The Iron Hand
The wind was nearly still as the bloodiest day in Westeros for at least a century drew to a close. The chaos and fury of battle had given way to triumph, defeat, and overwhelming exhaustion, both physical and mental, for all who remained.
The screams and shouts had faded into moans of pain or suffocating silence, as the Stranger's shadow crept across the bloodstained river.
Tristifer rode wearily atop his mount. The earlier rush of triumph had drained away, replaced by a heavy somberness and gnawing doubts. If someone had asked him directly whether he would sacrifice everything, even Addam, to achieve his ambitions, he knew which choice he would have made. But it was the part of him that sought to justify the loss of his brother that troubled him most.
He struggled in that part to find anything he wouldn't sacrifice for his desires, save his own life. It felt crude and callous, but he had been so singularly focused on gaining power that now, having seized it, he found himself almost at a loss for what to do next. So much had been sacrificed—thousands had died, blood had flowed like water—and yet he could only vaguely grasp that he needed to atone, somehow.
There was a debt upon his soul now, one he wasn't sure could ever be repaid. Though Tristifer was not a religious man, having always said the right words merely to suit his company and the moment, a part of him wondered if the gods—Old, New, or something else entirely—had spared him from this battle, this war, this life, for some greater purpose.
"My lord, Lord Tully and Ser Addam have been... separated and prepared for travel," Lord Tytos Blackwood reported from Tristifer's flank. A rotating cast of commanders and lords had followed him through the battlefield's aftermath, each with their own agendas, concerns, and demands. It was exhausting, but at least it offered some distraction.
Tristifer intended to stay busy until sheer fatigue drowned out the thoughts he couldn't bear to dwell on for too long.
Trying to pull his mind away from Addam, he quickly shifted the conversation. "What are the latest numbers on casualties and prisoners for both sides?"
Lord Tytos spoke with a solemn tone. "The most recent counts put our losses at nine thousand men, while the rebels have lost nearly half their force—ten thousand in total. Lord Crabbe of Crackclaw Point, Lord Footly, Lord Blackbar of the Reach, and Ser Brune of Brownhollow have all fallen on our side. As you know, Lord Commander Hightower was injured, along with many other lords and knights suffering various degrees of injury."
He paused before continuing, his voice growing graver. "On the rebel side, it's confirmed that Lord Tully has perished, along with Lord Melcolm and Lord Lynderly of the Vale. We've also captured Lord Jon Arryn, along with Lords Bracken, Piper, Mallister, Redfort, Royce, Belmore, and Corbray."
The names caught Tristifer's attention, especially Jon Arryn, but also Royce, Mallister, Bracken, and Corbray. A particular thought flickered in his mind—there was no way he would ever part with Lady Forlorn. Lord Corbray would want the sword back, he would either have to accept Tristifer's conquest of it or suffer the consequences.
"Almost twenty thousand casualties," Tristifer remarked quietly.
"Indeed," Tytos Blackwood replied, his voice heavy. "Bloodier than the first battle... but hopefully the final one." There was a note of uncertainty in his tone.
"It is the final one," Tristifer declared firmly.
"Robert Baratheon is still at large, and he leads some men," Blackwood pointed out as they rode back into camp, heading for their tents.
Tristifer's expression hardened. "In the past year, and especially with this battle, we've killed or captured over half of the rebelling lords. Most of the others have bent the knee. Baratheon may be impulsive and willful, but he's no fool. He knows when he's beaten. If he has any sense left, he'll flee to Essos. Hopefully, we'll intercept his ship on the way, but most likely, he'll slip through."
He paused, considering the situation. "Even if he does escape, it will take years—perhaps decades—before he has any chance to threaten the realm again. By then, we'll be ready."
Tytos held Tristifer's gaze for a moment, searching for any hint of doubt. Finally, he nodded. "I suppose, my lord," he replied, his tone measured. With a respectful inclination of his head, he turned and made his way toward his own tent.
Tristifer dismounted slowly, handing the reins of his courser to a waiting servant. He had named the horse Stormbreaker, a title he found fitting after the role the steed had played in the defeat of Robert Baratheon.
A squire of Lord Randyll Tarly helped him out of his armor, the weight of the plate armor finally lifting from his exhausted body. Tristifer had yet to take a squire of his own, but he suspected that would soon change. He thanked the young lordling, a boy from one of Tarly's vassal houses, and dismissed him with a nod of acknowledgment.
The day had been won. The rebels lay defeated, even if Robert Baratheon still lived. In this moment, only Mace Tyrell with the full strength of the Reach, or a coalition of most of his allies turning against him, could hope to challenge his Handship. Otherwise, Tristifer stood unchallenged—the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.
King's Landing awaited, and with it, the Iron Throne, where he would shape the future of the realm for decades to come. But Tristifer was not naive; he knew that this moment, this pinnacle of power, would likely be the greatest he would ever hold. The memories of lords were short, their egos demanding, and by claiming the throne, he had likely signed his own death warrant—destined to face whatever fate his next adversary could devise.
His challengers only needed to get lucky once, while Tristifer would have to fight and struggle with every new threat. Now, his task was clear: to escape this death warrant with as much of his hard-won gains as possible.
There was still work to be done before he could return. He needed to lead the relief of Willow Wood and send forces into the Riverlands to crush any lingering resistance. This would further indebt the Riverland lords to him and lay the groundwork for his future plans.
In addition, he had made a decision regarding his bastard son. Elenei had hinted at it when he departed weeks ago: he was to take the boy and raise him, offering him opportunities and resources far beyond what he would have as the fatherless son of an innkeeper. Tristifer wanted to persuade Elenei to join them for Triston's sake, but he remembered her conflicted expression and hesitation when he had broached the subject before leaving.
The thought of separating his son from his mother didn't sit well with him, but he was confident he could find a compromise if it came to that. After all, the inn wasn't far from King's Landing, and it lay along the route to the Riverlands. One way or another, Triston would have the best life Tristifer could provide, and he was determined to raise him well, regardless of the challenges.
Tristifer collapsed heavily onto his cot, the rough bedding that had irritated him throughout the long march from King's Landing now feeling like a luxury against his battered body. The aches of battle and the weight of exhaustion pressed down on him, and the moment his eyes closed, sleep overtook him—deep and dreamless.
Lord Mace Tyrell sweated under the relentless sun, grateful that the heat and his bodily discomfort masked his rising nerves. News from the Royalist host had been scarce, but a few weeks ago, word finally reached them of the decisive victory—and Robert Baratheon's flight.
The news had both elated and frustrated Mace. On the one hand, the Royalists had triumphed, but on the other, the irksome Mudd knight had not only survived but fought heroically on the frontlines, orchestrating an impressive victory. Robert Baratheon, who had once seemed assured of winning the war, had fled the continent with only a few hundred men. Worst of all, the upstart had managed to acquire a Valyrian steel blade in the process.
House Tyrell, to Mace's eternal shame, might not have the strongest claim when it came to lineage and heritage, but at least they had been prominent royal stewards for generations. Tristifer Mudd, despite all his talk of ancient royal bloodlines and lofty titles, was little more than a lowborn cur who had risen far beyond his station.
Mace was further displeased by his absence from the battle, not due to his own choice but by the order of his mother, who had demanded he remain in King's Landing. Obedient as ever, Mace had followed her wishes, filling the court with Reachmen loyal to House Tyrell—servants, cooks, and even prominent figures like magisters and harbormasters. His mother had instructed him to be subtle in this, though her letters were far from subtle themselves, filled with sharp words and more expletives than Mace cared to recall. Still, the parts describing his newborn daughter, Margaery, softened the sting.
On days like this, when the stench of King's Landing became especially unbearable, Mace longed to abandon the wretched city and return to the peace of Highgarden. There, he could enjoy a juicy fruit, sip a fine glass of Arbor Gold, and relax on a balcony overlooking the slow-moving Mander. If not for his mother's insistence, he would have done so already.
Instead, he found himself standing in the dusty courtyard of the Red Keep, forced to greet an upstart lowborn who fancied himself Hand of the King. It was all deeply humiliating—his sweat, the very situation. It had been Mace's men who had won this war. Without the Reach's might, Tristifer Mudd would be rotting in a ditch, and Robert Baratheon would be sitting on the Iron Throne. Yet, instead of any acknowledgment, the hedge knight was showered with raucous celebrations at the head of Mace's army—a full triumph through the city, followed by a grand ceremony in the Red Keep.
It was as nauseating as the city's stench. Mace had heeded Lord Tarly's advice when he chose to follow the upstart's plan, confident that if the hedge knight succeeded, it would be easy enough to claim his rightful place as leader of the Royalists in time.
Mace clenched his teeth as Tristifer Mudd, leading a retinue of lords, knights, and hundreds of soldiers, entered the courtyard. The space was filled to capacity with Targaryen Household Guards, and to Mace's side stood Queen Mother Elia with King Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, flanked by three white-cloaked knights of the Kingsguard.
Ser Barristan Selmy looked as formidable as ever, despite his greying hair. The Kingsguard knight, who had twice turned his cloak, now stood as prominently as if his loyalty had never been questioned. Mace couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment—not so much for Selmy's past betrayals, but for the fact that the man, a proven traitor, was now given a position more prominent than his own.
He was the Lord Paramount of the Reach, and yet a knight who had betrayed two kings stood ahead of him. Mace's face burned with indignation, though the blazing sun provided him with a convenient excuse for his flushed cheeks.
Mace barely managed to compose himself as Tristifer Mudd finished his greetings with the royal family and began moving down the line of courtiers, with Lord Commander Gerold Hightower following closely at his side. The sight of Mace's own uncle-in-law shadowing this lowborn as if he were royalty or legitimate Hand only fueled his indignation.
"L-Lord Hand, allow me the pleasure of congratulating you on your fantastic victory," Mace said, his words stumbling slightly as the title caught in his throat.
"I thank you for your kind words, my lord," Mudd replied with a practiced humility. "Of course, it will not be forgotten that it was your men and swords who accomplished it, I wager numerous songs will be written of your brave and fierce warriors who were the reason for our victory."
Mace forced a loud laugh, though he felt his eye twitch with irritation. "Isn't that the truth of it," he replied, his smile strained.
Mudd's eyebrow arched slightly as they held each other's gaze, an awkward silence developing. "I suppose we will see each other at the council meeting?" the Hand eventually said, nodding courteously.
Mace never imagined he would receive such lordly courtesy from a dirty lowborn.
Mudd might have cloaked himself in gleaming plate armor, with a golden cape draped over his shoulder and his heraldry boldly displayed for all to see. Now, he even carried a Valyrian steel sword at his side, the ruby in its hilt gleaming as the sunlight hit it. Why the gods would grant such an honor to a pest like him was beyond Mace's understanding—it was almost more humiliating than if Lord Lannister had gotten his paws on one. Almost.
The entire display, from the armor to the sword, made Mudd look every bit the nobleman. And, infuriatingly, it was convincing. Many lesser men had already been swayed, the spineless fools. Had they no shame?
But his mother had advised patience. She had instructed him to wait and assess the situation, writing that a lowborn wildcard like Mudd could present opportunities to exploit or break through the old, suffocating grudges that more storied lords were beholden to. While Mace believed the sooner the upstart was dead or removed, the better—before he did too much damage—his mother saw it differently.
Mace was certainly anxious to see how Mudd would handle the aftermath of the war. Perhaps he would be bold enough to claim a lordship for himself? Such a move would be unheard of without leave from the king, but these were unorthodox times, and the lowborn knight certainly didn't lack ambition. Didn't his 'House' have an ancestral seat somewhere in the Riverlands?
Mace would also need to adjust his tactics regarding his appointments within the Red Keep. Mudd's cousin had already asked too many questions about his intentions, and Mace had no desire for the Hand's attention to shift toward him. That could be disastrous for his efforts to quietly consolidate power.
As soon as Mudd entered the keep, a flock of sycophants trailing behind him, Mace quickly made his escape from the oppressive sun and headed for his chambers. Two Tyrell guards cleared a path through the sea of nobles, soldiers, and servants as Mace's large form pushed forward. A bit of rest would do him well, he thought, along with a small luncheon. The pork he had feasted on before Mudd's arrival was already a distant memory.
Tristifer had just slid both arms into his new fine black doublet when the door creaked open. In stepped his cousin Robin, his face lined with exhaustion, though he managed a faint smile of greeting.
"Robin! I missed you at the welcoming party in the courtyard yesterday," Tristifer remarked, moving to greet him.
"I'm sorry, matters with the City Watch kept me away. The city's been on edge since you left, and now, with the victory confirmed, people are finally starting to relax and celebrate," Robin explained wearily, an apologetic glint in his eyes.
Tristifer nodded, understanding how matters in the gold cloaks could spring up at the most inopportune moments. He pulled his cousin into a tight embrace. "No harm done. Honestly, you didn't miss much—just a lot of preening lords and fawning minor nobles, especially those of lesser standing seem to believe I will be handing out titles and honors since I am a 'lowborn'"
As they separated, Tristifer kept his hands resting on Robin's broadening shoulders, giving him a playful once-over. "I see you've filled out since I last saw you. Bit more weight on those bones, or is it muscle?"
Robin mimicked his cousin's appraisal, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Speaking of filling out, someone finally took pity on that sorry face of yours and made you a proper doublet, eh? Outgrown the one from Harrenhal?"
Tristifer grinned at the jab. "Well, they told me showing up in only armor would send the wrong message. Apparently, I'm more than just a lucky hedge knight now."
Robin raised an eyebrow. "Really, who told you these lies? Let me guess—it comes courtesy of a certain Dornish... influence? And I'm not talking about Prince Oberyn."
"You'll never know with that tone," Tristifer shot back, a grin spreading across his face as Robin's guess hit the mark.
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments as Tristifer laced up his boots. Then Robin broke the quiet with a casual remark. "Ah, there's something I thought you'd want to know."
Tristifer glanced up at his cousin, intrigued. "Oh?"
Robin's expression was curious, his eyes a little more serious than before. "You didn't happen to catch what the smallfolk were chanting as you rode through the city?"
Tristifer frowned in thought. The ride through the city had come at the end of a long, unbroken march that had begun in the early morning. He'd been exhausted, mentally preparing for the ceremony at the Red Keep, and the cheers from the crowds had blended together into a distant, muffled roar.
"I am afraid I didn't pay much attention to it no, is there trouble?"
Robin looked at him with an significant expression. "No no on the contrary, it seems you've earned yourself an epithet—at least among the smallfolk. They're calling you the 'Iron Hand.'"
Tristifer raised an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback. He met Robin's gaze, sensing his cousin's curiosity about his reaction.
An epithet was unexpected. There was little to control about them for they sprang from nothing and if popular by the populace they would stay and color the perception of every man who heard it. The Mad King and Silver Prince were only two of the last examples.
But The Iron Hand was nothing to complain about. In fact, it seemed rather fitting. He had been a steadfast Hand of the King during the most turbulent times. From a superficial standpoint, at least for now, he appeared to be the perfect savior knight of House Targaryen and the royalists—a symbol of strength and stability in an uncertain era of the Targaryens.
They had been on the edge of oblivion, after all. The Targaryen line of kings had nearly crumbled. Prince Viserys might have survived, safe on Dragonstone as he was, but Tristifer doubted whether he could have inspired a movement strong enough to reclaim his father's throne, given the chaos before Tristifer's intervention.
Ultimately, it didn't matter. He had saved the Targaryens at their lowest point—a position far more precarious than during any of the five Blackfyre Rebellions. Never had the House of the Dragon come so close to extinction as it had only a year ago.
This only meant there was more for Tristifer to gain from saving them, though it would take time before the Targaryens themselves regained their former sway. With Aegon grown and crowned as king, Viserys and Rhaenys married off to secure key alliances, the pieces would fall into place. And they would all be in debt to him.
Yet, Tristifer knew the danger lay not just in external enemies but in the Targaryens themselves. He would do everything in his power to avoid the fractures that had emerged during Aegon V's reign—specifically, the disastrous plans and marriages that had torn apart the stability of the realm. The betrayal of Jaehaerys II and the rejection of his father's marriage proposals had likely sown the first seeds of discord that Aerys later let grow into madness. No, that could not happen again.
"What do you think of it?" Robin's voice snapped Tristifer back to the present.
For a moment, Tristifer stayed silent, gathering his thoughts. Then, remembering what they had been discussing, he replied, "I suppose it's a fine name. Flattering, certainly. It may help sway public opinion, at least with the smallfolk. They enjoy a good story, and an epithet gives them one."
Robin nodded, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I don't think it'll stay among the smallfolk for long. It's a solid epithet, and it might be worth encouraging it to spread. My... associates in more noble circles could help with that. Word has a way of traveling when it starts in the brothels."
"You've already thought this through, I see. Very well, let it spread."
Tristifer was reminded of how useful Robin's web of connections truly was, worth every silver stag spent. But he also remembered what he'd been preparing for before Robin had interrupted his thoughts.
"Would you accompany me to the council chambers? And will you be joining us today?"
Robin nodded, though his gaze seemed to shift, as if something else had caught his attention. "I've delegated the most pressing matters to Captain Lucas. I'll handle the rest after the meeting," he replied. Then, with a glance past Tristifer, he added, "But I couldn't help but notice the sword leaning against the wall behind you. I don't believe I've seen it before."
Tristifer turned briefly to where Lady Forlorn rested against the wall beside his looking-glass, the prominent red heart-shaped ruby on the hilt catching the light. It was a stunning sword, its Valyrian steel blade a mark of true craftsmanship. Still, he thought there were improvements to be made, touches that would make it a perfect fit for its new owner and a fitting ancestral weapon for House Mudd.
"Is it truly Valyrian steel, as they say?" Robin asked from behind him, a hint of reverence in his voice.
He glanced over his shoulder as he walked toward the sword. "Who says?"
Tristifer took hold of the sword by its sheath as Robin answered. "There have been countless rumors since word of your victory over the Rebels spread. The tale of you winning a Valyrian steel blade in personal combat has become quite popular. But many were uncertain about which sword it would be. Considering that Ser Lyn Corbray lost his life in battle, would it be safe to say that you're holding Lady Forlorn?"
He grasped the hilt, and with a hiss of steel, the dark ripples of the legendary Valyrian blade emerged, shimmering in the light. Robin stepped closer, eyes wide with admiration as he took in the flawless craftsmanship. "It's beautiful."
Tristifer nodded, carefully sheathing the blade and strapping it onto his sword belt. "It truly is, but I'm afraid we have a council to attend."
"Of course," Robin replied after a moment still looking at the sword on his hip.
They stepped out of Tristifer's quarters and made their way toward the stairs leading down the Tower of the Hand. They walked conversing about small matters, descending the tower and crossing the courtyard before entering the keep proper.
Tristifer noticed Robin's tension and somber demeanor as they walked. When he finally commented on it, Robin hesitated before speaking. "... Where did you lay Addam?"
Tristifer's heart clenched at the reminder. "In Sow's Horn, across the river from the mill," he began quietly. "A small ceremony, just a few nobles and some of the gold cloak lieutenants who served under him." His mind drifted back to the somber affair, remembering the moment when Addam's body was lowered beneath the great oak tree that overlooked the river and mill.
"We received Ser Roger's hospitality afterward at the keep," Tristifer continued, his voice heavy with the weight of memory. "I told him of Addam's fate, and he hailed him as his son during the feast. Vowed to honor the grave."
He sighed, feeling the tension in the air as Robin's expression darkened with simmering anger. "I can't say how sincere Ser Roger was, but he recognized Addam's death as a true knight's end. That, at least, is something Ser Roger seems to hold in high regard."
"For all the good that does now," Robin replied quietly.
"Indeed. But I believe Addam would have appreciated it. We were always his true family regardless."
"I—I should have been there," Robin said haltingly, his voice thick with regret and pain.
Tristifer turned to him, his expression softening. "There's no blame to place on yourself, Robin. You were where you needed to be, and Addam would understand that. We'll visit his grave soon, and you can pay your respects then. You know Addam would never hold it against you."
He did not wish for his cousin to blame himself for something like that. If any were to blame for Robin's absence it was his after all as it was his orders that had kept his cousin in King's Landing.
Robin remained silent, his gaze distant, but Tristifer trusted that his words would reach his cousin in time. Addam had been family to both of them, and they each carried the loss in their own way.
Any further discussion was cut short as they reached the heavy oaken doors of the council chambers. Ser Gerold and Ser Valtris nodded in greeting before admitting them entrance.
Tristifer and Robin exchanged a final look before stepping inside. This was where the fate of the Seven Kingdoms would be shaped, where House Mudd would begin its return from the brink of extinction. Tristifer hoped his grandfather was watching from beyond, proud of what he had accomplished and that his dream was finally within reach.
"Will we pursue him further?" Robin asked as they walked through the crimson corridors of the Red Keep. Today was no ordinary day, and if there was one thing Tristifer couldn't afford to be late for, it was this.
"No," Tristifer replied, his tone measured. "Braavos would never tolerate the apprehension of a man simply for being a claimant to a throne. It would set a dangerous precedent, and the Iron Bank values its reputation for providing safe asylum. If we were caught trying to abduct him, we'd risk a full-blown diplomatic crisis with Braavos. After three years of war, our treasury isn't nearly strong enough to weather such a storm. Testing the patience of Braavos—or worse, the Iron Bank—would be reckless."
Robin listened intently, nodding as they continued down the hallway.
"He's safe for now," Tristifer continued, "but consider this: either he dies in Essos, and the problem solves itself, or he eventually tries to return. If he does, we'll be ready. By then, his potential allies will be weakened, and the Targaryens will have grown stronger."
Robin stayed silent as Tristifer's thoughts drifted to Robert Baratheon—the man who had once again eluded them. Tristifer couldn't help but brood over the missed opportunity. If he had pursued Robert during his retreat from the Trident, he might have had a better chance at capturing him. Perhaps he had made the wrong choice. Away from the chaos of battle, in the cold light of reason, he could admit that prioritizing his fallen brother Addam over capturing a man who could yet rally another rebellion was likely a mistake.
But it was the choice he had made. He would never apologize for it. Honoring his chosen brother's memory was never going to be something he would apologize for, even if it led to a future punishment for himself. It certainly did not matter any longer for the decision had been made and Robert would live still.
After fleeing the disastrous defeat at the Trident with a few hundred loyal men, Robert had vanished. The Rebels had boarded ships at Saltpans, vessels whose owners even Varys couldn't trace, and sailed east across the Narrow Sea. The Royal Navy, under Ser Monford Velaryon, had intercepted five ships leaving the Bay of Crabs, all heading toward Pentos. Those ships had been filled with rebels, men who had fled the Trident with Baratheon, but none carried Robert himself.
The mystery of his whereabouts had gnawed at the court until, after extensive questioning of the captured rebels, they relented. Robert and a small retinue had taken a different route, departing from Gulltown and slipping past the reports of rebels fleeing Saltpans. While Velaryon and others pursued what they believed were the escort of Baratheon, Robert had gone north, escaping to Braavos, well out of their grasp. Though in this deception a majority of the retreating rebels that had been with Robert, had been sacrificed and captured to allow for this to happen.
"It won't be the last we see of him, I'm afraid," Tristifer said, his voice tinged with frustration.
Robin nodded in agreement. "No, we won't be that lucky. But now you have the chance to make his return as difficult as possible. The peace deal will certainly leave many rebels nursing deep wounds."
That was true, Tristifer reflected as they approached the throne room. Today, for the first time, he would sit upon the Iron Throne as Hand of the King, in front of a full court, to lay out the punishments and reveal the consequences of the rebellion. The decisions had already been painstakingly debated during the council meeting three days ago, timed to allow more lords to gather in King's Landing.
A few notable absences stood out, most significantly the Whents, who had been delayed due to undisclosed matters at Harrenhal. The letters sent to King's Landing had been frustratingly vague, leaving Tristifer to wonder what was happening with the family he sought to ally with.
Still, representatives from every Lord Paramount and most major houses were in attendance, either as captives or guests. The great families of Westeros had all gathered, their fates hanging in the balance of today's judgments.
The Starks had Lord Eddard, while the Lannisters were represented by Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime of course. From Dorne was Prince Oberyn. The Tyrells had Lord Mace, and the Tullys, still reeling from the recent loss of Lord Hoster and Ser Brynden in the Rebellion, were represented by his three surviving children, brought safely to the capital by Lord Tytos Blackwood under Tristifer's command.
House Baratheon, was represented by young Renly, the only living Baratheon brother on the continent. Finally, the last of the great lords was Lord Jon Arryn, the foster father of two of the Rebels most prominent figures.
As they arrived at the side entrance to the throne room, Tristifer could feel the anticipation build within him. His cousin's voice broke his thoughts.
"For House Mudd, right?" Robin murmured, steady and reassuring at his side.
Tristifer turned, meeting Robin's gaze. For House Mudd, of course. Every step he'd taken had been for his House, even when there were very few left to bear the name. He could only hope that somewhere, his grandsire was watching, bearing witness to the realization of his lifelong dream.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded toward the door, where the murmurs of an expectant crowd drifted through the heavy wood. Robin held his gaze a moment longer, his eyes steady and full of encouragement, before stepping forward to knock firmly.
The great doors opened slowly guards in finery opening them, creaking as light spilled into the entrance and onto Tristifer. Robin moved back to his side, and together they stepped into the throne room, now gone silent, all eyes fixed on them.
The hall was packed. Hundreds of lords and ladies filled the vast space, their gazes a mixture of apprehension, awe, and wariness. Only moons ago, most of these nobles would have looked down upon him, dismissing him as a lowborn upstart. Others, even weeks ago, had clung to their status and positions, blind to how swiftly tides could turn.
That was before the Second Battle of the Trident. The First Battle had solidified Robert Baratheon as the Demon of the Trident. The Second had made Tristifer the Iron Hand, the name spoke of his firmness and spine as Hand of the King. Foreign concepts in his immediate predecessors.
Now the nobles looked at him with anticipation, awe, and fear in equal measures. And these were all either Royalists or neutrals in the war, well technically. Many were vassals of rebelling Lord Paramounts, so some had most certainly supported the Rebels in some capacity, but it had been decided by the small council after some debate to focus upon the Lord Paramounts and most prominent commanders.
Vassals were, after all, bound to follow their lieges, even if those lieges led them into rebellion. Such loyalty, however misguided, was how the system worked.
"Lord Tristifer Mudd, Hand to King Aegon the Sixth of His Name!" the herald's voice echoed, though his identity was already well-known. By now, Tristifer was likely the most famous man in the city, and though his reputation did not yet rival that of Tywin Lannister, his name had surely reached every household in the Crownlands.
The silence that followed seemed almost reverent as he approached the Iron Throne, his footsteps measured. He could feel the weight of the moment settle heavily, but he welcomed it. Today was about more than punishment; it was about stability and renewal.
Flanking the Iron Throne stood several key figures. To one side, Lord Mace Tyrell, his mouth set in a thin line, looked faintly disgruntled despite his attempt at hiding it. Beside him, Varys, draped in silk and inscrutable as ever, watched Tristifer with eyes as unreadable as his placid face. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, however, was the picture of open anticipation.
Opposite them was Princess Elia, with her expression composed but thoughtful, as she held the young Princess Rhaenys close. At her side, the Lord Commander Gerold Hightower stood like a marble sentinel. Completing the tableau, the recently arrived Queen Rhaella sat on a wooden chair near the throne, her expression an impassive mask, though Tristifer could read in her eyes the cold scrutiny she leveled at him.
Rhaella had been summoned from Dragonstone with her children: the young Prince Viserys, now seven, and the newly born Princess Daenerys. Though polite, she clearly held reservations about him—a man she saw as an ambitious outsider, thrust swiftly to power. Tristifer understood her apprehension; his rapid ascent had unsettled many, and Rhaella seemed to view him with particular suspicion.
Still, he had saved her house from ruin, and if she would not recognize that debt, then he would ensure that her disapproval would not impede him. An 'exile' on Dragonstone might be inevitable if she proved uncooperative. The ancestral island would hopefully keep her content and mitigate her influence, he would not be lucky enough to separate her children from her hands but that was something to handle at another time.
Tristifer's gaze lingered on the Iron Throne, a mass of twisted metal, melted and reforged into a towering reminder of the Conqueror's legacy. Beneath the flickering torchlight, he could make out the forms of old blades and hilts jutting from its surface, though many had melted into jagged, unrecognizable shapes. The steps leading up to the seat were uneven, yet even with these imperfections, Tristifer could not help but regard it with awe and reverence.
Most regarded the Seven Kingdoms as the Conqueror's crowning achievement, a testament to his might and Balerion's wrath. Yet Tristifer would argue otherwise; the Iron Throne itself, that jagged seat of power, might have been an even greater creation. For it was the very symbol of the realm, and when one thought of the King, they envisioned him upon this throne, regardless of who wore the crown.
He climbed the crooked steps slowly, each footfall echoing in the tense silence as hundreds of eyes followed his every movement. Reaching the topmost step, he turned and settled into the throne.
The iron was bitterly cold, and the multitude of blades woven around him, dulled though they were by years, pressed uncomfortably into his back. A part of him could not shake the fear that one might still hold a hidden edge, one that could slice his flesh. Every child of the Crownlands had heard of the fate of Maegor the Cruel, after all.
He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had come. Fourteen Targaryen kings had ruled from the Iron Throne since Maegor's day, and none had met the same fate. Whether Maegor's death was a stroke of poetic justice or the work of unseen hands, it was likely nothing more than cautionary folklore now, no more dangerous than nicking oneself on the throne's jagged edges.
Tristifer lifted his gaze to the assembled crowd, their silence thick and heavy, a tapestry woven of envy, judgment, and, in some, a glimmer of awe. The Iron Throne was more than a mere seat of iron; it was a force of its own, an amplifier of majesty and menace. If even mad King Aerys could seem imposing upon it, then surely it held a power beyond the metal.
From this height, Tristifer could understand how the Targaryen kings—and their Hands—might have been consumed by pride. Below him, the greatest lords of the realm looked lesser, reduced to figures of inconsequence. Men and women who ruled vast lands and commanded armies now seemed small, insignificant, even weak.
He barely suppressed a shake of his head at the foolish thoughts, why did he think himself better with such thoughts finding purchase in his mind. No, he was better than them, he was not one to dismiss those that could facilitate his downfall tomorrow. He had power now but it was far from limitless, right now it only seemed more significant compared to the other lords current weakness.
A full minute passed as Tristifer forced his pride and ambition into check, chiding himself for entertaining such reckless impulses. Rising from the throne, he allowed himself a moment to admire the glint of the newly set emerald in his sword's hilt, catching the light streaming through the colored windows behind him. Yesterday, he had commissioned one of the finest smiths on the Street of Steel to craft a new handle for Lady Forlorn, something more fitting for a Mudd lord.
The sword now bore a pommel adorned with a striking green emerald, encircled by a crown of small bronze spikes in homage to the ancient sigil of House Mudd. The smith had told him that the emerald was likely from distant Essos, perhaps even from the legendary mines of Yi Ti in the far east. Tristifer appreciated the rarity of the stone and was pleased with the favorable price, a gesture of gratitude from the smith for his recent defense of the city. Accepting the gift without question, he had rewarded the craftsman generously, adding a few gold dragons atop the agreed sum and promising to return if he required further work.
The blade would need a new name. Lady Forlorn belonged to House Corbray; this sword was now a possession of House Mudd, and it deserved a title that reflected its new lineage. Perhaps something tied to his own epithet? Tristifer turned the idea over in his mind, considering the immediate ideas he got. He would have to give it some thought—it was only fitting for such a weapon.
"Ladies, Lords, Sers, and all others present," Lord Tristifer Mudd proclaimed, his voice carrying through the vast hall. "I, Lord Tristifer Mudd, Hand of King Aegon, Sixth of His Name, hereby call for Lord Tywin Lannister to stand before us and hear the judgment rendered for the crimes he stands accused of."
At his summons, the guards at the great doors swung them open, revealing Lord Tywin Lannister escorted by two gold cloaks and flanked on each side by Targaryen guards. The proud lord strode forward without chains, yet there was a weariness about him, carefully concealed but unmistakable. His attire, though fine, was notably humbler than usual, with only a modest lion embroidered on his breast, a shadow of the grandeur he typically displayed. Lord Mace had provided the attire and even if Lord Lannister never even paid the Tyrell a glance Tristifer thought he could feel the animosity as Lord Tywin was stood below the dais holding the Small council and Royals.
"Lord Tywin Lannister," the Herald intoned, his voice resonating throughout the Throne Room, "you stand charged with high treason and rebellion against your rightful king. Do you deny any of these charges?"
A tense silence enveloped the crowd as Tywin's pale green eyes flicked from the Herald to Tristifer. "I do not," he replied, his voice steady.
A murmur of whispers erupted among the audience, but no one dared interrupt the proceedings—not even the Lannister vassals. Whether out of fear or an understanding that the decisions had already been debated and agreed upon, they held their tongues. The only unknown for Tywin was the extent of his punishment; he had been assured that he and his family would survive.
Tristifer met Lord Tywin's gaze without flinching, feeling a small victory when the older lord finally turned his attention back to the Herald.
"Your honesty and cooperation will not go unrecognized," the Herald continued, his voice steady. "Therefore, let it be known what the consequences of this rebellion shall be." The Throne Room held its breath in anticipation as he began to read the decree. "Firstly, House Lannister will be required to pay reparations for damages incurred during their march to and siege of King's Landing. These will be remitted to the Crown within five years. Furthermore, House Lannister's taxes to the King will be increased by half for the next ten years, after which they will be reduced by a quarter over the subsequent five years until they return to previous levels."
The reactions to this announcement were muted; while the penalties were substantial, they lacked the dramatic weight that might have stirred the crowd. Even Lord Tywin seemed unfazed, his expression betraying little concern as he listened. Tristifer wondered if he would feel the same indifference as the next points were revealed.
"Point two," the Herald announced, "the heirs of House Westerling, Lydden, and Lefford—Raynold Westerling, Alysanne Lefford, and Jonos Lydden—are to become hostages to the Crown indefinitely, until such time as decided by either the King or his Regent." This pronouncement sent a ripple of shock through the hall. Lord Tywin's eyes narrowed, his gaze locking onto Tristifer's, and a flicker of anger momentarily disturbed his composed expression. The Westerland lords and ladies gasped and muttered in dismay, though the sharp glances and readied spears of the gold cloaks swiftly quelled any open protest.
Those unfamiliar with the geography and politics of the Westerlands seemed puzzled by the choice of these particular houses, perhaps assuming them chosen at random. Yet Tristifer—and, most significantly, Tywin—understood the true weight of this decision.
The Crag, the Golden Tooth, and Deep Den guarded three of the four key routes into the heart of the Westerlands, Lannisport, the Rock, and the rich mines that formed the backbone of Lannister wealth defense would be greatly diminished with access to only one, having access to three would make Lord Tywin very hesitant for armed conflict. The final route was defended by Crakehall, but it was possible to circumvent and therefore not as critical.
The Herald continued, his voice rising over the scattered murmurs. "For the third point, Lady Cersei Lannister, daughter of Lord Tywin, will be wed to her cousin, Ser Reginald Lannister, within the year."
Confusion rippled through the crowd at this seemingly trivial command, but Tristifer knew that this was no minor detail. The match was, in fact, a carefully aimed strike. Lady Cersei's beauty and Lannister name had made her a prime asset in securing a powerful alliance for her father. Yet a marriage to Ser Reginald—who only was a Lannister of Lannisport, ever loyal to their kin regardless—was a waste politically, a move that prevented Tywin from expanding his network of allies either within the realm or beyond it.
The Herald's voice rang with finality. "And finally, Ser Jaime Lannister, guilty of kingslaying and breaking his vows to the Kingsguard, will either face death or serve the Wall bereft of his manhood and sword hand. Gods curse his name" The Herald finished in a quieter voice, still the silence let it sweep across the room.
Tristifer met Tywin's furious gaze head-on. The legendary composure of Lord Lannister had shattered, replaced by a barely concealed fury. Gone was the mask of indifference Tywin so often wore, stripped away by the weight of these judgments. On the surface, each punishment might seem minor, but together, they formed a masterful punishment that wounded Tywin's power without a single execution—an outcome that suited Tristifer well, for he lacked the political capital to demand blood and still hope to achieve his ambitions in the Riverlands.
The judgments struck at Tywin from every angle: financially, the increased taxes and reparations would be a burden on the Lannister coffers; militarily, the hostages essentially held open the gates of the Westerlands to any Royal army, leaving his defenses compromised; politically, the forced marriage of Lady Cersei destroyed any hopes of an influential alliance; and finally, personally, the loss of his golden heir wounded Tywin's pride and legacy. This last punishment, though likely the least surprising, was among the harshest, a public blow to Tywin's ambitions for House Lannister's future.
"The will of the King has been spoken," Tristifer declared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Should Lord Lannister fail in any of these demands, his life and title shall be forfeit in the eyes of the Crown. Take him away."
Tristifer held Tywin's gaze steadily, unwavering in the face of the older lord's simmering fury. The room remained silent, every noble watching as two of Tristifer's gold cloaks stepped forward, each gripping Tywin firmly by the shoulder and turning him to face the long walk back to the main entrance. Forced to walk past every noble gathered, Tywin was denied the dignity of even a hasty exit. His usually proud and commanding presence was shadowed by the weight of this humiliation.
As the doors closed with a resounding bang, Tristifer noticed he had half-risen from the Iron Throne in the heat of the moment. Steeling himself, he slowly lowered back onto the jagged seat, nodding to the Herald below. "Bring in the next."
Glancing to his left, he caught the eyes of Princess Elia and Queen Rhaella. Elia's expression held a quiet awe, a spark of admiration that hinted at newfound respect. Rhaella, however, seemed deeply unsettled, her face drawn in a look of pensive concern. She watched him with the wary eyes of someone who had lived through the consequences of unchecked power and ruthless ambition. Perhaps she feared she saw the seeds of a new Tywin Lannister in him—a prospect she was likely far from eager to embrace.
Before he could consider it further, the great doors opened once more. This time, a young boy stood framed in their shadows, his slight form dwarfed by the towering Targaryen guards on either side.
"Renly Baratheon, brother to the traitors Stannis and Robert Baratheon," the Herald proclaimed.
Renly's face was pale, eyes wide with barely concealed fear. A gentle nudge from one of his escorts prompted him forward, his steps hesitant as he approached the throne. The silence in the hall turned awkward, a different tension filling the room as nobles shifted in their seats, their unease more apparent.
Tristifer leaned back slightly, regarding the trembling boy with a measured gaze. Renly had little to fear here today—his fate was already decided, as long as he didn't do anything foolish. For now, Renly had a role to play, a pawn in the larger game, and Tristifer had every intention of keeping him alive to serve that purpose.
Yet, watching the young Baratheon, small and visibly shaken, he felt a twinge of discomfort. The boy's fear was painfully evident, this would indeed be a long day indeed.
Elia Martell felt the exhaustion approach as the proceedings stretched into the afternoon. The golden light spilling through the throne room's tall windows had grown warmer, deepening into the rich hues of late day. Hours had passed since they'd broken their fast, and though many others had come and gone, Elia remained steadfast, her gaze trained on the Iron Throne.
Her daughter Rhaenys, having dozed off some time ago, had been quietly taken to rest in her chambers. But Elia would not allow herself the same relief. She was determined to witness this day's events in full, if only for the satisfaction of seeing justice served to those who had attempted to bring devastation and ill ends to her family.
Seeing Lord Tywin forced to face his punishment made the long day feel worth it. The Lion's pride had taken a blow, both literally and figuratively. But Tywin was not a man to endure humiliation quietly, and the thought of what he might attempt in revenge left her uneasy. His silent fury as he was led away sent a chill through her—a reminder of just how dangerous a wounded lion could be.
She understood why he couldn't simply be executed; the matter had been debated extensively in the preceding Small Council meetings. Tristifer had defended the decision despite strong objections from both Lord Mace and Lord Lucerys, who had argued for a harsher penalty.
After the Lion came young Renly. Though he appeared nervous, and many had assumed he'd face harsh consequences for his brother's rebellion, he had ultimately been named the new Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. However, he was required to remain a ward of the Crown until his sixteenth nameday.
The Stormlands themselves did not escape unscathed. As punishment for their defiance, several of the Baratheons' most powerful northern vassals—House Errol, the breadbasket of the Stormlands, along with prominent houses like Cafferen, Fell, and Buckler—were transferred directly under the Crown's authority. No longer Baratheon vassals, these lands were effectively absorbed into the Crownlands, shrinking Storm's End's influence and creating a vulnerability just beyond one of the Stormlands' strongest natural defenses, the Kingswood, which had historically shielded them from northern invasions.
To further weaken any future resistance, House Martell and Dorne were given hostages from every Marcher house, stripping the Stormlands of yet another layer of protection. With these measures in place, even if an adult were to eventually rule the Stormlands, any dreams of revenge would be effectively stifled for decades. It was a calculated, ruthless punishment that curbed the Baratheons' power without completely destabilizing the region—a carefully measured approach that explained why House Baratheon, though diminished, was still allowed to remain as Lords Paramount.
Replacing Lords Paramount was risky; it set a dangerous precedent, and even attempting it carried significant risks.
After Renly Baratheon came Jon Arryn, who was treated with greater leniency. He was required to pay reparations to his vassal House Grafton and to foster any future heir he might have with his current wife, Lysa Tully, under Tristifer's guardianship. Additionally, he was forced to swear that any of his children would hold no claim to the Riverlands or Riverrun. The elderly lord seemed to recognize the mercy in these terms and accepted them without protest.
Next came Lord Eddard Stark. Acknowledging that his reasons for rebellion were justifiable, the council spared him severe punishment. He was only required to renounce any future claim his children with Lady Catelyn Tully might have to Riverrun, and to send his brother, Benjen, as a ward and hostage to Tristifer. Still, the nobles in attendance began murmuring amongst themselves. This was a rebellion, after all, and not a single lord had yet been sentenced to death for treason. A few were surely wondering if Tristifer was being too lenient.
But Elia knew their doubts would soon be dispelled, for the Hand had saved his greatest demand for last. And after this final edict, many would understand why Tristifer had been saving his political capital. If they would agree with it was another question.
As Lord Eddard's cloaked figure disappeared from the throne room, escorted by gold cloaks, three smaller figures replaced him. Murmurs of confusion rippled through the crowd as the remaining children of the late Lord Hoster Tully were led forward and brought to their knees before the Iron Throne and Tristifer.
The youngest, Lord Edmure, looked frightened, his blue eyes wide and flickering beneath his auburn fringe, much like young Renly had been. Lady Lysa, Lord Arryn's young bride, appeared both confused and fearful; it was clear she did not share her sister's composure or resolve. The eldest, Lady Catelyn, was a striking young woman whose expression balanced between the careful courtesy drilled into her by her Septa and a defiant spark, hinting at her resentment toward the man responsible for their family's downfall.
The Herald's voice rang out over the hushed crowd. "Lord Edmure Tully, Lady Catelyn Stark, and Lady Lysa Arryn are summoned before the court in place of their late father, Lord Hoster Tully."
A pause settled over the hall as the Herald continued. "It has been judged that the late Lord Tully's actions were the least justified of all who rose in rebellion, motivated by ambition over honor, and a flagrant breach of his oaths and obligations. Therefore, House Tully is found guilty of high treason and rebellion. As punishment, House Tully is hereby stripped of the Lord Paramountcy of the Riverlands and of the Lordship of Riverrun."
The Herald's gaze swept over the kneeling siblings, each reacting differently to the harsh decree. Edmure's face was ashen with fear, Lysa's lips quivered in confusion and dismay, and Catelyn's blue eyes shimmered with tears—not of fear, but of fierce, defiant anger. Compared to her siblings, she alone held her head high, her emotions tempered by pride and resentment.
"In the presence of this court and the Gods," the Herald intoned, his voice echoing through the hall, "each remaining member of House Tully shall now and forever relinquish all claims they hold, or believe themselves to hold, over Riverrun and the Riverlands."
The demand was met with profound silence, the crowd watching in a tense, almost reverent hush. Lysa and Edmure, frozen with fear and confusion, both glanced uncertainly at their eldest sister.
"I—I, Lady Catelyn… Stark," she began, her voice wavering as she grappled with the words. She faltered, and Elia noticed Tristifer's eyebrow rise in silent expectation. Catelyn swallowed, steadying herself. "...do now and forever relinquish any claim for myself or my children to the Riverlands or Riverrun."
Her voice echoed across the throne room, hanging in the heavy air. Tristifer nodded with a neutral expression before turning his gaze to Lady Lysa.
The young woman looked petrified, her face pale as she glanced nervously at her sister. With Catelyn's quiet urging, Lysa finally mustered the strength to repeat the renunciation, though her voice trembled with each word.
Young Edmure, barely ten years of age, could hardly speak above a whisper, but after further encouragement from Catelyn, he managed to murmur his own reluctant surrender.
As the boy's words faded, it felt as though the entire court collectively exhaled—whether from relief or disappointment was difficult to determine. Some nobles were indifferent to the fate of their rivals, regardless of age; a rival's downfall, no matter how it came about, was of little concern to them.
As the Herald prepared to speak, he was interrupted by Tristifer himself, rising from the Throne.
He cut an impressive figure, a glinting emerald at his hip showcasing his new Valyrian steel blade. Dressed in a sleek black doublet and trousers, he embodied the role of Hand of the King. Elia felt a surge of relief knowing that he had forged a connection with Aegon; it would be crucial to have a strong Hand to protect her son as he grew.
"I shall take young Edmure as my squire," Tristifer announced, casting a significant look at the boy. "The sins of the father shall not fall upon the son. May he serve me well, and perhaps in this duty, House Tully may regain its honor." The wordplay of House Tully's words were not lost on most.
He continued, his voice steady and commanding, "I will assume the responsibilities of Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, stewarding these lands in the name of King Aegon. My House once reigned as kings from our ancestral seat of Oldstones. House Mudd shall restore the Riverlands to the Targaryen fold and ensure that such treachery never rises again from those lands."
Elia had overheard quiet discussions and hushed debates about who would become the new Lord Paramount, and this revelation left the entire room in stunned silence.
"Court is adjourned!" Tristifer declared as he descended from the Throne. Ser Gerold, Robin, and a contingent of gold cloaks formed a protective circle around him as he left the room, seemingly indifferent to the chaos he had created.
Suddenly, Elia felt a sharp tap on her shoulder. As she turned to address the person behind her, she froze at the sight of Rhaella, whose expression was filled with concern and barely contained panic.
Elia had never seen her good mother so animated; Rhaella had always been reserved, concealing her emotions behind a mask of courtesy during the years of Aerys' reign. The intensity of her reaction left Elia unsure of how to respond.
"He's just a new Tywin all over again," Rhaella declared, her voice rising with urgency. "Can't you see how he's exploiting his dominant position? We must replace him by any means necessary!"
Elia took a step back, shocked. Replace Tristifer? After all he had done for them and for her son? She could never betray him in such a way. "What are you talking about? Calm yourself!" she insisted, unwilling to entertain such talk about Tristifer.
Rhaella's expression grew cold as she stepped back, her dark eyes glinting with intensity. The purple hue in her irises seemed to deepen, almost shifting to black in her fury.
"You've been manipulated, and you're too blind to see it," Rhaella said, her eyebrows narrowing into a severe expression as if she had reached a conclusion. "You're letting your feelings cloud your judgment. Do you really think he has feelings for you? Would he feel the same if you were just a simple lowborn?"
Elia bristled at the accusation. "How dare you! I will not listen to these lies. He saved us—saved me! When the Mountain tried to kill my children and me, he fought him single-handedly. I owe him everything."
"You wouldn't be here if not for him!" she pressed.
"That may be true," the former queen conceded, "but can't you see the threat he poses? For your son, Aegon—if he wished him harm, who could stop him?" She interrupted Elia's rebuttal with a pointed gaze. "Yes, he has accomplished his tasks, but he is not of our House. He holds no loyalty to the Dragon as we do. Who knows what he truly seeks? A weak and pliable Hand is better than a powerful and ambitious one—surely you must see that!"
"Tristifer will bring peace—"
"Poor child, blinded by what? Lust? Attraction? Love?" Rhaella scoffed, her breath coming a little heavier as her frustration mounted.
Elia blinked, stunned by how quickly their conversation had devolved. Looking around, she noticed that most of the occupants were leaving the throne room. A few had paused, their curious glances revealing that they were eavesdropping. The nobles would surely revel in the spectacle of two Queen Mothers at odds.
Shaking her head fiercely, she declared, "I will not hear more of this treason." With that, she spun on her heel, her conservative black and red dress—one she had favored since Aegon's birth—sweeping across the stone floor. The thought that people like Rhaella were already plotting to replace Tristifer filled her with anger and resolve. She would have to tell him.
She could understand the argument that they didn't know all his ambitions and motivations, but surely, after all he had done for them—saving their lives and preserving their throne—they owed him the benefit of the doubt. Why could not Rhaella see that?
End of Chapter
There we were, Tristifer is finally lord, Lord Paramount even. House Tully is unseated and Edmure will be his hostage. We shall see how that develops.
Also I thought it would be fun to see some suggestions of what to rename Lady Forlorn to, it has been refitted and now it only needs a fitting name.
Apologies for the long wait from last chapter but school is back on and takes priority. I try to write when I have time and motivation but we shall see how long until I manage to finish this story, new year seems a little too ambitious.
Thanks for reading!