A/N Welcome to the sequel of A Muddy Legacy. Those who haven't read the first story should do that before reading this one, as it is quite different from the canon. Now enjoy!
A New Dawn
The sky was veiled in light grey clouds, though the sun managed to pierce through in places, casting mesmerizing streams of light down from the heavens.
They had been traveling the Kingsroad for nearly a week now, having turned onto it from the River Road. On their first night, they had enjoyed the warmth of a hearth and the comfort of a bed at Castle Darry. The next two nights had been spent beneath the open sky before reaching the looming ruin of Harrenhal.
Their stay there had been brief. His wife's family—her sickly father and cold, withdrawn mother—lingered in the shadows of their enormous, empty castle. House Whent had been all but extinguished, their only survivors his wife and her youngest brother. Symond, the last living son, had spent the past years as a squire to Lord Mooton of Maidenpool, a placement Tristifer himself had suggested. His absence only made the great, crumbling halls of Harrenhal feel all the more deserted.
Yet, for all their grief and detachment, his wife's parents had shown excitement upon seeing their eldest grandchild. They had doted on him, lavishing him with rare affection—proof that even in the ever-grey halls of Harrenhal, some warmth still remained.
By the next morning, they had set out again. Two more nights beneath the stars had brought them to Butter Hall, from which they had departed only hours ago.
Butter Hall, the seat of House Butterwell, was a modest and uninspiring keep on the eastern shore of the God's Eye. The only remarkable thing about it was its view—on a clear day, one could see the Isle of Faces shrouded in its eternal mystery. Some claimed that, when the weather was fair, the distant towers of Harrenhal also loomed in the northern haze, though Tristifer had seen nothing of them when he had looked.
Ahead of him rode two riders bearing the brown banners of his house, the golden crown emblazoned upon them fluttering wildly in the wind, twisting and snapping like two snakes. The banners served as both a mark of status and a warning. Any brigand with sense would know they were no mere merchants or common travelers. To most, that alone was deterrence enough.
Beside him rode a smaller figure—his son, Tristan. One and ten namedays old now, though it still surprised Tristifer. When had he grown so much? It seemed only yesterday that he had been an eager boy, small and bright-eyed, bothering his older half-brother. Now, Tristan was growing taller, more mature—on the cusp of manhood in some ways.
Behind them rode Ser Valtris Sunglass, his white cloak pristine, alongside young Ser Edmure Tully—knighted by Tristifer's own hand just a year past. The young Tully had proven himself a skilled and capable knight, and though he could have left to seek his own fortunes, he had remained in Tristifer's household.
Their relationship had always carried an unspoken tension. Tristifer had, after all, acquired what was once Edmure's inheritance. If the young knight harbored any resentment, he had never shown it. Even as a boy, during the war's bitter end, Edmure had not clung to anger. He was easygoing in ways Tristifer could not fathom, eager to prove himself yet unburdened by ambition. If their positions had been reversed, Tristifer doubted he would have been so forgiving. If he were anyone else, he might have suspected Edmure's patience to be a ruse—a slow game of deception, biding his time. But after a decade, even Tristifer could no longer justify such suspicions.
Trailing them rode Brynden Blackwood, his newest squire. The heir to Lord Tytos Blackwood, Brynden's service had been a gesture of trust between their two houses. The boy was diligent, never prone to complaint as some squires were. He learned quickly, and Tristifer appreciated his competence each day—his plate polished to perfection, his weapons oiled and ready, his armor secured with practiced hands.
Behind Brynden, the rest of their company followed in a steady column, twenty Mudd men-at-arms riding two abreast. Their brown surcoats, emblazoned with his sigil, rippled with each step of their mounts, forming a flowing, earthen river down the Kingsroad.
As the trees thickened on either side of the road, concealing the distant waters of the God's Eye, Tristan spoke at last.
"Father?"
Tristifer turned his head slightly. "Yes? What is it?"
His son hesitated before continuing. "The tourney—the one for the Lord Commander's replacement..." Tristan trailed off, uncertain.
Lord Commander Hightower had died just after Tristifer had departed from King's Landing to Oldstones a moon ago now. Grand Maester Gormon reported to him with a raven that his heart had seemingly stopped regretfully, but that he probably had departed during his sleep with no evidence of pain or discomfort. The Grand Maester had also assured him that there was no evidence found of foul play.
It was unfortunate that the seasoned Kingsguard had passed, even if age had been catching up to him. Over the years, he and Tristifer had built a mutual respect, forged through their shared duty in ensuring the safety of the Royal Family. His absence would be felt, both as a protector and as a steadfast presence in the White Cloaks.
For his replacement, Tristifer had ordered a tourney be held to find the most able knight to fill the absent spot in the Kingsguard while Ser Barristan was appointed the next Lord Commander, the legendary knight stepping up and taking the responsibility in stride even while in grief of his old friend.
The last member of King Aerys' Kingsguard, Ser Barristan, was now surrounded by newer faces, though Tristifer did believe that they were getting along relatively good, well if one ignored the incidents with a certain Reachman.
Ser Edwyd Yelshire had proven difficult and lacking of discipline to Ser Barristan's eternal disapproval and disciplinary actions. Ser Edwyd, while a relatively competent fighter, was probably not Kingsguard material. He was a concession to Lord Mace, however, and Tristifer, unfortunately, did not have the political capital anymore to upset the Tyrell Lord with such trivial matters.
"What about the tourney?" Tristifer prompted when his son remained silent.
Tristan took a breath. "I was wondering... will there be a squires' tourney as well?" He hesitated, then quickly added, "I know I'm not a squire yet, but... could I participate?"
Tristifer turned his head fully, studying him. He could see the eagerness in Tristan's eyes, the hope. He was tempted to refuse outright, but instead, he took a softer approach.
"I'm afraid there won't be a squires' tourney," he said. "This one is meant to find the best knight for the Kingsguard, not for sport. And besides, you're still too young." His lips quirked in amusement. "Do you have any idea what your mother would do to me if I let you compete at your age?"
"You competed in the Tourney of Harrenhal without training!" Tristan protested, his voice edged with frustration.
Tristifer chuckled, the corners of his mouth curling into a knowing smile. "I was five years older than you, for one," he countered. "And while my training may not have been as refined as yours, I was hardly untrained." He glanced at his son, eyes warm but firm. "You'll surpass me one day, of that I have no doubt. But skill and discipline alone won't get you there—you'll need patience as well."
Tristan opened his mouth, clearly wanting to argue further, but after a moment's hesitation, he pressed his lips together and gave a reluctant nod.
Clever boy. He knew when to push and when to hold his tongue. For all his youth, he was learning.
"Good. Now, instead, you can tell me what I taught you of our House's position in the Riverlands," Tristifer instructed, fixing his son with a searching gaze.
Tristan hesitated, swallowing once before beginning. "Alright, Father. Well... we have Mother's family, the Whents, who are our allies through her."
Tristifer gave a silent nod of agreement, encouraging him to continue.
"And then there's Lord Tytos Blackwood, who has been an ally since the end of the war and is a personal friend of yours," Tristan went on. He paused, as if searching his memory, before adding, "And Lord Jason Mallister—he's invested in keeping the canal and arsenal operational, something that can only happen with your cooperation."
"Very good, son," Tristifer said, a flicker of pride warming his chest. His son was learning, understanding not just names but the intricate ties that bound them all together.
"Now, what of Ser Quincy?"
Tristan's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard, but he recovered quickly. "Ser Quincy of House Cox has... been a strong supporter ever since the improvements to Saltpans paid off. And Lord Mooton... something similar, but with Maidenpool."
"Correct," Tristifer affirmed, though he lifted a finger in mild correction. "Though at different levels. Lord Mooton's support is more reserved—cautious, even—while Ser Quincy's is wholehearted and open."
Tristan nodded, absorbing the distinction. Tristifer could see the wheels turning in his young mind, the first steps toward the kind of understanding he would need in the years to come.
"Can you propose a reason for this?" Tristifer asked, curious to see what conclusion his son would reach.
Tristan furrowed his brow, thinking carefully before speaking. "Well... maybe because Ser Quincy is only a landed knight, while Lord Mooton is a lord?" he suggested hesitantly. "A knight like Ser Quincy has less to lose and more to gain from aligning himself with you, while Lord Mooton has to be more cautious. If he were to support you too openly, it might make him seem weaker in the eyes of his peers—like he's relying on your strength rather than his own."
Tristifer nodded. "I don't have a definitive answer, but that is certainly one of the more compelling explanations I arrived at as well. Very good. At least some of what I tell you doesn't simply pass into one ear and out the other."
Tristan grinned. "If you keep talking my ears off, I won't have any left."
Tristifer arched a brow. "Do you think that just because we're traveling, I can't find a way to punish you for that disrespect?" he asked, his tone mock-threatening. "I thought you were done riding ponies—but if you're so eager..."
Tristan's eyes widened as he clutched the neck of his white palfrey. "No, no! I'll be good!"
Tristifer snorted. "Hmph. You say that now."
The waters of the Sunset Sea glittered under the sun, stretching endlessly into the horizon. It was a sight worthy of its name.
Tywin Lannister stood in his solar atop Casterly Rock, his piercing gaze sweeping over his domain. Below, the jewel of the west, Lannisport, sprawled along the coastline—a walled city of bustling streets and ceaseless activity. At its harbor, ships of all sizes moored, departed, and arrived in an unending dance of commerce.
But it was not merely Westerosi galleys that filled the docks. Ever since Mudd's accursed canal, stranger vessels than ever before had begun to appear. Sleek Lorathi traders, towering Braavosi cogs, and those strange, heavy-browed Ibbenese whalers, all coming in unprecedented numbers.
And worst of all? Profits.
His Lannisport cousins sent report after report of record-breaking gains in every avenue—shipbuilding, trade, tariffs. And Tywin knew that Mudd was reaping his own fortune as well, exacting tolls from every ship that passed through his infernal canal.
It was... vexing.
The upstart who had dared to challenge his legacy as Hand of the King.
Once, Tywin's tenure had been regarded as a golden age of prosperity despite difficult circumstances—mending the realm after the War of the Ninepenny Kings, keeping Aerys' instability contained. But now? Now, in the wake of Mudd's exploits, his name was spoken with far less reverence.
Good, but not the best.
Capable, but overshadowed.
A footnote.
Step by step, Mudd had chipped away at what Tywin had built. Winning the war. Outshining him as Hand. Sending his idiot son to the Wall. Binding his daughter to a useless cousin. Leaving him with the Imp.
A cold, vengeful anger stirred in his chest, the same one that had simmered ever since that humiliating day in King's Landing, when he had been surrounded by that oaf Tyrell and forced to surrender.
He had known then. Mudd had sealed his death.
It had taken years, and the insults had only deepened. House Lannister, his house, had been further weakened—its vassals' heirs taken as hostages, its defenses on land compromised.
It was unacceptable.
Tywin Lannister did not forget. And he did not forgive.
When the Spider had whispered of Mudd and his heir traveling light to the capital, Tywin had seized the opportunity.
He had considered the House of Black and White—briefly. Their prices were exorbitant, even for the Hand of the King. No, this was far simpler. A few well-placed arrows, a stroke of fortune, and the problem would resolve itself without the need for assassins from Braavos.
And he had not been careless.
Stormlanders. Men who had once fought for Robert, men with lingering grudges and empty purses. If suspicion arose, it would not take much for a clever man to connect the dots—to a Stormlord seeking revenge, to Robert still brooding across the Narrow Sea.
Let them chase shadows.
Even if his involvement was uncovered, he had been preparing for that eventuality since the Rebellion. His surrender at King's Landing had left him with the most intact force of any rebel lord. Though it had not been enough to challenge Mudd and his allies then, he had spent the years since rebuilding, reinforcing.
Of course, a direct conflict would have been unwise, especially with Mace Tyrell looming to the south. Not that Tywin feared the man—if anything, with Tyrell in command, he could be outnumbered ten to one and still emerge victorious. Few men in the Seven Kingdoms were as foolish as Mace Tyrell.
At least among the nobility.
Unfortunately for Tywin, Mace Tyrell would not be the one commanding the Reach's forces in practice.
Rowan. Tarly.
Two of the most capable commanders in the realm. And behind them, the swords and lances of the Reach. A formidable force, even by Lannister standards.
Tarly especially.
Tywin had always considered him a dangerous man, and not just on the battlefield. Ruthless, disciplined, utterly without sentiment. He could only be thankful the man had not been born to a higher station.
The door to his solar swung open.
"Father."
A whiny, imperious voice. His only daughter.
Tywin barely resisted the urge to sigh.
"If you do not handle Reginald soon, then I will," Cersei declared, striding in without leave and settling into the chair across from his desk. She poured herself a cup of his wine without so much as a glance in his direction.
Her arrogance knew no bounds.
Tywin rolled his eyes. Cersei managing an assassination? The woman could botch an execution with a headsman and an axe. Why she thought she would fare any better in the shadows was beyond him.
"No Lannister will kill another while I am Lord," he said flatly, turning his gaze to her.
She scoffed, swirling the wine in her cup. "He is hopeless. And Joff idolizes him as if he were sent by the Seven themselves. That lackwit barely knows which end of the sword to hold—never mind how to be Lord of the Rock."
Tywin felt his lip curl.
Joffrey.
His eldest grandson was an... unfortunate boy. Arrogant, self-assured, and completely uninterested in true leadership. The product of his mother's constant whispering, filling his head since birth with the idea that he deserved Casterly Rock, that he was destined for it.
The boy was also a coward. That much had been obvious from the start.
Tywin had tried, gods had he tried. Had even resorted to the cane when necessary—a regrettable but necessary lesson. It had not worked.
If anything, it had only hardened Joffrey's resentment. The boy refused to learn from him now, refused to listen at all.
Tywin had all but written him off as a lost cause.
It was time to look to the next option.
Currently, the Imp was next in line.
A whoring, drunken, twisted little creature.
Tywin would not allow it. Not while he still drew breath. His pride recoiled at the very idea of that... thing carrying on his name.
House Lannister was his greatest pride.
His father had nearly reduced it to mockery—a laughingstock, a hollow shell of what it had once been. Tywin had restored it, reforged its reputation in gold and blood. And then, piece by piece, Mudd had kicked it all out from under him again.
For years, Tywin had labored to raise House Lannister to greater heights, to carve his name into history—not merely as another Lord of Casterly Rock, but as The Lion of Lannister.
Now, he was running out of time.
"—Father, are you even listening to me?"
Cersei's sharp, petulant voice dragged him from his thoughts.
For a moment, silence. Then—rage.
A lion's fury, cold and restrained.
Slowly, he rose to his full height, looming over her like a king passing sentence.
"You do not speak to your lord that way," he said, his voice a razor's edge. "Or so help me, you will regret it."
Cersei shrank in her seat, and for once in her life, she held her tongue.
Tywin let the silence hang, cold and absolute, before breaking it with the blunt force of truth.
"Joffrey is a blustering idiot and a craven. I would not give him a gatehouse in Lannisport, never mind Casterly Rock and the Westerlands."
Cersei gasped, her eyes going wide with shock.
"You—" she stammered, "you do not mean to allow the creature to follow you?" Disgust twisted her face. "He is a demon, a twisted thing crawled up from the Seven Hells! He—he killed Mother!"
Tywin stared her down, his expression unmoving. Imperious.
"Are you a child?" he asked coldly. "Is it from you that Joffrey inherited all his idiocy?"
His daughter flinched at the words, but he did not pause.
"The Imp will never inherit my lands and title," he said, voice like a blade. "But neither will your Joffrey."
Cersei's brows furrowed. Confusion flickered across her face.
"Who, then?" she asked warily. "If it's one of those Lannisport—"
"Tommen."
He cut her off before she could finish.
"Tommen is still young, but he is promising. I have years left yet, and he can be molded into something worthy of Casterly Rock."
Cersei blinked, stunned.
"Tommen?" she echoed. "But Joffrey—"
"Has been poisoned by your whispers and your foolish indulgence. I will not allow you to do the same to Tommen."
His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of iron.
"If you try, I will personally send you to the Silent Sisters and leave you there."
Cersei stilled.
"Do not forget," Tywin continued, "that you have already done your duty. You have birthed the next Lord of Casterly Rock. And Myrcella—" a rare flicker of something close to approval passed over his face, "—she is sure to be a pride of House Lannister. Now, step back, if you know what is best for you."
"You are dismissed," Tywin said curtly, drawing forth a few reports from Lord Lydden and Lord Brax.
Cersei lingered for a moment, silent. Then, with a huff, she rose and left his solar, her childish stomps echoing down the corridor.
Tywin exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple. What had he done to deserve such children?
Before he could dwell on the thought, a voice interrupted.
"My lord?"
Tywin looked up. A messenger stood at the open door, a sealed letter in hand.
"From King's Landing, my lord. Urgent. No sender."
Tywin's gaze flickered to the wax seal—still perfectly intact. A habit he had quickly learned even as a young child. His father had been too trusting, too soft, a Lannister could not afford to be careless.
He took the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment.
His eyes scanned the words quickly.
Then he stilled.
The muscles in his jaw clenched. He did not notice his knuckles turning white as they crushed the parchment in his grip.
They had been riding through the wooded patches for close to an hour now, and if Tristifer's estimation was correct, they would soon be crossing into the Crownlands. The air was crisp, carrying with it the distant scent of salt from Blackwater Bay, and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against dirt filled the quiet stretches between conversation.
For some time, Tristifer had been speaking with Ser Edmure and his squire, Brynden, but now he decided it was as good a moment as any to inform his heir of a matter of great importance—one that would shape his future.
"Tristan," he called, maneuvering his horse up beside his son's.
The boy turned to him, brows lifting slightly. "Father?"
"I have been in negotiations for some moons now," Tristifer began, watching his son's expression carefully. "Discussions concerning your future."
That, as expected, caught Tristan's full attention. His back straightened slightly, his grip on the reins tightening.
"What is it?"
"I have been speaking with Lord Stark," Tristifer revealed. "We are in the final stages of arranging a betrothal—between you and his eldest daughter, Lady Sansa."
There was a beat of silence. The soft rustling of leaves in the wind filled the space between them.
Tristifer nodded firmly. "Indeed, she is. Lady Sansa is both a Stark and a Tully. Tell me, Tristan—what do you realize when I mention that Lady Sansa is said to be the very image of her mother in her youth?"
His son furrowed his brows, thinking. A moment passed before realization dawned in his eyes.
"You want it to seem as though a Tully is marrying into our family," Tristan said slowly.
Tristifer allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "Precisely. She will be of House Mudd once she weds, but to my vassals—to the lords of the Riverlands—she will always have the blood of Riverrun and Tully in her veins. To many, that will matter far more than whether she was born a Stark or a Tully."
Tristan nodded, clearly understanding, but his gaze drifted away, darkened with unspoken thoughts.
"What is it, my son?" Tristifer prompted.
Tristan hesitated before meeting his father's eyes again. "Well... won't she hate me for it?"
"She will not hate you," Tristifer reassured him. "Lady Sansa is said to be a gentle and courteous girl, skilled with a needle and possessing a beautiful singing voice. I do not doubt that, once acquainted, you will find common ground."
"Congratulations, Tristan," Ser Edmure interjected from behind them, his voice warm with approval. "You will be my good-nephew then."
Tristan turned to glance at him, offering a hesitant smile. "And will you be happy with that?"
Edmure nodded without hesitation. "As long as you treat my niece as she deserves, I can think of no better match."
Tristifer, however, remained measured. "Nothing is set in stone just yet," he reminded them both. "Lord Stark has expressed interest, but he wishes to meet in person before he gives his final word. A meeting, I suspect, that will determine everything."
The distinct twang of bowstrings interrupted any reply.
Tristifer's instincts screamed before his mind could catch up, and in the next breath, he caught sight of dark shapes shifting within the dense undergrowth flanking the road. Archers. A handful of them, emerging from the trees like wraiths, loosing their arrows in a deadly volley.
"AMBUSH!" Tristifer bellowed, dropping flat against his horse's back.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tristan follow his lead, pressing himself against his palfrey's neck. A heartbeat later, chaos erupted. The sickening thud of arrows meeting flesh filled the air, mingled with the agonized cries of wounded horses.
Tristifer's gaze snapped to his son—Tristan was unharmed. But his palfrey was not as lucky. The beast let out a pained shriek, its legs buckling beneath it as two arrows jutted from its side. It crumpled, and for a terrifying moment, Tristifer feared Tristan would be crushed beneath the dying animal.
But the boy rolled clear just in time.
Tristifer barely had a moment to process the relief before the second wave of attackers surged from the trees. A dozen or more men, most clad in ragged leathers and worn gambesons, though a few wore in rusted chainmail. These were not mere beggars turned to banditry—some had the look of seasoned fighters.
Tristifer slid from his saddle, drawing Torrent from his hip in one fluid motion. His other hand reached for the shield strapped to his horse, its wooden face painted with the sigil of his house.
He turned—ready to rally his men—when his breath caught in his throat.
Ser Edmure Tully slumped lifelessly in his saddle, an arrow embedded just above his armored collar. Blood trickled down his gorget, staining the once-proud blue and silver of his surcoat. His visor was raised, exposing the wound that had ended him.
If only he had lowered it. If only the arrow had struck a little lower, glanced off the steel instead of finding soft flesh.
Tristifer stared, his mind momentarily clouded with disbelief. No. No, he was just—
A sharp voice shattered his daze.
"Form up around the Hand!" Ser Valtris Sunglass barked.
Ten riders moved swiftly, positioning themselves between Tristifer and the charging outlaws. Before he could process more, Ser Valtris grabbed his shoulder, shaking him firmly until their eyes met.
"Focus now, my lord," Valtris said, his voice steady, commanding. "There will be time for that later."
Tristifer blinked hard, willing the fog from his mind. He swallowed, forcing his grief and shock into the pit of his stomach. "Y-yes. Thank you, Ser Valtris."
Then, a sudden, sickening realization struck him. His head snapped around, searching.
"Tristan—"
"Is safe," Valtris cut in swiftly. "Two men are protecting him. Now, focus on the fight. These distractions will only get you killed."
Tristifer clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply before turning his gaze back to the battle. His men had formed a makeshift shield wall, but their numbers were grimly outmatched. More outlaws poured from the trees—a second wave, larger than the first.
A slow, seething rage settled in Tristifer's chest. They had killed his sworn knight. They had threatened his son's life. And they dared to believe they could leave this road alive.
Ser Valtris must have noticed the shift in his demeanor because a flicker of relief crossed his face.
"Ser Valtris," Tristifer said coldly, his grip tightening on Torrent, "take the right flank. I'll take the left. Be wary of the archers—they'll regain a clear shot once they don't have their own men in the way."
"My lord," Valtris acknowledged with a brief bow before marching toward the fray.
Tristifer turned his gaze to the left side of the battle. His squire, Brynden Blackwood, was on the ground, an arrow lodged in his thigh, yet the boy grit his teeth and continued loading a crossbow. Brave boy, Tristifer thought grimly. He would survive—he would make sure of it.
With a twirl of Torrent, its steel glinting even in the overcast light, Tristifer stepped forward, his shield raised.
His men saw him approach, their eyes lighting with renewed determination.
"They're afraid, can't you see?" Tristifer roared, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "Let's kill these bastards!"
Then, the first outlaw reached him—and Tristifer met him with cold steel.
Torrent moved with deadly purpose as if it had a thirst of its own. Tristifer deflected one blade with a sharp parry, opening a deep slash from collarbone to hip on another foe in the same breath. The wounded man barely had time to gasp before Torrent struck again, driving through his throat with brutal efficiency.
His men roared at the sight, their war cries echoing through the Kingsroad like the crashing of a river against stone.
"For the Hand!" one of his riders bellowed, smashing his shield into his opponent's face before cutting him down as he crumpled to the ground.
"By River and Hill!" another cried, feinting a high strike before delivering a vicious kick to his enemy's knee, sending the man sprawling. With a swift, merciless sweep of his blade, he took the outlaw's head clean off.
The tide of battle had turned. Tristifer pressed forward, his confidence in his men unwavering. The outlaws faltered under the sheer ferocity of his forces, their numbers thinning rapidly.
Then, the last three remaining bandits saw the writing on the wall. Without hesitation, they turned and bolted into the trees, scrambling for their lives.
Tristifer might have ordered a pursuit—cut them down before they could regroup—but a fresh volley of arrows rained upon them, forcing his men to huddle behind their shields. The archers, still concealed in the dense underbrush, took advantage of their position, loosing arrow after arrow in rapid succession.
"Shields up! Close ranks!" Ser Valtris shouted, his white cloak streaked with blood—none of it his own.
Tristifer gritted his teeth, crouching behind his shield as arrows thudded into the wooden face. He could hear his men cursing as stray shafts found gaps in their armor.
Tristifer took a step forward.
A sharp thud—and suddenly, he was staring at an arrowhead embedded deep in the thick wood of his shield. It had pierced through but stopped just short of reaching him. His heart pounded like a war drum, but he barely noticed. The only thought that consumed him was how satisfying it would be when he finally reached those archers.
He took another step.
Two more arrows whistled past, one on either side, close enough that he could feel the air shift as they passed.
Then, a crossbow twanged behind him. A strangled scream, followed by the sickening gurgle of a dying man, told him the bolt had found its mark. One less archer to worry about.
His men hesitated for only a moment before falling in line behind him, forming a unified wall of shields. They advanced together, arrows slamming into their raised defenses, but the volleys were losing their discipline. The archers were firing erratically now—frantic, rushed shots instead of the organized salvoes that had kept them pinned earlier.
And then, just as he expected, one of them cracked.
"Fuck this!"
A figure broke from the underbrush, sprinting away from the fight. His panic was contagious. The moment he turned to flee, the others followed, dropping their bows and running for their lives.
Tristifer whistled sharply. From behind the shield wall, a massive warhorse surged forward—Stormbreaker, the beast he had ridden to victory against Robert Baratheon. The destrier skidded to a stop beside him, eyes wild with anticipation.
With one fluid motion, Tristifer swung into the saddle, Torrent gleaming in his grip.
"What are you waiting for?" he bellowed to his men. "AFTER THEM!"
He dug his heels into Stormbreaker's flanks, and the great steed surged forward like a thunderbolt.
The fleeing archers didn't stand a chance.
Two of them whirled around in desperation, nocking arrows and loosing wild shots. Neither would save them—one sailing harmlessly into the trees, the other glancing off his shoulder pauldron.
They wouldn't get a second try.
Tristifer rode them down with brutal efficiency, Torrent flashing through the air. A single slash carved open the first man's chest as he galloped past, and with a vicious backhanded stroke, he sent the second one tumbling lifelessly into the dirt.
The rest were scattered, sprinting in different directions.
It wouldn't matter.
There was no mercy left in him.
As more of his men remounted and joined the hunt, the terrified screams of the remaining archers mixed with the relentless thunder of hooves. One by one, they were cut down, their desperate attempts to flee proving futile against armored riders.
Finally, only one remained.
The last archer had abandoned his bow, his courage, and all pretense of resistance. He collapsed to his knees in the dirt, sobbing.
"Please, my Lord! I have a family!" he wailed, pressing his face to the ground. "Have mercy! Mercy!"
Tristifer's retinue closed in, their horses forming a circle around the scene. The rhythmic snorts of their mounts and the faint rustling of leaves were the only sounds that filled the heavy silence.
Tristifer dismounted. His boots struck the earth with a dull thud, and the outlaw shuddered violently, trembling like an autumn leaf caught in a storm.
With slow, deliberate intent, Tristifer leveled Torrent under the man's chin, its razor-sharp Valyrian steel tip forcing him to lift his head. The bandit flinched, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his whole body shaking so badly that Tristifer half-wondered if he might slit his own throat on the blade by accident.
"Your name," Tristifer demanded coldly.
"J-Jack, my Lord," the man stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flickered in terror as he felt the blade press closer—just enough to break skin. A single drop of blood welled up and trickled down his throat.
Suddenly, his fear surged into frantic desperation.
"I wasn't truly part of Imry's band! You have to believe me!" Jack babbled, his words tumbling over each other.
Tristifer's eyes narrowed. "Oh? And what was it, then? Were you just caught in the middle of it all and decided to attack a Lord and his retinue?" His voice dripped with scorn.
Jack swallowed hard, wincing as the sword bit just a fraction deeper. "I—I was an archer for Lord Grandison, my Lord! Training to become a Man-at-Arms! Imry and his men heard of me and recruited me—they paid too well!" His breath hitched, panic rising in his throat. "They only said the target was an upstart noble! I didn't know—" His voice cracked as he gasped for air. "I swear! I didn't know it was you! The Hand of the King!"
Tristifer studied him in silence, his grip on Torrent unwavering. The man was pathetic—sniveling, broken, pleading for his life. And yet, he had nevertheless loosed his arrows.
Still, a dead man could tell no more secrets. Better to wring what little use he had out of him before deciding his fate.
Tristifer tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "And how did this Imry fellow come into such wealth? Enough to pay so handsomely?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—like a blade hidden beneath silk.
Jack's eyes flickered with something—reluctance, perhaps. But fear won out.
"He had a backer. A noble lord who ordered this and provided the coin." His words tumbled out in a rush. "I swear, I never learned who! I joined just before we left the Stormlands, but the lord—he knew things, my Lord. He had specific knowledge of your travel plans. Said you'd be passing through here at this exact time. Imry was always bragging about how well-informed our benefactor was."
Tristifer's jaw tightened. So this was not a random band of outlaws, nor simple mercenaries looking for easy prey. This was a deliberate, calculated ambush.
"So you were all Stormlanders, then?" he pressed, archiving the information in his mind.
Jack hesitated, then nodded rapidly. "Aye, my Lord. Most of us, at least. Some were Riverlanders looking for work, but Imry and his core men were from the Stormlands. They were all... veterans of Robert's Rebellion who survived the Second Trident."
Tristifer exhaled slowly through his nose, considering the facts. Someone with knowledge of his route, influence over sellswords, and the resources to fund an assassination attempt. And one who, at the very least, wanted him to believe the threat came from the Stormlands.
It seemed unlikely. The Stormlords, as a whole, were weak and divided. Since Robert's exile and the upheaval that followed, they had lacked both unity and strength. Still, there was one man who had both the wealth and the motivation to see him dead.
Robert himself.
The former rebel-turned-exile had spent years in the Golden Company, where he had risen to Captain-General a mere two years ago. He had proven maddeningly immune to every assassination attempt Tristifer had orchestrated, whether through skill, luck, or the loyalty of the men under his command.
The pieces fit—Robert had the necessary contacts in the Stormlands to gather bitter veterans, and he certainly had cause to hate him. And yet... this didn't feel like his style. Robert was a warrior at heart, not a schemer. Would he really resort to subtlety when brute force was his nature? And why now?
Then there was the Golden Company's ongoing campaign in Norvos. They had been fighting there for seven moons now, far from Westeros. Could it be an alibi? Perhaps. But again, if Robert were behind this, he would be the first to shout it to the heavens.
There were other possibilities, some more concerning than others.
The Essosi merchants had made their displeasure clear ever since the canal had been completed. The Magisters of Tyrosh and Myr had seen their trade routes disrupted, their pockets lightened, and they had made no secret of their grievances. Veiled threats had been sent his way—threats against his life, against his ships, against the canal itself.
Yet it was difficult to imagine them working through Stormlanders. The Stormlords were famously insular, keeping to themselves and their old grudges. Most had little love for the Free Cities, and only the lords of Tarth and Estermont maintained any real dealings across the Narrow Sea.
That left the most obvious suspect.
Tywin Lannister.
Tywin had the coin. He certainly had the means, regardless of the Stormlanders' standoffishness. But would he be so rash? Now, of all times? If Tywin truly wanted him dead, why wait until now? What has changed in the past year?
The Greyjoy Rebellion had been the last great test of their cooperation. They had fought side by side, after all. Rodrik Greyjoy had attacked Rivergard and the Arsenal while Victarion had burned the harbor at Lannisport, sinking Tywin's fleet as it lay at anchor.
For House Lannister, it had been humiliating.
For House Mudd, it had been frustrating but ultimately a lesser inconvenience. Tristifer's shipbuilders had been delayed for a mere few weeks before the Arsenal was fully operational again. With the Ironborn crushed or repelled before they could inflict serious damage.
It had all led to the battle in the waters between Orkmont and Harlaw, where Euron Greyjoy had sprung a trap that had nearly cost him everything.
Tristifer and Lord Jason Lannister had been caught in a brutal boarding action, their respective flagships, Swooping Eagle and Hammer of Justice, swarmed by ferocious Ironborn reavers. The swaying decks had been no hindrance to them, and the fight had nearly ended in disaster.
Then, from the south, the tide had turned.
Tywin Lannister had arrived with the remnants of his fleet, reinforced by House Hightower and House Redwyne. With their combined strength, they had crushed the Ironborn, shattering what remained of the Iron Fleet.
Euron Greyjoy, however, had disappeared.
Whether he had jumped into the sea or been thrown overboard, none could say. The Ironborn prisoners had only laughed when questioned, treating his supposed death as a jest.
From there, the campaign had been swift.
They had taken the Iron Islands one by one, forcing every reaver lord to bend the knee or lose their head.
Tristifer himself had executed Balon Greyjoy on the steps of Pyke, cutting him down with Torrent for all to see. Balon's sons had fared no better—Rodrik had died at Rivergard, Maron at the hands of Robin during the fighting for Pyke, and Victarion had been given to Lannister.
Tywin had taken his own vengeance.
The Greyjoy who had burned Lannisport had been hung, drawn, and quartered in a spectacle of retribution. It had been grisly but unsurprising. The attack had been a stain on Lannister's pride, one that had to be answered in kind.
That left only Balon's daughter, Asha, and his youngest son, Theon—a child of ten, left under the regency of Lord Rodrik Harlaw.
Harlaw was a practical man, a known critic of Balon's ambitions. With the Ironborn broken, their navy shattered, and their leadership reduced to children, none had spared them another thought. It would take decades for them to rise again, if they ever did at all.
Throughout the entire campaign, Tywin had played the perfect vassal.
He had fought loyally, saving both Tristifer and Jason from disaster at Orkmont. He had conquered Old Wyk, Great Wyk, and Saltcliffe with precision and efficiency.
If Tywin had plotted against him all these years, why strike now?
Something had changed.
Whether Tywin had simply grown tired of waiting or believed the time was ripe, Tristifer could not say. Perhaps Lannister felt his forces were finally ready. Or perhaps the old lion had secured the alliances he needed.
There had been whispers of contact between Lannister and Dragonstone, though how deep that connection ran remained uncertain. It may have had something to do with Prince Viserys, now ten-and-nine, truly becoming a useful potential claimant against Aegon. If Tywin saw value in backing the other Targaryen claimant, it could shift the balance of power in ways Tristifer had not yet accounted for.
Regardless of the true culprit—Baratheon, Lannister, the Magisters, or some unknown enemy—he refused to remain blind.
Tristifer had built his strength on knowledge. He had always ensured he sat atop a vast web of intelligence, gathering whispers, tracking movements, staying ahead of those who sought to move against him. But now, he was grasping in the dark, uncertain of where to strike.
That was unacceptable.
"My Lord, what are we to do with the prisoner?" A voice suddenly told him.
He turned to his guard before looking down at the quivering man. It seemed he had been caught in his thoughts for longer than he had thought.
"He is guilty of banditry." Tristifer started as the prisoner looked up at him with fearful eyes as he seemed to understand what Tristifer would say next. "In the name of His Grace Aegon the Sixth of his Name, this man will be sentenced as such. As there are no headsmen close, I shall personally carry it out with Torrent."
The guards nod after a moment, two walking toward the prisoner.
"Y-you cannot do this! I told you everything," Jack pleaded.
"Exactly. You have spent your use, and the danger you posed on my son already sealed your fate." Tristifer calmly explains as the guards grab the man's arms.
"Bring him back to the road, one will ride ahead to inform those there of our victory and prepare a block of wood. Another may lead my mount while I walk, the rest can escort the prisoner and I" Tristifer orders calmly as he begins walking back to the road.
He stopped, though after a moment.
A guard, about to ride ahead, stopped when Tristifer raised a hand. "And have the body of Ser Edmure covered and brought with us, he shall not lay here."
"My Lord," The guard said with a bow as he rode off.
Tristifer had not realized how close he had grown to Ser Edmure before now. What had started as simply a practical hostage had turned to something more. The boy had always been so innocent and latched onto Tristifer's words obviously trying to prove something for him.
The boy who had become a man and then a knight under Tristifer's eyes. He could not deny the pride he had felt when Torrent had touched the younger man's shoulders during the ceremony.
Edmure had somehow, without him even noticing, a little brother of a sort, a-a foster son.
Tristifer felt a tear glide down his cheek, followed by another. Careful to remain ahead of his men to allow no evidence of this.
There were few moments of respite for a lord. Fewer still for the Hand.
It was a different kind of struggle from the one he had faced during his youth at his uncle's. Having to travel to the next village over for a hammer, some bread. Scrounging together coin for a new cart because the last one ran till all its wheels had fallen off.
Now, food was never scarce. Coin overflowed his coffers. His bed was warm, his clothes laid out each morning, his meals prepared by the finest cooks in the Riverlands and King's Landing. And yet, despite all his past scoffing at the complacency of the lords, he had fallen into the same trap.
He had once thought himself different—stronger, more driven, too sharp to ever dull. But in the end, he was no better than the rest. Only foolish enough to believe that it did not relate to him.
The realization had come slowly. At first, he had told himself he simply understood the game better than most. The nobility had felt like a natural fit, their honeyed words laced with hidden daggers, the ever-present undercurrent of ambition and treachery. It had excited him once.
Now? It was an annoyance. There was never-ending pressure not to show weakness for any as even the walls could have both ears and eyes.
And yet, he could not afford to tire. Not yet.
He had built himself up from a boy with nothing into a man who commanded armies, ruled seven kingdoms, and held a power that only a handful of men in the last three centuries had ever known. His family's survival depended on his vigilance. His enemies, too many to name, salivated at the thought of his downfall. They waited for a sign of weakness, eager to prove that his rise had been nothing more than an anomaly—a fluke born from the chaos of Robert's Rebellion.
He may be one of a kind, but not because he was a fluke.
He would not fail, and he would not fall.
As they neared the road, Tristifer wiped away any trace of weakness, ensuring he emerged from the woods with his composure intact.
His gaze immediately landed on the shroud now covering what was surely Ser Edmure. Four more guards in his colors lay beside him, while their fallen attackers had been piled off to the side. A larger grave was being dug nearby, the earth already dark and heavy with loss.
Tristifer's eyes swept over the scene until they found Tristan. His son sat pale and shaken on a fallen log beside the wounded Brynden. The boy had clearly lost his stomach, the evidence near his feet, and Tristifer felt a pang of failure. He had hoped to shield his son from such horrors a little longer.
But the world was unkind, and the lesson was necessary. There were no second chances for most men, no mercy for those unprepared. Tristan would need to learn—better now than too late.
"Son," he called, his voice steady.
Tristan's head snapped up. In an instant, the boy was on his feet, rushing forward to clutch at his armor.
Tristifer held him close, allowing the moment before gently pulling back, resting his hands on Tristan's shoulders. "We live, Tristan. That is what matters. The enemy is defeated—worry no more."
"Ser Edmure doesn't," Tristan murmured, his eyes downcast.
Tristifer sighed, though the sound was nearly imperceptible. "That he does not." He lifted Tristan's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "The world is not just. The bravest, kindest men and women often meet the cruelest fates. That is the truth of it. Do you understand?"
Tristan's green-and-blue eyes flickered toward Ser Edmure's shrouded form before he gave a weak nod. "I do."
But he didn't. Not yet. Tristifer could see it in the way his son's hands clenched, the way he swallowed against unspoken protest. It would take time, but time was a luxury few had.
"Then you will stand beside Ser Valtris when we deliver what justice we can," Tristifer said, gesturing for the Kingsguard to approach.
Tristan remained silent.
"Will you do this?"
A pause, then a small nod. "Yes."
"Good. I am proud of you," Tristifer said, his voice warm, though worry gnawed at him as Tristan seemed to withdraw further.
Then, unexpectedly, his son spoke.
"How?"
Tristifer frowned. "How what?"
"How can you be proud of me?" Tristan's voice was quiet but firm. "I did nothing. Ser Edmure died, and you fought to avenge him. I only stood back. I kept guards with me—men who could have helped you."
"If you had died-" Tristifer interrupted his son.
"You did exactly as I wished and ordered," Tristifer said firmly. "You could have drawn your sword and rushed into the fray—but had you done so, I am certain you would not have lived through it."
His voice softened, though his words remained resolute. "From the day you were born, it has been my duty—my vow—to protect your life as best I can. What would I tell your mother? Celia? The twins? If I returned with you under a shroud, like Ser Edmure?"
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over his son.
"You are the future of this House, Tristan. If my time should come, it will fall to you to take up the mantle—to protect our family, your mother, your sisters and brother, and one day, your own children." Tristifer's grip on his son's shoulders tightened slightly. "Never sacrifice that—not for me, not for anything. That is not just my wish, but my command as your Lord and your father."
Tears welled in the corners of Tristan's eyes. "But I don't want to sacrifice you! I—I cannot be the Lord!"
Tristifer shook his head, his expression unwavering. "If the time comes, then you must. No one is ever truly ready, but duty does not wait for readiness. And while you may not feel it now, I do not doubt that, given time, you will surpass me as Lord—so long as you continue with the same diligence and heart you show now."
He exhaled, allowing a small smile. "Still, I hope to have many more years—to watch you and your siblings grow into the men and women you are meant to be."
His voice took on a quiet but steady strength as he rested a hand on Tristan's shoulder. "Now, go. Follow Ser Valtris. Stay strong—for me, for our family. You are far stronger than you believe, Tristan. You are, after all, your mother's son as much as mine."
Tristan was still not fully convinced, but he nodded more firmly this time. A glint of determination flickered in his expressive eyes.
Tristifer glanced at Ser Valtris, who had been waiting in silence. "Keep him beside you as I do this," he instructed. The Kingsguard held his gaze for a moment before nodding in understanding.
"Come along, young lord," Ser Valtris said, leading Tristan toward the circle that had formed around a solitary wooden block.
Tristifer followed, though his path led him to the prisoner, still held between two of his men.
"Bring him to the block," he commanded as he passed.
"Aye," one of the guards replied. With some struggle, they forced the man forward.
Tristifer studied him as he was first made to stand beside the block, then forced to his knees, and finally, with a sharp kick to his back, placed with his neck against the wood.
The prisoner did not resist. He did not beg or curse. It seemed he had resigned himself to his fate.
Silence fell over the gathering as Tristifer slowly drew Torrent from its sheath. The Valyrian steel blade rippled, catching what little light the overcast sky allowed.
He stepped into position. The man turned his face away.
"You, Jack of Grandview," Tristifer began, his voice carrying through the still air, "for your outlawry is in the name of Aegon, the Sixth of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, by the word of Tristifer of the House Mudd, Lord of Oldstones, Hand of the King, Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm, I do sentence you to die."
A heavy pause.
Then, with steady hands, he raised Torrent. Jack remained motionless. He would not flinch.
The blade fell, swift and true. The Valyrian steel met no resistance, slicing cleanly through flesh and bone until it struck the wood beneath with a solid thud.
The only sound that followed was the distant call of a crow.
Tristifer exhaled, glancing from the corner of his eye toward Tristan.
The boy had flinched, but he had not looked away. He still stood, watching.
Tristifer turned to Ser Valtris.
"We ride back to Butter Hall to recover and rest before continuing south," he ordered. "Have this man buried alongside his brethren, and see that our own fallen are prepared for the journey. Inform me of any difficulties—injuries, supplies, or otherwise."
"Very well, my Hand," Ser Valtris replied before turning to bark out orders, his voice cutting through the lingering silence.
Tristifer exhaled, sliding Torrent back into its sheath.
He could almost feel it in the air—something shifting, something inevitable.
Change was coming.
And it would not be a good one.
Lannister, Baratheon, Targaryen, or anyone else—it did not matter. He would be ready.
House Mudd would not falter.
He would not allow it.
End of Chapter
Hello and welcome to this sequel to A Muddy Legacy. I must admit that this story has been bugging my mind ever since I finished the last one- well, since I finished the plans for the last one.
I am aware that Tristifer and House Mudd did not have the largest difficulties in the last story. I promise now, though, that they will pay for that ease now. Will Tristifer manage to hold together the Realm? The Riverlands or House Mudd itself? Stay tuned.
This story will cover 195 AC and further into the canon WotFK. I will see how I will do the Others eventually, as I have not made my mind up further than knowing that I will not write them out or something. Every AU in this story will come from the consequences of Tristifer and House Mudd's existence or actions, and the Others have not been affected by that. Whether that will be yet another story, though, is still to be decided as well.
Thank you all for coming here and reading. I cannot promise when the next chapter will come out, but until then, have a good one.