Deals and Misdeeds
7th moon, 281 AC.
The day had grown old, and the air hung heavy with the scent of trampled grass, sweat, and distant fires from the feast tents. Harrenhal loomed in the distance like a scorched giant, its black towers clawing at a sky dimmed by dusk. But here, on the edge of the encampments where the Riverlords had staked their claims, one pavilion stood apart.
It was a large tent, square and solemn, stitched from rich brown canvas the color of old leather and damp earth. The fabric bore the marks of travel and weather, but its seams were sound, and its shape stood unbent by the breeze—a lord's tent. Yet even from afar, one could tell it was no common captain's lodging.
The air inside the tent was close and heavy, thick with the lingering scent of oiled leather and the faint tang of wine. A map of the Riverlands lay spread across the low table, its creases smoothed and weighed down by pewter goblets and a small, carved stag of ashwood.
Lord Maynard Charlton sat across from Hosteen Mudd, his manner courtly but cautious. The lines about his eyes were shallow, but his mouth bore the look of a man who had grown used to smiling when he had cause to frown. Beside Hosteen stood Lord Jason Mallister, leaning lightly against a tent pole, arms crossed, and Lord Tytos Blackwood, dark-eyed and silent as stone, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows from the wings of the raven upon his surcoat.
"I confess," said Maynard, talking to Jason while swirling the wine in his cup but not drinking, "when your squire delivered the invitation, I imagined a supper, or perhaps a game of cyvasse. Not—this." He waved a gloved hand at the map, the solemn faces, the absence of jest. "You'll forgive me, lords, but this is a tourney, not a council chamber."
Jason Mallister exhaled, long and tired, as though the comment had cost him patience he could ill afford. "And you truly believe politics sleeps just because the banners fly in silk, and not in blood?"
"Some might say," said Hosteen mildly, "that this tourney was never just sport."
Tytos Blackwood tilted his head. "There are whispers, Maynard. Of Rhaegar's intent. That this gathering was meant to rally the realm... quietly, yes—but not without weight. And now that King Aerys himself has slithered up from King's Landing, the whispers are all but howls."
Lord Maynard's brow furrowed, the polished courtesy slipping just a little. "I had heard... such mutterings. Yet I assumed—"
"You assumed what many did," Hosteen said, voice low but even. "That this would pass as most tourneys do. Dust, pageantry, and a few broken bones and deaths."
He leaned forward, letting his words carry the weight that had drawn them here. "But men have seen what the Riverlands might be, Maynard. If united. If organized. And you sit at the Twins—a bridge, yes, but also a gate. What passes through may feed or starve us."
Maynard sat straighter. "You came to ask for my gate, then."
"We came to ask for your seat," Hosteen replied. "At the table we're building. You, me, Blackwood, Mallister. Together we would hold the Northern Riverlands, nearly in full. All but House Vypern, and you've connections there. If the tales merchants carry are more than ale-born boasts."
Maynard gave a thin smile. "The Vyperns and I share a grandmother. And our sons squired for each other. That may count for something."
Jason Mallister gave a brisk nod. "It does. Which is why we ask."
"And if I say yes," Maynard said, finally sipping his wine, "what does this alliance mean? Words are fine. Promises sweeter. But lords have long memories when oaths sour."
It was Blackwood who answered, his voice dry as old parchment. "It means military aid. A pact of defense, should war or raiders come. Trade between our houses, tax-free, to strengthen us all. Shared counsel—each lord with a voice in matters that touch us all."
"And," Hosteen added, "if dark days should fall upon any of us—plague, fire, invasion—the rest will offer aid, not just in sword or coin, but in men, ships, and healing hands. We rise together, or we drown alone."
Maynard's eyes glittered with something more than interest now. He leaned forward, the goblet forgotten. "It is a generous offer. But what of disputes? Say one of our number turns sword against the other? These pacts... they always sound simpler than they are."
Hosteen sighed. He had expected the question.
"If such a thing were to happen," he said, carefully, "the alliance would move to end it—swiftly, and with as little blood as possible. After the swords were sheathed, we'd investigate. There would be a vote, among the remaining lords, to decide who bears the blame... and whether they remain among us, or are cast out."
Jason added, "Justice before loyalty. But loyalty after justice. That's the root."
Maynard sat still a long moment.
Outside the tent, a burst of laughter rang out—drunken knights staggering past, perhaps, or a bard strumming some bawdy verse. But inside, all was quiet but for the crackle of the lantern flame and the faint clink of goblet against wood.
Finally, Maynard smiled. Not the shallow, guarded grin of earlier—but a deeper thing. He raised his cup in a small salute.
"Then I will sit at your table, Lord Mudd. And trust that you'll do the same when my house has need."
Hosteen raised his goblet in turn. "And we shall."
Tytos simply inclined his head.
Jason Mallister gave a nod and reached for the flagon. "Then we drink," he said, already pouring, "to loyalty bought not with gold or fear—but with common cause, and stronger ground beneath us."
And so they drank.
And beyond the tent, the river rolled on, until the next day.
Outside, the late spring sun filtered through thick Harrenhal mists, casting the field in a gauzy half-light. Dew still clung to the grass when the guards opened the tent flaps for a second day of parley beneath the brown banner bearing the crowned sigil of House Mudd—a golden crown glinting with emeralds at its base, set boldly upon a field the color of old earth. The canvas rustled in the breeze, the faintest scent of oiled leather and last night's ash fires clinging to its seams. Two guards flanked the entrance, tall men clad in ringmail hauberks beneath brown surcoats, their spears planted and helms polished. Their eyes swept the field with quiet confidence, as if daring any man to approach unbidden.
Inside, the same furnishings remained from the day before: a carved oak table draped with a map of the Riverlands, painted miniatures scattered across its surface to mark holdings and houses. Hosteen Mudd sat at the head, his dark hair pulled back, his fingers tented before him. To his left, Lord Tytos Blackwood sat in reserved calm, the embroidered black ravens on his doublet seeming to flutter as he moved. Across from him was Lord Jason Mallister, more relaxed, sipping watered wine and twirling a gold ring on his finger. Beside Mallister sat Lord Maynard Charlton, younger than the rest, but already showing the thoughtful poise of a man who understood the weight of old names.
The tent flap parted again, and in stepped Jonos Bracken.
He wore a dark green cloak pinned with a bronze horse, his heavyset face drawn in a permanent scowl. His beard was short and thick, streaked with gray, and his brow was already furrowed as he crossed the threshold. But when he caught sight of Blackwood, his frown deepened further.
"I wasn't told this would be some sort of jest," he growled. "I see little cause for House Bracken to waste time speaking with Blackwoods and their toadies."
Hosteen raised a hand, calm and open. "We hoped you might tell us whether you'd like that to remain the case, or not. That, Lord Jonos, is why you were summoned."
Bracken's eyes narrowed, glancing between the men seated. "You mean to say you wish to end centuries of enmity over a tent meeting?"
Mallister chuckled, leaning forward with a sigh. "We're saying the world is changing. And the wise lord adapts. The prince throws a tourney to gather favor against his father, and what happens? Aerys himself rides down to Harrenhal. If you believe there are no politics in this field, then perhaps you've spent too long in the saddle."
Jonos frowned but said nothing. He took a step forward, letting the flap fall closed behind him.
"And what is it you want of me?"
Hosteen gestured to the seat left empty beside Charlton. "To begin with, a conversation. Perhaps something more."
Charlton leaned in, earnest. "We've forged a compact—an alliance, of sorts. Between Oldstones, Raventree, Seagard, and now the Twins. With your seat at the Stonehedge, we could have influence that would even pressure Riverrun if need be. With you, we would hold the Trident's north and heart. There is strength in that. Unity."
Bracken's mouth twisted. "With a Blackwood? That unity won't last long."
Maynard frowned, puzzled. "Forgive me, Lord Bracken, but I never quite understood the depth of this quarrel. I've heard the stories—each side claiming the other was once its vassal. But that would matter more if either were kings today."
Bracken snorted. "So say you, whose line never had a crown to lose."
"But we do have ears," Maynard said calmly. "And we've heard the other tale too. That the Blackwoods blame your house for felling their weirwood, long ago."
"And they would be wrong," Bracken said, his voice hardening. "It was rot, or drought, or some old malady. Not fire. Not axes. But they will never let the tale die."
Hosteen steepled his fingers. "That may be true. Or not. But the godswood at Raventree lives again. The rites they say were broken are now kept by a new tree, smaller perhaps, but green and red all the same. The wounds have healed. Or are healing."
Tytos Blackwood inclined his head, voice quiet but firm. "Eight thousand years. That's how far back we'd have to look to find the truth. Neither you nor I shall ever know what truly happened, and neither shall our sons, or theirs. But we might decide what they do next."
Jonos stared at him a long moment. His jaw worked as if he were chewing on words. Then, with a grunt, he nodded.
"Perhaps. I'll not call you a liar, not today."
Mallister smiled. "And I'll tell you this: every Blackwood has Bracken blood in him, and every Bracken has some raven in his veins. That's the truth of it. You've fought so long, the bloodlines have twisted into one another like river weeds."
Bracken gave a grudging chuckle. "Mayhaps. Still doesn't answer why I'm here."
Hosteen leaned forward. "You're here because we want to know if you're amenable to more than peace. Trade. Common cause. And, if the winds blow right, a place in the alliance we've begun to forge."
Jonos considered. "And what does that entail, this alliance of yours?"
Tytos answered, as he had the day before. "Military aid, if called for. Tax-free trade among member houses. A council on matters that concern us all. If one of us is struck low, the others will raise him again. If one of us strikes another, we all gather and judge who is to blame."
Bracken scratched his beard, eyes narrowing again. "And if I say yes, what then? You expect me to sup with Blackwoods, to ride beside them into war?"
Charlton smiled. "Not today. But perhaps one day. It need not start with swords, my lord. It may begin with wagons and coin."
There was a long pause.
Then Bracken exhaled, deep and slow.
"Very well. For trade, for coin... and perhaps peace. I'll join your alliance. But don't ask me to bless their godswood, or kiss a raven's ring."
Tytos smirked faintly. "We'll settle for less, Lord Bracken. For now."
And with that, the pact was sealed—one step closer to a Riverlands less fractured, though never without its grudges.
The sun burned bright and high above the Gods Eye, as though it too wished to see the final rounds of the great tourney. Banners danced like living things in the spring breeze—stags and lions, trout and dragons, ravens and horses, all flapping above the heads of thousands who had gathered in the vast wooden stands. It was the third day of jousting, and the crowd had grown no less eager, nor the stakes any lower.
Lord Hosteen Mudd sat between Tytos Blackwood and Jonos Bracken, his elbows resting on the polished rail before him. Tytos was calm as ever, his black eyes studying the tiltyard as if it were a game board. Jonos Bracken, by contrast, shifted often, snorting with approval or disdain depending on the tilt. Between them, Hosteen kept his own counsel, though his gaze never strayed far from the field.
The two prior days had passed in a blur of dust, shattered lances, and splintered pride. While Hosteen had been in his tent forging alliances of stone and blood, the lists had been witness to another sort of struggle—of pageantry, prowess, and whispered power. Now, only the final rounds remained.
They had come down, almost predictably, to the great names of the realm.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—silver-haired and solemn—rode a coal-black destrier with the ease of a man born to it. His armor gleamed pale as moonlight, chased with rubies at collar and gauntlet, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen wrought upon his breastplate. Contestant after contestant had fallen before him in the previous days, and each tilt only seemed to sharpen his form.
Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard—Barristan the Bold—remained the prince's final opponent. He wore no ornamentation but the white cloak of his order, yet his name alone stirred awe in the stands. Between them, the other champions had been cast aside: the boisterous Robert Baratheon, the quiet Lord Jason Mallister, the nimble Martell cousins, even the Mysterious Knight of the Laughing Tree.
That knight—clad in mismatched armor, with a smiling weirwood face painted on his shield—had been a riddle in flesh. He—or she, some still whispered—had unhorsed three knights in three tilts, each one known for cruel treatment of squires. But today, midway through the proceedings, the Knight of the Laughing Tree had not returned to the lists. Their place had remained empty, the herald uncertain, the shield removed without explanation. Whispers followed—some said Aerys had found them, others that they'd vanished into mist and legend.
But such mysteries had no place in the final tilt, for here rode greatness made flesh.
The trumpets sounded, sharp and clear. The crowd hushed.
Prince Rhaegar lowered his lance. Ser Barristan saluted with his own.
They charged.
Twice they thundered down the tiltyard. The first pass was inconclusive—wood splintered but neither was unhorsed. The second pass saw Barristan's lance glance off Rhaegar's breastplate, while the prince's own struck true. The Kingsguard toppled, falling with grace but falling nonetheless.
The crowd roared.
Tytos nodded slowly. "A clean win. The prince rides well."
"He always did," Bracken muttered. "Too well. Like a man with too much time and too little war."
Hosteen said nothing. He watched as Prince Rhaegar circled his horse slowly around the list. The trumpet blared again, the victor's fanfare. From a page, the prince took the token—his token—for the Queen of Love and Beauty.
"Will he give it to his wife?" Hosteen murmured.
"He must," said Tytos.
"Best he does," Bracken grunted. "Else he's a fool."
They watched.
Elia Martell sat in the royal box, a shade paler than she had been two years past when she and Rhaegar had wed in great splendor. Her brother Oberyn was beside her, mouth tight as a bowstring. Her dark eyes followed her husband as he rode steadily toward her.
But he did not stop.
He rode past Elia without even a glance. A hush fell across the stands. Then gasps rose, scattered like startled birds.
"What is he doing?" Tytos asked, the faintest edge creeping into his voice.
"By the gods," Jonos growled. "He wouldn't dare—"
He dared.
Prince Rhaegar reined in before the box of Lord Rickard Stark. There sat the lord of Winterfell, his eldest sons Brandon and Eddard, and beside them—
Lyanna.
The wolf maid of the North, wild and bright-eyed, her hair loose beneath her modest veil. She wore no jewels save a simple wolf's-head brooch. And she blushed like a girl caught in a tale.
Prince Rhaegar bowed from the saddle.
And laid the crown of winter roses in her lap.
The world seemed to pause.
Whispers surged like wind in dry leaves. Names were spoken. Treason. Madness. Love. And worse.
Hosteen glanced across the crowd and saw King Aerys leaning forward in his high seat, eyes gleaming with something not unlike joy. Whether it was malice or amusement, he could not say. But the king's grin was thin and crooked.
Near the stands, Robert Baratheon rose, face red as flame. He would have leapt down then and there had Eddard not seized his arm. John Arryn stood too, whispering words in his other ear, trying to calm the storm that brewed behind those stormy blue eyes.
"Seven save us," said Bracken. "The boy's gone mad."
Tytos shook his head. "No... not mad. But he's made a choice."
Hosteen Mudd said nothing.