Return of House Mudd

A Dangerous Gamble

The summons came late in the afternoon, as Hosteen sat sharpening his sword near the cookfires of his camp. The messenger bore the stag of House Baratheon, a stark contrast to the crimson-clad Lannister guards who had escorted him before. This time, it was Lord Steffon Baratheon who sought his presence.

Hosteen rose, sheathed his blade, and followed the messengers. The Baratheon men who flanked him were no less impressive than their western counterparts but in a different way. Their armor was functional rather than ornate, and their frames seemed more suited to brute force than polished precision. These men were battle-hardened, their movements purposeful, their eyes filled with a hunger for the fight.

As he approached the familiar command tent, Hosteen prepared himself for another tense encounter. The golden lion banners of House Lannister and the black stag of Baratheon flapped side by side in the cool breeze. Steeling himself, he entered.

Inside the tent, the tension was palpable. Lord Tywin Lannister stood at the table, his hands clasped behind his back, his face an unreadable mask. But when his sharp green eyes flicked to Hosteen, there was a momentary crack in his composure—a fleeting expression of surprise, quickly buried beneath his usual stoicism.

At the center of the table, Lord Steffon Baratheon leaned forward, his massive hands resting on a map of Duskendale. His expression was grim, his brow furrowed with concern. Lord Mace Tyrell was absent, perhaps tending to his own troops or avoiding the increasingly fraught discussions in the tent.

"Lord Mudd," Steffon said, his voice steady but grave. "Your offer to infiltrate the city—does it still stand?"

Hosteen inclined his head. "It does, my lord. My men and I are prepared to act, should you deem it necessary."

Tywin scoffed softly, a sound that carried more derision than words ever could. "And what, precisely, do you think you'll accomplish, Lord Mudd? One man—or even five—cannot outmatch a garrison. Nor can they hope to smuggle the King out of his cells unnoticed."

Hosteen met Tywin's gaze evenly. "Perhaps not, my lord. But it may be worth trying. The alternative, as we have discussed, is far graver."

Steffon Baratheon raised a hand to forestall further argument. "Lord Tywin, we have debated every option available to us. The King is now nearly four moons into captivity. Storming the city risks his life; starving them out risks his health. If we wait any longer, the risk grows. We must act."

Tywin's jaw tightened. "Acting recklessly will achieve nothing. If the attempt fails, Lord Darklyn will surely execute the King to make an example of him. And then what will we tell the realm?"

Steffon's face darkened, his patience clearly wearing thin. "What other options do we have, Lord Lannister? Negotiate? And what then? Even if we secure the King's release, nothing would stop the Crown from turning on Darklyn the moment Aerys is safe. Peace would be a farce, and you know it, as does Lord Darklyn."

Hosteen watched the exchange carefully, noting the subtle shifts in posture and tone between the two men. It was clear that Tywin's caution and Steffon's urgency were at odds, and neither seemed willing to yield.

Steffon turned back to Hosteen, his expression softening slightly. "If you are still willing, Lord Mudd, I would have you try. But you must understand the stakes. Should you fail, the consequences will be dire—not only for you but for the King and for all of us."

Hosteen nodded, his voice steady. "I understand, my lord. And I accept the risk."

Tywin shook his head slowly, his cold gaze fixed on Hosteen. "Foolhardy. Ambition has a way of clouding a man's judgment, Lord Mudd. I hope, for your sake, that you are as capable as you claim to be."

Hosteen resisted the urge to bristle at the veiled insult. Instead, he replied calmly, "Ambition is not my motive, my lord. Loyalty to the realm is."

Tywin's lips twitched, but he said nothing more.

Steffon placed a hand on the table, leaning closer to Hosteen. "You'll need a plan, something precise and carefully thought out. We cannot afford for this to fail."

Hosteen nodded. "I will assemble a small team, no more than five men. We will enter the city under cover of darkness, posing as merchants or laborers. Once inside, we will locate the King and assess the situation. If an immediate rescue is possible, we will act. If not, we will gather intelligence and return to report."

Steffon regarded him thoughtfully. "And if you're caught?"

Hosteen's voice was firm. "Then we will ensure that no information reaches Lord Darklyn about the greater plans of this siege."

The Baratheon lord nodded slowly, his expression grim but resolute. "Very well. I will see to it that you have the supplies you need. The rest will be up to you."

As Hosteen left the tent, his mind was already racing. He had agreed to an impossible task, one that could either cement his reputation or destroy it utterly. But beneath the weight of the risk lay a sliver of hope—a chance to prove himself not only to the lords of the realm but also to himself.

The camp bustled around him as he made his way back to his men. The crimson banners of Lannister and the black stag of Baratheon loomed high above, symbols of power and legacy. Hosteen knew that his own banner was but a shadow compared to theirs, at least at the moment.

But shadows had a way of growing in the right light.

The evening air was heavy with anticipation as Hosteen Mudd made his final preparations for the mission to rescue King Aerys II. The camp around him was alive with the muffled sounds of soldiers sharpening weapons, murmured conversations, and the crackle of cookfires. In the dim light of his tent, Hosteen inspected his gear—a finely wrought sword with a hilt adorned by emeralds, a cloak that blended seamlessly into shadows, and a pouch of tools for the more mundane aspects of infiltration.

He had just finished briefing his chosen men—five loyal Mudd armsmen whose courage and competence he trusted implicitly—when his tent flap rustled. Two imposing figures entered, their white cloaks practically glowing in the firelight.

Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Gerold Hightower, stalwart knights of the Kingsguard, stood before him.

Ser Barristan's voice was steady and resolute. "Lord Mudd, we understand you plan to infiltrate Duskendale to rescue the King."

Hosteen inclined his head. "That is correct, Ser Barristan. My men and I have prepared for the task."

Ser Gerold, known as the White Bull for his unyielding strength and valor, stepped forward. "It is our duty to protect the King, even in his captivity. If you truly intend to rescue him, then we will accompany you."

Hosteen's expression tightened. It was not that he doubted the prowess of the Kingsguard—indeed, their reputation was legendary. But their inclusion complicated matters. He had intended this mission to rely on stealth, precision, and the judicious use of his... unique talents. Two towering knights clad in white cloaks were not exactly subtle.

"Ser Gerold, Ser Barristan," Hosteen began carefully, "your assistance is, of course, an honor. But I must warn you—this mission requires more than valor. It requires silence, discretion, and a willingness to avoid direct confrontation whenever possible."

Barristan's gaze was unwavering. "We are prepared for whatever the mission demands, Lord Mudd. If you intend to save the King, we cannot in good conscience allow you to proceed without us."

Hosteen sighed, realizing there was no point in arguing. Their dedication to their oath was admirable, but it added another layer of complexity to the mission. "Very well. If you are to join us, I must ask two of my men to remain behind. We can only take so many without increasing the risk of detection."

Turning to his men, he gestured to two of them, Orin and Lyam, who had been with him since the early days of his retinue. Both looked disappointed but nodded their understanding.

"You'll have another chance to prove yourselves," Hosteen assured them. "But for now, your task is to remain here and ensure the rest of our forces are ready should we fail."

As the group convened in the dimly lit corner of the camp, the tension among them was palpable. Hosteen unrolled a crude map of Duskendale on a wooden table, its edges weighted down with small stones to keep the parchment from curling. The map, though simplistic, showed enough detail to plot their approach: the city walls, the main gates, the winding streets leading to the Darklyn keep, and the castle dungeons where the King was believed to be held.

Hosteen cleared his throat, drawing the attention of his companions. Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold stood to his right, their pristine white cloaks brushing against the dirt-streaked floor. They bore the stoicism of men who had faced countless battles, their eyes sharp and unyielding. Daeron, one of Hosteen's own soldiers, lingered nearby, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the pommel of his sword as if seeking reassurance.

"The plan is straightforward," Hosteen began, his voice steady and authoritative. "We will scale the walls under cover of darkness. Once inside, we'll move toward the castle, avoiding patrols as best we can. The dungeons are the most likely place they're keeping the King, so that will be our destination. Once we locate him, we'll extract him and retreat the same way we entered."

Ser Barristan nodded, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Scaling the walls in darkness carries risk. If we're spotted before we reach the top, we'll be pinned like rabbits in a snare."

"We won't be spotted," Hosteen replied confidently. "The wall patrols are predictable. Their patterns suggest gaps we can exploit." He gestured at the map, pointing to a less-trafficked section of the city's fortifications. "Here. This is where we'll make our ascent. It's a blind spot in their defenses, close enough to the castle for a swift approach, but far enough from the main gates to avoid heavy patrols."

"And if we encounter resistance inside the castle?" asked Ser Gerold, his tone measured but edged with skepticism.

"We'll deal with it as necessary," Hosteen said, his gaze unwavering. "Speed and stealth are our allies. We'll be in and out before they even know we're there."

Daeron, who had been silent until now, shifted uncomfortably. "What if the King isn't in the dungeons? What if he's... somewhere else?" His voice trailed off, as though the possibility of failure was too weighty to fully articulate.

Hosteen met Daeron's eyes, his expression firm. "If he isn't in the dungeons, we'll adapt. We have to trust our instincts and intelligence. We know he's inside the keep, and that's enough for now."

Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold exchanged a glance but said nothing, their silence heavy with unspoken thoughts. Daeron muttered a quiet acknowledgment, though his knuckles whitened as his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. The tension in the room was thick, a palpable reminder of the danger that lay ahead.

As Hosteen outlined the plan, his mind worked furiously to suppress the secret he carried. The plan he had just described was sound enough for ordinary men. But Hosteen knew he wasn't ordinary, and the success of this mission couldn't rest solely on luck and skill. He would have to rely on his talents—those arcane gifts that set him apart from the rest.

He would not be scaling the walls at the same time as the others. Hours before his companions approached the city, he planned to enter Duskendale alone, cloaked in a disillusionment spell that would render him invisible to the naked eye. It wasn't cowardice but pragmatism. His magic offered an edge no one else had, an advantage that could turn the tides in their favor.

The first step of his hidden plan would be to disable the guards on the walls. A confundus charm would be enough to sow confusion among the sentries, convincing them that their section of the wall was safe and didn't require attention. If all went well, the patrols would move elsewhere, leaving the area undefended when the others arrived.

Once inside, Hosteen would navigate the city's winding streets under the cover of his spell. He would locate the castle and use a point-me spell to determine the King's exact location. If the King was in the dungeons as expected, that would simplify matters. If not, Hosteen would have to adjust quickly, ensuring he had a clear route to the King's location before his companions even reached the walls.

The risks of his clandestine plan were considerable. If his magic failed or if he was discovered, it could jeopardize not only his own life but the lives of his companions. Yet Hosteen couldn't shake the feeling that relying on brute force and stealth alone was a gamble too great to take. His talents were a gift, a tool meant to be used in moments like this.

As Hosteen spoke, detailing the official plan to his companions, he felt a pang of guilt for withholding the truth. Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold were seasoned knights, men who had devoted their lives to the service of their King. They deserved to know the full scope of the mission, to understand every advantage at their disposal. Even Daeron, young and green as he was, had earned Hosteen's trust through loyalty and courage.

But magic was a dangerous secret. In the wrong hands, it could be exploited or used against him. Even in the right hands, it carried a stigma, a fear of the unknown that lingered in the hearts of men. Hosteen had learned to keep his abilities hidden, to reveal them only when absolutely necessary. This mission, he decided, was not the time to bare that part of himself.

Instead, he let the others believe in the plan he had laid out, the plan of ropes and climbing and stealth. It was a good plan, one that could succeed even without the aid of magic. But it wasn't the plan Hosteen intended to follow.

As the group dispersed to make their final preparations, Hosteen lingered by the map, his fingers tracing the lines of the city's fortifications. The weight of his decision settled heavily on his shoulders. He would lead them to victory, but he would do it on his terms. The others didn't need to know the full extent of what he was capable of—not yet.

For now, the secret would remain his alone.

The group disbanded to make their preparations, leaving Hosteen alone in his tent. He sat down heavily on his cot, running a hand through his dark hair. This mission was becoming increasingly fraught, with every layer of complexity adding to the weight on his shoulders.

His mind wandered to the two Kingsguard. Their inclusion brought both risk and opportunity. If successful, having the Kingsguard as witnesses to his deeds could bolster his standing immensely. If they failed... well, he dared not dwell on that.