The Hunt
2nd moon, 279 AC.
The cold grip of dawn still clung to the land as Hosteen Mudd stood atop a low rise, surveying the assembly of his forces. The sky above the Riverlands was painted in muted shades of gray and pale gold, the remnants of the night reluctantly retreating before the sun's inevitable rise. Below, banners fluttered in the crisp morning wind, the sigils of House Mudd and House Mallister standing side by side as their men gathered in disciplined ranks. There was a palpable energy in the air, a mixture of determination and simmering tension. Today, they would begin the hunt for the bandits who had plagued their lands for too long.
Jason Mallister, his cloak lined with sea-blue and silver, rode up beside Hosteen, his keen eyes scanning the forces arrayed before them. "A fine host," he remarked, nodding in approval. "We should make quick work of these brigands."
"If only it were so simple," Hosteen replied, his expression grim. "As you know these are not mere common outlaws. They have been well-armed, well-funded. That suggests a guiding hand, and I would know who it is before we are done."
Jason hummed in agreement but said nothing. He, too, had his suspicions.
The army was divided into three main search parties. Hosteen himself would lead the central force, pushing directly into the heart of the dense woods where the scouts had reported movement. Jason Mallister would take his men along the western flank, covering the lands that stretched toward Seagard, while Ser Edric Fisher, one of Hosteen's most trusted captains, would lead the eastern contingent toward the borderlands of Frey territory. Each party would consist of a mixture of cavalry and infantry, with seasoned scouts riding ahead to watch for signs of ambush.
"The latest reports confirm fresh tracks leading deeper into the forest," said Ser Osmund Bracken, one of Hosteen's lieutenants, as he approached. "They are moving, but they have not scattered. Either they do not know we are coming, or they think they can stand against us."
"Then they have made a grave mistake," Hosteen said. "We will burn their den to the ground."
He turned his horse toward his gathered men. The sound of hooves on frost-bitten earth quieted as he raised a hand for silence. His men, many of them hardened warriors who had fought alongside him in past conflicts, straightened their backs, awaiting his words.
"We ride today not as protectors of these lands," Hosteen called out, his voice carrying through the morning air. "These bandits have sown fear and chaos in our homes, robbed our people, murdered the innocent. No more. This is our land, our duty, and our justice. Make no mistake—they are not to be underestimated. They have weapons, supplies, and someone backing them. But they do not have what we have: order, discipline, and righteous purpose."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the ranks, and Hosteen continued. "We move in three forces. Lord Mallister will take the western approach. Ser Edric Fisher will cover the east. My own party will drive into the forest's heart. Our goal is to root them out, to track them to their lair. Do not let them slip through our fingers. If we find their camp, we will strike swiftly and without mercy."
A few of the younger knights cheered, eager for battle, but the older men remained grim-faced. They had seen what a cornered enemy could do. Jason Mallister gave a small nod, satisfied with the discipline Hosteen had instilled in his men.
Hosteen then turned to his scouts. "You ride ahead in pairs. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Find their trail, mark their movements, and report back. If they are setting traps, I want to know before we stumble into them."
The scouts, clad in muted colors for stealth, nodded and swiftly mounted their horses, setting off into the underbrush with practiced ease.
As final preparations were made, Jason rode up beside Hosteen once more. "You are thorough," he observed. "I see why men follow you."
Hosteen did not reply immediately. His mind was already on the road ahead, the battle to come. Finally, he said, "A lord's duty is not just to lead men into battle, but to ensure they return home after it."
Jason gave a small smile. "A wise sentiment. Let us hope we all see the end of this hunt."
With that, the order was given. Horns sounded, hooves pounded the earth, and the three search parties set forth, seeking the shadows where their enemies lurked.
The sun hung low in the sky when the riders came upon the clearing. It was one of the scouting parties, a dozen men moving cautiously through the dense Riverlands woodlands, their eyes scanning the underbrush for any sign of movement. The reports had been clear—this was one of the outposts used by the bandits, a staging ground from which they raided villages and waylaid merchant caravans.
Ser Edric Fisher, one of Hosteen's most experienced commanders, raised a hand to signal a halt. The riders dismounted, melting into the shadows like wraiths. The outpost ahead was little more than a crude wooden palisade encircling a cluster of makeshift huts, but it was a stronghold nonetheless, and it bore signs of recent use. A thin column of smoke rose from within, and the occasional flicker of torchlight betrayed movement behind the walls.
Edric turned to his second-in-command, Ser Willam Rivers, a grizzled veteran whose loyalty to House Mudd was unquestionable. "We do this quickly and cleanly," Edric murmured. "No shouting, no warning. We take them before they know we're here."
Willam nodded and signaled to the men. They drew their weapons in silence. The archers knocked arrows to their strings, while the swordsmen prepared to scale the palisade.
The first arrow flew. A sentry crumpled without a sound, an arrow buried in his throat. Another sentry, hearing the soft thump of a body hitting the ground, turned just in time to see a second arrow streak toward him. He fell backward, clutching at the shaft protruding from his chest.
That was the signal. Edric and his men surged forward, climbing over the wooden stakes with practiced ease. The first wave of attackers landed inside the outpost before the bandits even knew they were under attack. The clash of steel rang out in the night as swords met flesh and shields splintered. The bandits, caught off guard, scrambled to defend themselves, but the fight was over before it had truly begun.
Within minutes, the outpost was in flames. The few bandits who had surrendered were bound and forced to kneel in the center of the camp, surrounded by Hosteen's men. The rest lay dead, their bodies sprawled across the ground, their blood soaking into the dirt.
Edric wiped his blade clean on a fallen man's tunic before turning to Willam. "Search the camp. I want to know what they had here."
The men moved quickly, rifling through supplies, overturning crates, and kicking aside tattered bedrolls. It did not take long to find what they were looking for. In a wooden chest near the largest hut, they uncovered a cache of weapons—well-made swords, steel-tipped spears, and reinforced shields, all bearing marks that did not belong to common brigands.
Willam held up a blade, examining the craftsmanship. "This is not the work of some blacksmith in a roadside village," he said. "This is castle-forged steel."
Edric scowled. "And that means someone is indeed supplying them."
One of the captured bandits, a wiry man with a thin beard and haunted eyes, let out a nervous chuckle. "You think we just stumble across this kind of steel?" he said, his voice laced with defiance. "We have friends, my lords. Friends with deep pockets."
Edric stepped forward and placed the tip of his sword under the man's chin. "Then tell me about these friends," he said coldly.
The bandit hesitated, glancing at the others who had been captured. Some looked away, refusing to meet his eyes, but others seemed just as scared as he was. He swallowed hard and nodded. "We have a camp," he said. "Deep in the woods, east of the river. That's where Pemford is. That's where the gold comes from."
Edric narrowed his eyes. "And where does the gold come from?"
The bandit licked his lips, his bravado quickly fading. "I don't know," he admitted. "Only Pemford deals with them. He meets with a man, a noble by the look of him. We get paid, we get weapons, and we do what we're told."
Edric exchanged a glance with Willam. This was exactly what Hosteen had feared—organized support, likely from a rival lord. The implications were troubling.
Willam crossed his arms. "How many men does your Pretender have?"
"One hundred, maybe more," the bandit answered. "But he's dug in deep. Palisades, ditches, watchtowers. He's ready for a fight."
Edric nodded grimly. "Good. Then we'll bring one to him."
The prisoners were secured, and messengers were dispatched to carry word back to Hosteen and Jason Mallister. The first skirmish had been won, but the real battle was still ahead. If the Pemford Pretender had outside support, then this was no mere bandit problem—this was a shadow war being waged in the Riverlands, and they had just drawn the first blood.
The fires burned low in the clearing where Edric Fisher and his men sat in grim contemplation. The aftermath of the skirmish still lingered in the air—the scent of blood, the tension of battle not yet fully faded. His men were tired but victorious, having secured their first true prisoners from the bandit forces. As the wind rustled through the trees, carrying the distant howls of wolves, Edric knew their work was far from done.
Now, as the embers flickered and his men muttered amongst themselves, Edric crouched over the weapons they had taken from the bandits. These were not the crude blades of common brigands, nor were they scavenged from fallen knights. Some bore distinctive insignias—small engravings on the pommels, carefully etched, as if their makers had never intended for them to be mistaken for common steel.
"The crescent and crossed swords," one of Edric's men muttered, running his thumb over the marking. "I've seen this before, ser."
Edric narrowed his eyes. He had seen it too.
"House Charlton," he murmured.
A silence settled over the men. Charlton. The name still held weight, though the house itself had not been powerful in centuries. Once, the Charltons had been among the greatest banners sworn to House Tully, ruling vast lands along the Green Fork. But that was long ago, before the Freys climbed their way to power. Through marriages, alliances, and betrayals, the Freys had stripped the Charltons of their holdings over four hundred years ago, consuming their lands and reducing their once-proud name to mere vassalage.
For a Frey vassal's arms to be in the hands of bandits raiding Hosteen's lands? That was no coincidence.
Edric's gaze turned to the bound prisoners a short distance away. One of them, a wiry man with a long scar down his cheek, had been loosened by their questioning.
"You said your leader—the Pemford heir—was given these weapons," Edric said, his voice low and steady. "Who provided them?"
The bandit hesitated, glancing at his fellow captives. He knew there was no salvation among them. After a moment, he exhaled sharply. "A knight. Ser Roderic Charlton."
The name meant little to Edric, but he knew it would mean something to Hosteen and Jason. He frowned. "Ser Roderic Charlton. Did he act alone, or under orders?"
The prisoner swallowed. "I don't know, ser. We don't ask questions—we just take the steel and fight. But I heard talk that this Charlton don't give a damn about the pretender. He just follows orders."
Edric's eyes narrowed. A Charlton knight providing weapons to a so-called Pemford heir… But not because he believed in the cause? That meant the true puppet master was still hidden in the shadows.
He had heard Hosteen's suspicions before. They had all wondered whether Walder Frey was backing the Pemford Pretender, using him as a tool to disrupt Hosteen's growing strength. But this? This was something else entirely.
If Charlton was involved, then the plot ran deeper than they had thought. Either Lord Charlton had orders from Frey himself, or… someone wanted it to look that way.
Edric pushed himself up. "We return to Hammerford. Lord Mudd will want to hear this."
The hall at Hammerford was alive with the murmurs of tired men. As the search parties returned one by one, their reports were grim—only Edric's group had found anything of worth. Hosteen Mudd sat at the head of the table, listening intently as Jason Mallister drummed his fingers against the wood, frustration evident in his expression.
"We scoured the forests along the Blue Fork," Jason muttered, shaking his head. "Old camps, empty supply caches, but nothing recent. If we hadn't known better, we might've thought there were no bandits at all."
Hosteen turned to Edric. "But you found them."
Edric nodded. "A small outpost. Not their main camp, but close enough. We engaged them, killed some, captured others." He gestured toward the weapons laid out before them. "This was among their steel."
Hosteen leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing as he traced a finger over the familiar insignia. "Charlton."
Jason let out a sharp breath. "Charlton? What in the Seven Hells do they have to do with this?"
Edric glanced at the bound prisoner who had been dragged into the hall. "Ask him."
The scarred man looked between them, sweat beading on his forehead. He had seen what happened to prisoners who failed to provide answers. He swallowed hard before speaking.
"Ser Roderic Charlton supplied the weapons," he admitted. "But he don't care about the pretender—he just follows orders."
A long silence stretched between the lords. Jason was the first to break it. "Whose orders?"
The prisoner hesitated. "Lord Frey's, ser."
That sent a ripple through the gathered men.
Jason scoffed. "So it was Frey after all. The old weasel doesn't have the stomach to move against us openly, so he props up this Pemford fool instead."
Hosteen didn't speak at first. He studied the weapons again, his fingers tightening around the hilt of one of the swords.
"I'm not so sure," he murmured.
Jason frowned. "What do you mean?"
Hosteen's gaze lifted to Edric. "The weapons were marked. Why?"
Edric blinked. "What?"
Hosteen tapped the pommel of the sword. "Why mark the weapons at all? Why not file off the insignias, make it impossible to trace?" He looked up. "It's too easy. We were meant to find this."
Realization dawned on Jason's face. "You think we were led to this conclusion?"
Hosteen nodded. "If Walder Frey wanted to fund a rebellion, he wouldn't be so sloppy. He's a cautious man, one who moves in the shadows. This? This is a trail meant to be found. Which means one of two things—either he wants us to know he's behind it, or someone else does."
Jason clenched his jaw. "Charlton."
"The Freys took Charlton's lands over four hundred years ago," Edric murmured. "Ever since they married into power, they've kept the Charltons in check. If the Charltons wanted to strike back, but couldn't do it openly…"
Hosteen finished the thought. "They'd make Frey look like the villain."
A heavy silence fell over the room. If that were true, then Lord Charlton was playing a dangerous game—one that put all of them at risk.
Jason exhaled sharply. "So what do we do?"
Hosteen straightened. "We cut off the Pemford Pretender's head. Then we find out whether Lord Charlton is truly our enemy—or if he might just be a man looking for allies."
Edric nodded. "And if he is against us?"
Hosteen's expression hardened. "Then we remind him why the Freys took his lands in the first place."
The hall remained quiet for a moment longer. Then Jason raised a cup of wine and smirked.
"To Frey's enemies—whoever they may be."
Hosteen lifted his own cup. "To the hunt."
And so the next step in their war began.