Return of House Mudd

The eyes of a King

Hosteen sat in the quiet solitude of his chambers, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the hearth. The rich brown, green, and gold of his ceremonial attire seemed muted in the dim light, but his mind was far from his attire or the splendor of the Red Keep. He was consumed by the weight of what he had seen. The visions had been vivid, more real than any dream, and now their implications pressed upon him like a millstone.

The heart tree's vision replayed itself in his mind. The pale bark had been cool beneath his hand, and then the flashes began. He saw men battling creatures of death—wights, he realized, their icy, lifeless forms moving with inhuman ferocity. A figure wielding a sword of fire carved through them, his weapon blazing against the encroaching darkness. The faces of the dead were grotesque, their empty eyes like windows into a void. But the most haunting image was of the Wall, vast and cold, standing sentinel against an enemy that Hosteen now understood was older than kingdoms, older than the Seven themselves.

This had to be the Long Night. He had read of it in ancient tomes, stories passed down from the Age of Heroes. The world had been plunged into a darkness that lasted a generation, with cold so bitter it froze the seas. The white walkers had come then, commanding the dead and bringing despair to the living. The Last Hero had risen against them, leading a band of companions on a desperate journey to seek the aid of the Children of the Forest. Most of his companions perished, but the Hero's courage and determination had turned the tide.

Hosteen and his ancestors had always thought of these stories as legends—morality tales wrapped in the guise of history. Yet the godswood had shown him otherwise. The images were not mere figments; they felt like memories, echoes of events so ancient that they had been etched into the heart tree itself. The Old Gods had spoken to him, issuing a warning across the centuries. Why him, though? He was no northerner, no sworn adherent of the Old Gods that could defend the wall, he was simply a minor lord from the Riverlands with a will to connect with the Old Gods rather than the new. Yet their message had been clear: the Long Night was no mere story. It was a promise, a cycle destined to repeat.

If the Old Gods were warning of another Long Night, the implications for Westeros were staggering. Hosteen leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. The Seven Kingdoms were fractured, bound together more by the Iron Throne's tenuous grip than by true unity. How could a realm so divided withstand the coming of such an existential threat? And then there was Aerys. The visions had reminded Hosteen that the king he had just helped to rescue was no savior. Aerys's paranoia and cruelty would make him ill-suited to lead the realm through the storm that lay ahead.

Hosteen thought of the North, the region that had resisted the South's culture and faith for millennia. The Starks and their bannermen still worshipped the Old Gods, and their connection to the ancient ways might make them valuable allies in what was to come. The Blackwoods, too, held to the Old Gods. Though their reach was limited compared to the great northern houses, they were neighbors to House Mudd's old lands and potential allies in his plans.

But the north—and any alliances Hosteen might forge—was distant and uncertain. For now, his thoughts turned inward, focusing on deciphering the second part of the day's visions.

If the godswood's vision had been a warning, the dragon skull beneath the Keep had been an enigma. The sensation of flight still lingered in his mind. It had been exhilarating, a rush of power and freedom unlike anything he had experienced. Yet the skull had not spoken to him as the tree had. It had shown no glimpses of the past or the future, only the feeling of riding a dragon—a power long thought lost to the world.

Could this, too, be a warning? Or was it a promise?

The dragons had been extinct for nearly two centurys, reduced to bones and memories. Yet Hosteen could not shake the thought that the vision meant something more. The sensation had been too vivid, too specific. Perhaps it was a sign that dragons would return. If they did, it would change everything. The Targaryens had ruled Westeros with fire and blood, and their dragons had been the keystone of their power. Without them, they were merely men and women clinging to faded glory.

But a dragon could do more than enforce a king's will. Hosteen thought back to the battles of old, the devastation a single dragon could unleash. Against the armies of the dead, dragons could be the difference between survival and annihilation. Yet the idea of dragons in Aerys's hands filled Hosteen with unease. The Mad King would see them as instruments of fear, tools to crush his enemies rather than protect the realm.

The visions had given Hosteen much to consider, but they also demanded action. If the Old Gods were truly warning of a coming darkness, he needed to prepare—not just for himself but for the realm. That meant forging alliances, and quickly. The Blackwoods were an obvious choice, given their faith and proximity to the Riverlands. But the North would be more challenging. The great houses of the North were wary of southern politics, and Hosteen's family name would carry little weight there now after not having been seen for thousands of years.

Still, there were possibilities. House Stark held the North together, their word law from the Wall to the Neck. If Hosteen could earn their trust, it would open doors to their bannermen. The Karstarks, the Umbers, and even the Boltons could be valuable allies. The key was framing his approach in a way they would respect—not as a southern lord seeking favors, but as a man answering a higher call.

The Manderlys and Whitehills were less promising. Though the Manderlys were wealthy and influential, their southern origins and pragmatic nature meant they were less likely to prioritize the Old Gods. The Whitehills, meanwhile, were a minor house with little to offer beyond their own ambitions, both follower of the seven.

Hosteen rose from his chair, pacing the room. The task before him felt monumental, but there was no turning back. The visions had not been idle fantasies. They were a call to action, and he could not ignore them. Yet the weight of it all bore down on him. He was one man in a fractured kingdom, facing forces older and more powerful than he could comprehend.

The fire in the hearth crackled, the light dancing across the rich embroidery of his doublet. Hosteen paused, staring into the flames. The symbols of his house adorned his belt and cloak, reminders of his lineage and the legacy he carried. House Mudd had been great once, rulers of the Riverlands. Though that glory had faded, Hosteen felt its echoes now. He was not just acting for himself or his king. He was acting for a legacy, for a future that seemed more uncertain with each passing hour.

The dragon skull had been a reminder of power lost, and the godswood had been a reminder of duty. Hosteen would need both to face what lay ahead. And so, as the fire burned low and the Red Keep grew quiet, he began to plan—a plan to build alliances, to prepare for the darkness, and to ensure that when the Long Night came, Westeros would not face it alone.

The soft knock at the door drew Hosteen from his musings. His hand lingered on the edge of the desk where maps and scrolls lay unfurled, his thoughts still circling around the visions granted to him by the weirwood and dragon skull. Shaking off the lingering haze of reverie, he called, "Enter."

A young servant stepped in, bowing low. He was dressed in the livery of the Red Keep, his tunic a deep crimson with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen embroidered in gold thread. "My lord," the boy began hesitantly, his eyes fixed on the polished wooden floor, "His Grace the King has commanded all lords and courtiers to gather in the Great Hall this evening for a feast to celebrate the victory at Duskendale."

Hosteen nodded, dismissing the boy with a wave of his hand. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Hosteen to his thoughts. A feast. It was expected, of course, though the timing felt odd. Aerys had hardly seemed in the mood for celebration during their journey to King's Landing. Still, it was not his place to question the King's whims. He straightened the collar of his emerald-green doublet, smoothing out the fine gold embroidery that traced patterns of rivers flowing to distant seas. This feast would be an opportunity—a chance to observe, to converse, and perhaps to cement alliances that might serve him well in the uncertain days ahead.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavernous space, its vaulted ceiling supported by towering stone columns. Chandeliers of wrought iron hung overhead, casting a warm golden glow over the assembled lords and ladies. Long tables stretched from one end of the hall to the other, laden with roasted meats, steaming pies, and golden loaves of bread. Goblets of wine gleamed like rubies in the flickering light, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of spiced cider, honeyed ham, and lavender.

Hosteen was shown to his seat near the head of one of the tables, flanked by Lord Steffon Baratheon on one side and a stout Riverlands lord on the other. Steffon was already seated, his yellow doublet embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. He turned to Hosteen with a broad smile as he approached. "Lord Mudd," he greeted, rising slightly in his seat, "It seems fortune smiles on us both this evening. A seat near the head of the table is no small honor."

"Nor is the company, my lord," Hosteen replied, bowing his head. He took his place beside Steffon, and the two fell into easy conversation as servants began pouring wine into their goblets.

Steffon was, as it turned out, more affable than Hosteen had expected. Though he carried the weight of a great house and the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, there was a warmth to him, a willingness to listen that made the exchange feel less like an obligation and more like a meeting of equals.

They spoke first of Duskendale, reflecting on the battle and the King's rescue. Steffon recounted tales of his father's campaigns, his tone tinged with nostalgia, and Hosteen shared stories of his ancestors, the Mudds who had once ruled the Riverlands.

"You carry a proud legacy, Lord Mudd," Steffon said, raising his goblet. "Few can claim to have roots so deep in the soil of Westeros. It's a shame what befell your house, but perhaps Duskendale is the beginning of something new."

Hosteen inclined his head, feeling the weight of Steffon's words. "Perhaps," he murmured, though his thoughts strayed to the visions he had seen earlier that day.

As their conversation turned to lighter topics—hunting in the Stormlands, the peculiarities of courtly life—Hosteen found himself enjoying the company of the Baratheon lord. There was a groundedness to Steffon, a lack of pretension that was rare among the highborn.

Hosteen's gaze wandered as the courses changed, and the hall grew louder with laughter and song. Lords and courtiers alike feasted with abandon, their faces flushed with drink and merriment. Yet, as his eyes swept across the room, they came to rest on the King. Aerys sat at the head of the hall, resplendent in robes of black and crimson. His silver hair caught the light like molten metal, and his violet eyes glittered with a mad intensity that sent a chill down Hosteen's spine.

Was it merely the firelight, or did that glint hold something darker? Mischief or malice, he could not tell, but the sight unsettled him. Before he could dwell on it, Aerys rose to his feet, his presence commanding instant silence.

"My lords," the King began, his voice sharp and ringing. "We are gathered here tonight to celebrate our triumph at Duskendale, a victory that has restored the dignity of the crown and reminded the realm of what it means to cross the Iron Throne."

Aerys's gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on Lord Tywin, who sat with his usual composure, and then on Lord Steffon, who offered a polite nod. "For this victory, we must thank those who led our forces—the loyal and tireless Tywin Lannister, who crushed the Darklyns beneath his lion's paw, and Steffon Baratheon, a stag whose antlers impaled our foes."

There was scattered applause, though it was subdued, as if the room waited for what might come next.

"And then," Aerys continued, his tone shifting to something sharper, almost mocking, "there is young Mace Tyrell, who, alas, could not join us tonight. Perhaps Highgarden was too pressing a concern for him to remain and bask in the glow of our victory."

A ripple of uneasy laughter moved through the hall, though Hosteen saw Lord Tywin's jaw tighten slightly. Aerys's humor was seldom without venom.

"And last," Aerys said, turning his gaze to Hosteen, "we have the cunning and courageous Lord Hosteen Mudd, who devised the plan that led to our rescue. A man of sharp wit and unyielding loyalty."

Hosteen inclined his head, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes upon him. "Your Grace is too kind," he murmured, though his heart raced.

"But tell me," Aerys said, addressing the room now, his voice growing louder, "what does a king give to a man who appears to have everything? A lord who wears silks finer than most knights, whose coffers seem never to empty?"

The question hung in the air, and Hosteen felt his pulse quicken. The King's gaze bore into him, a smile playing on his lips that was more predator than prince.

"I will tell you," Aerys said, his voice rising to a near shout. "What such a man lacks is land. Power. Recognition befitting his loyalty."

A murmur swept through the hall as Aerys continued. "From this day forth, Lord Hosteen Mudd shall no longer be a minor lord of the Riverlands, a vassal to vassals. No! He shall stand among the great lords, equal to Blackwood, Frey and Mallister. His lands shall grow to include Muddgrave, Lechpool, and the lands north of Fairmarket. A lord of the Riverlands, in name and deed."

The room erupted into applause, though Hosteen could hear the undercurrent of whispers. His mind raced as he processed the magnitude of what had just been decreed. To rise so high, so quickly—it was unprecedented. Dangerous.

As the King sat down, his mad eyes gleaming with satisfaction, Hosteen bowed deeply. "Your Grace honors me beyond measure," he said, though his thoughts churned with questions. What was Aerys's game? And what price would this newfound power demand?

Steffon leaned closer, his voice low. "Congratulations, Lord Mudd. It seems the King sees much in you."

Hosteen nodded, forcing a smile. "Let us hope it is the right things, my lord."

As the feast continued, Hosteen's gaze drifted once more to the King. The glint in Aerys's eyes remained, and Hosteen could not shake the feeling that he was being drawn into a game far more dangerous than any he had played before.