Return of House Mudd

The Mad King

Hosteen moved with purpose through the sprawling encampment of the royal forces, his boots crunching on the uneven ground as he passed by clusters of tents and flickering campfires. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the pungent tang of wood smoke, mingling with the metallic smell of armor and the acrid stench of boiled leather. Low voices carried through the camp, the murmur of soldiers sharing war stories, and the occasional burst of laughter from men trying to stave off the ever-present tension of battle. Yet Hosteen heard none of it. His thoughts were elsewhere, replaying the King's words and his own observations like a puzzle he was determined to solve.

Aerys Targaryen had surprised him. Hosteen had walked into the meeting expecting a raving lunatic, a man entirely consumed by his paranoia and delusions. The images he had gleaned from the minds of the Targaryen guards, Lannister soldiers, and even Tywin Lannister himself had painted a grim picture: a mad king who could no longer tell friend from foe, his paranoia so consuming that it crippled any semblance of rationality. That was the man Hosteen had braced himself to meet.

But what he found had been something else entirely. Yes, Aerys was paranoid, and yes, there was a cruel streak in him that could flare unpredictably, but his madness was not the gibbering incoherence Hosteen had expected. Instead, it was something more insidious—a mind steeped in insecurity, a soul perpetually seeking validation, and a man who clung desperately to the mythic glories of his house. The Mad King was not a raging beast but rather a spoiled, frightened child hiding behind the veneer of a crown.

Hosteen's steps slowed as he thought back to the moment he'd first laid eyes on Aerys. The King's gaze had been sharp, his expression teetering between suspicion and haughty disdain. His paranoia was evident in the way he scanned the room, looking for hidden threats that no one else could see. Yet there was also a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps even admiration—when Hosteen had spoken of the ancient powers and forgotten magics. That spark was what Hosteen had seized upon, weaving his words carefully, planting ideas that he knew Aerys would latch onto like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.

A smile tugged at the corner of Hosteen's lips as he navigated through the maze of tents. Aerys's fascination with magic and the storied histories of great houses, particularly his own, was not just a weakness—it was an opportunity. The King's obsession with the old ways made him vulnerable to manipulation, and Hosteen had already begun to see the paths he could take to shape Aerys's thoughts. The King was a paranoid, grumpy child, yes, but he was also a man desperate to be remembered, to carve his name into the annals of history alongside the likes of Aegon the Conqueror.

If Hosteen played his cards right, Aerys could be a powerful tool—a man whose obsession with power and legacy could be harnessed to serve Hosteen's own ends. But it would require precision. Aerys trusted no one fully, and any overt attempts to sway him would undoubtedly provoke suspicion. No, this would require subtlety and restraint. Hosteen's power would have to be wielded delicately, like a craftsman shaping fine glass. A carefully placed compulsion here, a suggestion there—nothing so overt that Aerys would notice, but enough to guide him onto the path Hosteen needed him to take.

The camp grew quieter as Hosteen neared the section reserved for his house. The familiar banners of House Mudd fluttered in the night breeze, their dark green and black sigil a stark contrast to the gold and crimson of the Lannisters and the black and red of the Targaryens. It was a comforting sight, a reminder of his purpose and the legacy he sought to reclaim.

As he reached his tent, Hosteen's thoughts sharpened. Aerys might serve his interests for now, but the man was a wildfire—unpredictable and capable of immense destruction if not carefully controlled. Hosteen would need to monitor him closely, nudging him in the right direction while remaining vigilant for the moment when the King's usefulness would run its course. The alliance would be tenuous, a game of shadows and whispers, but it was one Hosteen was prepared to play. But for now, he allowed himself a brief reprieve, sinking into the uneasy embrace of sleep, knowing that when the dawn broke, the game would resume.

The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when the summons came, and Hosteen joined the throng of lords and commanders in the command tent. The air inside was thick with tension as Lord Tywin Lannister, cold and commanding as ever, laid out the plan for the siege. His words were clipped, precise, and devoid of any unnecessary embellishment.

"We strike today," Tywin declared, his golden eyes scanning the room. "The gates are to be attacked directly by my men. If they fall, we take the city. If they hold, we will at least ensure they are blocked, preventing reinforcements or retreat. Meanwhile, the rest of you"—his gaze swept over the gathered lords—"will surround the city and scale the walls. Ladders and hooks will suffice. Speed is our ally; hesitation is our enemy. There is no time to waste."

Hosteen stood near the back, arms crossed as he listened. Tywin's annoyance was palpable, though the man's stoic demeanor masked it well. In the privacy of his own mind, Hosteen gleaned the truth—Tywin was irritated that the King's impatience had forced this hastily organized assault. Siege engines would have made the assault far more manageable, but they had no time to build them. The King wanted the city now, and Tywin, ever the dutiful Hand, had adjusted the plan accordingly. Of course, Tywin's own forces would bear the simplest task: assaulting the gates while the rest of the army bore the brunt of the casualties scaling the walls.

Hosteen left the tent with a sour taste in his mouth but no complaints. He was no stranger to leading his men into danger, and today would be no different. As he prepared his company of Mudd men, a mix of hardened veterans and eager recruits, he found himself alongside Steffon Baratheon. The Lord of Storm's End stood tall and broad, his warhammer resting casually across his shoulder, though his eyes betrayed a steely determination.

"Ready for this, old friend?" Steffon asked, offering a grim smile.

Hosteen gave a nod, adjusting the leather bracers on his arms. "As ready as we'll ever be. Let's hope Tywin's plan is more than just feeding us to the slaughter."

Steffon chuckled darkly. "Lannisters rarely dirty their hands unless they must. But we'll show them what real warriors look like."

The two exchanged a brief clasp of hands before the signal came—a blaring horn that echoed across the battlefield. The assault had begun.

The charge toward the city walls was chaos. The combined forces of the Targaryens, Baratheons, Tyrells, and the lesser lords surged forward, a sea of steel and banners crashing against the defenders. Hosteen led his Mudd men alongside Steffon Baratheon, their boots pounding the earth as arrows rained down from the battlements. Hosteen's senses flared as he felt the hum of danger, sidestepping just in time to avoid an arrow that would have pierced his throat.

The first clash came at the base of the wall. Ladders were heaved into place, hooks thrown to catch the crenellations above. Hosteen barked orders to his men as they began their ascent, their shields raised to deflect the projectiles raining down from above. Beside him, Steffon roared, his warhammer smashing into a defender who had leaped down to disrupt the siege effort. The man crumpled like a broken doll, and Steffon turned to Hosteen, his grin fierce.

"Up we go!" he shouted.

Hosteen nodded, gripping the ladder as he climbed. The world became a blur of motion and violence as he reached the top. A defender lunged at him, a spear aimed at his chest, but Hosteen moved like water, sidestepping the thrust and driving his blade into the man's unprotected side. The defender fell with a scream, tumbling from the wall and into the chaos below.

The battlements were a battlefield unto themselves, a narrow strip of stone where men fought and died in brutal melee. Hosteen found himself locked in combat with a swordsman who moved with surprising skill. Their blades clashed, sparks flying as steel met steel. The man pressed hard, forcing Hosteen to give ground, but the Mudd lord had fought in more desperate battles than this. He parried a heavy strike, spinning inside the man's guard to deliver a quick slash across his neck. Blood sprayed as the swordsman collapsed, and Hosteen turned to find his next opponent.

Steffon was a force of nature beside him, his warhammer rising and falling with devastating power. Each swing sent men flying, their bones shattered and their weapons useless. Hosteen and his men pressed forward, their combined strength carving a path through the defenders.

Once the battlements were secured, the real work began. Hosteen led his men down into the city, navigating narrow streets where defenders had set up makeshift barricades. The fighting was brutal and close, with no room for finesse. Hosteen's blade flashed as he fought his way through, his movements efficient and deadly. A spearman lunged at him, but he caught the weapon with his free hand, wrenching it away before driving his sword into the man's chest.

Steffon joined him moments later, his warhammer caked in blood. "The keep is that way!" he shouted, pointing toward the city's heart. "We've got to press on!"

Hosteen nodded, rallying his men as they pushed forward. The defenders grew more desperate the closer they came to the keep, but the combined might of the royal forces was too much. Hosteen and Steffon reached the gates of the keep, their armor stained with blood and their weapons nicked from constant use.

The final assault was the fiercest. Defenders poured out of the keep, their determination unbroken despite the odds. Hosteen found himself fighting side by side with Steffon, the two of them holding the line against wave after wave of enemy soldiers. At one point, Hosteen took a glancing blow to his shoulder, the pain sharp and immediate, but he pressed on, his sword cutting down another foe.

When the gates finally fell, it was with a deafening crash. The royal forces surged forward, overwhelming the remaining defenders and claiming the keep. Hosteen stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving as he surveyed the blood-soaked battlefield. Steffon clapped him on the shoulder, his grin wide despite the exhaustion in his eyes.

"We did it," Steffon said, his voice rough. "The city is ours."

Hosteen nodded, though his gaze drifted to the horizon. The city had fallen, but the kings revenge was far from over.

The great hall of Duskendale was filled with the heavy tension of victory turned bitter. The lords gathered, their armor cleaned of the blood from the battle but their faces still marked by weariness. All eyes turned to the far end of the hall where the small, ancient throne of House Darklyn now seated King Aerys II Targaryen. The King, though seemingly restored from the filth and exhaustion of his captivity, carried an air of something darker—his movements sharper, his voice harsher, and his demeanor more erratic than ever before.

The room fell silent as he barked an order, his voice echoing against the stone walls. "Bring me Denys Darklyn!"

The captured Lord of Duskendale was dragged forward, his once-proud demeanor shattered. He stumbled, his clothes torn and bloodied, his face smeared with dirt. As he was forced to his knees before the throne, he raised his hands in supplication. "Mercy, Your Grace," he pleaded, his voice trembling. "I beg for mercy for myself and my family."

Aerys laughed, a sharp and chilling sound that silenced even the whispers among the assembled lords. His expression twisted into a cruel smile. "Mercy?" he sneered. "There will be no mercy for traitors."

At his command, the remaining members of House Darklyn were brought into the hall. Two elderly women, sisters of Denys Darklyn, shuffled forward with tear-streaked faces. An older man, an uncle, was pulled along, his stooped posture and white hair belying his grim fate. Two younger men followed, brothers to Lord Darklyn, defiant but pale. Behind them came the children: seven in total, the youngest a boy no older than five, clinging to his older sister's hand, his wide eyes brimming with tears.

Hosteen stood among the gathered lords, his face impassive, but inside, a cold dread crept through him. He had known Aerys to be volatile, prone to fits of paranoia and cruelty, but nothing could have prepared him for what was to come.

The King rose to his feet, his eyes gleaming with a manic light. "Kingsguard!" he bellowed, his voice carrying the weight of an unhinged command. "Kill them all! All but the traitor and his eldest daughter."

The words hung in the air like a death knell. For a moment, the room was frozen. Then, the Kingsguard moved. White cloaks billowed as they drew their swords, their expressions grim and unreadable as they advanced on the helpless Darklyns.

The first strike was quick, and the eldest of the brothers fell with a strangled cry. The younger children screamed, their cries piercing the air as the hall descended into chaos. One of the elderly women crumpled, her body hitting the cold stone with a sickening thud. Blood pooled across the floor, staining the polished surface a dark crimson.

Hosteen watched, frozen in place, as the carnage unfolded. The children's screams turned to sobs, then silence, as one by one they were struck down. A young boy, clutching at his sister's hand, was torn away and fell with a terrified wail that ended abruptly.

The eldest daughter, a girl barely twelve years old, stood trembling, her wide, tear-filled eyes fixed on the blood-soaked floor. Her hands trembled as she held them to her mouth, her body wracked with silent sobs.

When the slaughter was done, only Denys Darklyn and the girl remained, standing in the center of the carnage. The lord, broken and weeping, clung to his daughter, their cries mingling as they stood amidst the mangled remains of their kin.

Aerys stepped forward, his boots squelching in the blood. His voice carried over the stunned silence, cold and imperious. "Before you die, Denys, you will see your legacy reduced to ashes. You will know the price of betrayal."

The King turned his gaze to the girl, who flinched under his scrutiny. With a voice loud enough for all to hear, he commanded one of the Kingsguard. "Take her to my chambers."

Hosteen's breath caught in his throat. A ripple of unease passed through the assembled lords, but no one spoke. The Kingsguard obeyed, leading the trembling girl away as her father fell to his knees, screaming her name.

It was a scene that would sear itself into Hosteen's memory—a display of cruelty and madness that left no doubt in his mind. Aerys Targaryen was not merely a dangerous man; he was a monster, and he wielded his power without restraint or reason. As Denys Darklyn's cries echoed through the hall, Hosteen understood, with chilling clarity, why this King was called the Mad King.