Return of House Mudd

The Path of Shadows

The journey to Duskendale stretched out before them like a ribbon of opportunity and peril. Hosteen Mudd rode at the head of his column, flanked by Adden and Harwin, his grizzled captain. Around him, the one hundred soldiers of House Mudd marched in tight formation, their freshly polished armor glinting under the pale winter sun. The golden crown and emeralds of his sigil waved proudly on their banners, a quiet declaration that the old blood of the Riverlands had not been forgotten.

The roads were uncommonly quiet. Despite the Riverlands' reputation for teeming with bandits, their company encountered no trouble. Villagers, when they appeared at the edges of fields or huddled along the road, eyed the soldiers warily but seemed heartened by the sight of an organized force. Hosteen caught glimpses of relief in their faces, as if his men represented some long-lost hope.

Still, the silence nagged at him.

"It's strange," Adden said as they crested a hill overlooking a shallow river. "I expected at least a skirmish by now. The Riverlands are known for unrest."

Harwin grunted. "Aye. Either the outlaws are avoiding us, or they've found easier prey elsewhere."

Hosteen nodded but said nothing. His thoughts were far from the road, turning instead to the decision that had set him on this path.

Joining the siege of Duskendale was a gamble, and Hosteen knew it. A king was a valuable ally, but kings were fickle and their gratitude fleeting. If he played his cards right, he might secure royal favor, perhaps even a boon to further strengthen House Mudd. Yet, the risks loomed large.

For one, his peers in the Riverlands might see his actions as presumptuous. He was, after all, a minor lord—newly reinstated and still proving his worth. His participation could be perceived as an attempt to steal the spotlight from more established houses, especially his liege, Lord Jason Mallister.

Would Mallister see this as ambition bordering on insubordination? Hosteen couldn't be sure. His liege had supported him thus far, but there was no telling how the young lord would react if Hosteen outshone him in a matter as significant as the rescue of the King.

And then there was the question of how to act when they arrived. Hosteen turned these thoughts over and over as his horse plodded steadily onward.

"If I march with the other lords, I'll merely be another sword among many," he murmured, low enough that only Adden, riding closest, could hear.

Adden looked at him, curious. "You're considering another approach?"

"I could try to sneak into Duskendale myself," Hosteen admitted. "It's risky, but if I succeeded, the rewards would be immense. The King owes his life to House Mudd. A debt like that would be impossible to ignore."

"And if you're caught?" Adden asked, his tone cautious.

Hosteen allowed himself a grim smile. "Then the King will have one less lord to rescue, and my secrets will likely die with me."

Adden frowned but didn't argue.

As they drew closer to Duskendale, signs of war became apparent. The fields grew sparse, their crops harvested early or trampled under hurried boots. Villages lay quiet, shutters drawn and doors bolted. Smoke rose in thin plumes from the occasional campfire, far off the road.

By the sixth day, they passed the first signs of the siege itself. Scouts reported large camps of soldiers scattered across the countryside, bearing the banners of Westeros's great houses. Hosteen felt a surge of apprehension. His force of one hundred men was a drop in the ocean compared to the hosts of the Lannisters, Baratheons, and Tyrells.

"Do we join the siege camps immediately, my lord?" Harwin asked that evening as they set up their own small camp in a wooded glade.

"Not yet," Hosteen replied, staring into the flames of their campfire. "We'll observe for a day or two. I need to understand the dynamics at play before committing our forces."

That night, Hosteen lay awake in his tent, staring at the canvas above him. The crackle of the dying fire outside was a soothing counterpoint to the storm of thoughts in his mind.

Could he afford to expose his true abilities here, in the midst of so many? The idea of walking into Duskendale under cover of darkness, slipping past Darklyn guards, and freeing the King was tantalizing. It was the kind of daring feat that would cement his name in history.

But it was also the kind of recklessness that could end his ambitions forever.

Hosteen turned over, his eyes narrowing. "I'll decide when we see the situation," he muttered to himself. "For now, patience."

It was on the seventh day, as they crested a hill overlooking a snow-dusted plain, that Hosteen's musings were shattered.

On the horizon, fluttering in the pale winter sunlight, were banners of crimson and gold, their lion sigil unmistakable. Next to them, the three-headed dragon of Targaryen black and red billowed alongside. Hosteen pulled his horse to a halt, his soldiers murmuring as they too caught sight of the banners.

He stared, the implications of those banners sinking in. The Lannisters were here. Lord Tywin himself was almost certainly leading the siege, and his reputation preceded him.

"What do you know of Tywin Lannister?" Hosteen asked, his voice steady though his mind raced.

Harwin glanced at Adden, who shrugged. Finally, one of the younger soldiers, a lad barely past twenty, spoke up hesitantly.

"They say he's… ruthless," the soldier said. "He crushed the Reynes and Tarbecks, wiped their houses from the world. Burned Castamere to the ground and sealed the mines with every last soul still inside."

Another soldier added, his voice low, "The smallfolk say he doesn't smile. Ever. And that his eyes can freeze a man's courage."

Hosteen absorbed their words in silence, his fingers tightening around the reins of his horse. Tywin Lannister's legend was well known—a man of cold precision and unyielding resolve. Facing such a figure, even as an ally, was daunting.

As they approached the siege camp later that day, Hosteen's thoughts swirled. He had not yet decided on his course of action. Should he present himself openly to Tywin, pledging his men to the effort? Or should he keep to the periphery, observing and deciding how best to act?

He glanced at the men behind him. His soldiers, clad in the newly minted colors of House Mudd, looked eager but uncertain. They relied on him to lead, to make choices that would ensure their survival and the prosperity of their house.

Hosteen took a deep breath, steeling himself. Whatever came next, he would face it head-on. The shadow of lions might loom large, but the crown of Mudd would not falter.

As the campfires of the siege became visible in the growing twilight, Hosteen urged his horse forward. The game had begun.

The summons came unexpectedly, but it had been inevitable. Lord Tywin Lannister had requested Hosteen Mudd's presence in his command tent, and denying the summons of the Warden of the West and Hand of the King was not an option. Hosteen sighed, adjusting the sword at his hip, and followed the two crimson-cloaked guards who had arrived to escort him.

As they wound through the sprawling siege camp, Hosteen found himself marveling at the sheer scale and discipline of the army. Soldiers drilled in formation, their armor polished to a gleam despite the rigors of winter. Yet what struck him most was the quality of their equipment. Even the regular troops seemed better outfitted than the garrison forces of most castles.

Then, his eyes fell on a unit that stood apart. Their armor was exquisite, adorned with gilded lions and intricate etchings. These men, he realized, were the Lannister houseguards, the elite sworn to House Lannister's service. Hosteen had seen knights before, had memories of fights where his ancestors fought alongside men of skill, but these soldiers moved with a precision and confidence that spoke of years of training and the finest resources at their disposal.

As the guards leading him turned a corner, Hosteen noticed that even they were outfitted in armor of higher quality than most lords could afford. A chill ran through him. If the Lannister houseguards were the best, what did it say about Tywin Lannister that even his personal escorts were more resplendent than the finest knights of the Riverlands?

What kind of wealth sustains this? Hosteen wondered, the thought heavy in his mind. The power of the West was on full display, and it was overwhelming.

He was pulled from his thoughts as they reached a massive command tent. The red-and-gold lions of House Lannister flapped in the wind, alongside the green rose of House Tyrell and the black stag of House Baratheon. Hosteen adjusted his posture, steeling himself for the encounter.

As he entered, the weight of the atmosphere struck him immediately. The tent was dominated by a large wooden table strewn with maps and markers, the lords and commanders huddled around it casting long shadows in the flickering light of oil lamps.

At the head of the table stood Tywin Lannister, his expression carved from stone. He regarded Hosteen with a gaze so cold and calculating that it felt as if the man could see through him entirely. To Tywin's left was a stark contrast: Lord Mace Tyrell, his plump face beaming with an almost comical cheerfulness. On the right, Lord Steffon Baratheon stood with arms crossed, his expression measured but betraying hints of worry.

The rest of the tent was filled with lesser lords and knights, their identities a mystery to Hosteen, though their finely wrought armor suggested they were of high station.

"Lord Mudd," Tywin said, his voice as sharp and clipped as a sword stroke. "You've made a journey to join us at Duskendale. To what end, I wonder?"

Hosteen bowed slightly, choosing his words carefully. "To serve the realm, my lord. I bring a hundred soldiers under my banner, and I offer my sword and my strength to rescue the King."

Tywin's lip curled ever so slightly. "How noble," he said, his tone making it clear he doubted the sincerity of Hosteen's words.

Lord Steffon Baratheon stepped forward, his gaze softening as he addressed Hosteen. "Any man willing to risk his life for the King is welcome here. We are grateful for your presence, Lord Mudd."

Tyrell, oblivious to the tension, clapped his hands together. "Indeed! But let us not forget the Prince. Prince Rhaegar must lead this siege, must he not? It's his rightful duty!"

A silence followed that bordered on the uncomfortable. Tyrell's words hung in the air like a sour note. Everyone in the room knew that Prince Rhaegar was in King's Landing, managing the realm in his father's absence. To suggest otherwise was not only foolish but also betrayed Tyrell's ignorance of the situation.

Tywin's gaze shifted to Tyrell, his expression betraying a flicker of disdain. "The Prince is precisely where he must be—ensuring stability in the capital," he said coldly. "This siege does not require a Targaryen to lead it. It requires precision, patience, and strategy."

Hosteen stayed silent, observing the dynamics between the lords. It was clear that Tywin commanded the room, his presence alone silencing dissent. Tyrell, for all his joviality, seemed out of his depth, while Steffon Baratheon radiated quiet competence.

The discussion turned to the siege itself. Duskendale was a formidable position, its walls high and its defenders resolute. Lord Denys Darklyn had held the King captive for two moons, and the longer the siege dragged on, the greater the danger to Aerys.

"The longer this takes, the more emboldened the Crown's enemies will become," Tywin said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the gathered lords. "The King must be rescued swiftly and decisively."

Lord Steffon nodded. "But he must also be rescued alive. If we press too hard, Darklyn may see fit to kill him rather than surrender."

Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Which is why we need a strategy that leaves him no room for such an act. Starve them out, cut off their water supply, and wait. Desperation will force their hand."

Mace Tyrell, still clinging to his earlier point, leaned forward. "Surely we should demand that the Prince take command. A Targaryen at the forefront will inspire loyalty and fear in equal measure."

Hosteen couldn't help but notice the exasperated glances exchanged between some of the knights. Tyrell's insistence was not only misplaced but was beginning to border on absurdity.

Tywin turned his gaze back to Hosteen, his piercing eyes locking onto him. "You have a hundred men, Lord Mudd. What do you propose to do with them?"

Hosteen straightened, meeting Tywin's gaze without flinching. "Whatever is required, my lord. My men are well-trained and ready for any task, be it holding a position, joining an assault, or aiding in a more… subtle approach."

The room grew quiet as Tywin studied him. "Subtlety, Lord Mudd?"

Hosteen nodded. "If brute force risks the King's life, then there are other ways to achieve our goal. A smaller force could infiltrate the castle under cover of darkness. I would volunteer for such a task, should it be required."

Steffon Baratheon seemed intrigued by the suggestion, while Tyrell merely looked confused. Tywin, however, betrayed nothing.

After more discussion, Hosteen was dismissed, but the weight of Tywin's scrutiny lingered long after he left the tent. As he walked back to his camp, flanked once more by crimson-cloaked guards, his mind raced.

Tywin Lannister was everything the stories had said: ruthless, calculating, and unyielding. To earn his favor—or even his grudging respect—would be no small feat. But Hosteen knew that this was a moment of opportunity. If he could prove himself during this siege, House Mudd might yet rise from the shadows of history.

As the tents of his own camp came into view, Hosteen resolved to act decisively. The game he had chosen to play was dangerous, but he had not come this far to falter. The shadow of lions might loom large, but Hosteen Mudd would not be overshadowed.