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?

22. Lord of the Trident

Lord of the Trident

Lady Olenna Tyrell sighed as she looked down into the small crib, her sharp gaze softening at the sight of her first granddaughter, now seven moons old. Little Margaery, sweet and slumbering, had the Tyrell name and blood—a blessing Olenna thanked the gods for every day. If her son's wife Alerie had produced yet another boy, Olenna might have seriously considered throttling someone.

Heirs were a necessity, yes, but they could also be an exasperation. Two were sensible, even strategic; four, however, was simply inviting trouble. Willas, to her relief, had proven a thoughtful exception, Garlan slightly less so, and Loras had only confirmed her suspicions about the limitations of boys. Any attempt to shape them—to steer them from reckless tendencies—seemed fruitless; her words drifted in one ear and promptly out the other.

She loved her grandsons, of course, but affection aside, Olenna Tyrell was more than just a doting grandmother. With her son Mace bungling his way through leadership, it was Olenna who bore the weight of House Tyrell on her shoulders. And at fifty and six, with her back aching more often than not, she could feel the press of time. The need for a true heir—someone with both wit and will—had never felt more urgent.

Girls, she knew from experience, could be molded. While the boys lunged headfirst into any situation, thinking with their swords regardless of situation more often than not, a girl could be guided, made malleable and receptive. Her daughters, Janna and Mina, had proven this, though it had taken patience to bring out the potential within each of them. If Olenna hadn't endured the pains of childbirth herself, she might have doubted that Mace was kin to his sisters at all, so vastly different were their minds.

Little Margaery was already promised to be a queen. When Olenna first heard of the marriage offer her son received from this lowborn Hand, it stirred up memories of her own long-ago betrothal to Prince Daeron—a Targaryen match once meant for her. But Daeron, she soon discovered, had little interest in her, favoring swords over sheathes, as they said, and Olenna had quickly realized that a marriage to him would have left her disappointed, cold, and sidelined.

Besides, Daeron's position had scarcely been worth the trouble—he was the third son of the king, the spare to the spare. True, Aegon V had been the fourth son of a fourth son, but Olenna harbored no illusions that such fortune would strike thrice. History, with its unforgiving hindsight, showed that this had been no poor decision for her. The throne passed to Jaehaerys, the second son, while the third son quietly faded into obscurity.

So, she'd set her sights on Luthor Tyrell, whose affections had never wavered in private chambers. Still, the gods had perhaps taken their revenge in the form of Mace, who turned out to be as much of an oaf as his father—if not more.

Still, her son was not entirely without use. Olenna had directed Mace to secure a foundation of power in King's Landing—smaller posts and positions that would provide both leverage and insurance for House Tyrell. But she wasn't so narrow-minded as to be instantly hostile to this new player.

Tristifer Mudd was a mystery. Her agents and sources had turned up little on his background. Rumors, however, were overwhelming. The smallfolk had conjured up all manner of stories: some claimed he was the illegitimate son of Aerys, others whispered of Lord Perkin Hayford or Ser Roger Hogg, and some even tied him to the late Steffon Baratheon for reasons no one could quite explain. It seemed the fact that Mudd opposed the Baratheons was enough to stir the imaginations of the people.

But Olenna, ever the pragmatist, was not one for idle gossip. What mattered were the facts. And when she looked beyond the rumors, she concluded that Mudd's opposition to the Baratheons was incidental. It was his strategic gamble that intrigued her. He had staked everything on the weaker side of a fractured and disorganized conflict—a side that simply needed a strong hand to guide them.

Olenna couldn't help but admire the boldness of it. Mudd's success had been helped along, of course, by Mace's bumbling and the erratic instability of King Aerys, but still, to maneuver the largest army in the Seven Kingdoms through three consecutive victories against some of the realm's best was no small feat.

Now, in the aftermath, he commanded more respect and influence than most lords despite only holding the loyalty of a few thousand gold-cloaked guardsmen. It was a masterstroke, and Olenna knew better than to ignore such skill. If he was this capable with so little, perhaps he might prove useful.

Not to mention his initial claim to fame during the Tourney of Harrenhal. His performance in the Melee had been overshadowed, of course, by yet another unstable Targaryen—but it was there that Tristifer had first proven he was more than just another lucky hedge knight. He had shown skill, determination, and an ability to stand out even in the shadow of greater men. Olenna had yet to uncover the full story of how he and his companions had ended up in the gold cloaks.

What intrigued Olenna most was Mudd's departure from the Tourney of Harrenhal. He had left in the company of Prince Rhaegar, but arrived in King's Landing days after the prince, with no explanation for what had delayed him or his companions. Perhaps it didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but the mystery gnawed at her. The more she dug into his past, the more questions arose, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that there were layers to Tristifer Mudd that remained hidden.

When Olenna had the maesters look into House Mudd, they found a wealth of old accounts about the courageous and defiant Mudd Riverkings who had resisted the Andals centuries ago. It hardly mattered whether Tristifer had any true claim to that bloodline—what mattered was that he had carved out his own path. He had risen not by name, but by action, much as she had. Olenna had not become the Queen of Thorns because she was a daughter of House Redwyne or a wife of House Tyrell; she had built her power with her mind, her ambition, and her will. And that, she could see, was precisely what Tristifer had done as well.

"My Lady," the deep baritone of... Left addressed her, pulling her from her thoughts. She turned to see one of her two personal guards standing at attention, a subtle gesture toward the door. "Maester Lomys, my Lady," he announced.

Olenna blinked, momentarily disoriented, before her gaze fell on the hesitant figure standing in the doorway. Maester Lomys, holding a missive, was clearly aware of the interruption. She must have been lost in thought longer than she'd realized. The seal on the parchment was one she had only recently become familiar with—a sigil she had yet to grow accustomed to.

"A missive from the Lord Hand for you, my Lady," Maester Lomys said, his voice polite as always. Olenna bit back the urge to remark on the obviousness of the statement. Instead, she simply waved her hand.

"Would you give it to me?" she asked, her tone more weary than sharp. As she stretched out her hand, she caught sight of the lines beginning to etch themselves deeper into her skin. Her once flawless complexion now showed the creeping signs of age, and she suppressed a small grimace at the reminder.

Maester Lomys' chains rustled as he stepped forward, handing her the missive with a bow, the customary courtesy that had grown familiar to her over the years.

With a flick of her wrist, Olenna produced a small, sharp blade from within the folds of her gown and sliced open the envelope. She saw Maester Lomys flinch at the sight, though he quickly hid it behind a mask of propriety. Olenna wasn't skilled with a blade, but she could manage well enough. If Mace had managed to swing a sword, then she had little doubt that she could handle one, at least for tasks like this. It was certainly more practical than waiting for someone to open her letters for her.

She unfurled the letter and skimmed its contents quickly, her eyes narrowing as she read:

---

Lady Olenna Tyrell,

I was very grateful when you accepted the betrothal between your granddaughter and the King. This will surely bring us closer to stability, and I believe that together we can achieve much for the future of the Seven Kingdoms and each other.

It has not escaped my attention that the Reach, Riverlands and Crownlands now with House Errol and its lands account for near all of food production in the Realm, it is unfortunate that trade with Essos has grown more expensive on account of these new pirates that have emerged in the Stepstones...

That said, I must admit a concern. Your son seems to be tiring of his leash, and his eyes shine ever brighter with greed. I fear he fails to understand that his lords and commanders are not his to command alone any longer. He is beholden his grace King Aegon and those wielding the King's voice and actions.

I hope that this concern, as well as other small matters do not hinder a fruitful alliance between our houses.

Yours sincerely,

Lord Hand Tristifer Mudd

Lord Regent and Hand of the King to His Grace King Aegon VI of his Name, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, Lord of Riverrun, Lord of Oldstones.

---

Olenna's lips tightened as she finished reading, her expression flickering between amusement and irritation. The tone was light, but there was an unmistakable sharpness beneath it. His observation about food production was unsubtle.

The suggestion, while sure to stir discontent among the other Lord Paramounts, was not without merit. In fact, it could prove highly profitable, especially with the Crown's 'support' and their Kingdoms holding such sway over the Realm's food production. The other Lord Paramounts were in a weakened position, unable to challenge the combined might of their two Kingdoms. If they played their cards right, they could turn this advantage into a fortune—provided they acted in unison.

His insinuation that Mace was on a leash, with her as the one holding the reins, was as amusing as it was uncomfortably accurate—and certainly impolite to state so bluntly. That Mace's arrogance was straying beyond her control was no surprise, and her own sources in the capital had already confirmed the matter. Still, her pride stirred at the liberties the Hand had taken with his request, even if he had maintained a courteous tone.

Olenna would need to give the matter more thought. An alliance with this new player—if only based on the suggestions he'd laid out—could prove interesting, even advantageous. But she would not tether their future to him without caution. He may think himself clever and powerful now, but should he dare to abuse or betray their trust, the last thing he would know would be just how mistaken he was in provoking her wrath.

Mace may be a bumbling oaf, but there was a reason he still sat as Lord of the Reach. The true power lay not in his blundering person, but in the alliances she had forged, the influence she wielded, and the strings she pulled from the shadows. Much like Tristifer was the hand behind Aegon's throne, Olenna was the quiet force that kept Mace on his.

---

Tristifer sighed, leaning back in his chair as his gaze swept across the scattered reports blanketing his desk. Documents from Riverrun to the far-flung keeps of the Riverlands, all meticulously gathered by Maester Vyman at his request. With Maester Allard's help, he had sifted through the deluge of information, whittling it down from a hundred parchments to a manageable stack. Yet even now, as he perused the condensed reports, the full picture of the Riverlands' plight was quite bleak.

The scars of war ran deep there. Like so many conflicts before, the Riverlands had borne the brunt of battle, with rebel forces stripping Royalist granaries bare and pillaging pastures to keep their own armies fed. Royalist Riverlords now stood on desolate lands, their stores emptied, their fields ravaged.

Still, it was not all bleak news. Summer had arrived, though how long it might grace them was anyone's guess. The last winter had dragged on for two years, and with war compounding its toll, many farmers had yet to return to their fields. Crops remained unplanted, herds untended. If this neglect continued, the Riverlands' recovery could be delayed for years yet.

Still, as Tristifer scanned reports detailing a rise in vagrants causing unrest in the depths of Flea Bottom, coupled with the number of aging gold cloaks nearing retirement from the Watch, he began to see potential solutions taking shape.

The survivors of the Second Battle of the Trident amounted to scarcely half of those who had marched into it—around four thousand knights, men-at-arms, and levies had made it through that brutal, decisive clash. Tristifer was certain that some of the older men in the Watch would be willing to lend a hand; there were fighting men who, despite their years, never laid down their swords for long. Better they fought alongside him than against him.

It also reminded him of another vacancy that weighed heavily on his mind—the need to appoint a new Commander of the City Watch after the loss of Addam. Even a month later, the wound felt too fresh, the decision too personal. For now, Robin was managing the Watch well enough, though Tristifer had far greater plans in mind for his cousin.

Seeking a distraction from his grief, Tristifer picked up the missive he'd received two days before. The Whents had finally begun their journey to King's Landing. His betrothed had been on his mind more often than he cared to admit. Setting aside the political stakes, marriage was no light affair—ideally, a once-in-a-lifetime commitment. Though, of course, some older lords made exceptions; Walder Frey came to mind.

Lady Sarra was young and fair, but he had come to see from their letters that there was more to her than the usual courtesy and innocence of a maiden. Beneath her words, he glimpsed a cleverness, a spark he hoped would flourish within their marriage. He wanted her to be more than a political piece, more than the mother of his heirs; he wanted her to find purpose by his side.

But then he faltered at a sudden thought—how would she receive his son, Triston? Tristifer had no intention of abandoning the boy, but he knew well that Triston's presence could threaten his alliance with the Whents. He had already decided against seeking legitimization for his son, as much as it pained him. The risks outweighed his wishes, and he would not jeopardize his future or his family's for that desire.

Tristifer would raise the boy as his own, but a bastard Triston would remain. His house and his future heirs would need all the security they could muster, and Tristifer knew that if he tried to name Triston as his heir, his family's claim to the Riverlands might not even survive him, let alone pass to his son.

In truth, there was little Lady Sarra herself could do to object; any protest would lie with her family. Lord Walter, in particular, was the one with the power to break the match if he chose, though Tristifer hoped his ambition for an alliance with his liege outweighed any dishonor brought upon his daughter. In a perfect world, Tristifer's actions should have been his own shame to bear. But he knew well enough from tales of other lords that, too often, the disgrace fell unfairly upon their wives.

A knock at his solar door drew him from his thoughts. Tristifer straightened, quickly tidying the reports scattered before him. "Enter," he called.

The door opened to reveal one of his guards. "Lord Tytos Blackwood, my lord," Mern announced as the black-haired lord stepped into the room.

Tristifer rose, nodding in greeting. "Tytos, have they gathered?"

"They have," Tytos replied. "They await you now." Tristifer cast a quick glance at his desk, debating if he should clean them up now, but decided against it.

"Lead the way, my friend," he said, gesturing for Tytos to accompany him as they left the solar. "Have you been with them already?"

Tytos gave a brief nod. "I stuck my head in before coming to fetch you."

"And how did they seem?"

"Not exactly thrilled," Tytos replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Your gold cloaks surrounding the room may have dampened their spirits somewhat."

"Not that they're terribly fond of me as it is," Tristifer muttered, though he was taken aback when Tytos shook his head.

"You might be surprised," Tytos replied. "The royalists had no love for Lord Hoster, and while you may be an outsider, they're still grateful for your efforts on behalf of the Royalist cause—not to mention your standing as Hand. Lord Mooton and Lord Darry were seated with Lord Ryger and Ser Cox, all in strong support of you as the new Lord Paramount." Tytos paused thoughtfully. "As for Lord Mallister, he seems neutral enough about your ascension, as does Ser Steffon Frey. What his father, Lord Walder, thinks of it all, however, is anyone's guess."

Tristifer stayed silent for a few moments, processing this unexpected turn. It was a pleasant surprise, he had to admit—a welcome he'd been prepared to earn rather than receive. "And my detractors?" he finally asked.

Tytos grimaced. "Bracken, along with Lords Piper and Vance. All three fought for Lord Hoster until the bitter end and have been steadfast supporters of the Tullys for decades. In the Riverlands, alliances are often overshadowed by ancient feuds, but the loyalty that House Tully and Lord Hoster commanded from those three has been rare indeed."

Tristifer raised an eyebrow, considering. He was well aware of their allegiance to the Rebels during the Battle of the Trident, yet he'd received an intriguing offer from Lord Jonos Bracken himself in the aftermath of his appointment as Lord Paramount—a marriage proposal to Lord Jonos' sister, Catelyn Bracken.

When he shared this with Tytos, the older man spat. "The two-faced bastard. I hope you declined?"

"I am already promised, if you haven't forgotten?" Tristifer replied with a hint of amusement.

Tytos reddened, clearly embarrassed. "Right, of course," he muttered, his irritation with Bracken momentarily clouding his memory.

"Not to worry, Tytos," Tristifer said, his tone firm. "In my Riverlands, we will not be ruled by disunity and ancient rivalries. We will become a power that none dare slight, a force that none will march across, leaving only rape and chaos in their wake." He had his own plans for addressing the Blackwood-Bracken rivalry, though he knew it would take time and careful maneuvering.

Tytos' eyes widened, though he did not manage to respond as they reached the door to the meeting.

Entering the room every Lord fell silent, all their eyes falling upon him and Tytos. Lord Darry, Mooton, Ryger and Ser Cox all looked with anticipation. Lord Mallister and Ser Steffon Frey gazed at him with cautions curiosity. Finally Lord Bracken, Piper, and Vance had narrowed eyes. Bracken even sneered as he saw Blackwood at Tristifer's side.

"My lords and sers, out of respect for everyone's time, we shall begin," Tristifer announced as Tytos took his seat beside Lord Darry and the other royalist lords.

"And what kept you, my lord?" came a voice with an unmistakable sneer.

Tristifer made his way to the head of the table, ignoring the bait. A handful of servants lined the walls, attempting to blend with the stonework, and he gestured for them to bring out the food and refreshments. Only then did he turn to the source of the spiteful query, meeting the irritated, calculating gaze of Lord Lucas Vance.

"Lord Vance, if I'm not mistaken?" At Lord Vance's curt nod, Tristifer continued. "Then I'll admit, my lord, I was testing you all."

Lord Vance's mouth opened, surprise disrupting whatever retort he had prepared. It was clear he'd intended to use Tristifer's late arrival to suggest that the Hand was neglecting his Riverlands duties for the sake of the Crown. But Tristifer pressed on, his voice gaining strength.

"I can assure you, my lord, I will never be as impotent as the Tullys have been since Lord Edmyn's time. For far too long, the other kingdoms have seen the Riverlands as a mere stepping stone, a road to march through in pursuit of their own wars. Each time banners are raised and swords drawn, our lands are trampled and our people suffer. That ends now."

Tristifer's gaze swept over the room. "I am the Hand of the King, and I assure you, that office is no burden when wielded with purpose. My ancestors ruled these lands for centuries. After their fall, the Riverlands descended into infighting, preyed upon by Ironborn raiders and Stormlander invaders alike. I intend to see the Riverlands restored to their former strength, but for that, I need loyal, diligent vassals." He paused, letting his words settle.

"Three horses cannot pull a carriage if one is lame," Tristifer said, his tone steady. "We must work together, as one, if we are to forge a land none would dare tread upon and therefore I need you all to trust me in the knowledge that we all seek a stronger Riverlands."

His words left the table in silence. Lord Lucas still wore a defiant scowl but seemed momentarily at a loss for a retort. More interestingly, Tristifer noticed Lord Jason Mallister nodding, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Ser Steffon Frey's gaze darted uncertainly between the royalist lords and the former rebels, as if calculating his stance by their reactions.

House Frey—ever decisive, he thought dryly. It was a wonder Lord Walder and his brood managed to find their way out of their chambers each morning, considering the glacial speed of their decision-making. Sothoryos itself would freeze over before a Frey committed to a side without dragging their limp, sorry selves the entire way.

"Now, if we're ready to continue?" Tristifer asked rhetorically, moving forward without waiting for a response. "I wish to inform you all that during the war, I negotiated a betrothal with Lord Walter Whent for his daughter, Lady Sarra."

He noticed Lord Jonos Bracken's frown deepen, no doubt at the reminder of his failed offer. Lord Jason Mallister seemed measured, his expression giving little away, though he appeared relatively content with the choice.

Most concerning, however, were the hesitant expressions among the royalists; Lord Roger Ryger, in particular, seemed openly displeased. His aversion was likely due to his distaste for any former rebel houses—no surprise given he had seated himself farthest from Lord Tytos Blackwood, despite Blackwood's eventual shift of allegiance near the war's end, while the Whents had only withdrawn to neutrality.

Yet the overall reception, if cautious, was within reason. Some would no doubt have preferred to see one of their own kin as Lady Paramount, but Tristifer had considered his options carefully. Lady Sarra Whent was the most advantageous choice among limited options, despite his brief consideration of Lady Alysanne Blackwood, Tytos' sister. However, with the Blackwoods firmly allied already, there was more to gain in strengthening ties with Harrenhal.

"We will marry within a few moons," he continued, "and I hope as many of you as can attend will do so. The Whents have ruled Harrenhal with diligence, and it is crucial, I believe, for the unity and strength of the Riverlands that I ally closely with the holders of that castle. Even in its state of disrepair, Harrenhal remains a strategic stronghold of immense value to us all."

"Will you share any specific plans for improving our lands? I hear a great many words, but can we expect any true action?" Lord Jason Mallister's voice cut through the air, even and clear. To Tristifer's ears, it didn't sound overtly antagonistic—more cautious, seeking clarification. Others, however, did not think so.

"You question our liege lord, Mallister?" Lord Raymun Darry's voice rang out in reply, sharp with indignation. "It seems this rebellion has not only cost you your honor but your courtesy as well."

Tristifer barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Did they manage half an hour without resurrecting old slights?

"My honor, Darry?" Lord Jason replied, his voice steely as he rose from his seat, eyes narrowing at the Lord of Darry. "Where was your honor when my cousin Jeffory was burned alive at the Mad King's whim?"

Jason Mallister stood tall and lean, a knight who had spent countless hours in the yard, his stance more intimidating than most men at rest. His indigo armor gleamed, the Mallister eagle emblazoned proudly on his chest. Raymun Darry, though of a similar height, was wiry and less accustomed to the sword; his life had been spent pouring over ledgers and managing estates rather than training for war. Though a knight in name, few would bet on his survival in a duel with Lord Jason—and a duel it was swiftly becoming. Tristifer noted Lord Jason's hand drifting to the hilt of his sword, and Lord Raymun's fingers inching into his doublet, no doubt reaching for a concealed dagger.

"Enough!" Tristifer's voice rang out, firm and unyielding, though it did little to halt the swift descent into chaos as Lord Jason drew his blade with a scrape of steel. The threat of a true clash was only thwarted by the sudden arrival of gold cloaks flooding the chamber, moving deftly to pull the two men apart and establish control over the room.

The lords cursed and protested as the guards separated them, both men straining against restraint until, with visible reluctance, they finally yielded, stepping back with sharp, resentful glares. Around the room, the other lords and knights watched with a mixture of relief and disappointment, having been caught between the thrill of a spectacle and the unease of witnessing it.

Tristifer let his gaze fall hard on both men. "Look at yourselves," he said coldly. "Squabbling like children. Is this how the Lords of the Riverlands are to act? Are we wildlings? Good gods, have some dignity."

For a moment they both still looked belligerent until a glance at the stern gold cloaks around them seemed to disavow them of this notion, they also seemed to realize the situation and refused to meet anyone's gaze.

"Now," Tristifer continued, his voice crisp with authority, "I'll keep this brief, so we may all soon return to our own duties—I'm certain each of us has places we'd rather be than here." He turned pointedly to Lord Jason. "To answer your question, I do indeed have specific plans, and by day's end, I can provide you with an outline. For now, though, consider this meeting an introduction, rather than a more detailed council of some kind."

Lord Jason nodded, his expression taut but respectful. Tristifer's gaze then shifted to Lord Raymun. "As for you, Lord Darry, this quarrel is precisely the kind of division that serves only to weaken us. All our enemies need is one whispered word to fan the fires and drag the Riverlands into another spiral of infighting. That will not happen under my lordship."

A ripple of uneasy assent passed around the table as Tristifer paused, allowing his words to settle.

"Finally," he said, turning back to the gathered lords, "there are presently two open places in the Kingsguard, which I intend to fill with Rivermen. If any among you have kin or retainers suitable for this high honor, I ask that you notify Lord Commander Hightower, who will select among them. With that, I thank you all for your attention—and you are dismissed."

With murmurs and subtle nods, the lords rose to leave, most casting wary but contemplative glances at Tristifer as they filed out, the weight of his words lingering long after they had departed.

As the last lord—Mooton—disappeared through the doorway, Tristifer allowed himself a sigh, though he scarcely had a moment's peace before a familiar face poked into the room.

"Your meeting with Lord Redwyne is coming up shortly," Robin remarked with a wry smile. "So, shall you have your luncheon before or after? It would be tragic for you to starve to death just as you're settling into your role as Lord Paramount." His tone was light, a welcome reprieve from the tension that had filled the chamber moments before.

Tristifer chuckled. "Starving might almost be preferable after that spectacle—if I never have to endure it again." He glanced at the now-vacant chairs with a wry smile. "But I suppose a meal beforehand wouldn't hurt. I'll need all the energy I can get dealing with all these lords."

Robin smirked. "A wise choice. I'll have something sent up to your tower immediately. Just don't make Lord Redwyne wait too long—somehow, I imagine he'd be even less inclined to patience than your vassals."

"Right you are. We'll see each other later, cousin," he said, bidding Robin farewell as he passed him on the way out of the room. Drawing on his now extensive knowledge of the Red Keep, he made his way toward the Tower of the Hand and his solar.

---

A week had passed since his introduction to the feuding lords who were now his vassals. Even the royalists—those ostensibly aligned with his rule—were lukewarm, at best, about his new role as their liege lord. They were, however, optimistic that his steadfast support during the Rebellion would incline him to favor them in their endless clashes and disputes with each other.

Already, he had found himself mediating yet another tiresome argument between the Blackwoods and the Brackens over the contested land known as the Teats—a pair of barren hills that had been a thorn between the two houses since the reign of Aegon IV. They were but two miserable hills on unyielding soil, overlooking a stunted village that boasted fewer than a hundred souls. The land was poor, barren, and yet each lord would sooner see his line extinguished than yield an inch of it to his ancient rival. The Blackwoods and Brackens contested it in every season, in every generation, sometimes with words, often with swords.

This old feud had only gotten worse since Aegon IV's day, when he took the land from the Brackens and gave it to the Blackwoods after swapping his mistress Barba Bracken for Melissa Blackwood. Nominally, the Blackwoods held the Teats now and had since the Unworthy, but the Brackens had never stopped trying to get them back.

A week had passed since his introduction to the feuding lords who were now his vassals. Even the royalists—those ostensibly aligned with his rule—were lukewarm, at best, about his new role as their liege lord. They were, however, optimistic that his steadfast support during the Rebellion would incline him to favor them in their endless clashes and disputes with each other.

Already, he had been forced to mediate yet another tiresome argument between the Blackwoods and the Brackens over the barren hills known as the Teats—a piece of land both miserable and cursed, squabbled over since the reign of Aegon the Unworthy. The hills were little more than rocky humps on hard-packed soil, looming over a stunted village of barely a hundred souls. The land was poor, barren, and yet each lord would sooner see his line extinguished than yield an inch of it to his ancient rival. The Blackwoods and Brackens contested it in every season, in every generation, sometimes with words, often with swords.

Their feud had only deepened since the days of Aegon IV, when the king wrested the Teats from the Brackens and granted them to the Blackwoods after discarding his mistress Barba Bracken in favor of her rival, Melissa Blackwood. For generations now, the Blackwoods had held the land in name, though the Brackens had never ceased in their attempts to reclaim it. Still driven by the wishes and grievances of men who should have been forgotten a long time ago, but were kept alive out of hatred.

Most of the disputed lands were currently under the control of Lord Tytos, who's house had held them for years. The Tullys had generally leaned toward the Brackens, partly because they shared the same religion, but they hadn't committed to backing one side fully. The result was a lingering stalemate, with each attempt at peacekeeping only serving to remind both families of how much they despised each other.

Tristifer realized that his earlier notions—tax incentives for those willing to compromise, fines for those who would not—were feeble tools for the task at hand. This was no petty quarrel to be bought off with coin or choked by tariffs. For a peace that would last, he'd need something stronger than numbers and laws. He'd need blood.

The idea of marriage crept in, reluctant at first, then stubborn as any Bracken or Blackwood. Lord Tytos had a son, young Brynden, barely two namedays but hale and strong. Lord Jonos, on the other hand, had two daughters. Barbara, the elder at three, and the little Jayne, barely a babe. A marriage alliance—Brynden Blackwood betrothed to a Bracken girl—might be the only chance of binding the two houses to a common cause and a common name.

For all the venom exchanged between the Blackwoods and Brackens, neither had shed the other's blood in three generations. The feud had chilled, simmering instead of boiling over, kept alive in barbed words and bitter glances. But perhaps this chill, this lull after centuries of open warfare, was what they needed to forge peace—if the lords would allow it. There lay the true crux of it.

Tristifer knew well that convincing them would be no simple task; a Bracken yielding to a Blackwood, or vice versa, was as rare as summer snow in Dorne. But if both lords could see beyond their ancient hatreds, the feud may end with some decisive action. He would even consider forcing the issue, it was one of the premier disagreements in the Riverlands and if that could be solved then that would surely fill confidence in his abilities as their Liege Lord.

The mediation had ended, as it always had before, in frustration and empty words, and Tristifer had dismissed the warring lords with a final, weary gesture.

A few days later he had been standing before the court, he had announced the two new members of the Kingsguard. First was Ser Desmond Mallister, Lord Jason's uncle, a knight of four and forty namedays, known for his skill with a blade and his even temperament. He was described by all who had met him as kind and humble, a man who understood the weight of his oaths and carried them with quiet resolve, a worthy knight.

The second appointment, however, was far more contentious. Ser Jammos Blackwood, Lord Tytos' youngest brother, had only recently passed his twentieth nameday, but his skill with a sword was already well-regarded. Still, to Tristifer's mind, his selection was less about his abilities and more about the politics of the moment. Jammos was a pawn in a larger game—a means to bind Lord Tytos to him, to secure his allegiance in the years to come. Where Ser Desmond's appointment was a gesture of peace, aimed at drawing Lord Jason closer to the Crown and discouraging any rebellious thoughts, Jammos' selection was more naked in its intent. It was a bribe, plain and simple, to indebt Lord Tytos to him.

The decision to appoint Jammos had caused an immediate stir. Lord Jonos Bracken, unable to swallow the slight, had packed up and departed the capital in a huff, his retainers departing at first light. The rejection of his sister's marriage proposal, followed by the appointment of his rival's brother to the Kingsguard, had been more than he could bear. The court buzzed with gossip, murmurs of how the Blackwoods seemed to rise ever higher in favor, while the Brackens, once powerful, were being steadily sidelined.

Tristifer did his best to quiet these whispers, framing the matter as one of loyalty—between Royalists and Rebels—though in truth, he knew where his own sympathies lay. While he needed to appear balanced he was of course partial to Blackwood as his first ally among the nobles ever since Harrenhal.

That Lord Tytos had thanked him for driving Lord Jonos from the capital only showed where public sentiment and understanding lay, though Tristifer hadn't intended it that way. Yet he hadn't gone out of his way to appease Lord Jonos either, letting the Bracken lord leave with his grievances intact. It was not an easy situation.

"My lord?" Tristifer turned swiftly toward the entrance of his solar, finding his guard Kennet standing there, looking slightly awkward.

"Lord Mace Tyrell is here, asking to speak with you," Kennet announced.

Tristifer's gaze flickered to his desk, then back to the guard. "Give me a moment, then show him in."

"As you wish, my lord," Kennet replied, disappearing through the doorway.

Tristifer crossed to his desk, taking up a letter and slipping it into a small, hidden drawer within the wood. The latch clicked shut just as the door swung open.

Lord Mace Tyrell entered, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. He was not yet fat, though the years—and his appetites—were plainly catching up with him. His doublet was deep green, embroidered with golden roses that climbed across his chest, the fabric pulled tight over his broadening waist. At his side hung a sword on a belt studded with bright jewels, the leather stretched to its limits. A fine blade, no doubt, though it had to be gathering dust; in the half year since their first meeting in the Kingswood—a time that felt an age ago—Tristifer had yet to see Tyrell draw it.

He watched Lord Mace's expression carefully. Tristifer had postponed this meeting more times than he could count, first before and then after his final campaign against Robert Baratheon. Now it was time however. Mace's dark brows were slightly furrowed, his brown eyes somewhat stormy, though Tristifer couldn't say if it was from the climb up the stairs or offense.

"Lord Tristifer, I am grateful we are finally able to speak," Mace began, a touch of bluster in his tone. "These times have been hectic—unprecedented, really, and, yes, quite unorthodox. So while I won't criticize the delay, as Lord Paramount, it did come across as… let us say, almost insulting." He rambled on, his words circling around what he meant without landing on it.

Tristifer didn't need more than a moment to see through it; Mace was undoubtedly stung by the delay, his sense of importance left unappreciated. Not that Tristifer had done much to accommodate him. He'd been waiting on certain matters before this meeting could serve him any purpose. He resisted the urge to glance at the hidden drawer where the letter lay.

Instead, he rose to his feet, a show of deference that would not be lost on Mace. "Lord Tyrell, I must admit, the oversight is entirely mine. I am grateful for your patience and sincerely hope you'll accept my apologies for the inconvenience. Please, take a seat—I've cleared my evening for us to speak without interruption."

A flash of surprise crossed Mace's face, but the irritation in his eyes softened, replaced by a hint of satisfaction. Mace was a man who took pleasure in gestures, in courtesies that affirmed his importance. A seat, an apology, an evening set aside—all simple concessions. And it was almost too easy.

"I—well, of course. The Hand of the King must have matters pulling him every which way," Lord Mace replied, recovering with a stiff nod. "I suppose we can put it behind us, no harm done. Consider it friendly advice, though—to avoid such delays in the future. It wouldn't do to let small matters sour relations that should be strong and steady, hmm?"

He eased himself into the chair opposite Tristifer, exuding a self-satisfied air as though his words held the weight of wise counsel.

"Wise words indeed, Lord Tyrell," Tristifer replied smoothly. "I'll be sure it doesn't happen again." Reaching for a bottle of Arbor Gold, he poured a glass for each of them, raising an eyebrow as he set Mace's goblet before him.

At the sight of the wine, Mace's face lit up in a wide smile. "Ah, Arbor Gold! I daresay it wouldn't hurt—a fine vintage, I assume, if my goodbrother saw fit to send it your way."

Tristifer gave a small, knowing smile. "I would assure you it won't disappoint, but I suspect you're the expert in such matters."

Mace chuckled, clearly pleased, and raised his glass. "Well, not to boast, but I might claim to be the most knowledgeable of Arbor Gold, save perhaps the Redwynes and their brewers. Visiting the Arbor is always a pleasure, though I'll admit there are…certain advantages to being their liege lord."

They both laughed politely, though Tristifer felt the hollowness of it settling between them. How utterly false this exchange was, each laugh as carefully crafted as the embroidery on Mace's doublet. And yet, here they were—playing the game all the same.

Even Mace seemed to tire of the empty pleasantries, his smile shrinking to a thin, polite line. "Now, Tristifer—if I may call you that?"

Tristifer nodded, though the thought of any familiarity with Tyrell was enough to turn his stomach.

Mace's smile shifted, growing faintly condescending, likely the most genuine expression he'd worn all evening. "I must admit, you've exceeded all expectations in the Royalist cause, especially given your… youth. Quite the feat, landing yourself a Lord Paramountship on top of it. Impressive indeed. But," he leaned in, eyes gleaming with something almost triumphant, "do you not think it wise to cut your losses now? With everything to lose, no man stays lucky forever. It takes but one misstep for a house to fall."

Tristifer held his silence, his gaze steady as Mace's smile turned sharper.

"All this is to say," Mace continued, "that for your own sake, I suggest you step down as Hand. In return, I would, of course, support your claim to the Riverlands—unorthodox as it is. Some might call it a concerning precedent, after all." He finished at last, the full weight of his offer—or threat—now laid between them.

So that was it. Mace Tyrell wanted him out as Hand, though to what end, Tristifer couldn't be sure. Perhaps Mace imagined himself in the role, or maybe he simply saw an opportunity and aimed to exploit it. Whatever his reasons, it was a complication Tristifer couldn't allow. Too much of his strategy depended on the influence that came with the Handship, an influence he certainly wouldn't trust to Mace Tyrell or any lackey Mace might prop up.

Tristifer reminded himself: he was still Lord Regent. By rights, this should trump the Hand, though it was true such power had never been split before. It brought the risk of interference, of vetoes, of power plays he couldn't afford.

No, he thought. That would not do.

"And who would you suggest as Hand in my stead, Lord Mace?" Tristifer's tone was measured, calm, though his gaze did not waver. "Yourself? Or perhaps a Dornishman—Oberyn, or one of his vassals? Would that truly suit you, I wonder?"

Mace's expression faltered, but Tristifer continued, pressing his advantage. "I am not unreasonable, far from it. Whatever it is you wish to secure, surely you understand that I am in a position to negotiate. Tell me, what could you accomplish as Hand that I could not offer you now, without you assuming the role yourself?"

He poured himself a measured sip of wine, letting the words sink in before he leaned forward. "The Handship, after all, is no crown—it merely paints a target on one's back. Consider the weight of that, in your own position. The Reach may appear unified, yet Hightower and Florent have been uncommonly quiet of late, have they not? A few carefully placed words from unfriendly mouths, and things could turn… difficult in your homeland."

The glint of confidence in Mace's eyes flickered, giving way to a shadow of unease. It was, after all, every Tyrell lord's greatest fear, one that had haunted them since the fall of House Gardener in the Conquest, and sharpened after the Dance of the Dragons—the fear that their own bannermen, never quite loyal, would one day rise against them. Many Reach houses boasted blood ties to the Gardeners, ties closer and purer than the Tyrells themselves, and they never let the Tyrells forget it. No marriage alliance or lavish feast could erase the whispers, the quiet reminder that House Tyrell had been granted their seat, not by ancient right, but by Targaryen favor.

"Furthermore," Tristifer said, sliding open the concealed drawer and retrieving the letter within. "In my recent correspondence with Lady Olenna, I believe we reached some intriguing agreements—ones that could benefit both our houses immensely."

Mace's composure wavered entirely as Tristifer slid the letter across the table, the broken Tyrell seal gleaming faintly in the candlelight. With a steady hand, Tristifer tapped the lines outlining the proposed ventures: a duopoly on the food supply and favorable trade agreements that Maester Allard had unearthed in his relentless reports on the Riverlands' state.

"See here, Lord Mace," Tristifer continued smoothly. "Together, we could control the lion's share of the food supply across the Realm, setting prices as we see fit. A powerful asset in times such as these, wouldn't you agree? And these trade agreements… they would serve both our needs at rates far more agreeable than anything the Free Cities could offer."

Mace's mouth opened, but for a moment, no words came. He scanned the letter as if to look for signs of forgery, but was ultimately only met with writing he recognized as his mother, the Queen of Thorns.

Having Lady Olenna keep Lord Mace out of the loop of their negotiations had been laughably easy in comparison to convincing her of the benefits of these negotiations in the first place. The dysfunctionality was obvious and in this case something that Tristifer managed to punish Lord Mace with.

It put him completely on the backfoot, the letter almost a chastisement that a mother give her child even if it never even mentioned him. The embarrassment of his obliviousness of it was enough.

Slowly, Mace closed his mouth, swallowing his initial response.

Tristifer leaned forward, delivering the final stroke. "This whole conversation can be forgotten, no harm done, right?" he said, throwing Mace's own words back at him with a faint smile. "We could be the closest of allies, Lord Mace, the strongest of friends. You will be the King's goodfather, after all—no one will question your influence in the capital, Handship or no."

He let the words settle for a moment, watching Mace's expression shift, his shock replaced by a more calculating look.

"In addition," Tristifer continued, "I will not interfere with your appointees in court, nor will I obstruct your placements in the royal household, provided we come to an agreement that you'll refrain from the Gold Cloaks and the harbor staff. A fair compromise, don't you think?"

Lord Mace held Tristifer's gaze for what felt like a full minute, as though weighing every word spoken, every subtle shift in tone. Tristifer simply leaned back, allowing the silence to stretch. He could see he had already won; Mace's eyes betrayed the calculation, the shifting assessment. Mace was merely waiting now, drawing out the pause to appear more cautious than he truly was—and to give himself time to search for any hidden trap in the deal.

Not that he'd find any. For now, Tristifer had no reason to throw away this alliance; the arrangement served him well, and if Mace benefited from it too, so be it.

Finally, Mace nodded, his lips pursed in what he perhaps hoped appeared to be measured acceptance. "Well, then. I believe we may have an understanding. My sincerest apologies for this... unfortunate misunderstanding."

Tristifer inclined his head, his voice smooth and forgiving. "No harm done, my lord. Words are wind, after all. What matters now is what we can accomplish together." He paused, letting a note of formality slip back in. "I would, however, seek clarification that this means I have your support for my claim on the Riverlands?"

A flicker of something unreadable passed across Mace's face before he managed a warm, obliging smile. "Of course, Lord Tristifer. House Tyrell is, as ever, the firmest supporter of the Crown, and it is only natural that we accept its judgments. Your claim has Tyrell backing."

"Wonderful," Tristifer said, rising to his feet with a smooth, almost courteous smile. "Then I won't keep you any longer, if that's all. I trust the Arbor Gold met your expectations?"

Lord Mace followed suit, his expression polite but somewhat strained, as though still turning over the conversation in his mind. "Indeed, a fine vintage," he said, with just a hint of an exaggerated nod. "Your hospitality was much appreciated."

Tristifer inclined his head, his smile tight. "It was my pleasure, my lord. Until next time."

As Tyrell departed with a final nod, Tristifer watched him closely, his gaze unwavering until the man was well out of sight. Only then did he collapse back into his seat, a sigh escaping him. He was both exhausted and elated, the weight of the conversation lifting from his shoulders. It was a strange, almost intoxicating thrill—the calculated dance between lords. The power play, the manipulations, it all felt like a game he was born to play.

In the end, he had secured Tyrell's support for his claim and retained the Handship, with minimal concessions. The Tyrell influence would undoubtedly grow in the coming years, especially with the betrothal he'd arranged between the King and Lady Margaery. But better to have them as allies than rivals.

Tristifer pulled out another parchment from one of the drawers of his desk, his fingers tracing the names scrawled across it—some marked with a bold strike through, others left untouched. Redwyne, Grafton, Estermont, Cox, Mooton, Errol, Manderly, Lydden, Lefford, Hayford. All crossed out. These were the names of lords with whom he'd already had meetings with, ranging from brief introductions to more drawn-out negotiations.

He had already managed to seal deals with Redwyne and Manderly—agreements on salt and timber, respectively—but Tristifer's thoughts turned to other, more ambitious schemes. One idea that had been occupying his mind was the prospect of domestic wine production in the Riverlands.

The region, rich in fertile land and favorable climates, was suited for it, yet it remained dependent on costly imports. With the right incentives, he believed he could encourage local lords to invest in vineyards, sparing the kingdom the heavy toll of foreign wine. The potential profits were undeniable, and more importantly, it would free up considerable gold for other ventures he had in mind.

But there was a risk. The Redwynes, if they felt threatened, could easily turn antagonistic. Tristifer was no fool; he knew the power of an old house's reputation, especially one as rooted as the Redwynes. Stirring trouble there could jeopardize everything. It was all a delicate balance.

It would all take time, however. For now, his next obligation was the reception ceremony for the Whents and his betrothed, who would be arriving within the week. Tristifer ran a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair with a weary sigh. Everything seemed to be falling into place—plans were unfolding, alliances were forming—but there was a lingering sense of unease. He couldn't shake the feeling that the other shoe was about to drop.

---

Lady Sarra Whent gazed out the small window of the carriage, her delicate features set in a faint grimace. The closer they drew to King's Landing, the more prominent the city's infamous stench became, even through the thick wood and velvet lining of the carriage. It was a sour mix of humanity and filth, a far cry from the cleaner airs of Harrenhal or Riverrun.

She had never traveled farther than Riverrun before now. Her last true journey had been eight years ago, when she and her father attended Lady Catelyn Tully's betrothal announcement to Lord Brandon Stark. That occasion, filled with feasting and grandeur, seemed a lifetime ago. Though it had ended quite dramatically when Lord Hoster's ward at the time had fought Lord Brandon in a duel and been wounded greatly.

Since then, her world had shrunk to Harrenhal. The Grand Tournament had drawn lords and knights from across the realm, but its aftermath—the war—had left little chance for her to travel. Until now. Once again, her journey concerned a betrothal, but this time, it was her own.

Tristifer's letters had been a rare solace in those bleak days when news from the warfront was scarce. During the long stretches when he could not write, anxiety gnawed at her. The thought of him, of their future, was one of the few threads she could cling to as the tragedies of her family piled higher.

Her three elder brothers had perished at the First Battle of the Trident, their lives claimed within hours of each other. Her uncle Oswell had fallen during the Storming of Storm's End and only a moon ago, her father and youngest brother had fallen ill—though the maester assured her they were recovering, the fear of loss lingered like a specter. It had been too close, too much, and the possibility of being left with only her mother haunted her.

In the stillness of the carriage, her thoughts drifted to the dark history of Harrenhal, the stories whispered since her youth. Mad Danelle Lothston, the sorceress Alys Rivers, and the curse—whispered of in every hall—that clung to her family's home like ivy to stone. Once, she had dismissed such stories as fancies meant to frighten children, but now they seemed chillingly real. Could so many tragedies be mere chance? She no longer thought so. Yet soon, Harrenhal would no longer be her home. Riverrun awaited her, a new chapter, a new life.

Across from her sat her mother silent and clad in all black as she had since the death of her brothers. Sarra herself wore a muted dress of blue and grey, a quieter nod to mourning, meant to signal her transition to a brighter future.

Beside her, Septa Joyeuse muttered soft prayers, her hands folded over her prayer beads. Her voice rose and fell in a soothing rhythm, preparing herself—and perhaps Sarra as well—for their arrival in the capital.

As the carriage and their entourage passed through the massive walls of the city, Sarra found herself thankfully distracted from her darker musings. The sounds of King's Landing washed over her—clamoring voices, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, and the faint, ever-present din of the city's vast populace. The mingled scents of fish, dung, and smoke were a stark reminder of where she was, yet even these could not dull the flicker of anticipation rising within her.

Her thoughts turned to Tristifer. Soon, she would see him again, not through the ink of letters but in the flesh. There was nervousness, yes—questions that danced at the edge of her mind about what he might think of her, of what their life together would become. But hope swelled, pushing aside those worries, or at least muting them.

Formed around the carriage, a host of golden-cloaked riders kept pace, their polished helms and breastplates glinting in the waning light. They rode in practiced formation, their presence a firm barrier between the carriage and the throngs of curious smallfolk that lined the streets, straining for a glimpse of the newcomers.

Suddenly, the blinds in front of Sarra's window were pulled down without warning, cutting off her view. Septa Joyeuse, who had closed them, settled back into her seat, her expression unreadable.

Sarra felt indignation rise swiftly in her chest, and her lips parted to demand an explanation. Before she could speak, a hand clamped firmly onto her leg, startling her.

Her mother's hand.

Sarra turned to find her mother's face calm, her dark eyes sharp and unyielding. The pressure of her grip was steady but undeniable, a wordless command. Sarra's indignation faltered under the weight of it.

"Settle down, Sarra," her mother said sharply, her voice cutting through the cramped space of the carriage like a blade. "You are a lady, not a rabid dog. Compose yourself."

Sarra stiffened, the heat of indignation replaced by a flush of embarrassment. She bit her tongue, her gaze falling to her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Do you believe Lord Mudd will find these outbursts endearing?" Lady Whent continued, her tone cold and deliberate. "A lord's wife must be poised, steady, above such petty shows of temper. Especially here, in the capital. Every eye will be on you, and tongues wag with far less cause than this."

Sarra didn't miss her mother's pointed use of Tristifer's title, but before she could question it, her mother cut through her thoughts with a sharp command.

"I will have some words with you now, without outside eyes peeking in, young lady." Lady Whent's voice was firm, but there was a tremor beneath it, an undercurrent of emotion that betrayed her polished exterior.

Sarra's back straightened instinctively. "Mother—"

"My family has been ravaged," Lady Whent pressed on, her voice tightening. "My sons—" The words broke off abruptly, replaced by a strangled sob. Her mother's hand went to her mouth as though to trap the sound, but it escaped nonetheless, raw and ugly.

An awkward silence followed, broken only by the rustle of Septa Joyeuse retrieving a handkerchief and handing it to Lady Whent. Sarra watched as her mother, always so composed, blew her nose hard and dabbed at her eyes. The sight was jarring, almost unthinkable, yet here it was—grief laid bare.

Lady Whent regained herself after a few strained moments. When she spoke again, her voice was tight but resolute.

"And now, to lose you as well," she said bitterly, her gaze fixed on the covered window as if she could glare at the city beyond and Tristifer personally. "To this upstart Hand your father was tricked into giving you to. Can you not see it, Sarra? This cannot end well. He has no understanding of our world, no appreciation for the Game and its rules. The Game is cruel to the ignorant, and his luck—" her voice cracked, though she pressed on, "—his luck will run out. When it does, you will bear the cost of his mistakes. I cannot bear the thought of losing yet another child. I would have nothing left."

Sarra sat stunned for a moment, her mother's words twisting like knives in her chest. Yet beneath the pain, a flicker of defiance rose. "He cares for me, Mother," she said firmly, though her voice trembled slightly. "Can you not see that? Why else would he choose me, when he could have any lady in the Realm? As Hand of the King, his choices are hardly limited."

Her mother turned on her then, dark eyes glinting with a mix of frustration and sorrow. "Can you not see how you wound me with this insistence?" she said, shaking her head. "You are still young, still naïve, but have I taught you nothing? Do you think care will protect you when the wolves come circling around your husband?"

"I am not a fool," Sarra said, her voice steadier now, the heat rising in her chest. "I know the risks, but have you not considered that I may help him? Do you think me a thoughtless maiden, blind to everything around her, to the dangers, to the stakes?"

Her mother's lips thinned into a pale line, but she said nothing. The silence hung heavy in the confined space of the carriage, more telling than any words could be.

"I am a woman now, Mother," Sarra said, her voice firm, though not unkind. "And it is my choice to marry him. Father accepted it, and I will not betray both his and my own wishes because of your endless fears. What would become of me if I listened to you? Would you lock me away at Harrenhal, a forgotten ward, or perhaps send me to a sept and expect me to find happiness there? No, Mother. This is my life, and I will live it as I see fit."

Her mother's face darkened, the words clearly stinging, but Sarra did not flinch. The desperation in her mother's voice was heartbreaking, but it would not sway her now. She had made her choice. In her mind's eye, she could already picture Tristifer, his broad shoulders and handsome face, his presence as familiar as the dance they had shared all those years ago. She breathed deeply, trying to recall the scent of him—warm, earthy, and comforting—until it replaced the choking stench of King's Landing. For all her mother's fears, Sarra knew what she wanted, and it was not a life bound by caution and regret.

With this resolve firm in her mind, Sarra reached up to open the blinds once more. Outside, the winding streets of King's Landing stretched below them as the carriage and its escort slowly ascended the hill. In the distance, the imposing red stone walls of the Red Keep loomed, its towers rising higher with every turn of the wheels.

As they neared the gatehouse, Sarra's eyes were drawn to the gruesome sight of skulls mounted on spikes, the remnants of traitors executed during the war. The sight was unsettling, but she swallowed the rising bile in her throat and managed to keep her composure. She was no stranger to death and its aftermath any longer. After all, she had seen the lifeless bodies of her three elder brothers, upon their return from the Trident as they were laid to rest.

She remained pensive as the carriage finally crossed into the courtyard of the Red Keep, her heart fluttering with the weight of what lay ahead. As a girl, she had only dreamed of stepping foot in this grand place. Now, here she was, surrounded by the stone walls that held so much history. The courtyard was alive with movement, dozens of men and women—Lords, Ladies, servants, and guards—ready to receive her.

Sarra took a deep breath, her fingers instinctively smoothing the folds of her dress, making sure everything was in place. For a moment, a fleeting doubt gnawed at her—was her dress too plain, too understated? But before she could dwell on it further, she realized there was no time for such concerns now. The carriage swung around, the grand entrance of the Red Keep coming into view, and before she knew it, they were facing the line of Lords and Ladies, their expectant gazes already fixed on her arrival.

The door to the carriage swung open all too soon, chasing away the shadows that had clung to her in the dimness.

Her mother stepped out first, followed by Septa Joyeuse, and then Sarra, emerging last with a quiet but resolute step.

As her eyes adjusted to the bright daylight, they instinctively began searching the line of onlookers. It didn't take long before her gaze locked with his.

He stood at the far left, his strong frame unmistakable among the gathered nobility. The moment their eyes met, his expression softened, his unique blue-green eyes lighting up with an unmistakable warmth.

She made a beeline for him, her eyes never leaving his figure as she passed her mother and Septa, likely disregarding some formality she couldn't even recall now. The rules seemed trivial in that moment. All that mattered was him.

Suppressing the overwhelming urge to throw herself into his arms, she instead extended her hand toward him, her fingers trembling slightly.

Tristifer took it in his calloused hand with a firm but gentle grip, and after a heartbeat, he pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. The warmth of his lips sent a flutter through her chest, and as his eyes held hers, a deep reassurance washed over her. Any lingering doubt—whether their letters, their words, had been mere games or empty promises—vanished entirely.

A genuine smile spread across her lips, and for the first time in what felt like an age, Sarra felt the knot of anxiety within her loosen. There was no pretending in this moment. This was real.

His eyes glittered with a mix of amusement and something warmer, but after a brief moment, they shifted past her. Leaning in slightly, his voice dropped to a quiet, teasing tone.

"I believe, my lady, that you must move along the line, lest we create a scene," he murmured, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The gentle reminder, though lighthearted, brought Sarra back to reality. She blinked, realizing that the formalities had not yet concluded, and a slight flush colored her cheeks. With a soft nod, she took a small step back, though her fingers still lingered in his hand for a heartbeat longer before she gracefully withdrew.

Sarra barely registered the formal introductions as they passed by. Lord Mace Tyrell, the Master of Coin; Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships; Prince Oberyn Martell, whose reputation preceded him; and even the young Lord Renly Baratheon. Each one offered a polite nod and kissed her knuckles, their presence a blur as she mindlessly moved along the line. Her thoughts, however, remained fixed on Tristifer, replaying the brief but charged moment they'd shared.

But when she was finally introduced to Ser Robin, Tristifer's cousin, everything shifted. This was the first introduction that truly grabbed her attention. She had heard of him in Tristifer's letters, and had briefly glimpsed him during the tourney, along with Tristifer's late friend Addam. The news of Addam's tragic death had saddened her, and though she would never voice it aloud, a large part of her had been more relieved that it had not been Tristifer who had fallen.

Now, standing before her, Ser Robin exuded a playful confidence, his smile full of mischief. "My lady, a pleasure to finally meet you," he said with a bow, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I think Tristifer has been anticipating this meeting more than anything else these last few weeks." He chuckled softly, his tone warm and teasing, as though he were in on a private joke.

"Please, call me Sarra," she replied with a smile, hoping to set a more personal tone. If there was one thing she wanted besides the obvious, it was a good relationship with Tristifer's cousin.

"Only if you call me Robin," he grinned, his voice warm. "Now, I heard your father and brother had caught a sickness recently?"

The sudden change in his expression made Sarra's smile falter slightly. "A moon ago," she said, her tone sobering. "It delayed our departure—what was thought to be a mild cold never seemed to go away. Eventually, we decided to leave with just my mother and me. Our Maester wrote to say they are recovering, though, so hopefully, they'll be back to health soon enough."

Robin nodded in sympathy, his expression softening. "Of course, I hope they're well soon."

Sarra looked over her shoulder as Robin subtly glanced past her. "Ah, I think I see Tristifer calling for your attention," he said, his voice light once again.

Sure enough, Tristifer stood a short distance away, flanked by two guards wearing the Mudd coat of arms, his gaze locked on her.

Robin flashed her a playful smile. "I'll handle your baggage and your mother, Sarra. I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to speak again soon."

With that, he gave a small bow and made his way toward her mother and the rest of their entourage, leaving Sarra to walk toward Tristifer.

It was shocking to her how lordly he appeared. She had read his letters detailing the Final Battle and his victory in claiming Ser Lyn Corbray's legendary Valyrian blade, but seeing it in person—its emerald gleaming from the hilt—was still difficult to believe. The sword hung at his side, a symbol of his strength and status. His brown doublet, emblazoned with the Mudd Crown on his breast, and the golden cape draped over his shoulder, only heightened the impression. If he were to wear a crown, Sarra thought, she would scarcely doubt that he was already a king in his own right, not merely the Hand of the King.

"My Lady," he greeted, his voice warm but measured as she approached. Sarra hesitated for a moment, then dipped into a brief bow, unsure of the exact protocol but hoping it was appropriate.

"My Lord," she replied softly, meeting his gaze.

A faint smile curved his lips as he nodded toward the entrance of one of the towers. "There's no need for such formality between us, Sarra," he said warmly, but his expression shifted, growing more serious. "There is something I need to show you—something that cannot wait any longer."

His words only deepened her anxiety. What could he be hiding? Whatever it was, it seemed important enough that he had chosen this moment to reveal it. She forced a reassuring smile, masking her unease, and allowed him to guide her by the arm toward the tower.

They walked across the bustling courtyard in silence. The sound of boots on stone and the faint murmur of onlookers were the only interruptions until her mother's chaperone hurried to join them, completing the escort alongside Tristifer's guards.

"The Tower of the Hand," Tristifer began, gesturing to the structure as they approached. "It holds my quarters, my solar, and the rooms for my attending servants and guards. It's where I spend most of my time when court matters do not demand my presence elsewhere."

So this was where she would be living during her time in King's Landing, once they were married of course. The thought brought a mix of emotions—curiosity, apprehension, and an underlying hope.

They climbed the steps in silence, the shadow of the tower stretching long and heavy over them as the sun dipped lower in the sky. When the guard swung the iron-banded door open, Tristifer glanced at her, his face a mask she could not read, then stepped inside without a word. She followed, her footsteps swallowed by the stone.

The stairwell spiraled upwards past the barracks, where a pair of soldiers murmured over a game of dice, then past the servants' quarters, a bustling kitchen alive with the scent of bread and roasting meat, and a smoky mess hall where the scrape of chairs and low voices drifted through the narrow space.

They reached the third floor and at the end of a dim corridor, Tristifer stopped before a nondescript wooden door. A guard stood sentinel, his armor dull in the flickering light surrounding them.

"Is he inside?" Tristifer asked, his voice low.

"Just returned from visiting the Princess Rhaenys and the King, my lord," the guard answered, with a quick glance at her. She furrowed her brow. He? There was someone waiting for her? Someone she had yet to hear of, it seemed.

Before she could speak, Tristifer turned to her, his expression tinged with something unusual—anxiety, perhaps?

The door creaked open as the guard pushed it, and they stepped into a chamber bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon. Her eyes swept the room, and understanding dawned at once. It was a child's room. A carved wooden knight stood on a low table by the window, and a play sword lay abandoned beside a pile of brightly painted blocks.

In the corner, perched on a low, unmade bed, sat a boy who could not have seen more than five namedays. Perhaps closer to three, she thought, comparing him to memories of her younger brother at that age. But it wasn't his size or the soft tumble of chestnut-brown curls framing his cherubic face that struck her. No, it was his eyes—green-blue and striking. Her stomach twisted, a sinking, hollow sensation taking root.

The boy's gaze alighted on Tristifer, and in an instant, those luminous eyes brightened with delight. He leapt from the bed, the small leather-bound book he'd been clutching falling forgotten to the floor. His feet carried him across the room with all the reckless determination of youth.

"Father!" the boy cried, flinging himself into Tristifer's arms.

The word hit her like a physical blow. Her breath caught, her knees unsteady beneath her. Feeling lightheaded she leaned against the door frame.

Tristifer caught the boy in a firm embrace, lifting him as though he weighed nothing. The softness in his expression, the way he held the child, made her chest tighten further.

She couldn't look away from the scene, though every instinct begged her to.

Eventually, Tristifer turned to her, the boy now settled comfortably in his arms, one small hand clutching at his father's collar. Two pairs of striking green-blue eyes, so alike it was almost unnerving, fixed on her at once—one curious, the other faintly cautious.

"Sarra," Tristifer began, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of something unreadable, "meet my natural-born son, Triston." He shifted the boy slightly, who was now peeking at her with open curiosity. "Triston, this is my betrothed, Lady Sarra Whent."

The name hung in the air between them like a blade, sharp and heavy. Forcing her face into a mask of calm, she inclined her head slightly, managing to summon a faint smile that felt brittle at the edges.

"Triston," she said softly, the boy's name unfamiliar and awkward on her tongue. "A... pleasure meeting you," she managed, though the words felt hollow, barely more than air.

Her gaze flicked to Tristifer. The man she had thought infallible, steady as stone, now seemed infinitely more complicated, his edges fraying in ways she hadn't anticipated. She had told herself she didn't care deeply about her children bearing the only claim to his legacy—her pride would not cling to such notions, she had thought—but now she felt the weight of what this meant. A child of his blood already here, close enough to cast a shadow over her future.

And the embarrassment. Gods, the embarrassment. Bastard or not, it would haunt her courtly life—the whispers, the knowing looks. Whether the boy had been born before or after their union might matter little to the gossipmongers who would lap at this like wolves over fresh kill.

Her mother's warnings rushed back unbidden, sharp-edged as the day they were spoken. She had dismissed them at the time, prideful and resolute, but now they circled her mind like vultures.

The sound of the world seemed to retreat, her thoughts roaring louder in its absence. She hardly noticed the moment the child's curious gaze faltered, or when Tristifer shifted uncomfortably.

"Sarra. Sarra!" His voice snapped through her haze like a whipcrack, and she blinked, startled, as her eyes refocused on him. Tristifer's expression had softened slightly, though there was still a flicker of unease there. "Are you all right?" he asked, his tone low, measured.

She nodded quickly, though her heart hadn't yet stilled. "Yes," she said, though it sounded too quick, too brittle. "Yes, of course. Forgive me, I... I was just surprised, that's all."

Tristifer held her gaze, his green-blue eyes searching hers for a heartbeat before turning his attention to the boy in his arms. "Triston," he said gently, his tone warm but firm, "why don't you go with Mern to the mess hall? You must be getting hungry."

Triston blinked up at him, his small brow furrowing briefly, but he seemed to understand the unspoken tension in the room. Without a word of protest, he slid from his father's arms and took the guard's outstretched hand. His footsteps were soft against the stone as the pair exited the chamber, the door creaking shut behind them.

The silence that followed was thick, weighted with all that had been left unsaid. Tristifer turned back to her, his posture stiff as though bracing for something. He gestured toward the far corner of the room, away from the lingering presence of the guards. She followed, her thoughts churning with every step.

The remaining guard withdrew as well, but her chaperone, Lady Maelle, remained firmly planted near the door. Her sharp eyes flitted across the room with the vigilance of a hawk, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Tristifer exhaled softly, his shoulders rising and falling as if burdened. "Sarra, I am terribly sorry that you had to learn of this in such a way," he said, his voice steady but laced with genuine regret. The carefully crafted mask he usually wore was gone, replaced by something unguarded, almost vulnerable.

She didn't respond at once. Her thoughts churned in a chaotic storm, her mind tugged in two directions. Tristifer had been her stone, her anchor when her life had felt adrift in the darkest waters. His letters, full of strength and understanding, had been her solace when she had felt so utterly alone. In her mind, she had built him into an image of perfection—a protector with a strong frame who would defend her from every threat, a man whose kindness and charm were meant for her alone.

And then he had greeted her in the courtyard, and for a moment, it had seemed as though that dream had stepped from her imagination into the world. Every touch, every smile had reinforced the fantasy. She had been floating on clouds, her worries silenced, her heart light. Until now.

Now, the boy's presence weighed on her like a stone, dragging her from that dream back to the unrelenting reality of the earth. The image of Tristifer she had crafted—her protector, her strength—remained, but cracks had formed, fine lines of doubt splintering across the perfect surface. She couldn't ignore the gnawing thoughts the boy had stirred within her. Ugly thoughts. Unfair, even, but persistent all the same.

She had told herself there was little Tristifer could do or say that she wouldn't forgive. And yet, this? A bastard so close, so intertwined with their future? It was a truth she hadn't prepared herself for, and she hated the way it made her feel—small, jealous, uncertain.

"Sarra?" Tristifer's voice broke through the tempest of her thoughts. His green-blue eyes searched hers, his expression raw. "I hope you can forgive me."

She blinked, realizing how long she had remained silent, caught in her maelstrom of doubt and resentment. Her lips parted, but the words didn't come. How could they, when she wasn't yet sure what she wanted to say?

If there was one thing she knew, it was that she could not lose Tristifer, nor the future they had begun to shape together. Whatever else she felt, that truth burned brighter than her doubts. Perhaps the boy could be ignored, folded neatly into the edges of their lives where he wouldn't trouble her. Was his mother dead? Or perhaps there could be an arrangement, something discreet and fitting.

Her despair eased slightly as she clung to the thought. It was not a hopeless situation. Surely, once she and Tristifer had their true children, the rightful heirs of the Mudd line, everything would settle into place. The boy was simply a relic of Tristifer's worry for his legacy, nothing more. When she gave him sons and daughters, they would take precedence—how could they not?

Her resolve grew, and her gaze softened. "Of course, my—" she faltered, then corrected herself, a touch of warmth slipping into her tone, "Tristifer."

He watched her closely, his striking green-blue eyes searching hers, his expression filled with something cautious, almost fragile. Hope, reluctant and uncertain, flickered across his face.

"I promise to you now," he began, his voice firm yet burdened. "It will never happen again. It was—"

She reached out, placing a finger gently against his lips. "Let us look to the future," she said softly, cutting him off. "Let the past be the past."

End of Chapter

And so yet another chapter is in the books, only three more now.

Olenna makes her POV appearance, undermining her son as always. We see Tristifer be introduced to his new vassals, hopefully Tristifer can manage to reign them in. Then he finally has his meeting with Lord Mace and maneuvers him where he wants him. We'll see if that alliance holds or not.

Finally Sarra arrives and they have their in person reunion, she is introduced to Triston and is not won over.

For Tristifer's sword I have seen some good suggestions and will land on a decision next chapter.

Speaking of, in the next one we will be reacquainted with our favorite Bobby B and his misadventures in the aftermath of his latest defeat, will the wine finally end him or are there actors in Essos still hungry for the downfall of House Targaryen?

Until next time.