The Renaissance Begins

Tristifer moved through the familiar drills with little thought, his strikes against the straw dummy quick and precise. The repetition was almost meditative—an action so well-practiced that it required no effort, allowing his mind to drift as he followed the routine ingrained in every Man-at-Arms during training.

Tension hung heavy in the castle. Only a day ago, word had spread of a royal caravan ambushed on the road. At dawn, Ser Roger Hogg, the Knight of Sow's Horn, had ridden out to his liege, Lord Hayford, hoping to have him mediate the matter and smooth things over with the King.

Rumors of the King's increasing instability had spread like wildfire since the Defiance of Duskendale three years ago. Initially, they had been little more than hushed whispers in the darkest corners of dingy inns and alehouses, but in recent moons, the talk had grown bolder, more insistent.

Just a moon ago, in his usual spot at The Hog, Tristifer had overheard a vivid account of the King's rapidly deteriorating hygiene. According to the gossip, he looked less like a Targaryen monarch and more like a beggar from Flea Bottom draped in fine silks. Some even went so far as to claim that the true King had been replaced by a lowborn imposter.

The stories of how the King had died and was being covered up—whether trying to resurrect dragons or falling at the hands of the Darklyns during the Defiance—were equally outlandish and fantastical.

Tristifer put little stock in the wilder rumors, but the sheer volume of them—and their strange consistency regarding the King's filth and his apparent mental decline had piqued his curiosity.

No one knew how the King would react to the ambush. Tristifer had ridden out as part of a brief expedition to track down the culprits, but after finding little evidence, the Captain had called off the search and ordered the men back to the castle. Since then, the guard had been drilling relentlessly.

For what, Tristifer wasn't sure. Did the Captain truly expect them to stand against the King's men if they arrived?

Most of the garrison were second sons of local farmers—hardly the type to risk their lives for a mere knight's cause. They sought little more than steady wages and the chance to wield a sword, maybe fight a bandit or two, not to defend Ser Roger Hogg against the King's Men or worse a Kingsguard.

These drills Tristifer now did were little more than glorified cardio and a way to familiarize oneself with a blade, but he didn't mind. The rest of the men were probably in the mess hall breaking their fast.

It wasn't even a thing about improvement considering the doubtful developments he could gain, but rather something to do while he was feeling restless as he was now. If Tristifer had wished to improve his skills with the sword then he would've dueled Addam.

The bastard was his equal in age, and they had grown up together at the mill owned by Tristifer's uncle. Addam had been sent there as a ward at the behest of his father, Ser Roger, who had wanted his only son—bastard or not—close at hand.

Now, with Lady Jeyne's pregnancy, it remained to be seen whether Addam would hold any place in his father's plans at all.

Despite not sharing blood, they had become brothers in all but name. Tristifer had lost his parents to a sickness no one had bothered to name. They had been merchants, traveling from town to town across the Crownlands and Riverlands, but he had been too young to remember much of them.

After their passing, his grandfather had taken him in, honoring a promise made to Tristifer's father before his own death. Together, they had found shelter under the roof of Tristifer's uncle—his mother's brother—who did it as a final favor to his sister.

It was then that Tristifer's grandfather revealed their family's legacy to him. His earliest memories were of sitting beside his grandfather, Tristan, listening to tales of the old Mudd Kings. Among them, the story of Tristifer IV, the Hammer of Justice, had been his favorite.

His grandfather often spoke of these ancient kings with reverence, but Tristifer's father had dismissed such stories as little more than fanciful myths. Tristifer, however, had been enraptured from the start. Even if his grandfather had never shared his dream of restoring their lost house, he knew he would have wished it for himself.

Together, the two had dreamed and planned. Tristifer had learned his letters and numbers from Addam, who still received lessons in the castle despite not living there. This newfound knowledge ignited a hunger for more, leading Tristifer to devour any book he could get his hands on. He eagerly shared his discoveries with his grandfather, and together they would pore over the texts, discussing their contents and, more importantly, how a "lowborn" might rise to claim a lordship.

The first step, they had concluded, was to become a knight. And the path to knighthood began with mastering the blade.

Determined, Tristifer spent every free hour outside of reading and helping his uncle at the mill honing his swordplay. He trained relentlessly, sharpening his skills until, at last, he joined the household guard.

That had been a year ago, when he was personally appointed by Ser Roger at Addam's request. Now, having passed six-and-ten, restlessness had begun to settle in.

Addam had come to share in Tristifer's dreams and ambitions—not necessarily believing in his claims of descent from an extinct royal house, but drawn in nonetheless. If nothing else, he saw it as an opportunity for adventure, a purpose in life. For that, Tristifer would always be grateful for his foster brother's loyalty.

"Tristifer!"

A cheerful voice called from his right. He ended his final swing with a twirl, smoothly sliding the blade into its sheath in the same motion.

Leaning against the courtyard's small fence, dressed in fine fabric, stood Lady Lyra—the daughter of Ser Roger. They had crossed paths briefly before he joined the guard, either through Addam or by coincidence, but had only truly spoken afterward.

"Are you trying to impress someone?" she asked with a playful smile.

She was two namedays younger than him, and her youthful excitement made her intentions all too obvious. Addam had both teased and warned him about it.

"Lady Lyra," he greeted respectfully, pointedly ignoring the question. Instead, he cast a quick glance around before returning his gaze to her. "Should you not be stitching or attending your lessons?"

She pouted. "Don't be like that. You sound like Father—it doesn't suit you."

"How about I escort you back to wherever you're meant to be?" Tristifer said, his tone firm. While he had indulged her before, now was not the time to risk aggravating his liege—especially after the caravan attack. At worst, someone might imply he was attempting to dishonor the lady, and his grandfather had not raised him to be caught up in such foolish rumors.

Lyra remained defiant, her pout unwavering. Tristifer sighed, glancing around once more. The only others nearby were a handful of guards stationed along the castle walls, none of whom seemed to be paying attention.

"I suppose we could take a small detour on the way," he conceded. "Would that be acceptable?"

Lyra's eyes lit up with curiosity. "What kind of detour?"

Tristifer hesitated for a moment before an idea came to him. He needed to visit the library soon anyway—Galen had been grumbling about his payment, and Tristifer couldn't afford to lose the town's only armorsmith, not when he was so close to affording what he needed.

"How about a quick stop at the library?" he suggested, keeping his tone casual. "Addam asked me to fetch a book for him."

He made sure not to sound too interested—better to keep her from questioning his real reason for going.

She wasn't as excited, but after a moment, she nodded. "Alright, Ser. Escort your lady," she said, adopting a faux-pompous tone.

Tristifer pasted a small smile on his face as he led her into the keep.

She tried to close the distance, but he replied to her small talk absently, carefully maintaining the space between them. They eventually reached the heavy doors leading to the library, and Tristifer saw the dust stir in the air as he pushed the door open.

Lyra's eyes sparkled with curiosity as she stepped inside. Just as he began to close the door behind them, she spoke.

"You know, stealing books from my father's library is quite daring."

Tristifer froze for a moment, then turned as casually as he could. "What are you talking about?" he said, trying to deny it.

An amused expression tugged at Lyra's lips as she studied him, her gaze unwavering.

"You're not a bad liar, Tristifer," she said, her eyes gleaming. "But your eyes tell the truth."

Lyra's playful tone softened as she seemed to realize how her words might have landed. "I apologize if I scared you," she added, her voice now lighter. "I couldn't care less what you do with these dusty books. And I know my father wouldn't notice if this whole room were emptied."

He had half a mind to keep denying it, but the more rational part of him overpowered the impulse. "How long have you known?" he asked.

Lyra didn't answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head and replied with a question of her own. "What are you using the books for?"

Tristifer held her gaze, his thoughts momentarily racing before he spoke. "I've been selling them to visiting merchants."

Lyra's brow furrowed slightly, but she pressed on, her curiosity now fully piqued. "And what have you used the coin for?"

He hesitated for a moment, then revealed, "I've been saving up to commission an armor set for myself." They moved further into the library, weaving between the towering shelves of dusty tomes.

Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Are you planning to fight in a tourney?"

He was taken aback by how quickly she caught on. "Yes… I am."

Lyra's giggle burst out before she could stop it, and she quickly threw a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. "I've dreamt of you participating in tourneys!" she admitted, her face flushing a deep red as her words caught up with her brain.

"You would be a fantastic knight," she added quickly, trying to explain herself, "and... all you see..."

Tristifer raised an eyebrow, amused by her flustered state. For all the fear he had initially felt about someone discovering his more illicit activities, he found himself relieved that it had been Lyra.

"I'd appreciate it if you kept this between us, Lyra," he said, using her name for the first time. The shift in tone didn't go unnoticed, and she nodded quickly, her eyes widening in understanding.

"Of course! I would never betray your trust," she promised, her voice firm.

Tristifer almost grimaced but quickly replaced it with a grateful smile. "You have my thanks." He gestured toward the shelves. "Now, if I could take the book and make my departure? Assuming you can find your way back?"

"Right, fine," she said quickly, then paused, her words caught in hesitation. "But... don't forget—" Lyra stopped herself, clearly conflicted, before finally adding, "You'll be the best knight, I'm sure."

"Thank you," Tristifer replied, quickly sliding the two books he'd been eyeing for days under his armor.

Without giving Lyra another chance to speak, he turned and left, eager to avoid any further awkwardness.

As he made his way through the halls, he passed a few servants and offered a polite greeting to each, but he purposefully didn't slow his pace, avoiding any unnecessary conversation.

All too slowly, Tristifer finally made it out of the castle and began his descent down the motte upon which it was built.

He followed the winding path into the town below, where the morning bustle had yet to fully set in. For a fleeting moment, he thought himself lucky—he could already see his uncle's mill in the distance, and it seemed he might make it there without interruption.

Then, the worst possible voice reached his ears.

"Dirt!"

Tristifer turned toward the source. Emerging from a shop was Galen.

The armorer was never an easy man to deal with, for two reasons: first, he cared for nothing but coin, without a hint of patience or sympathy; second, his face bore the unfortunate appearance of someone who had once been trampled by a horse—whether he had or not, Tristifer had never dared ask.

And, of course, the man never missed an opportunity to amuse himself at Tristifer's expense.

Galen found the name Mudd particularly entertaining. Most townsfolk paid little mind to the fact that Tristifer's grandfather clung to that old, extinct House with such pride, but his less favorable acquaintances seized every opportunity to mock him for it.

"Galen," Tristifer greeted evenly, masking any irritation.

The armorer wasted no time. "Where's my coin? You swore I'd have it four days ago. Had me set aside good steel for you, and now you're empty-handed?"

"I have it," Tristifer assured him, keeping his voice steady. "Just need a little more time. Two days at most."

Galen scoffed. "That what you said last time? I don't deal in promises, boy. If you don't have my coin soon, someone else will."

Tristifer clenched his jaw but held his composure. He only needed a little longer to sell the books. Visiting merchants were always eager for fine tomes, if only to make their wares seem more valuable. From what he understood, half their trade was built on appearances—nothing said wealth like a shelf lined with books.

He was confident he'd find a buyer at the Hog tonight. If not, then certainly by tomorrow.

"Haven't those promises proven true before?" Tristifer appealed, keeping his tone calm.

Galen snorted. "With delays, and I was generous then. You've burned through that goodwill by now. A breastplate is a damn sight different from a pair of pauldrons, I'll have you know."

Tristifer resisted the urge to sigh. He understood Galen's frustration, but he needed just a little more time. "You'll have your coin," he said firmly. "Two days."

Galen eyed him for a long moment before grumbling, "You'd best be fast. If another man comes with coin first, I won't hold it for you. And that was my last steel for a breastplate—I won't be making another anytime soon."

Tristifer nodded and walked off, knowing that any further conversation would only irritate Galen more—and he had no need for that.

The great wooden wheel of his uncle's mill turned slowly in the stream as Tristifer approached. The familiar scent of fresh grain hung in the air, blending with the damp earth along the riverbank.

He made his way to the main house, slipping inside quietly. His uncle was surely up and about, but his aunt often took a nap after breaking her fast. As expected, he spotted her resting on a bench, her breathing deep and steady. Careful not to disturb her, he moved past into the small hall—an addition he had helped build with his uncle when they had needed more space.

Reaching Addam's door, he knocked once before it swung open.

"Tristifer, finally back," Addam greeted, stepping aside to let him in. "Did you find the perpetrators?"

Tristifer studied his friend for a moment. Addam was only slightly taller than him, but where Tristifer was lean and quick, Addam was beginning to grow broad-shouldered and imposing. Given time, he would likely become a quite a large man.

"No sign of anything but the dead and a ruined wagon," Tristifer answered, shaking his head. Then, with a small grin, he pulled the two books from under his armor. "Though I do have better news."

Addam's expression brightened. "That is good, but did Galen find you yet? He cornered me yesterday, badgering me about the payment and telling me to pass the message to you."

Tristifer sighed. "He ambushed me just now, actually. Gave me two days to get the coin, but he won't hold the breastplate if someone else offers first."

"There was a Reachman at the Hog yesterday," Addam said, nodding toward the books in Tristifer's hands. "I mentioned to him that you might have a few to sell. He seemed interested—said he could spare some coin."

Tristifer's eyes lit up with surprise and hope. "Truly?"

"Aye," Addam confirmed. "He mentioned he's staying until tomorrow, passing through on his way back to Tumbleton. If you're quick, you might be able to strike a deal tonight."

Tristifer met Addam's eyes, a determined gleam in his own. "Doesn't seem much longer now," he said. "If we pull this off today, we'll only need to find the right tourney."

Addam nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. "It seems so. There's bound to be a large tourney soon. It's been nearly five years since the last one, after all."

"The Lannisport one?" Tristifer asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye, the one for Prince Viserys," Addam replied with a nod.

Tristifer smirked. "Do we know if there are any more princes or princesses on the way?"

Addam chuckled. "We can only hope."

Suddenly, there was a loud thump against the door. Tristifer quickly swung it open, stepping aside as Addam moved around him. Standing there, looking both guilty and excited, was Tristifer's cousin, Robin.

The lanky, blonde-haired youth, though a year younger, had grown taller than Tristifer recently, though he still hadn't quite filled out his frame.

"Strange way of knocking," Addam remarked, raising an eyebrow.

Robin flushed. "I slipped," he muttered, though the embarrassment quickly faded as his curiosity took over. "Are you two leaving for a tourney?"

Tristifer and Addam exchanged a glance before he pulled Robin inside and shut the door.

"Have you not learned that it's impolite to eavesdrop?" Tristifer asked, his voice dry.

"Were you going to tell me?" Robin shot back, not backing down.

Tristifer and Addam shared another look, and then Addam replied, "We had been discussing it, but considering that you're your father's only child—"

Robin cut him off, his tone sharp, "If Tristifer leaves, it doesn't matter regardless."

The hurt in Robin's voice struck Tristifer like a blow. He winced, the weight of it sinking in. Over the years, it had become painfully obvious that his uncle had begun to treat him as the heir, pushing Robin aside. His uncle had always favored Tristifer's drive, while Robin, in his eyes, lacked the ambition or skill to shoulder that burden. The way his uncle had neglected Robin hadn't gone unnoticed. Tristifer had always hoped that if he left, Robin would be the one to take the reins, but could he really do that to his cousin—his brother, in all but blood?

Robin wasn't the same as Addam. Their bond was different. If it had been Addam, there would've been no hesitation. But Robin... Tristifer knew how much the neglect had shaped him. To abandon him now, to leave him to carry that burden alone—it would be a betrayal.

The two shared one last look, and Addam's expression told him what he already knew.

Tristifer met Robin's eyes again, his resolve firming. "Very well, you may join us."

He immediately felt it was the correct choice regardless of what followed, it would be wrong to not be with these two. They were his family, regardless of blood and name.

End of Chapter

This is a rewrite of the first chapter as of 10.02.2025

Welcome to my story, I always want to write something that I would like to read myself and House Mudd has fascinated me ever since I saw a CK2 ASOIAF mod playthrough of them years back now.

This led me to start this story and here was the start of Tristifer Mudd and his legacy.

Thank you for reading!