Return of House Mudd

The Road to King's Landing

The march to King's Landing unfolded beneath a somber sky, the faint chill of early morning giving way to the heavy heat of the sun as the royal procession wound its way south. Hosteen rode near the front, flanked by twenty of his own soldiers, their battered armor and tired expressions a stark reminder of the siege's cost. The banners of the realm fluttered in the breeze—golden lions, crowned stags, and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen—but they did little to lift the mood of those beneath them.

The memory of Duskendale lingered like a shadow. For Hosteen, it wasn't the chaos of battle or the cries of the dying that weighed on his mind—it was what had come after. The King's cold, deliberate cruelty. The way Aerys had commanded the deaths of the entire Darklyn family, sparing only Lord Denys and his young daughter, not out of mercy but as part of some twisted performance of power, and even that did not hold. The girl's tears and the blood pooling at their feet had burned into Hosteen's memory.

He glanced back toward the King's carriage, an ornate monstrosity of red and black gilded with gold. It was well-guarded, surrounded by three Kingsguard and a contingent of the King's personal guards, their pristine white and Black-Red cloaks billowing in the wind. Inside, Aerys sat, the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms—a man who had proven himself both terrifying and deeply unpredictable.

To his left rode Steffon Baratheon, his expression dour, the usual joviality of the Storm Lord replaced by quiet contemplation. To his right, Tywin Lannister was a study in contrast—impeccably composed, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, his face impassive. Tywin rarely spoke on the march, and when he did, his words were precise and cutting. Hosteen had no doubt the Lord of Casterly Rock was as disturbed by the events in Duskendale as anyone, though his iron self-control would never allow such thoughts to show.

For his part, Hosteen's thoughts churned, his focus alternating between the present and the past few days. He had spent years honing his ability to read men, to sift through their minds and glean their true selves. What he had seen in Aerys Targaryen was a puzzle, a dangerous mix of traits that fascinated and repelled him in equal measure.

On the one hand, there was Aerys the dreamer. The King's fascination with the glories of old Valyria and the ancient magic of the Targaryens' forebears was almost childlike in its intensity. He spoke with reverence about the dragons of old and the power they had wielded. He lingered over stories of his ancestors' conquests and their mastery of fire and blood. It was this side of Aerys that Hosteen believed he might influence, perhaps even manipulate. The King's yearning for the grandeur of the past could be channeled, steered toward pursuits that served Hosteen's own goals.

But then there was the other side of Aerys—the dark, volatile side that had earned him the whispered title of the Mad King. His paranoia was all-encompassing; he trusted no one, not even those who had proven their loyalty. His temper was as unpredictable as wildfire, and his capacity for cruelty seemed boundless. The massacre in Duskendale had been an exhibition of power, but it had also revealed a sadistic streak that went far beyond mere strategy or necessity.

Hosteen considered these two aspects of Aerys as he rode, weighing the risks and opportunities they presented. He was no stranger to playing dangerous games, but this one would require all his skill. Aerys was not a man to be underestimated. Even the smallest misstep could be fatal. Yet the potential rewards were equally great. If he could guide the King's obsessions, channel his thirst for power and glory in the right direction, Hosteen might find himself in a position of unprecedented influence.

The road stretched on, lined with fields of green and the occasional copse of trees. The smallfolk they passed watched in silence, their expressions wary. Word of Duskendale had likely traveled ahead of them, and Hosteen wondered what these people thought of their King. Did they see him as a savior, returned to his capital in triumph? Or did they sense the danger that followed him, the shadow of madness that clung to his every move?

The King's paranoia extended to his court as well. Aerys had not spared even a token gesture of gratitude for the lords who had fought and bled for him. Aside from Tywin and Steffon, no great lords had been invited to accompany him to King's Landing. Hosteen himself had only been asked along at the King's personal request, a fact that both intrigued and unnerved him. What Aerys wanted from him remained unclear, but Hosteen suspected it had more to do with his knowledge and abilities than with any personal favor.

As they approached a small hamlet along the road, the procession paused to water the horses and allow the men a brief respite. Hosteen dismounted, stretching his legs as he surveyed the landscape. In the distance, the spires of King's Landing were just visible against the horizon, a promise of what lay ahead.

The capital would bring its own challenges—a web of intrigue, alliances, and dangers that made even the battlefield seem simple by comparison. Hosteen tightened his gloves and mounted his horse once more, his resolve hardening. He had seen what Aerys was capable of, and he knew the road ahead would be fraught with peril. But it would also be an opportunity—a chance to shape the course of the realm, to carve out a place for himself in the shadow of the Iron Throne.

The King was wildfire—unpredictable, destructive, and untamed. But even wildfire, Hosteen reminded himself, could be controlled by those with the skill and courage to wield it. And he might just have to do that.

As they approached King's Landing, the air grew thick with a pungent stench that seemed to hover over the city like a malevolent spirit. Hosteen Mudd had known cities to be unpleasant, but the reek of human waste, rotting refuse, and unwashed bodies was unlike anything he had experienced. His lips curled in distaste as he instinctively turned his head away from the direction of the wind. With a subtle flick of his hand and a silent charm, he shielded himself from the assault on his senses. The charm brought him relief, but his irritation lingered. How could anyone tolerate living in such filth?

The gates of the city came into view, and with them, the sight of the City Watch. Clad in golden chainmail, the guards stood in neat formation, their captain stepping forward to greet the royal procession. The captain's armor gleamed in the fading sunlight, a stark contrast to the grime of the city behind him.

"My Lords," the captain said, his voice steady but deferential. "Welcome back to King's Landing. We've been awaiting your arrival."

Lord Tywin Lannister, ever the embodiment of composure and command, dismounted with an air of practiced elegance. His gaze swept over the guards, assessing them with a critical eye before speaking. "The King is in the carriage," he said curtly, motioning toward the ornately gilded vehicle. "You are to escort us to the Red Keep. Arrange accommodations for Lord Baratheon's and Lord Mudd's men in the city. See to it without delay."

The captain bowed deeply. "It will be done, my Lord Hand."

Lord Steffon Baratheon exchanged a brief glance with Hosteen, offering him a subtle nod of acknowledgment. The unspoken camaraderie between the two was born of their shared trials in Duskendale. Together, they spurred their horses forward, following Tywin's lead as the column resumed its march into the city.

As they passed through the city gates, Hosteen observed the streets with a mix of curiosity and disdain. The people lining the narrow thoroughfares presented a stark dichotomy. Some stood silently, their expressions grim and wary, as if the return of the King and his army was a harbinger of further turmoil. Others erupted into cheers, their voices ringing out in jubilant celebration. Whether their joy was genuine or born of fear was difficult to discern. Hosteen's sharp eyes caught glimpses of children darting between the legs of adults, their faces streaked with dirt but lit with wonder at the sight of the procession.

Despite the chaos of the crowd, the march through the city was relatively swift, and soon the Red Keep came into view. The massive fortress loomed over the city, its crimson walls glowing like embers in the golden light of the setting sun. Hosteen found himself momentarily impressed by the sheer scale and imposing presence of the structure, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

The procession came to a halt in the vast courtyard of the Red Keep. There, a figure waited at the center of a small retinue, his silver hair catching the last rays of sunlight. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stood tall and regal, his black and silver attire accentuating the striking features that marked him as unmistakably Targaryen. Despite his youth—barely eighteen—he carried himself with an air of quiet authority and grace.

The carriage door opened with a creak, and all eyes turned toward it as King Aerys II Targaryen emerged. Though cleaner and more composed than he had been upon his rescue from Duskendale, there was still an edge of mania in his demeanor. His movements were deliberate but tense, and his piercing eyes scanned the courtyard with a sharp intensity. When his gaze landed on Rhaegar, a fleeting flicker of something akin to pride crossed his features.

Rhaegar stepped forward and bowed deeply, his movements fluid and respectful. "Your Grace," he said, his voice steady and melodic. "It is a joy to see you returned to the capital."

Aerys waved a hand dismissively. "Spare me the pleasantries, Rhaegar. Where is your mother?"

"Queen Rhaella is inside the Keep, Your Grace," Rhaegar replied. "She is tending to Viserys. The boy would not stop wailing until she agreed to remain with him."

The King let out a snort, his expression a mixture of amusement and derision. "That boy has more Targaryen blood than you, Rhaegar. Always clinging to his mother's skirts."

Rhaegar's face remained impassive, though the subtle tightening around his mouth betrayed his irritation. Yet, he held his composure, his posture regal and poised. Before he could respond, Aerys waved a hand dismissively, gesturing toward the lords gathered behind him.

"Enough of that. Rhaegar, these men are the reason you have a father to scold you today. Show some gratitude." He pointed first at Steffon Baratheon, his tone almost warm as he said, "This is Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. A loyal servant to the crown, steady as the mountains. You've met him before."

Rhaegar inclined his head toward Steffon, offering a faint smile. "Of course, Your Grace. Lord Baratheon, it is a pleasure to see you again. Your presence strengthens the realm."

Steffon returned the gesture, bowing slightly. "Your Highness, the pleasure is mine."

Aerys turned his attention to Hosteen, his gaze sharper now, scrutinizing the young lord with a mixture of suspicion and grudging respect. "And this," he declared, his voice louder, "is Lord Hosteen Mudd of the Trident. A man of cunning and valor, they say. It was his plan that brought Duskendale to its knees and restored me to my throne."

Hosteen stepped forward, bowing deeply but keeping his eyes raised, meeting the King's gaze evenly. "Your Grace honors me beyond what I deserve."

Rhaegar regarded Hosteen carefully, his lilac eyes bright with curiosity. "Lord Mudd," he said after a moment, stepping closer, "it is an honor to make your acquaintance. The realm owes you a debt of gratitude for your service to the crown."

"The honor is mine, Your Highness," Hosteen replied, his tone steady and respectful. He inclined his head, masking the flicker of calculation that passed through his mind as he observed the prince's demeanor.

Aerys, growing impatient, clapped his hands loudly. "Enough with the pleasantries! Rhaegar, see to it that these lords are treated with the respect they deserve. I will not have it said that I neglect those who serve me."

Rhaegar nodded, turning smoothly to the gathered servants and guards. His voice was calm but authoritative as he addressed them. "Prepare chambers in the royal wing for Lord Baratheon and Lord Mudd. Ensure their personal guards are accommodated nearby, with adequate provisions for their comfort."

The servants and guards moved swiftly, bowing as they departed to carry out the prince's orders. Rhaegar turned back to the lords, his expression earnest. "Storm's End has always been a cornerstone of stability in the realm, Lord Baratheon. It is a pleasure to welcome you once more."

He shifted his attention to Hosteen, his gaze unwavering. "And you, Lord Mudd—your deeds speak for themselves. The realm is stronger for having men like you."

Hosteen offered a small, respectful bow. "Your Highness, I am at your service."

Rhaegar smiled faintly, a genuine warmth breaking through his measured demeanor. "Then you shall be well rewarded."

With a final nod to both lords, Rhaegar turned, gesturing for them to follow as he led the way into the Red Keep. Hosteen walked beside Steffon, his thoughts racing as he took in the grandeur of the fortress and the young prince's composure. He could sense the complexities of the court beginning to unfold, and his mind was already turning over how best to navigate them.