Return of House Mudd

12th moon, 278 AC.

Storm's End, the Feast of Mourning

The great hall of Storm's End was filled with the murmur of voices, the clinking of cups, and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. Though it was a night meant for mourning, there was drink, food, and fire in the hearth, and as with all such feasts, sorrow and revelry warred against each other.

Robert Baratheon, new Lord of Storm's End, sat at the head of the hall in his father's seat, a great drinking horn in hand. He had been drinking since the first course was served, and as the night wore on, his laughter grew louder, his voice more boisterous. His great black beard was still uneven, a boy's attempt at manhood, but there was nothing childish in his strength. He was sixteen and already broad-shouldered as a man grown, already able to drink and fight with the best of them.

But even as he roared with laughter at some jape from Lord Grandison, there was something wild and wounded in his eyes. Hosteen Mudd could see it as he watched from his seat farther down the table. The drinking was not celebration—it was an escape. Robert Baratheon was drowning, and the only thing keeping him afloat was the bottom of his cup.

Across from Robert sat his brother Stannis, the stark contrast between them as clear as dawn and dusk. Where Robert laughed, Stannis was silent. Where Robert drank, Stannis let his cup sit untouched. His plate remained nearly full, save for the small bites he forced himself to take. He sat stiff-backed, his face a mask of cold detachment, his sharp blue eyes watching everything.

Hosteen studied the room. The lords of the Stormlands, great and small, had gathered here to pay their respects, but they were doing more than that. They were watching, waiting, weighing. Would Robert be strong enough to lead them? Would he be his father's son, or was he merely a reckless boy with a strong arm?

Some lords had already thrown in with him, eager to win his favor. Lord Grandison clapped Robert on the shoulder as they shared a jest. Lord Estermont, his grandfather, watched with indulgent amusement, as if he saw nothing wrong with the way Robert emptied his cups.

Others, however, were more reserved. Lord Swann sat at the table's far end, speaking quietly with his son. Lord Fell, a seasoned warrior, watched Robert's drinking with something between caution and disapproval. These men had followed Steffon Baratheon with pride, but Robert was untested.

Hosteen took another sip of wine and kept his thoughts to himself.

As the night dragged on, the oaths began.

One by one, the stormlords rose to swear their fealty to Robert.

"I pledge my sword and my house to you, my lord," said Lord Grandison, loud enough for all to hear. "As I served your father, so shall I serve you."

Robert clasped his forearm in thanks, nodding with approval.

Lord Estermont followed, his words spoken with grandfatherly warmth.

Then came Lord Swann, then Lord Fell, each kneeling, swearing, watching.

And then, last of all, a man rose from the lower table, a knight of many years, his hair gone silver, his face marked by time and battle.

Ser Harbert Morrigen.

He was a hard man, known for speaking his mind. His house was not the mightiest in the Stormlands, but it was an old one, and he had fought under Steffon Baratheon many a time.

"Your father was a great man, boy," Ser Harbert said, his voice gravelly with age and drink. "He had wisdom. I wonder if you have the same."

The great hall fell silent.

Robert, who had been mid-drink, set his cup down with a thud. His free hand curled into a fist.

"What was that?" he asked, his voice too calm.

Ser Harbert did not waver. "I said your father had wisdom. He knew when to fight and when to listen. When to act and when to wait. Can you say the same?"

Hosteen felt the air tighten around them like a drawn bowstring. He saw the flicker in Robert's eyes—the barely contained anger, the grief turned to fury.

The cup in Robert's hand went flying, crashing against the wall behind Ser Harbert. Wine splattered against the stone like blood on a battlefield.

"You think me unworthy?" Robert's voice was thick with drink, his teeth clenched. "Say it plain, old man."

Ser Harbert met his gaze steadily. "I think your father was a man of patience, my lord. And patience is not something I see in you."

For a moment, it seemed Robert might lunge across the table. Lords shifted in their seats. Hands moved toward sword hilts. The air crackled with the threat of violence.

And then Stannis spoke.

"Our father is dead, Ser Harbert," he said, his voice level, unshaken. "If you have doubts, speak them now or hold your tongue."

All eyes turned to him.

Stannis was young, only fourteen, but there was something unyielding in him, something hard and immovable. He did not have Robert's size or strength, but he had steel in his bones.

Ser Harbert studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.

"I meant no insult," he said. "Only caution."

Robert exhaled sharply, but whether it was from relief or frustration, Hosteen could not tell.

The moment passed, but the tension remained.

One by one, the lords resumed drinking, speaking, moving past the near-confrontation. But Hosteen Mudd saw what had happened.

Ser Harbert had tested Robert. And it was Stannis who had saved him from himself.

Robert might have been their lord, but Stannis was watching. Stannis would remember.

Hosteen finished his wine and set the cup down. This was only the beginning. The Stormlands had a new lord, but whether they would follow him as they had his father—that was yet to be seen.

The fires burned high in the great hall, casting long, flickering shadows across the thick stone walls. The night was old, and the feast had begun to slow, though the drinking had not. Plates still cluttered the tables, half-finished portions of venison and honeyed fowl left untouched as men turned their focus to their cups.

Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, had long since abandoned the pretense of eating. He leaned back in his father's chair, a great drinking horn in one hand, his face flushed from wine and grief. He laughed too loudly, clapped men on the shoulders with too much force, and ignored the unease in the room. His sorrow lay beneath the surface, gnawing at him like a beast in the dark, but he would not let it show.

Not Robert Baratheon.

Hosteen Mudd sat near the lower end of the high table, watching the lords around him with quiet scrutiny. These were Stormlords, men who had known Robert as a boy, who had fought alongside his father, who had sworn their swords to House Baratheon. Some were eager to toast the young lord, while others studied him, gauging whether he was a leader worth following.

The talk had shifted now, away from mourning and loyalty, toward matters of the future. It was Lord Estermont, Robert's own grandfather, who broached the subject first.

"My lord grandson," the old man said, speaking just loud enough for the hall to hear, "now that you are Lord of Storm's End, it is time to think of marriage."

Robert scoffed, waving a hand as if swatting at a fly. "Marriage? Have I not drunk enough tonight, that you wish to punish me further?"

A few men chuckled, but Lord Estermont was not deterred. "A wife is no punishment, Robert. Your father had a good one, and so will you."

Robert took another drink. "I am not my father."

"No," Lord Estermont agreed. "But you are his son, and the head of his house. A strong house needs an heir."

Robert made a dismissive noise, but others were already leaning in.

"Aye, and a marriage is more than just heirs," said Lord Dondarrion, his deep voice steady. "It is alliance. Strength. The realm is shifting, my lord, and you must think on it."

Robert muttered something into his cup, but the discussion did not die.

"Lady Lyanna Stark," one of the lords suggested. "A daughter of Winterfell. You knew her brother well, did you not? That would bind the North and Stormlands together in strength."

Robert's lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer. "Lyanna Stark?" He let the name roll in his mouth like a sip of wine. "Aye, I know her brother. And I've heard of the girl. A wild thing, they say, with a wolf's heart."

"That may suit you," Lord Estermont observed. "A fire needs a fire."

Robert only grunted in response.

A few more names were spoken. Elia Martell, of Dorne, a match that would bring southern ties. Cersei Lannister, daughter of the richest man in Westeros, golden and proud. A match with the Westerlands could strengthen Robert's rule immensely.

The names swirled through the hall, passing from lord to lord. Some spoke of their virtues, others of their drawbacks. Stannis Baratheon did not speak at all, but he listened.

Hosteen remained silent as well, though his mind turned over the discussion. He knew little of these women beyond what was said at court or in passing conversation. But it made him think of his own house, of his own blood.

Lord Blackwood had offered his sisters's hand to him in marriage—a fine match for a rising lord like himself. He had not given an answer yet, unsure whether to accept. But sitting here, among the Stormlords, hearing them speak of duty and alliances, it was a reminder of what noble houses truly were.

A marriage was never just a marriage. It was a foundation for the future.

Robert, however, was uninterested in such matters.

"If I must take a wife," he said at last, "it will be one of my own choosing. And not before I'm ready."

No one openly disagreed, but Lord Estermont's face was tight.

Stannis, for his part, said nothing.

But he was watching.

The feast dragged on.

The fires burned low, the hall growing dimmer as men grew drunker. Some had taken their leave already, their bodies heavy with wine and meat, their steps slow and unsteady as they departed for their chambers.

Robert had not stopped drinking.

His laughter had grown darker, his voice heavier. His anger simmered just beneath the surface, his grief turning to frustration.

At some point, in a lull between jests and half-hearted toasts, he muttered, "My father shouldn't have been sent on that fool's errand to find Rhaegar Targaryen a Valyrian bride."

The words were spoken carelessly, but they carried weight.

Stannis stiffened.

"Our father did as he was commanded, Robert, he did his duty" he said, his voice cold. "That is what loyalty means."

Robert turned to his brother, his jaw tightening. "Loyalty?" He let out a bitter laugh. "What has loyalty ever gotten us, Stannis? It got our father killed."

The room fell quiet.

Hosteen looked between them, seeing the shift, the widening crack between them.

Stannis was rigid, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Father did his duty," Stannis said. "As we all must."

Robert slammed his cup onto the table, making the plates and goblets around him jump.

"Duty," he spat. "Duty is what fools hide behind when they don't have the courage to do as they please."

Stannis did not flinch.

Hosteen saw something pass between them—something deep and unspoken.

Robert, all passion, all feeling, all fire. Stannis, all iron, all stone, all resolve.

Two brothers, both scarred by the same loss, yet utterly different in how they bore it.

The silence stretched.

Then Robert let out a sharp breath, pushing back from the table. "I've had enough of this," he muttered, and without another word, he left the hall.

Men watched him go, uncertain what to say.

Stannis did not move. His hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles white. But his face remained unreadable.

Hosteen exhaled slowly.

Wine flowed freely, but it no longer brought mirth—it only loosened tongues and let fears slip through the cracks.

Hosteen Mudd sat at the long table, watching, listening. He was an outsider among these men, a guest from the Riverlands, but grief and drink had a way of making men speak openly. The lords of the Stormlands, once focused on pledging their loyalty to Robert Baratheon, now spoke in hushed tones of another matter—one that lingered like a storm on the horizon.

The King.

King Aerys II, who sat the Iron Throne in King's Landing.

King Aerys, who had loved Steffon Baratheon as a brother.

King Aerys, who was growing madder with each passing year.

The hall was quieter now, save for the occasional outburst from the younger knights still drinking heavily at the lower tables. But the high lords, the old men, the ones who had seen too much—they had drawn together.

The first to speak was Lord Buckler.

"What will Aerys do," he muttered, swirling his cup, "now that his friend is gone?"

The others said nothing at first. The question hung in the air, unspoken yet heavy.

Lord Caron, a lean man with silver-streaked hair, exhaled through his nose. "Steffon was one of the few men the king still trusted."

"Trusted," Lord Errol echoed, his voice thick with drink. "That was before."

"Before what?" Lord Penrose asked.

Before he went mad, was the unspoken answer.

Before the Defiance of Duskendale.

Before he started seeing enemies in every shadow.

Lord Morrigen, an old knight with a face like weathered stone, leaned forward. "That fool Darklyn did more than hold the king captive. He made him afraid. The Aerys we knew before Duskendale is gone. What sits the throne now…" He trailed off.

"Aerys is still king," Lord Caron said sharply.

"Aye, he is," Lord Errol conceded. "But he is not well."

Silence fell over the lords at the table.

Even in the halls of Storm's End, where the banners of the crowned stag flew high, there were lines that could not be crossed.

But the words had been spoken.

Hosteen saw it—the way the lords glanced at each other, the way their shoulders tensed. The fear was there, unspoken but palpable.

Everyone was thinking the same thing.

With Steffon Baratheon dead, how long before the king turned on them all?

Lord Penrose cleared his throat, as if to dispel the weight in the air. "The king will send someone else to court in Steffon's place."

Robert Baratheon, who had been slouched in his chair, lifted his head at that. His expression was dark. "He will send a lapdog," he muttered. "Someone to whisper lies in his ear."

"Or worse," Buckler said. "Someone to keep an eye on us."

Lord Morrigen nodded grimly. "The king's paranoia grows worse. He sees enemies everywhere. Now that Steffon is gone, who will he suspect next?"

Stannis Baratheon, who had been silent throughout the conversation, finally spoke.

"The king is the king," he said stiffly. "And we will do our duty."

Robert let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Duty. Aye, Stannis, I am sure Aerys will appreciate that." He drained the last of his cup and tossed it onto the table. "And when he decides he has no further use for us? When his paranoia turns our way? Will you still say it is duty?"

Stannis did not answer.

The lords shifted uncomfortably.

Lord Caron leaned in, lowering his voice. "No one speaks treason here, my lords. We only wonder…"

"What the future holds," Lord Errol finished.

Robert shook his head and pushed himself up from his chair. "To hell with the future. To hell with Aerys." His voice was thick with drink, his grief sharpening into something like anger. "My father was loyal, and where did it get him? Dead at the bottom of the sea."

The lords said nothing.

Robert swayed slightly, bracing himself on the table. Then, without another word, he turned and stalked from the hall, his steps heavy.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Hosteen exhaled slowly, his eyes sweeping across the gathered lords. He saw it in their faces.

They were afraid.

King Aerys' shadow loomed over the Stormlands.

And for the first time, Hosteen wondered just how much longer the realm would endure it.