a gesture so small it might have gone unnoticed by others, but it carried a depth of affection and reassurance that left her heart fluttering.

They soon turned back to the Septon who watched them both with a pleased expression. He spoke again. "With this cloak, Lord Tristifer takes you, Lady Sarra, under his protection, as husband and wife, bound in the eyes of gods and men."

Tristifer turned fully to Sarra, taking her hands in his. His voice was low but steady as he spoke the traditional words. "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife."

Sarra's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she responded, her voice steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."

The Septon lifted his hands once more, his voice strong and resonant. "Before the eyes of the Seven, I proclaim you one flesh, one heart, and one soul, now and forever. Let no man or woman put asunder what the gods have joined."

Tristifer leaned in, and their lips met in a gentle but resolute kiss, sealing their union. The chamber erupted in applause and cheers, the sound echoing joyously throughout the sept.

The Septon smiled as he concluded, "Go forth as husband and wife, united in love and purpose. May the Seven bless and keep you both."

Sarra offered the Septon a grateful smile before she and Tristifer turned, their hands still joined as they began their walk back down the aisle. The sept erupted in cheers, the sound echoing off the marble walls, but as her eyes swept over the crowd, Sarra couldn't help but notice the many unfamiliar faces. Smiles adorned most of them, but not all carried the warmth of genuine joy. Some eyes gleamed with something far less wholesome—greed, calculation. The sharks were circling, drawn by the scent of fresh opportunity, believing perhaps that Tristifer might be especially charitable in the glow of such happy circumstances.

Her gaze flicked to her husband. He wore a brilliant smile, his demeanor exuding confidence and contentment, but Sarra saw the sharp intelligence in his sweeping glances over the audience. He missed little, his eyes scanning the room with the precision of a swordsman gauging an opponent. If these opportunists thought him a young, naïve lord, they were sorely mistaken.

As though sensing her thoughts, Tristifer turned his gaze to hers, and for a moment, the mask slipped. His eyes softened, revealing a blend of happiness, excitement, and a flicker of anticipation. It was a look that made her heart swell with affection and pride.

Sarra liked to believe that with her, at least, he would never wear the mask. Perhaps it was naive to think so—he was a man sure to be surrounded by plots and intrigue, after all—but she held onto the hope that their bond would be different, that it would remain untouched by the games of the court.

She squeezed his hand gently, returning his smile with one of her own.

Their guests began forming a line behind them as they marched out, an unspoken order settling over the procession. Surrounding them were four Kingsguard knights, maintaining a respectful distance yet staying well within striking range. Gerold Hightower, Barristan Selmy, Desmond Mallister, and Jammos Blackwood—two seasoned veterans of Aerys' reign and two younger knights recently sworn to the white cloaks. Each was a skilled swordsman, though there was a marked difference in their experience and renown.

As they emerged from the Great Sept of Baelor into the sunlight, a deafening roar of celebration greeted them. The crowd outside had grown even larger, a sea of faces cheering and waving banners in the colors of House Mudd, House Whent, and House Targaryen. Flower petals rained down upon them, carried by the breeze, a cascade of vibrant hues that seemed to bless their path.

Tristifer lifted Sarra's hand high, a gesture of triumph and unity that was met with even louder applause. She felt her cheeks flush, but this time, it wasn't nerves—it was pride. Standing beside him, she felt not just like a bride but like a queen. And though the realm would never call her that, in her heart, she would be his queen.

"Are you ready?" Tristifer's voice was low, meant only for her ears. His words carried more weight than they might have seemed to others, for she knew he wasn't simply asking about the next steps of their day.

"Always," she replied, her voice steady and resolute.

Tristifer's smile deepened, and he pressed a kiss to her hand. Then, together, they descended the steps, walking toward the carriage that would carry them to the great feast awaiting them at the Red Keep.

---

"SEVEN BLOODY HELLS!" Robert Baratheon roared, hurling his wine flagon against the stone wall with a deafening crash. Dark red droplets streaked down the surface like blood as shards of shattered pottery scattered across the floor.

A shrill scream pierced the air as the girl, caught mid-dressing, scrambled to gather her clothes. Clutching them to her chest, she bolted from the room without so much as a backward glance.

Robert's chest heaved, his breath ragged as his furious gaze bore into the open door. The audacity of it! That wretched harlot—her audacity to demand such an outrageous price for what she dared to call her services. And worse still, that he could not even muster the coin to pay it.

He had been the great Stormlord, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. In all but name, he had ruled as King of the Seven Kingdoms. How, then, in a single year, had it all slipped through his grasp? Only a year had passed since that cursed Second Battle of the Trident.

At first, the memory of the Trident and that Ford had been a comfort, a triumph that fueled his dreams for weeks—visions of himself driving his warhammer into the smug Dragon Prince's chest, shattering both armor and arrogance. But now, even that moment of glory was soured, the sweetness replaced by the bitterness of all that came after. The Second Battle, the moment of his undoing, had loomed over him like a stormcloud, inevitable and inescapable.

The Silver Shit, replaced by another smug bastard—this one with a mop of brown hair. How it stung to be bested by him of all people. The memory gnawed at him like an old wound reopened. It had been bad enough at the Tourney of Harrenhal, losing in front of lords and ladies, but back then, Robert had told himself it didn't matter. That defeat was one he could laugh off, a momentary stumble against a foe who had relied on trickery, not strength.

He'd ignored the whispers swirling afterward neither confirm nor denying them—theories of dark magic and woods witches, or mutterings of lowborn dishonor. He was not one to spread rumors, usually he ended them. This time he had let them be, let it be a lesson for that welp believing that they never would meet again.

There was no excuse he could lean on for the battle. It had been a near-total defeat, leaving him with nothing but his life and a steadily shrinking band of supporters.

The sound of hurried footsteps outside his door broke his grim thoughts.

Three brothel guards stormed into the room, weapons drawn. The lead guard leveled his sword at Robert's prone form, still sprawled in the bed.

"You will pay, or we'll drag you to the dungeons, drunkard!" the guard barked, voice full of disgust.

Robert felt his face flush with anger. How dare this lowborn scum look at him this way!

"Do you have any idea who you're—"

The guard cut him off sharply.

"I wouldn't care if you were the Triarch himself. Pay, or I'll make sure you never want to step foot in another brothel again!"

Robert shot up from the bed, but instantly regretted it as the copious amounts of wine and spirits in his system exacted their cruel toll. His vision swirled and blurred, making his limbs feel heavy as he groaned in frustration. Before he could even steady himself, a sword's hilt collided sharply between his eyes.

Unconsciousness beckoned, but Robert fought against it, struggling to stay awake. The effort was in vain, as two guards quickly seized both of his arms, their grip unyielding and brutal.

His limbs strained against their hold, and for a fleeting moment—delirious in his drunken haze—he imagined he might escape. But then the flat of the first guard's blade struck him across the side of the head with a resounding crack, and his world tilted once more.

Robert slumped into a semi-conscious stupor, barely aware that he was being dragged. The sensation of rough wooden planks gave way to the relentless rhythm of stairs, each step a cruel reminder of his helplessness, before he was thrust out into the cold, damp air of the cobblestone street.

"—ough bastard," he heard through the fog of his mind, his ears still ringing, the world slowly darkening around him.

"Do we bother mov—" The words faded into nothing as Robert's vision finally dissolved, his mind slipping into darkness, the world around him vanishing entirely.

---

Robert awoke to a sharp poke digging into his exposed side. His eyes fluttered open, and harsh daylight flooded them. As his senses returned, the sounds of a bustling city street began to pierce the haze of his confusion.

A man loomed above him, the sun haloing his figure, and Robert immediately recognized the sharp object pressed to his side as a blade. Instinctively, he jerked backward, heart hammering in his chest as the realization of his danger struck him.

As he scrambled to orient himself, his gaze swept the surroundings. He was lying in a gutter, soaked through with water and a nauseating mix of fluids of dubious origin. The stench made him gag.

Turning his attention back to the stranger, he could now make out the details that had been hidden in the glare of sunlight. The man, unmistakably of Westerosi descent, had not been fortunate when the gods were shaping him. His ears were large and bulbous, his nose prominent and disformed, and his jaw crooked. A patch of balding light brown hair only accentuated the man's otherwise unremarkable features. Yet, despite his unfortunate appearance, the stranger was powerfully built, clearly a warrior clad in full plate armor adorned with gold baubles—ornaments Robert found oddly out of place on a man dressed for battle.

Were they in Westeros, Robert might have called him a knight. But here, in Volantis and the Free Cities, knighthood was a rarity. Few cared for such titles, instead choosing to live by their own codes and traditions, free of the rigid distinctions of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was only then that Robert noticed the group of soldiers standing behind the stranger, each one armed and armored, their presence as imposing as the man before him. Perhaps sellswords, if not knights, their attire filled with gold fabric and embellishments left little doubt in Robert's mind about their identity.

"Now this is a sight I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams—a beggar king!" The man's voice rang out with mocking amusement, and the soldiers behind him burst into uproarious laughter, the sound echoing through the street.

Robert's eyes darted between the group of seven—calculating, assessing, wondering how he could save himself from this mess. His mind raced, but the options seemed grim. Worse still, his modesty was only guarded by his stained smallclothes, and his weapons or any valuables were nowhere in sight. They were either stolen or, if he'd managed to hide them, he had no recollection of where. The confusion of his current predicament gnawed at him as much as his growing dread.

"You seem to know my identity," Robert said, keeping his tone steady despite the fury bubbling beneath his surface, "May I learn yours?"

The leader, tilted his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing as he assessed Robert. "I am Ser Myles Toyne, Captain-General of the Golden Company. Blackheart to you, though." Robert couldn't help but note the casual pride in his words. So it was a knight after all—at least according to himself. Though, the Golden Company had always been known for its loose interpretation of titles and lineage. It wouldn't surprise him to find a fraudulent knight in their ranks.

Before Robert could reply, one of the soldiers stepped forward, his tone laced with mockery. "I thought only your kingdom was stolen?" The man gestured toward Robert with a smirk, provoking more laughter from the group.

Shame flared hot in Robert's chest, his blood rising, but he fought to keep his composure. He knew the trap was tightening around him. Before he could retort, Blackheart spun on his heel, fury flashing in his eyes.

"That's enough, Dick," he snapped, his voice like steel. "Get back in line. If you do not shut your mouth while I'm speaking, I'll have your head rolling at my feet."

The sudden shift in tone silenced the others instantly, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Robert's heart pounded in his chest, but he didn't dare make a sound.

Blackheart turned back to Robert, annoyance clear on his face. "Coles," he muttered, the name dripping with disdain. "Troublemakers, the whole lot of them."

The mention of the name sparked something in Robert's mind. He couldn't help but ask, "Like the Kingmaker?"

A dark smirk tugged at Blackheart's lips. He shrugged, his gaze shifting toward his men before returning to Robert. "Who knows?" he said, his tone filled with a mix of mystery and indifference.

Right, of course.

"Now, Robert Baratheon," Blackheart continued, his voice laced with mockery. "It was quite shocking when I heard of the bounty put out for your arrest, or head. Had to come see for myself if the rumors were true. And for once... well, here you lie."

Even though Blackheart's words were mocking, Robert could sense something deeper in the man's gaze. It was clear that the captain-general wasn't truly taking pleasure in his humiliation—there was a calculation at work, a consideration of something more than just a fallen king. Blackheart was sizing him up, weighing options.

"Captain-General!" A shout broke the tense moment, and Robert cursed under his breath as he recognized the lanky, redheaded figure approaching. Jon Connington. Trailed by a dozen of his own sellswords, Connington dragged with him the last of Robert's retinue—five men, battered and bloodied, yet their defiance still flickered in their eyes. Robert hadn't heard from any of his old loyalists in months, and now these five were all that remained of his once-proud banner.

Connington's smug grin twisted as he spoke in mocking jest. "Managed to round up his Kingsguard, and all."

Blackheart groaned silently, rubbing his eyes as though trying to stave off a headache. "Well done, Jon," he said flatly.

Connington's smug grin faltered as Robert's unflinching gaze locked onto him. "Well, what in the hells are you staring at?" Connington sneered, his eyes flicking downward with disdain. "Seems you handle drowning better than the last Baratheon Lord did."

Connington chuckled darkly, but Robert's silence only seemed to fuel his smugness. With a cruel sneer, he pressed on, "Though I suppose young Renly is Lord now, so it would be incorrect to call you that... How about King of the Puddle, since the Seven Kingdoms are off the table?"

That was all it took. Robert surged to his feet, anger flaring like wildfire. The instant he saw the bastard's lips tighten, he acted. The spit struck him square in the face, but it didn't matter. His fist was already in motion, a right hook that cracked against Connington's freckled cheek. The image of striking Prince Rhaegar with his warhammer flashed through his mind in a brief, violent rush.

Connington's head whipped around with a sickening snap before his body crumpled, crashing to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

But Robert had no time to savor the moment. Before he could even gather his breath, two of the Golden Company's soldiers slammed into him, sending him crashing to the cobblestones. His head struck the stone with a dull thud, the impact sending waves of nausea and disorientation through him, his vision swimming and his thoughts slipping into a haze.

"AM I DEALING WITH FUCKING CHILDREN!?" Blackheart's voice boomed, filled with raw fury that sliced through the fog in Robert's mind. His frustration hung thick in the air. "Get them both up, NOW!"

A grunt escaped Robert's lips as two soldiers seized him, hauling him upright by his armpits. His legs wobbled, barely supporting his weight. He caught a glimpse of Connington, who hung limply between two other men, his head drooping in unconsciousness. The sight sparked a brief, primal satisfaction in Robert, making his lips twitch in a fleeting, cruel smile.

That was until a sharp cuff to his head from one of the soldiers snapped him back to his grim reality.

He groaned as pain shot through his skull, his vision swimming again.

Blackheart shook his head in exasperation, clearly dismissing Connington entirely. "Cut that out." The soldier who'd struck Robert nodded dutifully, though he shot Robert a spiteful look, which the he barely registered, too weary to care.

The Captain-General then fixed his full attention on Robert. His gaze stern but with a glint, annoyance certainly, but also admiration.

"You struck one of my officers—no, hold on," Blackheart raised a hand, silencing Robert before he could protest. "I'd expect nothing less for such an insult. Connington is a fine officer and commander, but even he overstepped greatly with his comments. I know no soldier in my company would let that pass."

"Except Strickland," someone muttered from the back, and a few chuckles rippled through the group. Robert's focus, however, was sharp, locked on Blackheart, noting the question in the man's eyes—the quiet weight of what followed.

"...Ser?" he asked, his voice tentative.

Blackheart's warning gaze lingered on his men for a moment longer before fading entirely, his attention now fixed entirely on Robert.

"Very well," he said, his tone steely but deliberate, "let me be clearer."

He paused, watching Robert intently, then spoke with measured conviction, "I want you to join my storied company."

Even Toyne's soldiers seemed to pause at that, exchanging glances at Blackheart's words.

"This is no pledge to restore you as king," Blackheart continued, his voice unwavering, "not like with the Blackfyres, that era has passed. But this is a company of exiles, misfits, and castaways—men with no love for the Targaryens or their allies." He let the words hang in the air, each one with conviction. "I assure you, the Golden Company would be the only reasonable choice to accomplish such a task, should you decide it and possess the power to do so."

Robert mulled the offer over in his head, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. What had he done since his defeat? He had broken the pledge he made to himself—to avoid drink and women until his return to Westeros. He had held to it for a fortnight after arriving in Myr, his first stop after Jon's ships brought him from the Vale. But then the familiar temptations of the city had pulled him back in.

He'd failed in one negotiation after another, each meeting with a Magister, Archon, or Triarch ending in disappointment. All had shown interest in him, in his plight, offering shelter and parading him before every person of importance in their cities, but none had offered anything more than fleeting promises. As word of Mudd's growing popularity spread, their interest had cooled, seeing Robert as just another inconsequential pretender. They seemed to forget that his allies had once stood before the walls of King's Landing, that he had reduced House Targaryen to nothing but children and women.

His supporters and Men-at-Arms began to drift away. What had started as a trickle soon became a flood, and he found himself from visiting brothels once every fortnight became weekly, until eventually, he never ended up staying in the same bed for more than a night.

This, then, was the opportunity to do something. To take action, to fight again. He remembered countless conversations with Ned at the Eyrie, moaning about being the heir, wishing instead to be a sellsword in Essos. Now, that very opportunity lay before him.

Yet there was one thing standing in his way.

Robert's eyes flickered toward Connington, who still hung limp in the grip of his guards. "I will not fight beside that bastard," Robert spat, his voice low but filled with venom. "And if I accept, I expect it to be extended to my retinue as well."

Blackheart's gaze shifted briefly to Connington, his expression darkening, before he shook his head. "That conversation can wait until the man recovers. As for your men," he continued, turning his focus back to Robert, "I would not think to deny them entry. I'm certain they are as competent as they are loyal."

Robert stayed silent, his thoughts racing. Blackheart's resolve was unyielding, an ultimatum he couldn't ignore. The tension between them grew, thick and palpable, until Robert finally nodded. A quiet agreement, but one that felt like a decision for survival. He was sure he could handle the damn Griffin if things went south.

"Release them," Blackheart commanded, his voice cold and final. Then, a smile cracked across his face, revealing incomplete rows of teeth.

The soldiers released Robert, and he barely managed to steady himself on his feet. Before he could regain his balance, Blackheart appeared in front of him, extending a hand.

Suspicion flared in Robert's mind, but he reluctantly accepted the gesture. Blackheart's hand darted past his, gripping his forearm instead, pulling him forward with surprising force.

"A warrior's greeting, my friend," Blackheart said, his voice warm but laced with an edge. Robert's grip tightened as the captain-general leaned in, his words low and conspiratorial. "You understand I was ribbing you at the start, correct? I'll treat you with the respect you deserve. Few others will offer you the same courtesy. Just... try not to kill too many of my men, Baratheon."

Robert met Blackheart's gaze evenly, his jaw tightening as he nodded. "Very well, Captain-General."

Blackheart chuckled, shaking his head with an amused grin. "No, no. Only the soldiers use titles. Officers? We stick to nicknames or surnames—it keeps things simple."

Robert raised an eyebrow, curious toward his quick promotion, he hadn't thought titles accounted for much in sellsword companies. Blackheart gestured toward Connington's still-unconscious form with a wry smirk. "There's an opening, after all."

Robert allowed a small grin to curl his lips, the first genuine one in what felt like ages. Perhaps this wouldn't be all too bad. Briefly, his mind wandered, indulging in the kind of fantasy that had fueled his pride for years.

He pictured himself at the head of the Golden Company, their banners flying behind him as he marched through the gates of King's Landing. The Iron Throne loomed before him, its cruel beauty finally his. At its base, the heads of his enemies adorned the jagged swords. Tristifer Mudd's impaled on one, Mace Tyrell's fat face skewered on another, and, finally, the head of this so-called 'King' Aegon—a Targaryen who would learn like his father what it meant to challenge the Stormlord.

Robert vowed, upon all the gods and as a Baratheon, that he would return to Westeros—no matter the cost.

---

Tristifer took a deep breath, his fingers brushing over the desk in front of him. He'd never spent time in the solar of Riverrun before; his visits here in the past had been brief, and only to escape his duties. But with Sarra's pregnancy nearing its end, he'd made the trip north from the capital. A few from the court had followed—some curious to see Riverrun without the Tullys, others eager to be the first to congratulate him on the birth of his first child.

His first year as Hand of the King had shown him how hard it was to rid himself of sycophants and hangers-on. At most, he could manage a day without them before they found their way back.

It had been nine months since his wedding, a grand event with plenty of ceremony and celebration. He still remembered being surrounded by lords, envoys, and petitioners. Everyone seemed to want something—whether it was to make an impression, raise an issue they'd avoided bringing to Aerys or during the war, or just to test him.

Still, for all the words exchanged and the so-called agreements made, very little had actually come of them. True change, he'd learned, happened later, in private, when empty promises and grand gestures were no longer enough. During his wedding feast, it had taken hours for him to relax, to dance with his wife, and to speak more freely. In hindsight, he recognized how necessary those moments had been.

Everyone who mattered in Westeros and even across the Narrow Sea seemed eager to know him, to peel back the curtain on the mysterious Hand of the King who had risen from obscurity. None of them wanted unpredictability in their king or his Hand; that kind of chaos had given rise to Aerys, the demands for change, and the ever-looming threat of rolling heads.

The weight of expectations and endless formalities had dampened Tristifer's genuine joy and excitement during the wedding feast, though the ceremony itself had been a different story. Still, he'd found his moments of merriment. Dancing with Sarra had been a highlight—wonderful and familiar, reminding him of their first dance at Harrenhal. It filled him with hope that their marriage could become more than just a politically advantageous match.

The feast was filled with music, with bards and singers performing countless songs, but one stood out above the rest: The Mountain's Last Charge. The song immortalized his duel with Clegane, fought in defense of Elia and her children. It celebrated him as a heroic underdog, willing to risk everything for the Loyalist cause.

While the duel was widely known, even if only through rumors for some, it had often been overshadowed by the events that came before and after it. Yet after the bard's performance of the song, the room buzzed with renewed interest. Conversations shifted as rumors seemed to solidify into fact, and Tristifer felt the change in the air. He noticed the way lords regarded him differently, their eyes flickering more than once to Torrent where it hung on his hip.

The song had caught him off guard, but pleasantly so. It hadn't been a calculated move on his part. The bard had described it as a wedding gift from an anonymous source, saying he had only been given a recounting of the duel and tasked with crafting it into song.

The mystery intrigued Tristifer, though it didn't take him long to land on the likely source. When his gaze found Elia, her knowing smile all but confirmed his suspicion.

"Lord Hand." Tristifer looked up from the desk to see Ser Barristan peeking through the door. "A messenger from Maester Vyman, my lord."

Tristifer immediately rose to his feet. "Send him in, Ser Barristan."

The Kingsguard knight opened the door fully, admitting one of Maester Vyman's younger assistants. The boy stepped forward, bowing his head briefly before delivering the message. "My lord, the Maester wishes you to know that your lady wife has entered labor."

"Show me the way," Tristifer responded immediately, already moving around the desk with purpose.

The young assistant's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of panic crossing his face. "My lord," he stammered, "the Maester instructed me explicitly—you are not to enter the chambers without his leave. It's for the babe's safety, my lord."

Tristifer stopped in his tracks, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. He made a conscious effort to keep his frustration in check; the boy was only delivering the Maester's instructions, after all. Being a lord didn't mean he had to mirror every flaw of those who had come before him.

The messenger looked as though he might relieve himself in his smallclothes at any moment.

"Very well," Tristifer said, his voice carefully measured. "But let me know of any changes in her condition—any changes," he emphasized, fixing the boy with a steady gaze.

The boy nodded quickly, his head bobbing like a startled bird, before offering a hasty bow and fleeing the room.

Tristifer figured that if it was going to take some time, it would only make sense to use it productively.

He turned on his heel and made his way back to the chair he had just vacated. With a sigh, he called toward the now-closed door. "Ser Barristan?"

After a brief moment, the older knight's head appeared once more.

"My lord?"

"Could you have someone retrieve my work chest? Wherever it's been stored, please."

"Of course, my lord. I'll have a guard escort it as well to ensure there's no tampering."

"Wonderful." Tristifer's tone was sincere. Ser Barristan was a gift from the gods. Though it had been a shame that the knight had turned cloak during the rebellion, Tristifer understood the reasons and held no grudge. It had been one of his best decisions to heed Hightower's advice and reinstate Barristan.

The two seasoned knights proved to be a much-needed counterbalance to their less experienced counterparts. Tristifer had initially feared he had been too politically pragmatic with his choices, recognizing that while all were fine swordsmen, skill in battle alone didn't make a good Kingsguard. Fortunately, Gerold and Barristan proved him wrong, taking the younger knights under their wings without protest.

Ser Desmond Mallister, only a few namedays younger than Barristan, quickly adapted to the role, fitting into the Kingsguard as naturally as a fish to water.

Sers Valtris, Jammos, and Jeremy were a different matter. All eager, yes, but they ranged from just one and twenty to five and twenty namedays. None of them possessed the extraordinary talent Ser Jaime Lannister had shown in his youth, nor did they match the legendary feats of a young Ser Barristan.

It had taken longer than expected, but the new Kingsguard were finally beginning to fit in. They would never achieve the legendary status of the Bold, and in all likelihood, would be little more than footnotes in the White Book by the end of their service. Still, they would perform their duty, and that was all Tristifer required.

His thoughts shifted to the absent Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne. The renowned knight had been missing ever since his ship failed to arrive in King's Landing. The only thing that prevented Tristifer from declaring the ship lost at sea was a report that had made its way to both Varys and Robin's growing network—sighting a dark-haired knight with indigo eyes, carrying a black-haired babe, in the Lysene Harbor a year ago.

The details were scant, but it was enough to intrigue him. Such a pair was unlikely to be mistaken in any of the Free Cities.

Still, whether or not Ser Arthur had survived, it left yet another vacancy in the Kingsguard. Gerold Hightower had argued that the Kingsguard served for life unless convicted of treason, and Ser Arthur, as far as anyone knew, was no traitor. He had been fulfilling his charge—protecting the youngest son of Prince Rhaegar. Tristifer had given the Lord Commander a year for Ser Arthur to return before demanding a replacement.

That deadline was fast approaching, and still, there was no sign of either Ser Arthur or Prince Jaehaerys. Tristifer had noticed Gerold recently spending time in the courtyard, surveying the practicing knights. It was clear to him that the Lord Commander would see the Kingsguard filled one way or another.

Tristifer rose from his seat once more, restlessly casting a glance at the door, as if daring the servant to appear at that very moment. When the expected arrival didn't come, he turned toward the balcony that accompanied the solar.

He opened the doors and was met by a pleasant breeze, carrying the fresh scent of the river below, accompanied by the soothing sound of its flowing waters. 285 AC seemed to promise yet another long summer; no autumn was on the horizon, according to Grand Maester Gormon. Though Tristifer was still warming to the Tyrell, he found himself inclined to believe the old man on this matter.

The Lord's Solar was perched atop one of Riverrun's red-stoned towers, positioned at the southern corner of the three-sided castle, where the Tumblestone River met the Red Fork. From here, the rivers flowed around the castle, creating a natural defense.

Gazing out, Tristifer could see the meandering path of the Red Fork stretching far into the distance, small settlements and villages dotting its banks. To his left lay the relatively vast Whispering Wood. It wasn't as grand as the Kingswood or the Wolfswood, but it had provided timber to the Riverlands for millennia. He imagined much of the wood used to build the original Oldstones had been sourced from these very trees.

Riverrun was a fine place, a suitable home that his wife had come to prefer over the constant bustle and stench of King's Landing. It was no surprise she had chosen to remain here for her pregnancy and the birth of their child. But despite its comfort, it was not his House's ancestral seat.

That honor would, and could, only belong to Oldstones. Though now reduced to ruins, Tristifer dreamed of its restoration—imagining it as a nearly impregnable fortress, where his descendants would rule the Riverlands for centuries to come.

This would take time, of course, but Tristifer hoped to begin the endeavor soon. It was the project he had devoted most of his time and effort to over the past year, maneuvering behind the scenes to make it a reality.

The key to its success lay in strengthening both the Riverlands and his own position. Even rebuilding a castle was no small feat—costly, in fact—and Tristifer had already had surveys done to identify where resources could be sourced. Now, the primary obstacle was the expense.

To bolster the Riverlands, Tristifer had employed a variety of strategies. He had secured new charters for both Fairmarket and Saltpans, breathing new life into their stagnating economies. According to Maester Vyman, those charters had been languishing for nearly half a century before Tristifer's intervention.

Additionally, he had leveraged old connections from his time as a gold cloak, trading favors with various guild leaders in King's Landing. He convinced them to establish subsidized branches in Maidenpool, Saltpans, and Fairmarket.

The Smith's Guild, traders, fletchers, and many others had all acquiesced after a few well-placed negotiations.

The changes had been positive, though slow for now, with projections looking promising.

However, new problems had emerged in the process, the most troublesome being in Maidenpool and Saltpans. While their rulers—Lord William Mooton and Ser Quincy Cox—had both reluctantly and eagerly supported his plans, the real issue arose with the burghers in both cities. These traders, far from welcoming the increased flow of goods, had become little more than opportunistic middlemen, taking advantage of the trade boom that Tristifer's position as Hand of the King had created.

They set outrageous fees for the use of their warehouses and transport, fully aware of the power they wielded in their cities. Unashamed, they responded to any negotiations with tales of high costs incurred during the aftermath of the Rebellion, citing the need to finance reconstruction and other dubious claims.

While the economic setback of the war and its aftermath was undeniable, Tristifer found it curious when his men investigated other trading cities like Gulltown, Duskendale, and even King's Landing. There, trade activity had not only rebounded but, in some cases, had already surpassed pre-Rebellion levels—and, more importantly, profits had skyrocketed.

The merchants were, in the end, fleecing him. He was the one bearing the brunt of the costs, whether through scaring off otherwise eager trading partners or the reduced taxes from the cities, to name just a few examples.

Fixing this situation was near the top of his priorities.

More than once, in his more frustrated moments, Tristifer had considered putting all the greedy bastards to the sword. But Maester Allard had come to him with a more interesting and realistic solution—one that was proving far more strategic. The key was to cut them out entirely, to eliminate their hold on the trade routes.

The problem, as Allard had pointed out, was that these merchants only dared to exploit him because the ships and merchants arriving weren't directly affiliated with him. Some were Riverlanders, others hailed from the Vale, the North, and even Essos, but none were bound to House Mudd.

Maester Allard had suggested that Tristifer acquire a fleet of his own—specifically, a merchant fleet—and build new warehouses and logistical networks to either threaten to or actually bypass the middlemen entirely. Either letting them lose their livings or fall in line.

It was no small task to acquire a fleet, and building one from scratch would be far too costly and time-consuming. But this was where being Hand proved invaluable. Nothing had been finalized yet, but Tristifer had a very interesting plan already in the works.

"My Lord, the chest as you requested."

Tristifer turned to see a servant clad in Mudd colors, bowing deeply as he gestured to a sturdy chest.

"You have my thanks," Tristifer replied, a small pleasure stirring within him. It pleased him to see servants in his house's colors serving his family. He imagined his grandfather would have been just as pleased. They had spoken of such things years ago during Tristifer's childhood—dreams of power that had never imagined Riverrun as their seat. It had seemed so impossibly distant at the time.

"These as well, my lord." The servant reached into his tunic and pulled out a number of missives. "The Maester apologizes for the delay."

"I would expect his focus to be on the birth," Tristifer replied with a wave of his hand. "No worry. If you could place them on my desk for me?"

The servant bowed once more before leaving the room after doing so.

Tristifer carefully opened the chest, nodding in satisfaction as he confirmed it was untouched since he had packed it in King's Landing, the near-invisible string across it still undisturbed.

His gaze then shifted to the missives resting on his desk.

After a moment's thought, he turned back to the chest, lifting it and placing it carefully on the desk as well before settling into his seat.

Grabbing the first letter from the pile, Tristifer saw it was from Lord Eddard Stark, wishing luck for Sarra's pregnancy and inquiring about his brother. Tristifer set it aside, placing it in the "personal urgent" pile. He had a system for these—sorting them into personal and business, urgent and non-urgent.

He spent the better part of the next hour sorting and skimming through the letters, pausing occasionally to jot down a reply. Most, however, were set aside to be addressed later, their urgency inconsequential with the Maester already occupied regardless.

Some were nothing more than mindless congratulations on the impending birth of his child, clearly sent by those eager to make an impression by being the first to extend well wishes.

Others, however, were more substantive. There were reports of unrest in the Iron Islands. Since Lord Quellon Greyjoy's death, his successor, Lord Balon, had remained silent and isolated on the islands. The only thing stopping Tristifer from suspecting outright rebellion was the continued arrival of the yearly taxes on time. Still, it was a concern, though one that would have to wait for now.

Elsewhere, there were some economic reports Tristifer had personally requested—outside of the ones he received from Lord Mace during the Small Council meetings. While the Tyrell was far from inept with numbers, he had a tendency to downplay less favorable reports and emphasize the positive ones. This, of course, made Tristifer double-check the figures. In truth, they weren't far off from each other, but the discrepancy added up. Tristifer couldn't afford to be blind to potential issues, especially if troubling concerns began to surface.

It wasn't all business, however. Over the past year, Tristifer had built up some key relationships with certain lords across the realm who were of interest to his plans.

The first was Lord Gerold Grafton of Gulltown, an ambitious man around Tristifer's age, eager to rebuild after his father's loyal but ultimately disastrous decision to side with the Crown against his liege lord. That choice hadn't only cost his father's head—it had cost the Graftons much of their standing. Lord Gerold, though, was determined to restore his house to prominence, and Tristifer could see the potential in his ambition.

Next was Ser Quincy Cox of Saltpans. The older knight was eager, almost to the point of impatience, for Tristifer's plans to come to fruition. His enthusiasm had proven invaluable, especially when compared to the hesitancy of his counterpart, Lord Mooton. Ser Quincy was quickly solidifying his place as one of Tristifer's most loyal vassals in the Riverlands, someone he could rely on when the need arose.

Third was Lord Renfred Rykker of Duskendale. Since the Defiance of Duskendale, the city had been shunned, and trade had suffered greatly. Under Tristifer's leadership, however, Duskendale was beginning to regain its former strength, and Tristifer had made sure to remind Lord Renfred of who to thank for it.

Finally, and most substantially, was Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor. In this case, it was Tristifer courting the lord. The powerful Reachman seemed intrigued by the idea, and although they had agreed on nothing concrete yet, Tristifer had already broached the topic of purchasing a fleet from the Redwyne family. The Redwyne Fleet numbered in the hundreds, and the older lord had hinted that, for the right price, he could be convinced to part with some of them. Tristifer was still considering just what he was willing to sacrifice to secure that fleet.

Each of these lords, while important in their own right, also governed vital trade centers—differing in size, but all crucial for commerce in their respective regions.

Tristifer wouldn't go so far as to call them allies, but through letters and conversations—particularly during his wedding—they had all shown a certain warmth toward his position as Hand of the King. Each had expressed interest in mutual cooperation, offering glimpses of what they could achieve together.

For his part, and given the considerable trade power they collectively held, Tristifer envisioned the potential formation of a Trade League—an alliance that could wield significant influence over the realm's politics long after his tenure as Hand. Naturally, he imagined himself at its head. Future members, should his ambitions take shape, might include Lord Manderly of White Harbor, a key figure in northern trade. The grand prize, however, would be securing Lord Hightower of Oldtown, whose control of the ancient and sprawling port city would solidify the League's dominance, even if such an alliance seemed improbable at present.

A final project he had set in motion was nearing fruition. Tristifer had sponsored dozens of literate merchant's sons, minor nobility, and other promising individuals to travel to the Citadel, not with the intent of producing traditional maesters, but rather to foster a different kind of scholar. He sought the half-maesters—the learned men who did not bear the heavy chains of the Maester's vows, nor the constraints of their rigid hierarchy. These were the scholars who could think beyond tradition, who could serve him and the Riverlands in ways the Citadel's more orthodox scholars could not.

They would study a range of subjects and return with the promise of fine livelihoods in exchange for their services. Tristifer also promised generous rewards for any innovations, solutions, or discoveries that could help and enrich the Riverlands.

One need only look to the Free Cities to see the potential for progress; it was clear to him that the Seven Kingdoms were stagnating, and Tristifer refused to accept this as an inevitability.

With a final exhale, Tristifer allowed his thoughts to shift from ambitious dreams and future plans back to the present—where immediate responsibilities demanded his attention. He took a steadying breath and sifted through the stack of requests from his Small Councilors, the weight of governance pressing down on him once again.

The first was a request from the Master of Coin for final approval to allocate funds toward refurbishing dilapidated houses in King's Landing. Thankfully, it required nothing more than his signature and seal. If the matter had reached his desk, then Lord Tyrell's subordinates would already have thoroughly vetted it.

He reached into the chest, retrieving his two official seals: one bearing the crowned crest of House Mudd, the other the sigil of the Hand, symbolizing his office. With practiced precision, Tristifer poured a small pool of molten wax onto the document and, before it could cool, pressed each seal firmly into place. The impressions set crisply into the wax, their unmistakable marks affirming his authority and approval.

It was almost laughably easy, considering the weight it carried. For him, it was a fleeting moment, an insignificant task amidst a mountain of others. Yet, for the tens—perhaps hundreds—of King's Landing's inhabitants, it meant roofs over their heads, warmer nights, and lives pulled just a little further away from misery. He set the sealed parchment aside with a quiet nod, acknowledging the unseen lives it would touch.

---

It had been three and a half tense hours before one of Maester Vyman's assistants entered Tristifer's solar.

Tristifer was on his feet in an instant, dread coiling in his stomach as he turned to face the young man.

"The Maester requests your presence, my lord," the assistant said, his voice calm but guarded.

Tristifer's eyes searched the man's face. "Bad news?" he asked, his voice steady but edged with concern.

"Not necessarily," the assistant replied, offering little reassurance.

Without another word, Tristifer brushed past him into the corridor. Ser Barristan silently fell into step behind, moving with the ease of a shadow.

When they reached the birthing chambers, Tristifer was surprised to find two familiar figures waiting outside. His wards, Benjen and Edmure, stood together, their faces a mix of curiosity and nervous energy.

"Benjen? Edmure?" Tristifer said, his voice light despite the tension in his chest. "What are you doing here and not in the training yard?"

Benjen, now five-and-ten, shrugged. Edmure, two years younger, flushed slightly, the tips of his ears reddening. The two had grown close despite their age difference. What had started with Edmure trailing after the Stark boy, begging to train with him, had blossomed into a steadfast bond. These days, they were inseparable, often seen sparring in the courtyard from dawn till dusk.

"We wanted to see the babe, my lord," Benjen explained, standing straight. Tristifer had tried to convince the Stark boy to forgo the formalities in private, but Benjen was resolute.

Beside him, Edmure nodded quickly. "Aye," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tristifer inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Very well. I suppose you two might just earn the honor of being the first to meet the newest member of the family."

"Boy or girl?" Edmure blurted out, then immediately shrank back under Tristifer's gaze. "S-sorry," he stammered.

Tristifer sighed gently, the boy's shyness not unexpected. It had taken time for Edmure to warm to him, given the circumstances of his wardship. Sarra, Tristifer's wife, was Edmure's cousin on his mother's side, which had helped ease the transition, but the boy's trust was still tentative.

"What do I hope for?" Tristifer asked, letting the question linger. Edmure nodded hesitantly.

"My wife insists it's a boy," Tristifer said, a wry smile touching his lips. "She's been saying so since the moment she learned of the pregnancy—claims she can feel it." His smile faded slightly. "But truly, I'll be grateful for either—a boy or a girl—so long as they're healthy."

Edmure seemed to relax a little at the response, his posture easing, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the chamber door as if expecting something to come bursting through.

Tristifer turned to Ser Barristan. "I suppose there's no time like the present."

The older knight allowed himself a small, measured smile. "I can't claim much experience with the birth of a child of my own, my lord, but I was present for most of Queen Rhaella's labors. It's not something a father should miss if he can help it." His tone carried a quiet wisdom, though the smile faltered, shadowed by memories. The tragedy of Queen Rhaella's many pregnancies and the sorrow they brought had clearly left its mark on the knight, as it had on all who served her.

Touched by the weight in Ser Barristan's words, Tristifer placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of quiet understanding. The knight inclined his head in gratitude.

The muffled sounds of labor reached Tristifer's ears, faint through the heavy door. He withdrew his hand, feeling his pulse quicken. Steeling himself, he stepped toward the door. The cries grew sharper as he neared, and the tension coiled tighter in his chest.

With a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

Inside, attendants rushed to and fro, their movements swift and purposeful, the air thick with urgency. The scent of sweat, herbs, and faint traces of blood mingled, sharp and almost metallic. A brazier glowed in the corner, filling the room with a dim, flickering warmth that danced across the walls.

Maester Vyman stood by the bedside, his face calm but focused as he murmured instructions to the midwives. Sarra lay propped up on a mountain of pillows, her hair plastered to her forehead in damp strands, her skin pale but determined. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the bedframe, the strain of each contraction etched into her face.

Tristifer hesitated in the doorway, his breath catching as he took in the scene. The reality of it struck him anew—this was not a distant concern to be solved or a battle to be fought. This was his wife, his child.

Sarra's eyes fluttered open at the sound of his boots crossing the threshold. Her gaze found him, and despite the obvious pain, her lips curved into a faint smile.

"Tristifer," Sarra gasped, her voice breaking halfway through a moan of pain, but beneath it was a note of unmistakable relief, like a woman sighting shore after a storm.

He was at her side in an instant, his hand slipping into hers, steady and firm despite the tremor he felt in his own heart. Her grip tightened, as if anchoring herself to him amid the chaos.

"I'm here," he replied, his voice low but steady. "Stay strong, Sarra. Soon, we'll hold our child in our arms."

Another contraction wracked her body, and Sarra arched against the pillows, a sharp cry escaping her lips. Her free hand gripped the sheets with knuckles white from the strain. Tristifer's heart twisted at the sight, helpless to do more than stay by her side. He leaned in closer, his forehead nearly touching hers.

"You're doing so well," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, the words feeling achingly inadequate. His heart twisted painfully in his chest, seized by the sheer helplessness of watching her endure such agony while he could do nothing to ease it.

How strange, he thought, that this felt harder than battle. In war, there was danger, fear—but also the comfort of action, the distraction of agency. Here, he was left with nothing but the rawness of his own powerlessness, each of her cries carving deeper into his soul.

A throat cleared behind him, drawing his attention. "My lord," came the measured voice of Maester Vyman.

Tristifer turned, his expression sharpening as he took in the older man's purposeful demeanor. The maester gestured toward a quieter corner of the chamber, his expression calm but urgent. "A word, if you please."

Tristifer hesitated, his hand still clasping Sarra's. She felt his pause and gave a faint nod, her teeth gritted against the next wave of pain. "Go," she managed between labored breaths. "I'll be fine."

Reluctantly, Tristifer released her hand, pressing a kiss to her damp brow before following Maester Vyman to the edge of the room. There, away from the flurry of midwives and attendants, the maester turned to him, his tone low but firm.

"My lord, I wished to inform you that the birth is progressing quite rapidly," Vyman began, his measured tone doing little to mask the gravity of his words. His steady gaze held Tristifer's, though the Maester seemed to weigh each word with care.

Tristifer's brows knit together, unease stirring in his chest. "And this means?" he asked, letting the question hang heavy in the air.

Vyman hesitated for a heartbeat, then continued, his voice calm but deliberate. "It is difficult to say with certainty. A swift labor can be unremarkable—or it can carry risks. I will say we've moved past the most concerning early stages. That said, the babe is nearing crowning, which, while promising, can sometimes bring its own complications."

Tristifer leaned forward, his voice sharp with urgency. "What kind of complications?"

"Typically, a rapid labor occurs in women who've given birth before or in younger mothers. If I may be so bold, your lady wife may well belong to the latter category—if we are fortunate. However, such speed can also put strain on her body... especially her internal tissues. It's usually something we would notice immediately, and thus far, there's been no sign of such damage. Still, I wanted to make you aware of the potential risks."

Tristifer fell silent, processing the Maester's words. He pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded resolutely. "I appreciate your candor, Maester. Is there anything else I should know?"

Maester Vyman's response was calm. "You may return to your wife, my lord."

He didn't hesitate. Striding back, he took his place by Sarra's side once more, his hand finding hers with reassuring firmness.

She met his gaze, her eyes clouded with exhaustion and question, but he offered her only a soft, comforting smile. "There's nothing to worry about," he murmured, his voice steady despite the storm within him. "Just focus on staying strong. We're almost there."

Sarra's eyes flickered with uncertainty, her lips parting as if to ask another question, but the words were lost as another contraction gripped her. She squeezed Tristifer's hand with a force that took him by surprise, a reminder of the strength she was summoning in the face of her pain.

For what felt like an eternity, this was his world—his pulse racing in his ears as he watched her struggle, unable to do anything but offer his presence and steady hand. The helplessness gnawed at him. The only thing keeping him from despair was Maester Vyman's reassurances that the labor was nearing its end.

Then, without warning, a midwife's shout broke through the tension, sharp and urgent. "The babe's crowning now!"

Tristifer's breath caught in his throat, a mixture of horror and relief flooding his chest. Maester Vyman appeared at the bedside in an instant, confirming the news with a brief glance before turning to Sarra.

"Not much longer now, my lady," he said, his voice firm and steady. "Keep pushing."

He quickly took command of the room again, barking orders to the midwives with a precision Tristifer couldn't follow in his dazed state. All he could do was watch, his hand never leaving Sarra's, as the moment they had both been waiting for drew ever closer.

Tristifer felt as though he were imprisoned within his own body, powerless to do anything but watch and endure. Sarra's screams echoed through the chambers, a relentless, unending sound that seemed to grow in intensity as the contractions came faster and harder. Every cry made his heart twist with helplessness.

Then, at last, a sharp, shrill scream pierced the air—a sound so raw and primal that it shook him to his core. His breath caught, his entire body rigid, as his gaze snapped downward to where the midwife emerged from between Sarra's trembling legs, holding a tiny, wriggling form in her arms. The babe, slick with fluids, was a shock to his senses, but Tristifer's eyes were locked on the child, unable to look away even as the midwife moved swiftly to clean and swaddle the baby in a soft blanket. The elderly midwife's hands moved with the practiced speed and precision of someone who had seen hundreds of births, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions coursing through Tristifer.

Sarra, in her exhaustion, seemed almost delirious, her eyes glazed and distant as she muttered incoherently about her baby. Tristifer's heart ached at the sight, and he leaned down, his hand gentle as it stroked her cheek. The touch seemed to ground her, if only for a moment, and her eyes fluttered open, meeting his with a faint glimmer of recognition. She whispered his name weakly, as though drawing strength from his presence.

"It's over, you were wonderful," Tristifer murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he gently brushed a strand of hair from Sarra's damp forehead. "We have our child, Sarra."

Her head, heavy with exhaustion, lifted slowly from the pillows as she searched his face, her eyes wide with an almost desperate need. "Where?" she asked, her voice trembling on the verge of tears, the pain still lingering in her features.

Tristifer's heart clenched at the sight, and he leaned closer, guiding her gaze gently toward the swaddled babe that rested in the arms of the midwife. "Breathe, my wife," he whispered softly, his thumb tracing circles along her knuckles, urging her to steady herself.

The midwife, careful and reverent in her movements, approached, her voice calm as she spoke the words that Tristifer had been aching to hear. "A boy, my lord and lady," she announced, her hands steady as she lowered the newborn to Sarra's waiting breast.

Sarra's breath caught, and Tristifer saw the faint glimmer of a smile flicker across her face as their son was placed into her arms, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the presence of the tiny life they had created.

They both gazed down at the tiny creature in awe, the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest a quiet miracle between them. For a moment, the world outside the chamber faded, and there was only this new life—fragile, beautiful, and perfect.

The peaceful silence was broken by Maester Vyman's voice, unexpectedly calm amidst the flurry of emotions. "What will you name the boy?"

Sarra looked up at him, her eyes shining with a quiet joy, and her fingers gently stroked the babe's downy head. She met Tristifer's gaze, and for a brief moment, there was a wordless exchange between them. "I was thinking... Tristan, after your grandsire," she said softly, her voice thick with affection.

Tristifer, moved by her choice, smiled warmly at the Maester. "A wonderful suggestion," he agreed, his voice tinged with pride. "Tristan it is."

Maester Vyman gave a small, approving nod, his gaze lingering briefly on the newborn. "Now, the boy needs nourishment," he said gently, his tone firm yet compassionate as he turned to Sarra with a quiet imploring look.

Sarra, still flushed from the effort, met his gaze with steady resolve. She nodded, her eyes soft but determined. "I will do it."

Tristifer rose slowly, giving Sarra's hand one last reassuring squeeze before stepping back. He glanced at the two of them, his heart full with a mixture of awe and relief, and then quietly withdrew from the bedside to grant them a measure of privacy.

Maester Vyman moved to Tristifer's side, his expression grave yet reassuring. "A healthy boy and mother, my lord. We will keep them under observation, of course, but the gods have been merciful."

Tristifer's smile was genuine, a rare warmth in his gaze. "Your actions today will not be forgotten, Maester. Neither my wife nor I will allow it."

The Maester shook his head, a modest flicker of discomfort in his eyes. "My lord, I only did my duty."

"You've given me an heir, and to the Riverlands, that is no small service," Tristifer countered firmly. "You have my deepest gratitude."

For a moment, Maester Vyman stood in silence, the weight of the lord's words sinking in. With a quiet, respectful bow, he replied, "As you say, my lord."

"Let me not keep you from your rest," Tristifer insisted, his voice softer now. "Take the day off, Maester."

The Maester nodded silently, though the slight furrow of his brow suggested he wasn't entirely convinced he'd heed the advice. Still, he gave no argument, merely offering a quiet bow before stepping back.

Tristifer turned his attention back to Sarra and their son, the tiny babe nursing contentedly from her breast as a midwife hovered nearby, watching over them with quiet care. Sarra gazed down at their child with a look of pure adoration, her eyes soft and filled with love.

Tristifer couldn't help but marvel at how small the baby was—he hadn't known children could be so delicate. His thoughts wandered to his first son, Triston, who he'd not seen before he was three. The stark contrast between the two boys—one a trueborn heir, the other a bastard—struck him unexpectedly.

He imagined Triston, likely playing with Aegon and Rhaenys at the Red Keep, under Elia's watchful eye. He hoped his son didn't miss him too much. Tristifer knew how much Triston valued every visit he could manage between his duties. He made a point to sit with the children for meals at least twice a week, savoring those moments. But he also knew that, for Triston, longer absences had sprung up from time to time. Tristifer only hoped he could bring his bastard son along when he got a little older, at least to Riverrun.

At first, Triston had been deeply upset by the separation, the absence of his mother leaving a void in his young heart. Elia had done her best to fill that gap, but it wasn't the same. Tristifer felt the sting of guilt every day for taking his son away from her. He knew that Triston, despite being a child of his own blood, would always feel the absence of his mother more keenly than anyone else.

But there simply was no way around it. There was no world where Tristifer could afford to bring Elenei along, even if she had wanted to. She was no woman to be kept hidden as a paramour, no matter how much Sarra had accepted the arrangement. Tristifer had made a choice—the best choice, in his eyes—though it pained him to see the effects it had on Triston. He would make it up to his son, he swore that. It was a pledge Tristifer made to himself in quiet moments like these, and one he intended to keep, no matter the cost.

Tristifer sighed, pushing those thoughts aside. Now was not the time for such heavy reflections.

His family had grown once again. Sarra was happy, their son was healthy. For now, he needed to embrace the joy of this moment, to hold onto the warmth that surrounded him, at least for a little while. Duty and past regrets could wait.

End of Chapter

Wow, hello again. It seems my hope to finish this story before the new year was a little ambitious but here is the penultimate-penultimate chapter of the story. I am planning for the last to be only a smaller epilogue so the next chapter is in truth the final proper one.

15 000 words is quite a lot and we travel from Varys to Sarra, Robert and Tristifer. Varys becomes slightly less mysterious but he still the Spider, who knows what he will do?

Sarra has a wonderful wedding while Robert wakes up in dubious liquids, it seems he isn't a lot more disciplined in this new universe either, though the Golden Company may set him straight.

Finally Tristifer gains his heir and old grandpa Tristan is surely pleased one would hope.

Until next time!