Return of House Mudd

12th moon, 278 AC.

A Somber Affair at Storm's End

The flickering light of a thousand candles bathed the sept of Storm's End in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and damp salt carried in from Shipbreaker Bay. It was a somber affair, the great hall of worship filled with the lords and knights of the Stormlands, their heads bowed in mourning for the man who had once ruled over them.

Hosteen Mudd, Lord of Hammerford and Oldstones, stood among them, his expression solemn as he gazed at the marble effigy of Lord Steffon Baratheon, now laid to rest beside his forebears. The statue had been carved in a hurry, but the likeness was unmistakable—the strong brow, the resolute jaw, the air of command that had once defined him. But now, Steffon Baratheon was gone, taken by the treacherous waters of Shipbreaker Bay.

It had been two weeks since the storm, but the grief still hung heavy in the air. The lords of the Stormlands had gathered to pay their respects, to whisper oaths of fealty to Steffon's son, and to bear witness to the mourning of Lady Cassana Baratheon, who had perished alongside her lord husband.

Hosteen's mind drifted to that fateful night. The wreck had been in sight of the keep itself, the mast of Steffon's ship snapping like a twig as the vessel was dashed against the jagged cliffs. The sailors had screamed, their cries swallowed by the howling winds. Not a soul had survived. It was a cruel fate, to spend months braving the unknown dangers of the Free Cities only to die within reach of home.

He sighed, shifting his weight. Steffon had been an acquaintance, a comrade-in-arms from the siege of Duskendale. They had not been close, but there had been respect between them. Steffon had been a man of reason, a leader who understood both war and governance. And now his son sat in his place—a boy of six and ten, known already for his drinking and his whoring.

Robert Baratheon.

The young lord stood at the front of the sept, clad in black and gold, his broad shoulders squared, his fists clenched at his sides. There was no sign of tears upon his face, no outward display of sorrow—only a grim, smoldering anger.

Hosteen studied the boy-turned-lord. Robert was tall for his age, broad-chested, and already stronger than most grown men. He was the kind of youth who laughed in the face of danger, who would take a wound and call it sport, who would charge into battle not because it was necessary, but because he enjoyed it. And now this boy ruled a seventh of the Seven Kingdoms.

Hosteen suppressed a sigh. Steffon had been a good lord, fair and measured. Robert? Robert was a storm given flesh—a force of nature, wild and unpredictable. And yet, there was something about him, something that could either shape him into a great ruler or drag him into ruin.

Beside Robert stood his younger brother, Stannis who held the youngest, Renly, both dressed in mourning black. Stannis, the middle brother, looked like he had been carved from stone. His jaw was clenched so tight that it seemed he might crack a tooth. He had always been a serious child, even when Hosteen had first met him years ago, but now there was a coldness to him, a hollowness.

Hosteen turned his thoughts elsewhere. It was not only Robert's ascension that troubled him. This death would shake more than just the Stormlands. King Aerys had loved Steffon Baratheon. He had been one of the few men the king had trusted, one of the last anchors of sanity in Aerys' crumbling mind.

The king was not well. That much was known. Ever since the Defiance of Duskendale, Aerys had grown more erratic, more paranoid, more cruel. He had been locked away in the dungeons for half a year, and whatever had happened in that darkness had changed him forever.

Steffon had been one of the few voices that could soothe Aerys' tempers, one of the last men at court who had the king's ear without needing to flatter or cower. And now he was gone.

What would that mean for the realm? What would it mean for Prince Rhaegar?

Steffon had died on a mission for the king himself, sent across the narrow sea to find a Valyrian bride for Prince Rhaegar, a match that never came to be. And now, with Steffon dead, would the king abandon the search? Would Rhaegar wed one of the noble daughters of Westeros instead? Would the king even care?

Hosteen's thoughts were interrupted as the septon raised his hands for prayer. The gathered lords bowed their heads, murmuring in unison as the rites were spoken.

"Father, judge him with wisdom. Mother, grant him mercy. Warrior, guide his sons to strength. Stranger, carry his soul to the next life."

The words echoed through the chamber, reverberating against the high ceilings.

When the prayers were done, Robert turned to face his vassals. For the first time since his father's death, he spoke to them.

"I thank you all for coming," he said, his voice strong and clear. "I know my father would have wanted it."

He paused, glancing at the effigy behind him. There was something dangerous in his gaze—something fierce, something vengeful.

"My father was a great man," Robert continued, his jaw tightening. "And he was taken from us too soon."

A silence fell over the sept.

"I swear to you all," he said, his voice growing low, "I will be a lord my father would have been proud of."

Hosteen narrowed his eyes. It was a fine sentiment, but words were wind. He had seen boys inherit too young, had seen promising youths squander their legacies in drink, folly, and war. Robert Baratheon could be a great ruler—but only if he learned restraint, if he tempered the fire in his blood.

And Hosteen was not sure if he would.

Hosteen shifted where he stood, his eyes flickering over the gathered lords of the Stormlands. The sept was filled with them, men of battle-hardened faces and weathered souls, their backs straight, their expressions grim. They had all come to honor Steffon Baratheon and to swear themselves to his son, yet beneath their solemn grief, there was something else—uncertainty.

They knew what Steffon had been: a leader, a voice of reason, a bridge between the nobility of the Stormlands and the ever-changing tides of King's Landing. With him, they had known stability. But Robert?

Robert was untested.

A boy, barely six and ten, already renowned for his drinking and whoring. Already known to fight for sport as much as for honor. His father had ruled with a steady hand—would Robert even have the patience for such things?

Hosteen exhaled through his nose. He was not one of these men, not truly. He was a river lord, a man of the Trident, a guest among strangers. His place was among his own kin, among his own lands, not here beneath the stone arches of Storm's End.

And yet, he had been invited.

He had his suspicions as to why. It had likely been Steffon himself who had spoken of him, who had mentioned his name in letters to his sons. The Siege of Duskendale had been a defining moment for both of them, and perhaps in its retelling, Steffon had found his name worth remembering.

Perhaps he had even seen something in Hosteen—a man of rising fortune, a man worth knowing.

Whatever the case, he was here now, standing among these men, waiting his turn to approach the sons of the deceased.

The stormlords moved one by one, stepping forward to murmur their condolences to the young Baratheons. It was ritual more than anything—words spoken for the sake of duty, rather than emotion.

Lord Swann. Lord Tarth. Lord Fell. Each bowed before Robert, speaking words of loyalty, of sympathy, of promises that they would serve as they had served his father. Robert accepted them all in silence, his jaw tight, his fists clenched.

When at last the procession slowed, it was Hosteen's turn.

He stepped forward, his boots echoing against the cold stone floor. Robert met his gaze, unflinching.

"Lord Robert," Hosteen said, bowing his head. "Lord Stannis."

Stannis did not so much as blink, but Robert gave the barest of nods.

"Thank you for the invitation," Hosteen continued, his voice measured. "Your father was a great man, and from all I have heard, so was your lady mother. The realm has suffered a great loss."

Robert gave another curt nod, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He was a boy of six and ten, but there was nothing boyish about the way he carried himself now.

The weight of lordship was already settling on his shoulders.

Hosteen hesitated only for a moment before turning his gaze to Stannis. The boy's face was like stone, rigid and unreadable, but it was his eyes that gave him away.

He had seen too much.

"I hope," Hosteen said quietly, "that one day, you might forget what you saw."

A flicker of something passed through Stannis' expression, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

Hosteen did not need to elaborate. Everyone knew what had happened.

It had been Stannis who saw the ship first.

Through the howling winds, through the lashing rain, through the chaos of the storm, it had been Stannis who had spotted the sails struggling against the waves.

It had been Stannis who had cried out first.

Stannis who had shouted for torches, for signals, for anything that might guide the ship home.

But nothing could.

The storm had been stronger.

The mast had snapped like a dry branch.

The hull had been torn apart as if by the hands of some vengeful god.

And Stannis had stood there—watched as his mother and father screamed and drowned, their cries swallowed by the wrath of Shipbreaker Bay.

The maesters had pieced together the account of the wreck from Stannis' memory. He had spoken of it in such horrifying detail that even the oldest among them had fallen silent.

And now, he would carry it with him for the rest of his life.

Hosteen studied the boy's face. Stannis said nothing. He did not flinch. But there was something in his eyes, something cold and sharp.

"I do not need to forget," Stannis said at last, his voice steady. "Forgetting is weakness."

Hosteen considered him for a moment before nodding. "As you say, my lord."

A silence stretched between them.

Then Robert exhaled sharply and clapped his younger brother on the shoulder—a firm, almost impatient gesture.

"Stannis has the right of it," he said gruffly. "We don't forget. We carry on."

Hosteen inclined his head, but he said nothing.

He had paid his respects. He had spoken his words.

As he stepped back, he cast one final glance at the two brothers.

Robert Baratheon was a storm given flesh, all raw power and fury, unpredictable and untamed. He would be a great warrior, there was no doubt of that. But would he be a great ruler?

That, Hosteen was not certain of.

And Stannis?

Stannis was something else entirely.

He had watched his parents die, had listened to their screams, and yet he had not shed a single tear.

He did not rage like Robert. He did not weep like a child.

He endured.

And somehow, that was even more terrifying.