The Road from Harrenhal
7th moon, 281 AC.
They rode early, before the dew had left the grass and while the morning fog still clung to the Blackwater Rush. The banners of House Mudd, and Fisher caught what little sun there was through the low mist, brown and black and green stirring gently in the wind. Behind them, Harrenhal stood cold and towering, its burned and broken towers still wrapped in shadow. A memory now—one that felt heavier with each mile they put between themselves and the ruin.
Lord Hosteen Mudd rode at the head of their party, his cloak drawn tight against the chill, his thoughts darker than the fog. Beside him rode his wife, Lady Alysanne Mudd, wrapped in sable and crimson, a raven pin clasped at her collar. Ser Edric Fisher followed close behind, his sword slung across his back, the dust of the tourney field still clinging to his boots.
They rode in silence for a long while, until the last of Harrenhal's towers disappeared behind a curtain of trees. Then Hosteen spoke.
"What did you make of it? Of the prince. At the end."
Edric spat into the grass. "A fool's gesture. The sort of thing you'd expect from some silver-haired poet's son with too much song in his head and not enough steel. Crowning Lyanna Stark... gods, what was he thinking?"
Hosteen didn't answer. He didn't know how.
Edric rode a little closer. "He made her a queen of love and beauty, aye. But he also made enemies. Elia Martell sat right there. Did you see her face? Half the nobles did. That poor woman bore him a daughter not two years past, and some say she is pregnant with another child just now. And he does that. In front of her. In front of her brother. Dorne won't forget that. Not Oberyn. Not the Martells. Not the Dornish."
Hosteen's brows furrowed, but Edric wasn't finished.
"And then there's the North. Lyanna's no maid of the court, Hosteen. She's Rickon Stark's only daughter, Brandon Stark's sister. She's betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and everyone knows it. Did you see him? Nearly leapt from the stands, if not for Eddard and old Jon Arryn pulling him down. You saw it. That wasn't jest. That was rage."
"He laughed first," Hosteen murmured, "then stopped. Like he remembered where he was."
"Or who he was," Edric corrected. "Lord of Storm's End. Son of Steffon. Future husband to the girl the prince just shamed with a crown she never asked for."
He shook his head.
"Dorne. The North. The Stormlands. And the Riverlands too, if you count Catelyn Tully and Brandon Stark. Those two have become like shadow and flame—one never far from the other. If you slight one, you slight them both. And then there's the Vale. Do you think Jon Arryn would stand with Aerys, or Rhaegar, if the North and Storm's End rose against him?"
Hosteen grunted. He'd thought of it before—but only in pieces. Now Edric laid it bare: Four kingdoms and the Vale...
Alysanne, who had remained silent all this time, turned to them in the saddle. Her face was pale, her eyes sharp beneath the shadow of her hood.
"If you ever crown some maiden with a flower instead of me," she said coolly, "your balls will find a home on the castle gates."
That won a dry chuckle from Edric. Hosteen gave her a sidelong look. There was humor in her voice, but not in her eyes.
She sighed then, her breath misting in the air. "Edric's right. The prince's gesture was more than foolish—it was dangerous. There are old oaths in this realm, old grudges, old wounds. And he's torn open four of them with a single garland of roses. That is not how you rule."
Hosteen nodded slowly, the reins heavy in his hands.
"But..." Alysanne added, quieter now. "I feel for Lyanna. She's but four-and-ten. A child still, by any measure. And now? She is the eye of a storm. She never asked for it. But it's found her all the same."
The horses' hooves crunched in silence for a moment.
"She looked confused," Hosteen said quietly. "Blushing, aye. But not like a girl in love. Like a girl caught. Like a deer hearing the bowstring."
Edric muttered something under his breath that might've been a prayer to the old gods. Alysanne's hand found Hosteen's beneath his fur-lined cloak and gave it a squeeze.
"This realm hasn't seen a storm like the one that's coming," she said. "Not in over a hundred years. Not since the Black Queen and her sons. And even then, those were a woman's and a bastard's claim. This time it's a prince. A crowned one."
They rode on, toward Oldstones and Hammerford, where the Riverlands still flowed calm—for now. But behind them, at Harrenhal, the ground had shifted beneath their feet. The tourney was over.
The game had begun.
The sun had climbed higher by the time they passed Hammerford. The morning fog had long since burned away, leaving the Blue Fork glinting beneath a pale sky, its waters calm and deceptive. The green fields of spring stretched around them, speckled with farmsteads and distant figures driving plows, but neither Hosteen nor his companions mistook the peace for permanence. There was a stillness in the air that carried weight, like the hush before a thunderstorm.
Just past the bridge, where the lands began to rise toward the river's bend and the great tombs of Oldstones in the distance, Hosteen reined his horse alongside Edric's. The black-cloaked castellan of Hammerford rode straight-backed as always, his sword bouncing against his saddle as the horse shifted beneath him.
"Edric," Hosteen said, voice low but firm, "when you return to Hammerford, I want you to begin drilling every man not bound to the spring planting."
Edric turned his head, his one brow lifting beneath the steel-bound edge of his riding helm. "Drilling? How many?"
"All of them," Hosteen said. "Anyone with a strong back and hands enough to hold a spear. They're to train in shifts, small groups—four, ten, twenty at most. Rotate them through the yard. Keep it quiet, but thorough."
The castellan frowned. "Quiet training with spears? And what of bows?"
"Bows too," Hosteen nodded. "Not every man is made for the line. I want every woodsman and hunter who's not needed feeding the hold to teach what they know. It's better that we have ten good archers than a hundred fools with strings."
Edric looked ahead, toward the towers of Oldstones rising between the trees—brown stone kissed by moss and mist, the broken crown glinting faintly on its highest turret. "You're preparing for war," he said flatly.
"I'm preparing for the chance of one," Hosteen replied. "That's enough."
Edric gave a slow nod. "I'll see to it. The fields will suffer a little, but not too much. It'll pass for labor rotation if we're asked. No one will speak of it."
Hosteen clapped his friend's shoulder once, firmly. "Good. You've always kept my house ready. Now keep the realm in mind as well."
The company split beneath the boughs of a budding oak, where the road forked between the hills. To the left lay Hammerford, a stout holdfast that stood like a clenched fist beside the Blue Fork, its stone walls squat and strong, its tower crowned with iron-spiked battlements. To the right, the road curved and climbed through fields and forest toward Oldstones, ancient seat of the Mudd kings.
Edric tugged the reins of his dark gelding and turned toward his own hall. He raised a gauntleted hand in farewell, his cloak rippling in the wind, the gold and brown of House Mudd fluttering at his back.
"My lord," he called to Hosteen, "I'll see to the training myself. The yards will be busy before the week is out."
Hosteen Mudd nodded from horseback. "Quietly, Edric. I'd rather the whispers speak of new drills than war."
Edric gave a dry chuckle. "Aye, war is best whispered of, until the time comes to roar. Old Gods keep us."
"And the old gods guide your Sword," Hosteen answered, the corners of his mouth tightening into a rare smile. Edric gave a short salute and rode on, his retinue of mounted men trailing behind him toward the iron gate of Hammerford.
Hosteen turned his destrier back to the main road
Oldstones was nearly whole again. What had once been broken walls and vine-choked ruins now stood proud and imposing.
Alysanne watched it come into view with narrowed eyes. "It's beautiful," she murmured, "and strange, still, to think of kings sleeping beneath our feet."
"They were never our kings that's to long ago," Hosteen said quietly. "But their bones will lie with ours in the future, all the same."
They rode in silence for a while longer, the wind rustling the fresh grasses around them, birds calling from the forest's edge. When Alysanne finally spoke again, her voice was softer. "Edric's words... you agree with them?"
"I do," Hosteen said. "Every one of them."
"You're truly preparing for war."
"I am."
She nodded once. "And what of your magic?" Her eyes flicked to him. "You told me, on our wedding night—have you seen something?"
Hosteen took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. "Not exactly. No dreams or otherworldly knowledge showed me this path. No voice whispered it in the trees. But the realm is cracking. Even a blind man can see it."
"You mean what happened at the tourney."
Hosteen grunted. "That, and all the rest. Aerys has grown crueler. His Hand is gone. Rhaegar... Rhaegar is not his father's son, but that may be worse, not better."
She nodded slowly. "Elia. The North. Dorne. The Stormlands. He insulted them all in one ride of his horse."
"And half the Riverlands, if you count Catelyn Tully's betrothal to Brandon Stark," Hosteen added. "The Vale will stand with them, should it come to blood. As we've said earlier, that's five kingdoms in their camp already, if not six."
Alysanne was quiet for a long moment. The only sound was the slow clop of their horses' hooves on the winding path.
"I still hope it can be avoided," she said at last. "There's time, isn't there? Time to mend things, time for calmer heads to prevail?"
"Perhaps," Hosteen said, though he sounded far from convinced. "But it's not in our hands. If blood is spilled, it will not begin with us. But I would not be caught unready, not again."
She looked at him sharply. "Then you must summon the others. My brother, Mallister, Charlton... even Jonos Bracken."
Hosteen raised an eyebrow. "You've taken a liking to Jonos?"
"I haven't," she said with a smirk. "But he's proud and prickly, and if we don't keep him close, he might go to the highest bidder."
Hosteen chuckled. "A true daughter of Raventree."
"Don't forget it," she said. "We swore to stand together, to protect each other. That means sharing what you know—what you fear."
Hosteen gave a slow nod. "You're right. I'll send ravens before week's end."
As the sun broke through a bank of clouds and painted the castle ahead in golden light, Alysanne looked on in silence, her face caught somewhere between wonder and foreboding.
Oldstones awaited them. And beyond its walls, the wind carried the scent of change—sharp and swift and cold.