The white Cloak
7th moon, 281 AC.
The morning mists curled along the River Road like restless ghosts, clinging to horse legs and wagon wheels as the retinue assembled. Above them, the banners of House Mudd rippled in the breeze. Their colors shone fresh and proud, touched with embroidery so fine the rays of the rising sun seemed caught in the thread.
They rode from Riverpeak in good order: Hosteen Mudd at their head in a cloak of green and black, his wife Alysanne beside him astride a dark mare. Edric Fisher followed close behind, newly made Lord of Hammerford, his hair loose and windblown, a blue cloak clasped over his shoulder, silver hook pinned to his chest. A dozen knights and as many guards rode with them, the vanguard of a house that had once been dust and legend—and now, was near-royal again.
As the last of the townsfolk came to bid them farewell, Hosteen turned in the saddle to look back at the towers of Oldstones rising above the treetops, and beyond it, the bustling sprawl of Riverpeak. He had built them both with fire, gold, and will.
"To Harrenhal, then," he said, and spurred his horse forward.
The road wound slow and wide along the Blue Fork, and by midday the mists had lifted, replaced by golden skies and the chatter of birds. Hosteen rode beside Edric Fisher for a time, letting the wind speak between them before conversation found its way.
"You've done well at Hammerford," Hosteen said, watching the other man closely. "The lands look greener each time I pass through. You've made the place sing."
Edric chuckled. "They needed only a true lord, not another bastard knight playing at rule. The past few centuries have been full of those."
"Not your fault your line faded in shadow. But it lives now." Hosteen gestured ahead. "You'll see. You've reclaimed more than land. You've reclaimed a name."
"And you," Edric said with a glance, half-smiling, "are near a king in all but title. There's none in the Riverlands who dares challenge your word but the Lord Paramount himself. Gods, even then..."
Hosteen did not smile, but the approval in his eyes was plain. "The river remembers the blood of kings. We merely taught it to rise again."
Their laughter echoed down the path, and for a moment, it seemed the old songs might return.
Later, as dusk crept toward the trees, Alysanne rode beside Hosteen, her raven-dark hair braided down her back, her leathers too finely cut for the forest but worn like armor nonetheless. She had her bow slung at her back and a pair of knives at her hips.
"You've not said what you'll wager in the lists," she said.
"I might sit them out," Hosteen admitted. "Better to watch. Better to listen."
She raised a brow. "The great tourney of Harrenhal, and you come only to watch?"
"There's more to learn in shadows than in the tilt. Besides, the realm shifts more in peace than war these days. You feel it too, don't you?"
Alysanne's gaze wandered toward the western hills. "The Riverlands have changed more in five years than in the two hundred before them. Borders redrawn, kings remembered, old houses raised again—and others… forgotten."
"Peace breeds new lords," Hosteen said, "and breaks the false ones. Look at Fisher. Look at Bracken." He smiled, but it was thin. "Some men only thrive in blood."
"Yet even in peace, the seeds of war grow." Her voice was soft. "And some kings wear no crowns."
He looked at her then, long and full. "And some queens wear knives."
She smiled at that, cold and bright as dawn on steel.
As they crested a low ridge, Harrenhal was still far away, but the road had begun. The weight of it hung in the wind—something vast and dark stirring at the edge of their journey. Behind them, Oldstones stood proud. Before them, the ghosts of kings waited.
Harrenhal rose like a mountain cracked by gods—its towers ruined but defiant, its walls black as burnt bone. No structure in the Seven Kingdoms cast a longer shadow, and as Hosteen Mudd and his company approached, that shadow seemed to swallow the afternoon sun.
Around the fortress spread a city of silk and steel. Pavilions sprawled across the green like a conquered army encamped in celebration—bright pennants flapping, minstrels piping, smoke curling from firepits and cookpots. Banners flew from every corner of the realm: lions and roses, tridents, stags, suns, falcons, krakens. The crown of House Mudd was one among many, but few flew higher.
Hosteen rode at the head, flanked by Alysanne and Edric Fisher. Behind them came knights in dark cloaks and steel helms, guards bearing shields of red-brown, green and gold, and wagons filled with tents, gifts, and armor polished to a warlord's gleam. The River had come home.
They passed beneath the eye of a cracked tower, whose upper half had long since fallen in ruin. Harrenhal loomed—but so did its history. Not even dragonfire had erased its presence.
"Gods help us," Edric muttered as he craned his neck toward the sky. "How many men died building that?"
"More than we'll ever know," Hosteen said. "And more still trying to hold it."
They made camp beside their kinsmen and allies—beneath the banners of Blackwood, Mallister, and Vance. The Riverlords had claimed a swath of ground together, and it felt as much a sign of unity as strategy. Pavilions were raised, torches lit, and guards posted. Servants unpacked crates of wine, whetstones, and the ironwood spears carried for display as much as use.
Hosteen's tent was dark green with a black canopy lined in emerald thread. The golden Crown high from its peak. Alysanne's tent was simpler, but a raven was stitched into the flap, perched in moonlight. The sigil of House Fisher hung near the others for the first time in centuries.
"Feels like something's beginning," Edric said as they looked across the field.
"Or ending," Hosteen replied.
Later, as twilight settled over the campgrounds, Hosteen and Edric walked the tourney grounds together. The air was thick with the smell of roast meats, spiced cider, and a hundred different oils used on armor and tack. Music drifted on the breeze—harps and lutes from noble camps, drums and flutes from common ones.
They passed knights from the Reach polishing gleaming green plate, Stormlanders boasting loudly over cups of mead, and tall Northmen testing the balance of axes.
"That one's from the Dreadfort," Edric noted, pointing to a pale man sharpening a cruel-looking mace. "See the flayed man?"
"And there—Brightflame's bastards from the Marches," Hosteen added with a nod. "Every House with a blade has come."
It was a gallery of power, ambition, and vanity. Some men came to win fame. Others to win allies. And some, no doubt, came to die.
Near the western slope of the tourney field, a ring of straw targets had been erected for the archery demonstrations. Archers stepped forward in turn, loosing shafts with practiced grace. Lords and ladies watched from the sidelines, wine in hand, clapping politely as bulls-eyes were struck.
Then came a whisper—"That's Black Aly reborn," someone said. And heads turned.
Alysanne strode forward, clad in dark riding leathers and a half-cloak clasped with a raven pin. She took a borrowed longbow with little ceremony, nocked an arrow, and let fly.
Thock.
Dead center.
Another. Thock. Then three in quick succession—thock-thock-thock. A cluster in the heart of the mark.
The crowd murmured, then applauded. A knight from the Vale offered her his place. She declined, but smiled—sharp and quiet.
Hosteen watched from a distance. A dozen knights had turned their heads. Not all looked kindly.
"She'll have a list of challengers by morning," Edric said, impressed.
"She's welcome to them," Hosteen replied, smiling faintly. "Let them learn to miss."
And above it all, the towers of Harrenhal watched like ancient sentinels, their hollow windows filled with the wind of ghosts.
Tomorrow would bring the feast.
But for now, the realm waited, breath held, under banners and ruin.
The hall stretched like a dream carved from blackened stone—vast and echoing, lit by the roaring blaze of its namesake hearths. Fires danced in a hundred grates along the walls, casting shadows like phantoms across the carved faces of long-dead kings. Smoke curled toward the vaulting ceiling, where banners of a hundred noble houses swayed in the rising heat.
Long trestle tables groaned beneath the weight of roasted meats, spiced vegetables, wheels of cheese, and fruits glazed with honey. Goblets clinked. Laughter echoed. Harps sang between the crackling braziers, and the smell of wine and ash hung heavy in the air.
Among the Riverlords, Hosteen Mudd and Alysanne Blackwood sat side by side, their cloaks draped behind them, the crown and raven of their houses visible to all who passed. Edric Fisher sat a place down, flushed from wine and flanked by lesser knights loyal to Oldstones. Across the table, Jason Mallister raised a toast in greeting. Tytos Blackwood offered a rare smile.
"Oldstones sends its strength," Hosteen said, lifting his goblet to them both.
"And the godswood its blessing," added Alysanne, her voice quiet but clear.
The bond between them was visible—blood and ambition, rooted deep. Once, such houses might have vied for supremacy. Now, they sat together beneath a new banner of unity, forged not in war, but in purpose.
At the head of the hall, on a dais flanked by gold-clad guards, Lord Walter Whent stood in a doublet of black and pale violet. A ceremonial sword rested across the arms of his chair, and a wide golden chain hung heavy around his neck.
He raised his hands. The music dimmed. The hall stilled.
"My lords and ladies," Whent called, voice ringing out across the chamber. "I welcome you to Harrenhal. Let these next days be for glory, for sport, and for the honor of all our noble houses. May the Seven watch over the tourney, and may friendship triumph as surely as strength."
A cheer rose, hearty and scattered, then quieted as he continued.
"Let us first honor the great lords who grace our table: Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North."
Rickard inclined his head, solemn beneath the direwolf banner.
"Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches and the Mander and Warden of the South."
A round-faced man smiled and waved, flanked by florid Reach knights.
"Prince Oberyn Martell of Sunspear, standing for his brother, Prince Doran."
Oberyn, lean and dark-eyed, raised a golden cup and grinned as the Martell sunburst rippled behind him.
"Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End, Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, and Lord Hoster Tully, our own lord paramount."
Cheers erupted at Robert's name—loudest near the Reach and Stormlander tables. Tywin nodded curtly, gold-and-crimson clad, stone-faced as ever. Hoster Tully rose and offered a father's nod toward the Riverlords.
"And last—yet not least," said Lord Whent, his voice rising—"the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen."
The hall fell still.
Prince Rhaegar stood.
Tall and graceful, he wore a coat of black and deep violet, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen gleaming across his breast in silver thread. His silver-gold hair flowed past his shoulders, catching the firelight like living starlight. No smile touched his lips, only a solemn nod as he scanned the room—his eyes pausing for a breath on each of the great lords assembled.
When his gaze swept across the Riverlords, Hosteen met it squarely. There was no warmth in it, nor coldness—only depth, as if the prince bore the weight of distant storms behind his gaze.
The hall exhaled, like a single breath released.
Hosteen leaned toward Alysanne. "He wears that room like a crown."
"And yet," she murmured, eyes fixed on the prince, "he seems already burdened by it."
They would speak more of that look, later.
For now, the feast resumed. Music rose once more. And the shadow of Harrenhal, and all the history it carried, wrapped itself around the assembled realm.
A sudden cry cut through the laughter and song, loud as a trumpet's call:
"The King! All hail King Aerys, Second of His Name!"
The hall fell into stillness. Chairs scraped. Cups stilled in midair. Nobles rose like reeds before a storm. The hundred hearths flickered low, as if the flames themselves hesitated.
The great doors groaned open.
From the smoke-shadowed arch emerged a line of white-cloaked Kingsguard, their polished armor glowing like moonlight. At their center, slow and deliberate, walked the King.
Aerys Targaryen.
He was clad in layers of rich velvet and brocade, dyed deep black and Targaryen crimson, stitched with thread-of-gold. Jewels crusted the hems, yet his robe hung askew at one shoulder, as if thrown on in haste. His crown—a circlet of sharp, spiked rubies—sat askew atop a mane of silver-white hair that spilled in tangled waves down his back.
His beard, once regal, was now a wild tangle, stained and uneven. His fingernails curled long over the tips of his fingers, yellowed and sharp as talons. His eyes—those famous violet eyes—flicked from face to face, wide and gleaming, searching, watching, measuring. There was no joy in them. Only fire, and fear, and something fouler.
He paused halfway down the hall, as if sniffing the air for traitors.
Only the crown, and the unmistakable grace of his Valyrian blood, marked him a king. Everything else—his bearing, his eyes, his silence—belonged to something else. Something darker.
From the Riverlords' table, Hosteen Mudd watched, expression stiffening. He had not seen Aerys since Duskendale—and somehow he looked worse now. Now, standing in that flickering half-light, he wasn't certain he ever wanted to see the King again.
"He looks more specter than sovereign," he murmured to Alysanne.
She did not reply, but her jaw was tight.
The King moved again, climbing the dais with heavy steps. Lord Whent stepped aside, bowing deep. Aerys waved him off with a lazy flick, then turned to face the hall.
A smile touched his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. Twisted. Uneven. Unsettling.
The King's smile remained fixed like a mask, but his eyes glittered as he turned to face Lord Whent.
"A curious thing…" Aerys said, his voice high and lilting, almost playful. "It seems your invitation never reached me. Lost, perhaps? Or hidden?"
A hush crept over the hall. Lords looked to one another, unsure whether to laugh or shudder.
Lord Whent bowed again, murmuring, "Your Grace, I—"
But Aerys waved a hand, silencing him.
"No matter," he said. "I am here now. I would not miss such a splendid display of loyalty and strength." His eyes swept across the dais, catching the gaze of each Lord Paramount, then lingering on Tywin Lannister.
A strange tension bloomed in the air. Aerys tilted his head like a bird sighting a worm.
"A tragedy has befallen us," the King announced suddenly, his voice rising in pitch. "One of my Kingsguard has passed. A noble soul, taken too soon. And yet… my Hand has not filled the post. Curious, is it not?"
The words struck like thrown daggers. Tywin Lannister did not move, did not blink.
"Perhaps," Aerys went on, "he wishes me to die? To sit upon my throne unguarded, unprotected?"
Gasps whispered through the hall. Lords stiffened. Ser Jaime Lannister, golden and youthful, stood beside his father like a statue, wide-eyed.
The King's mouth twisted into a grin.
"But if it is his son who shall guard me…" he said sweetly, "why, I shall take him gladly!"
He turned and raised a hand, voice echoing across stone and flame:
"Ser Jaime Lannister shall take the white cloak!"
There was silence at first. Then—gasps, murmurs, disbelief rippling through the gathered nobles like wind across tall grass.
Lord Tywin's jaw set like granite.
Ser Jaime blinked once, twice. He looked to his father, then to the King. Slowly, as if moving through a dream, he stepped forward and knelt.
The Kingsguard brought forth the white cloak.
And Jaime spoke:
"I swear to ward the king with all my strength, to give my blood for his.
I swear to obey His commands and keep His secrets.
I swear to defend His honor and serve at His pleasure.
I will never flee, nor falter in my duty.
I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.
I pledge to His Grace my life and honor, until the day that I die."
As he finished, Aerys clapped with manic glee. "Yes!" the King cried. "A lion for a lamb! Let all know how dearly the realm loves me!"
But Tywin Lannister was already walking away, his gold cloak trailing behind him. He did not speak, nor look back.
Hosteen Mudd watched in silence, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The realm, he knew, had just shifted again.
Not with swords… but with silence.