A/N: Hello everyone! We appreciate all the support and feedback that this story has been receiving so far. It's a pleasure to be able to share this journey with all of you, and we're excited to continue! We probably should have done an author's note before this, but as the story and its community has grown, it felt especially necessary to do one now. So think of this as our first shout-out to our audience! The cast wanted us to pass along their greetings as well, so greetings from Westeros (as war-torn and bloody as it is currently).
On another note, we have created a Community for stories set in the ASOIAF universe that includes stories that take place outside of the traditional format of the War of the Five Kings. We are excited to be featuring other works by talented other authors on this site, including Sothoryos: Drahkness Kahn by HarwinSnow, and The Dance is not over by Antony444. If you come across other authors engaged in similar eras that you think would be a good addition, please let us know so we can reach out!
Thanks again everyone, and we hope you enjoy this next entry in A Tale of Two Dragons!
Hobert I
Seven save us. Another arrow cut through the air past Hobert Hightower's face, and he yanked his helmet's visor down, having forgotten it in the chaos. As leader of the baggage train, he had not been expecting to see any action, a fact that more than suited him. However, with the appearance of enemy forces bearing the banners of Houses Tarly, Costayne, and Beesbury at the rear of his cousin's army, Hobert now found himself surrounded by utter chaos amongst many wagons, as soldiers and knights struggled to face the unexpected onslaught. Several of the wagons had been set alight by burning arrows, and enemy knights rode through the gaps between wagons, cutting a bloody swathe through the men under Hobert's command.
One of his family's household knights that had been assigned to him as an attendant galloped towards Hobert on his grey charger. The man wore no helm, and was bleeding profusely from a deep gash along his forehead. "What are your orders, Ser?!" the man screamed. Hobert felt his heart clench in terror. Looking around himself, the aging knight felt his throat grow dry, constricting tighter and tighter the more he tried to think of what to say.
Having turned to face their foes attacking from the rear, Hobert and his forces were in a bad spot. Ahead of them was the rest of their own army, themselves fighting a desperate battle against another enemy force further ahead. To their left was the Honeywine River itself, and behind them was their foe. Hobert was no great tactician, but even he realized that he and his men were in imminent danger of being outflanked. Turning to the bleeding knight, Hobert opened his mouth, listening to his voice grate forth, raspy and brittle with fear. "I need but a moment to collect my thoughts, Ser."
The knight regarded him with a look of incredulity, squinting at Hobert with his left eye, for his right had been blinded by his own blood as it poured down his face. "But Ser! The men need orders! We don't have enough knights, and the foot that had been marching in the rear with us are on the verge of breaking and fleeing!"
Hobert merely stared mutely at the man, his face frozen in fear and indecision. What to do, what to do? O Crone, please lend this poor soul your guidance. When no divine inspiration was forthcoming, Hobert had to fight back the urge to weep. I should never have left the Hightower.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats caught the attention of both Hobert and the household knight, and Hobert twisted in his saddle, watching as a knight approached them, dressed in a white surcoat bearing the black cross sigil of his house. Ser Tyler. Hobert's goodson and the head of House Norcross rode to meet them, leading a small force of his own household knights bearing his sigil, as well as mounted men-at-arms. "Goodfather!" the knight called out to him, and drew up his destrier alongside Hobert. "I came with my men to help stiffen your ranks. It appears the situation at the rear has grown as desperate as it is at the front!"
Hobert fixated his goodson with a pleading expression. "Ser Tyler, I beg your counsel. I am unsure what orders to give my men in this time of desperation!" Regarding the enemy knights wheeling and charging to devastating and bloody effect against Hobert's men, the knight nodded gravely.
Turning to Hobert's attendant knight, he spoke quickly. "Draw the surviving men from beyond the outer wagons, and push as many of them together as you can to form a barricade. We'll still be heavily outnumbered, but at the very least we can force the enemy to dismount and force through the makeshift barricade on foot." The household knight nodded curtly, still trying to blink his blood from his eyes, and charged his horse back into the fray beyond, shouting orders. Hobert accompanied his goodson as they rode to join the survivors of the baggage train while they desperately pulled wagons together in a loose and haphazard defensive ring. They quickly dismounted and joined the rear ranks of a solidifying curved mass of soldiers. In such tight quarters, remaining on horseback would do naught but present the enemy archers an easy target.
Ser Tyler's plan had worked. The enemy forces were unable to get through their ring of wagons on horseback, and quickly began to dismount and attack on foot, pressing through gaps between the wagons, while others stopped to pull entire wagons aside, allowing small groups of their comrades to charge through. Hobert's surviving men were able to cut down some of their foes as they were forced to break formation and fight their way into the ring in small clumps, while Hobert's ragged troops remained in a defensive crescent. However, the majority of the enemy soldiers were knights in plate, while Hobert's own men were comprised of lightly armored foot: wagon drivers, smiths, levies drawn from the smallfolk, and other less well-trained and armed individuals that one would expect to find in the baggage train at the rear of an army.
It therefore did not take long for Hobert to begin losing men at a far greater rate than the advancing enemy. Ser Tyler turned to regard Hobert grimly as he hefted his longsword. "It appears that our efforts were for naught. There are simply too many of them. However, I intend to meet the Warrior with blood upon my sword!" He rushed forward to fill a gap that had just appeared in the crescent. Hobert drew his own longsword. It felt heavy in his hand. I haven't sparred in years. Hobert feared that he wouldn't have long to regret that mistake. He thought of the Hightower, the home that he had spent most of his threescore years in. He thought too of his three daughters. He tried to envision their faces, but in his panic, found himself unable to. Oh girls, I'm sorry. Hobert began to move towards the savage fighting in front of him, each leaden step feeling as though it took a lifetime.
Reaching the chaotic melee, Hobert had to quickly raise his shield in order to block a heavy strike from a man-at-arms with a longaxe. The blow partially cracked the top of his shield, and Hobert felt the impact strum painfully through his shield-bearing arm. The axehead had lodged into the thick oak, and the soldier pulled at the long wooden haft, trying to dislodge it. Seizing the opportunity, Hobert thrust his longsword forward as hard as he could. The man-at-arms wore naught but a frayed gambeson, while Hobert's longsword was good castle-forged steel. Its tip punched deep into the man's chest, and Hobert staggered forward, having overcommitted himself to the thrust and losing his balance for it.
He found himself nearly face-to-face with the man that he'd stabbed. The man's eyes were wide and brown beneath his tarnished and dented kettle helm. Hobert could clearly make out a red striding huntsman badge sewed onto the man's gambeson over his left breast, though several of the threads were loose. The man coughed violently, and blood sprayed across the steel visor of Hobert's greathelm. To his horror, some of the blood had made it through the visor, for Hobert could feel small warm drops of it upon his cheeks. The man collapsed limply, and Hobert barely kept hold of his longsword as it nearly wrenched from his grasp. Pulling his sword free of the man's body, Hobert struck its pommel savagely against the axehead still buried in his shield, managing to dislodge it.
Looking up, Hobert saw a knight approaching him through the fray. The man was tall, and his dirty dented plate gave him the look of a hedge knight. Hobert was no warrior. He had killed the man-at-arms through sheer luck, when the man's weapon had gotten stuck in his shield. He knew that this knight would make short work of him. Feeling terror clutch at his heart, Hobert began to mumble a prayer for the Mother's mercy as the knight closed the distance. A loud roar seemed to ring out in answer to it.
The brutal fighting ground to a sudden halt as men on both sides looked to the clouds. A blue dragon was descending from the sky rapidly, and it opened its maw, loosing a maelstrom of deep-blue flame. Tessarion. Distant screams reached Hobert's ears. Prince Daeron's dragon soared over the heads of the Hightower army, flying so low that Hobert could see its copper-colored belly scales as it passed over his head. With another roar, it began to immolate the host of enemy soldiers beyond the ring of wagons. Shrieks and cries rang within Hobert's helm. With the sudden appearance of the dragon and its devastating flames, the advance of the enemy collapsed. With their fellows shrieking and burning beyond the wagons, the enemy knights and men-at-arms began to run for the gaps that they themselves had forced through the wall of wagons.
This immediately caused large bottlenecks as they pushed and shoved to scramble through the small spaces, and Hobert watched in a daze as his own men began to attack them from behind savagely. The large hedge knight that had been moving towards Hobert turned to flee, only to be hamstrung from behind by Ser Tyler. Falling to a knee, the hedge knight clutched at the torn and bloody doublet of Hobert's goodson, begging for succor. Ser Tyler drew a knife from his belt and shoved its point through one of the eyeholes of the man's helmet. His goodson was not alone in his wrath. Butchers, wagon drivers, smiths, and smallfolk levy alike had no mercy for the men that had been about to slaughter them, striking down without hesitation all those that they could get their hands on.
Beyond the wagons, the enemy knights who had survived the initial blasts of dragonfire had lost all cohesion. Hearing thunderous hoofbeats, Hobert looked to his left. Holding his family's ancestral valyrian steel sword Orphan-Maker high above his head, Ser Jon Roxton led a large mounted charge around the remnants of the baggage train into the stunned enemies at the army's rear. Many of the enemy knights had yet to climb back atop their horses, and were hewn down. Those that had not been killed in the initial charge led by Roxton began to flee, but they were closely pursued as they fled the field in disarray, continuing to take heavy losses.
Hobert stood in silence, trying to absorb all that had happened to him in a short few minutes. Tessarion had returned to the army's front, and was continuing to burn the enemy there. The men standing around Hobert began to cheer, many bleeding from half a dozen small cuts and wounds. Many more men lay unmoving on the ground, staining the dirt beneath them dark crimson with the last of their lifeblood. "It's over, Ser!" he heard a breathless voice call, and Hobert turned to see his attendant household knight. It appeared the man had survived, and though his face was still wet with blood, he had tied a ragged piece of cloth around his forehead to slow the bleeding.
Hobert suddenly found himself very short of breath. He had never been a man to take joy from the rigors of training and exercise that many skilled knights practiced throughout their lives in order to remain in impressive shape. Hobert had grown stout as he grew old, and his steel plate armor suddenly felt as though it were a mountain bearing down on top of him. Falling to one knee, he pulled open his blood-stained visor, taking gasping breaths to fill his lungs as the energy that had filled his veins during the heat of battle trickled away, leaving Hobert with naught but exhaustion and soreness.
With a look of concern, Hobert's attendant knight dropped to one knee next to him. "Are you alright, Ser?" the man asked in a worried tone. "I saw no wounds upon you as I approached." Hobert's left arm had begun to throb from taking the impact of the Tarly man-at-arms' longaxe.
Turning to the knight, Hobert began to gasp a question, "I beg of you, Ser, Ser…" he trailed off, having forgotten the knight's name.
"Ser Jared," the knight answered respectfully. He had grabbed a kerchief from a small pouch on his belt, and was trying unsuccessfully to mop the glistening blood from his visage.
"That's right, Ser Jared." Hobert muttered, feeling miserable. "I fear that I am in a fearful state. Would you please fetch me some water? I have a thirst." Though his entire body still felt sore (especially his shield arm), Hobert was beginning to breathe normally again. He desperately gulped water from a waterskin when his knight fetched it for him, and with the man's help got back to his feet. Retrieving his palfrey from a farrier limping from a bloody foot wound, Hobert was relieved to be back in the saddle. I fear my time on foot will have given me frightful blisters. Riding past several men moaning on the ground as a harried-looking maester prepared to amputate several of their mangled limbs, Hobert decided to find his cousins.
His lord cousin's pavilion was truly a splendid thing to behold. It was made of cloth-of-silver, and its entrance flaps had a proud white tower stitched across them in silk, and bordered in white pearls. Hobert had received word not long after the fighting ended that the army was to halt its advance and make camp, and that Hobert's presence would be expected as soon as Lord Ormund's pavilion was erected within the camp. Hobert had delegated the role of issuing commands to the remnants of the baggage train to his attendant knight, Ser Jarvis (or was it Ser Jared?), preferring instead to use the time to get out of his armor and change into a clean doublet.
Two guards with white tower badges sewn onto their jerkins bowed deeply as Hobert approached, and the one standing on the left lifted the flap up so that Hobert could step inside. Moving inside, Hobert was pleased that servants had already dropped incense within the braziers throughout the massive tent, which filled his nose with wonderful scents. Sitting at a large table across the pavilion was Hobert's younger cousin Lord Ormund, and at his side stood cousin Bryndon. Walking across the Myrish rugs laid across the pavilion's floor, Hobert moved to convene with them, wincing slightly from the blisters that had formed on the bottom of his feet.
Both cousins smiled as Hobert approached. With a grin, Ser Bryndon called out jovially. "It appears that the Seven have truly blessed our cause today! Our enemies lie burned and trodden underfoot while the rest have fled the field like rats, and not a single member of our family was lost in the fighting." Hobert smiled thinly back, and gratefully accepted a goblet of wine from a quiet servant. Taking a sip, Hobert was pleased to find that it was Arbor Gold. There is no finer taste than a good Arbor vintage.
Nodding back at his cousins, Hobert voiced his agreement. "It appears that fate itself is on our side." Taking another sip of Arbor Gold, Hobert considered the battle that had been fought earlier in the day. It seems a miracle that any of my kin and I still live, let alone as victors.
Lord Ormund chuckled, taking a sip from his own goblet of wine. "Fate and the Seven may have been on our side today, but it is our kinsman and my squire Prince Daeron that won the day. I mean to knight him for it tonight at the conclusion of a great feast to celebrate our victory. Though many Lords of the Reach, including several of mine own vassals, have proved false rather than true in supporting the pretender Princess Rhaenyra, I should think that their power within the Reach has been thoroughly broken after today." Smiling, Lord Ormund raised his goblet into the air, preparing to make a toast, and Ser Bryndon and Hobert followed suit, raising their own goblets. "To the victory that we won today! Let our allies in the Westerlands and the Crownlands bring fire and sword to the King's enemies, and uphold the precedents established by the Great Council of thirty years before!" Hobert drank deep of his Arbor Gold.
A household knight bearing the Hightower sigil on his doublet entered the tent. "My Lord, we have the prisoners."
Lord Ormund nodded curtly, setting his goblet on the table and standing. "Have them brought in, Ser. I wish to see and speak with them." Hobert saw the eyes of Ser Bryndon glittering with interest. Turning, Hobert watched as two men were led into the tent by a contingent of knights and men-at-arms. At their head was Bold Jon Roxton himself, with Orphan-Maker in its sheath on his hip.
Both men were forced to their knees, still wearing scraped and dented steel plate armor beneath torn and dirtied doublets. One of the two, a young man, wore a green doublet with a proud red huntsman stitched across its front. The other, an older man with short yellow hair receding into his scalp, wore a striped gold and black doublet with three golden beehives down its center in gold thread. Both men glowered balefully at the three Hightowers standing before them, and at Bold Jon.
With a small sardonic smile, Lord Ormund addressed the two men. "If it isn't my goodbrother, Lord Alan Tarly. And I dare not forget the heir to Honeyholt and mine own vassal, Ser Alan Beesbury. I missed the sight of your banners while gathering my levies outside of Oldtown, Ser."
Ser Alan Beesbury glared darkly. "I would never march under the banners of a false Lord, whose kin disobey a King's will and imprison my Lord grandsire for protesting. Mark my words, my Lord, I'll see him freed."
Jon Roxton snorted. "Not now, you won't. You'll be lucky to keep your own head after facing the King's judgement." Beesbury continued to glare at the men surrounding him hatefully, but said no more.
Turning to Lord Alan Tarly, Lord Ormund smiled sadly. "It's truly a shame. I had hoped that you were as wise as your sister. It appears that you both have a certain fire within you, but you, my Lord, do not seem to share an intellect with my lady wife."
Lord Alan Tarly's expression darkened as he retorted. "I see now that it was foolish of my Lord father to marry my sister to a scheming rat like you. Alas, it seems the true faces of you traitors weren't revealed until now." He then spit at Lord Ormund's feet.
Both Ser Bryndon and Ser Jon's hands leapt towards their sword hilts, but Lord Ormund merely laughed and held up his hand. "You are a fiery one, indeed. Mayhaps some time spent as a prisoner and traitor awaiting judgement will serve to temper you." Turning to Roxton, Lord Ormund raised an eyebrow. "Where are the others? I thought none of the enemy commanders save Lord Rowan escaped the field?"
Bold Jon laughed. "Lord Costayne won't be seeing anyone soon. My Orphan-Maker saw to that. The maesters said he won't make it to the day's end." He then shrugged. "As for the Bastard of Bitterbridge, I was informed that he received grievous burns along the left side of his body. Apparently his horse threw him in the Honeywine when both were set alight by the flames of Prince Daeron's dragon. I've heard he'll likely live, but he's unconscious and covered in ointments and bandages within the maesters' tent."
Lord Ormund nodded. "I want the Bastard of Bitterbridge kept alive if possible. His trueborn family hold him in high esteem, and he may prove useful in taking their castle." Clapping his hands together, Lord Ormund nodded. "Alright then. I want word sent out throughout the camp. Tonight we celebrate our great victory, and those to come."
Sitting at the high table, Hobert was able to look out with ease over the entire feast. The fare being served was about as good as one could expect on the road, but Hobert still missed the finer types of food that he had come to expect after a life lived inside the Hightower. Though they had not yet marched too far beyond the walls of Oldtown, this day was surely one to celebrate. As Hobert's cousin had pointed out, the battle had resulted in a decisive victory for the King's men, with much of the usurper Rhaenyra's supporters in the Reach having been killed, captured, or scattered; no longer able to stand against his cousin's army in the field.
Hobert sat with other family relations at the high table, to the right of cousin Bryndon. To cousin Bryndon's left was Lord Ormund, and to his left the Prince Daeron Targaryen. The young Prince and squire to Lord Ormund had landed his dragon to elation and cheers, and many toasts in his name and honor had been made throughout the feast. He surely won the day for us. Hobert had seen dragons several times throughout his life. The most notable memory of them that he had was when he had traveled to King's Landing as a much younger man to attend the wedding of his cousin Alicent to King Viserys, the first of his name. They were creatures as magnificent as they were fearsome, but Hobert had never seen their destructive capability until this fight along the Honeywine. One dragon turned certain defeat and slaughter on our side into a crushing victory. Hobert was more than glad to be alive, but he'd already had his fill of war, and wished to return home. But my commitment to the cause of my family is not nearly finished.
Biting into some roast duck, Hobert remembered the day that he had been dragged into the conflict. Hobert had finished his breakfast within his chambers as he was wont to do each morning. With the salt breeze blowing through his window, Hobert loved to look out over the city of Oldtown from his perch far up the Hightower. He had planned to make his way to the citadel that day. Archmaester Lomas was to give a lecture on his recently finished tome, a treatise on the history of raven training that he had been studying his entire life. Hobert oft would find himself attending these lectures. Much of the information made little and less sense to him, but if he nodded sagely when the maesters in the audience did, he found that it didn't seem to matter. He liked the air of wisdom and intelligence that attending the lectures seemed to give him amongst the members of his family, though he dreaded the times he was asked to explain the things he'd heard.
As a servant took his empty silvered dining tray from his desk and exited the room, cousin Bryndon had entered. "Cousin Hobert!" Bryndon had called with a smile, and Hobert had stood to meet him, surprised at his presence. He absentmindedly brushed food crumbs from his doublet, and ran a hand through the few thin gray wisps of hair that still clung to the top of his scalp. Hobert had thought that Bryndon would be in council with their cousin Lord Ormund, planning for the gathering army's march north and east towards King's Landing.
Bryndon leaned against the sill of Hobert's window, his grey doublet rippling in the breeze that always blew at this height. "As you well know, cos, the army is to march very soon." Hobert nodded silently, wondering if his cousin took him for a fool. Of course he knew that. All any in the Hightower and the city of Oldtown seemed to be talking about was the army of levies, sellswords, and freeriders gathering beneath the city's walls. Instead, Hobert gave his cousin a thin smile. Still grinning, Bryndon continued to speak. "Truth be told, as we were discussing which members of the family would stay and which would march, as well as what positions in the army they would hold, we had all but forgotten about you until this morning!" Bryndon laughed merrily, and Hobert hid his own chagrin behind a quiet chuckle.
Much of his family seemed to forget the fact that Hobert still lived, or that he even existed. As the youngest son of a Lord Hightower long dead and interred, Hobert had never been destined for any sort of title, and his overall lack of distinguishment in any subject meant that he would never win any fame as a knight, maester, or septon, which were careers that many younger sons within the Hightower family pursued in order to make a name for themselves. Hobert didn't mind though. What some would call a life lacking ambition, Hobert would call a life well-spent in peace and comfort. He had married a maid of House Cuy of Sunhouse, and had three daughters by her. His two eldest daughters had been married well, the eldest to the heir of House Bulwer of Blackcrown, and the middle to the Knight of Norcross. His youngest had been given to the faith, and became a Septa. He had lived a quiet life with his wife in the Hightower until her death years before, and hoped to continue living unassumingly until the Stranger came for him as well.
Hobert felt a sense of significant unease as he regarded the smile upon his cousin's face. That fear had been realized only moments later. "All of us must needs serve the family, cos," Bryndon had begun, "and as a knight, it is as much your duty as it is mine and Lord Ormund's to march with this army and see that cousin Alicent's son keeps the throne that is his by right, established by the precedent of the Great Council." Bryndon grinned and clapped a strong calloused hand on Hobert's round shoulder, making Hobert wince slightly. "Congratulations, cos. You've been given command of the baggage train." Hobert had felt sick. The Gods truly were cruel to curse him so.
The feast had gone on for hours. It seemed as though every knight and lord in the pavilion wished to make a toast, and their frequency only increased the further and further they descended into their cups. Hobert smacked his lips as he finished another goblet of Arbor Gold, beginning to feel the exhaustion of a terrifying and stressful day catch up with his ancient body. Hobert had been blessed with an exceptionally long life, but as each year passed, the harder Hobert found it to face daily rigors, much less fight in a battle in full plate.
In one day, Hobert had survived a savage melee, witnessed the presentation of the captive enemy commanders, and stood alongside his cousins as they had accepted the swords of captured enemy knights and soldiers to the King's cause. Nearly none chose the alternative, which was a swift death by sword. Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and a half-incoherent Ser Tomard Flowers had refused to be reconciled, and so remained prisoners of enough status and station that they would be transported with the army to face the judgement of King Aegon, the second of his name, himself.
Hobert watched with interest as Lord Ormund bid his squire, the Prince Daeron, to rise and join him before the front of the Lord's high table. With a wave of his hand, Lord Ormund's guards stationed throughout the pavilion began to beat their spears against their shields, drawing the attention of all present at the feast, and driving them to silence. Smiling, Lord Ormund placed a hand on the Prince's shoulder, and began to speak loudly, his voice carrying throughout the canvas walls of the pavilion. "Our army was in nothing short of a desperate state before your arrival at the field of battle today, my Prince. If not for your bravery and skill, we surely would not have been able to win this great victory today, and continue on our quest to secure your brother's crown against the usurper Princess Rhaenyra." He bid his squire to drop to one knee, which Prince Daeron did quickly, ducking his head. The Prince's silver hair gleamed in the red light given off by fires burning in braziers throughout the pavilion.
Drawing House Hightower's ancestral valyrian steel longsword, Vigilance, Lord Ormund placed it on his squire's shoulder. Hobert was filled with pride as he watched his kinsman and Prince of the royal blood be knighted by Lord Ormund Hightower. Now this is a moment worthy of the songs and stories. "Rise, Prince Daeron Targaryen, and henceforth be known by a title worthy of your valor." Lord Ormund smiled. "Rise, Ser Daeron the Daring!" A raucous and exultant cheer roared throughout the pavilion, and Prince Daeron, now a knight, rose with a shy smile.
Addressing Lord Ormund, but speaking loudly enough that all in attendance could hear, the Prince began to speak. "My Lord is kind to say so, but the victory belongs to Tessarion." The Prince's proclamation was followed by further cheers and toasts to the dragon Tessarion, known as The Blue Queen. Hobert smiled and found himself drinking more Arbor Gold with pride as further toasts were made. Moments like these are much more enjoyable when experienced in person as opposed to reading about them or hearing them in songs. Hobert still felt sadness when he thought of home, however. Raising his goblet of Arbor Gold to his lips, Hobert made a silent toast within his mind. To the true King, and ensuring that he keeps his rightful crown. And to home, which I hope with all my heart to see again before my time in this world reaches its end.