Return of House Mudd

A Crown of Shadows and Fire

The group moved swiftly under the shroud of darkness, each step carrying them farther from the walls of Duskendale and closer to the sprawling siege camp that surrounded the city. The King, now free but visibly weakened, leaned heavily on Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy for support. His once-proud frame sagged, his hair disheveled and streaked with grime, and his violet eyes, though still sharp, betrayed the toll his captivity had taken. Hosteen walked slightly behind, his every sense on high alert despite the adrenaline ebbing from his body. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts: relief, caution, and the weight of what had just transpired.

The faint glow of dawn crept over the horizon as they approached the edge of the camp. A sentry, rubbing sleep from his eyes, straightened abruptly when he recognized the figure being half-carried into the camp. His torchlight fell on the King's face, and his jaw dropped in stunned disbelief. For a moment, he seemed rooted to the spot before he let out a shout that shattered the quiet of the pre-dawn hours.

"The King! The King is free!"

The cry echoed through the still air, carrying with it an electric charge that spread through the camp like wildfire. Groggy soldiers began spilling out of their tents, fumbling for weapons and pulling on armor in haste. A ripple of disbelief and excitement coursed through them as they craned their necks to get a glimpse of the disheveled but unmistakable figure of King Aerys II Targaryen.

As they made their way deeper into the camp, Aerys broke the tense silence, his voice hoarse but tinged with authority. "Who… who is this man?" He gestured weakly toward Hosteen, his eyes narrowing as if struggling to focus.

Ser Gerold answered with his usual measured tone. "This is Hosteen Mudd, Your Grace. A minor noble from the Riverlands who volunteered for this mission and played a crucial role in your rescue."

At the mention of the name "Mudd," a flicker of recognition sparked in Aerys's weary eyes. For a fleeting moment, his expression softened, as if some long-buried memory was trying to surface. But when Gerold described Hosteen as a "minor noble," the King's brow furrowed in confusion, a shadow passing over his features.

"Mudd…" Aerys murmured, his voice contemplative. "The name rings a bell. But minor…?" His words trailed off, and he shook his head slightly, as if dismissing the thought. His expression shifted back to one of regal determination as he straightened, summoning what strength he could muster. "You have my gratitude, Ser Gerold. And you, Hosteen Mudd. But now, I must be taken to my Hand. At once."

"Yes, Your Grace," Gerold replied, his tone steady as he adjusted his hold on the King's arm.

The energy in the camp was palpable as they continued their slow trek toward the command tent. Soldiers whispered among themselves, their voices tinged with awe and excitement. The implications of the King's rescue were dawning on them: the siege was no longer a standoff—it was about to erupt into action.

At last, they reached the imposing structure of the command tent. The camp buzzed with activity now, officers barking orders as troops prepared for what seemed to be the inevitable assault on Duskendale. The flap of the tent was pulled aside by a waiting guard, who stepped back to allow the King and his entourage to enter.

Inside, the air was thick with tension. Hosteen turned to his three Mudd men-at-arms—Daeron, Mathys, and Willard—meeting each of their gazes in turn.

"Well done," he said quietly, his voice firm but laced with pride. "Return to our camp and rest. There may be more work for us soon."

The three soldiers saluted him silently, their faces showing a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction before they disappeared into the growing throng of men outside. Hosteen stepped into the tent behind the King, keeping his distance but remaining alert.

King Aerys was seated in a high-backed chair near the center of the tent, his gaunt frame leaning heavily against the cushioned wood. Hosteen stood near the back, watching as Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan took up positions at the King's side, their hands resting lightly on their sword hilts.

The air in the command tent grew suffocatingly tense as Lord Steffon Baratheon and Lord Tywin Lannister entered, their presence commanding immediate attention. Steffon's expression was one of cautious relief, his sharp eyes assessing the King's frail yet volatile state. Tywin, in contrast, remained stoic, his face a mask of calculated neutrality.

"Your Grace," Steffon began, bowing deeply. "We are heartened to see you returned to us."

Tywin followed suit, inclining his head with deliberate precision. "Your safety is our utmost priority, Your Grace. The realm rejoices at your liberation."

King Aerys, slouched in his chair, shot them both a look that was equal parts disdain and paranoia. His long, unkempt hair framed his gaunt face, and his bloodshot eyes darted between the two lords. His fingers drummed restlessly on the chair's armrests, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.

"Liberation?" Aerys hissed, his voice low and venomous. "You call it liberation? I call it an embarrassment. Four moons—four moons—I languished in darkness, while my so-called loyal servants camped outside the gates like beggars."

Steffon's jaw tightened, but he held his composure. Tywin's face betrayed nothing, but the faintest flicker of his gaze toward Aerys's trembling hands suggested a silent calculation of the King's deteriorating mental state.

Aerys's voice grew louder, his tone rising into a screech. "And now you come to me, offering platitudes as if that will erase the shame of my imprisonment! Duskendale has defied the Crown, and the Crown's response was to wait, to negotiate! This insult cannot—will not—be tolerated!"

Before either lord could respond, the tent flap rustled, and a disheveled Mace Tyrell stumbled inside. His embroidered doublet hung loosely, and his hair was a wild mess. He blinked at the scene before him, clearly caught off guard.

"Your Grace," Mace began, his voice thick with sleep as he fumbled to bow. "I—I hurried as soon as I heard—"

Aerys's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a glare that could have frozen the Blackwater Rush. "HURRIED?" he bellowed, his voice cracking under the strain. "You dare to stand before me and speak of hurrying? You, Lord Tyrell, whose sluggishness rivals that of a snail trapped in molasses!"

Mace flinched as if struck. "Your Grace, I assure you, I—"

"Assure me?" Aerys interrupted, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. "Where were you when I was dragged through the filth of Duskendale? When I was chained like a common criminal? Where was your precious Tyrell honor then?"

Mace's face flushed a deep crimson, and he opened his mouth to stammer a reply, but Aerys was relentless.

"You are an incompetent fool!" Aerys roared, his bony hand slamming down on the chair's arm. "A bloated, useless lord whose only talent is growing fat on Reach wine! Were it not for the good of the realm, I'd see your head on a spike alongside the Darklyns!"

Mace shrank under the King's verbal onslaught, his large frame seeming to fold in on itself. He mumbled something incoherent, his hands wringing nervously. Tywin and Steffon exchanged a brief glance, but neither intervened.

Finally, Aerys slumped back into his chair, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His face was pale, and his eyes gleamed with an unsettling mixture of rage and satisfaction. He waved a trembling hand dismissively.

"Enough. Your blathering disgusts me. Be grateful I am a merciful king, or you'd share the fate of Duskendale."

Mace bowed deeply, his movements awkward and hurried. "Yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace."

Aerys's gaze shifted back to Steffon and Tywin. "Summon your captains," he commanded, his voice regaining a measure of control. "Prepare the men for battle. At first light, we march on the city. Duskendale will burn, and the Darklyns will be dragged before me in chains."

Steffon inclined his head. "As you command, Your Grace."

Tywin gave a small, precise nod. "It will be done."

The three lords turned to leave, and Hosteen took a step back, intending to slip out with them and prepare his own small retinue for the coming assault. But Aerys's voice, sharp and cold, cut through the air like a blade.

"Not you, Mudd."

Hosteen froze, turning to face the King. "Your Grace?"

"You will remain," Aerys said, his piercing gaze locking onto Hosteen. "I would speak with you further."

Hosteen hesitated. "Your Grace, I thought to—"

"I know what you thought," Aerys snapped. "But you are not like the others. You risked much to save your King, and I would know more of the man who has done what others would not."

The other lords exchanged brief glances, Steffon offering Hosteen a small nod of encouragement while Tywin's expression remained unreadable. Even Mace managed a half-hearted shrug before the three exited the tent, leaving Hosteen alone with the King.

As the flap fell shut, silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the tent's brazier and the sound of Aerys's labored breathing. The King leaned forward in his chair, his thin lips curling into a smile that sent a chill down Hosteen's spine.

"Now," Aerys said, his voice soft but no less intense, "let us speak."

The air in the tent was heavy with anticipation as King Aerys leaned forward, his piercing gaze fixed on Hosteen. "Tell me, Mudd," he said, his voice tinged with an unsettling blend of curiosity and command. "What is it about your house that brought you here tonight? What makes a man risk his life for a king he has never met?"

Hosteen hesitated, his mind racing. Finally, he inclined his head respectfully. "What would Your Grace know of House Mudd?"

Aerys's lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. "More than the maesters care to teach, and less than I desire," he said, his tone sharpening. "My grandfather spoke of the Mudds with a reverence that the histories never captured. He told me they were the first River Kings to truly unite the Riverlands, laying the groundwork for any ruler who wished to govern them after. They were strong and just, or so he claimed. And there were whispers of... magic in their blood."

At the mention of magic, Aerys's violet eyes gleamed with a fervent, almost predatory hunger. Hosteen felt a chill creep down his spine but maintained his composure.

"The maesters," Aerys continued, waving a dismissive hand, "write them off as savage First Men kings. A footnote in the Riverlands' bloody history. But I would hear the truth—not their truth, but yours. How does a Mudd see his house? And why have you returned to Westeros after so long? More importantly, why risk your life and your line for me?"

Hosteen took a deep breath, carefully considering his words. "Your Grace, what your grandfather told you was not far from the truth," he began, his voice steady. "House Mudd was indeed the first to unify the Riverlands in a meaningful way. Under our rule, the Riverlands were stronger than under any who came after. The Justmans and the Teagues inherited lands torn apart by years of war—wars against the Ironborn, wars of succession. They ruled a Riverlands ravaged and divided, while others—Targaryens and even the Storm Kings, Durrandons,—picked away at the edges.

"But under House Mudd, the Riverlands were whole. They were strong. We held lands that stretched to the far ends of what we now call the Crownlands. The Riverlands thrived, not as pawns to greater kings, but as a power in their own right. While there may have been better warriors among the Teagues or better rulers among the Justmans, none combined strength and justice as House Mudd did. South of the Neck, at least before the Targaryens, there was no rule quite like ours."

Aerys nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Hosteen's face. "And the magic?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "Was there truly magic in your blood?"

Hosteen felt his chest tighten. He could not reveal himself as a wizard—not yet, not here. But he would not deny entirely what Aerys sought. "Once," he admitted, his voice low, "we were said to have magic. Greenseers and wargs, so the stories claim. That magic has faded over time, but some of its echoes remain. I… I have the sight, Your Grace. That is how I knew to save you."

Aerys's expression shifted, a mixture of fascination and greed flashing across his features. "The sight?" he repeated, leaning closer. "You saw my rescue in a vision?"

Hosteen nodded. "At first, I saw only your capture, your suffering. I considered acting, but I hesitated. So much could have gone wrong, and the risks were high. But then, I received another vision—a clearer one. It showed me saving you, but more than that, it showed the Mudds once again rising to prominence. The Riverlands united and my house, restored to the strength and influence a great river lord family deserves."

For a long moment, Aerys was silent, his thin fingers drumming thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. His pale lips curved into a faint smile. "Fate," he murmured, almost to himself. "Perhaps the gods do still whisper to us, even in this age of doubt."

He fixed Hosteen with a piercing gaze. "You have done well, Mudd. To see what others cannot, to act where others faltered—that is the mark of true greatness. And you have proven your worth to your King. But tell me this: now that you have saved me, what do you hope to gain?"

Hosteen hesitated, searching for the words that would satisfy both the paranoid King and the truth within his heart. "Your Grace," he began carefully, "I sought not only to save you but to serve the realm. My house was once a pillar of strength and unity in the Riverlands, and I believe it can be so again. By restoring the Mudds to their rightful place, I hope to strengthen the Riverlands—and through them, the realm itself."

Aerys leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he considered Hosteen's words. Then, slowly, he nodded, a small, twisted smile playing at his lips. "Ambition tempered by loyalty," he mused. "A rare combination. Perhaps the gods have plans for you after all, Hosteen Mudd."

His smile twisted further, becoming something darker, more menacing. "But before these plans can come to fruition," Aerys continued, his voice carrying an edge of command, "you will have to prepare your troops. They may be few, but they will have their role to play in the bloodshed to come. I will tolerate no hesitation, no weakness. If your men fail to rise to the occasion, they will drag your house into obscurity once more."

Hosteen felt a chill at the words but kept his composure, bowing his head slightly. "They will be ready, Your Grace," he said, his tone steady. "The Mudds do not shy from bloodshed when the cause is just."

Aerys's laughter rang out sharply, cutting through the heavy air. "Cause? Justice? No, Mudd. This is about vengeance and loyalty—to your King, to the crown, and to the fire that burns all who would oppose it. Prepare your men well, for the hour of reckoning approaches."

Hosteen bowed again, his expression unreadable, as Aerys's gaze bore into him. He knew that, like it or not, his path was set, and blood would pave the way for whatever future awaited House Mudd.

( So I cannot imagine that the mad king is not able to control himself, at least in important situations; because of that, I think that the mad king, even after having been in captivity, is able to at least not rage at everyone while walking through a camp. The same goes for him wanting to know about Hosteen, which is the cause of him talking like a normal person there. I imagine him like a child that is interested in something and tries to play good for it. I hope that you guys are fine with that, but even if you are not,. It's not really my problem. xD)