Hobert IV
The three dragonriders awaited them on a sparse hillside beyond the burning remains of the army's camp. Hobert looked around as though he were in a dream, a particularly horrific nightmare that he desperately hoped to wake from. There had been a morning chill to the air, but following the attack it was as hot as the brightest summer day. Hobert smelled naught but ash, and had to be mindful to avoid several patches of flame that still burned brightly on the ground amongst the ashes of the dry grasses they'd consumed.
Hobert sat atop an unfamiliar mount, given to him by one of Jon Roxton's knights. The knight of the Ring had taken up residence within the former Lord Footly's bedchamber inside Tumbleton's castle, and because of it had completely avoided the devastating attack of the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders. Bold Jon and his men had sallied forth from the ruins of the town as the burning stopped, only to find hollow-eyed men covered in ash and clutching makeshift white flags and banners of surrender.
Roxton rode alongside Hobert now, among several surviving Lords and landed knights of the army that had been scrounged from amongst the ashes of the camp. A scarce few men, considering the multitude of nobility we counted amongst our ranks even a day before. The other men riding along with Hobert and Ser Jon included Lord Unwin Peake, Hobert's goodson and head of House Norcross Ser Tyler, and Ser Roger Corne, one of the knights of the Blackwater loyal to King Aegon who had thrown open the gates of Tumbleton to Lord Ormund's army. Of the other landed knights and Lords of the army, Hobert knew nothing of their fates. And mayhaps we never will. Many of the corpses that he'd passed were so horrifically charred and burned that there was no way to identify the men they once were.
Of the party riding to meet the usurper's dragonriders, only Jon Roxton truly looked the part of a nobleman, sitting tall in full plate and wearing a blue surcoat bearing the golden rings of his House's sigil in gold thread. The rest of the Lords and knights wore scorched clothing, and were caked in so much gray ash that they had the look of ghosts. Most including Hobert sat numbly in their saddles, regarding the world around them expressionlessly through vacant eyes. Though his clothes were as burned and coated in ash as Hobert's, Lord Unwin Peake clutched his reins tightly, a defiant fire still burning within his eyes.
No such defiance remained within Hobert. We have been soundly defeated. It's over. Hobert hoped that Rhaenyra Targaryen would allow him a quick death. Let me pay the price on my family's behalf. He dreaded what fate the usurper had in mind for House Hightower. At this point, my kin will have to consider themselves lucky if Rhaenyra does naught more than issue bills of attainder. Though he had been accompanied by plenty of very distant cousins, Hobert was the last of the members of the main line of House Hightower who had marched from Oldtown to uphold King Aegon's rights. And my life will end at the executioner's block, rather than as I'd always hoped it would, within my cherished home, the Hightower.
The ride up the hillside did not take long, and Hobert reined in his borrowed horse along with the others as they came to face the three dragons that had brought such devastation to their army. The smallest was a grey-white color, while the second largest had scales of pale silver-grey. The largest dragon was significantly larger than the other two, with jet black scales and burning green eyes that Hobert could hardly bring himself to look upon.
The three dragonriders all continued to sit atop their dragons, but had removed their helms. Of the three, only one bore the fabled looks of Valyria. The other two look decidedly… common. The rider atop the massive black dragon had red hair and green eyes, while the rider on the small grey-white dragon had brown hair and blue-grey eyes. The red-haired dragonrider was the first to speak, his voice cold and dispassionate. "Based on the tattered white rags you raised, we hope that you have come to offer your unconditional surrender. The Queen will be most eager to hear of our victory here today."
Beside Hobert, Jon Roxton tensed in his saddle. By the Gods, Jon, please don't try anything. One wrong move or word will mean the death of all of us that remain. Bold Jon, blessedly, relaxed his posture after a moment, but made his disdain for the riders known through a cold and chilling glare.
Whether or not the riders had seen Roxton's demeanor, the silver-haired dragonrider began to speak, motioning at his two fellows beside him as he did so. "We do not wish to tarry here long. We must needs negotiate the exact terms of your capitulation as soon as possible." The other two riders said nothing, but the red-haired rider was nodding in agreement at the silver-haired rider's words. The brown-haired rider did naught but clutch his black steel winged helm in a white-knuckled grip, glaring at Hobert and the others with such a cold ferocity that Hobert nearly shivered in his saddle.
As Hobert did his best to maintain his bearing while a deep sense of dread threatened to overtake him, Lord Unwin Peake spoke up, his tone cool and composed. "Such terms shall be discussed and agreed to as soon as possible, Sers. However, none of us can in good faith draft any terms until we are sure of the fates of the other Lords and landed knights of this army, as well as the Prince Daeron." The sight of the Lord of Starpike, Whitegrove, and Dunstonbury speaking with such authority despite being caked in ash and wearing singed raiments was ridiculous enough to make Hobert's fear-addled mind nearly force a laugh from his lips. Instead, Hobert let out a ragged cough and drew a shaking hand across his forehead, trying in vain to clean some of the ashes from his face.
The brown-haired dragonrider was the next to speak, glaring at the Lords and landed knights before him as his voice grated forth from teeth that were nearly gritted together. "I think not, my Lord. You are mistaken if you believe that you and your fellows wield any sort of bargaining power within these negotiations. The three of us will give you the remainder of this day to locate any other surviving Lords and landed knights of the army, as well as Prince Daeron. But come morn tomorrow, we will all begin drafting the terms of your surrender."
Lord Peake nodded his assent to the dragonrider's words, but his face was taut with rage. Hobert, Jon Roxton, and the other Lords and landed knights muttered their assent, before they all turned their mounts and rode back downhill into the ruins of their encampment.
"And you're sure that that is all of them?" Hobert asked, dismayed. Maester Aubrey nodded grimly in response to Hobert's question. Though many pavilions throughout the camp had been immolated, one of the largest remaining ones had been given to the surviving maesters of the army to tend to the wounded. Though Hobert's attendant knight Ser Jared was nowhere to be found, maester Aubrey had survived the wroth of the dragons and was now doing what he could to treat the awful wounds of the few men of the army that had survived being burned by dragonflame. It seems most will not be alive by morn tomorrow, however.
Hobert and Aubrey currently stood before a cot that contained Lord Owen Fossoway. Or rather, what remains of him, Hobert thought with a grimace. As bad as the man's burns were, it was a wonder to Hobert that the Lord of Cider Hall still drew breath. As horrid a thought as it was, Hobert wondered if mayhaps he should have died earlier in the day. It seems that death is a far kinder fate than lying on a cot in agonizing pain as the Stranger tirelessly approaches.
Of all the assembled nobility of the Reach within the army, a scarce few still lived as evening arrived. Beyond the Lords and landed knights that had attended the earlier parley with the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders, only Lord Owen Fossoway and Lord Richard Rodden had been found alive amongst the ashes of the army's camp. And Lord Fossoway will join all the others in death before the sunrise tomorrow.
Lord Rodden's fate appeared less grim, however. Maester Aubrey had informed Hobert that the burns to Lord Richard's left leg had been so grievous that he had amputated it beneath the knee. However, the maester was confident that the man would survive as long as infection didn't set in. One bit of good news in an otherwise truly awful day.
The Prince Daeron was another story, however. Hobert had learned that several men-at-arms had found the Prince alive and dragged him from the back of his dying dragon earlier that day, as the camp burned. Hobert had scarcely been able to believe the extent of the Prince's wounds when maester Aubrey had described them, and feared that the Prince would not take long in following his dragon from the world of the living. Despite his truly horrific wounds, however, the Prince Daeron continued to cling to life. Maester Aubrey had said that he and the other maesters would do what they could for Alicent's youngest son, but Hobert had little hope.
Hobert had wanted to visit his young kinsman in the tent the maesters had provided him, but Aubrey had asked that Hobert wait some time to see the Prince. "I spent the better part of the afternoon treating his wounds, Ser Hobert, and what he needs now more than anything is rest," the maester had said, and Hobert acquiesced to his wishes.
Bidding his goodbyes to Aubrey, Hobert exited the maesters' pavilion, and began making his way to the small tent that had been scrounged up for him to stay in. The damage done to their camp by dragonflame was extensive, and the survivors of the army had spent the better part of the day collecting what could be salvaged and setting up a new camp beyond the ruins of the old one. Gone were the brilliantly-colored lines of pavilions that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. All that remained were a scarce few singed and sooty tents and pavilions that had been hastily patched. Many of the survivors had no scrap of canvas to lay beneath, and would have to find whatever warmth they could sleeping under the open sky.
Earlier in the day, Hobert had finally been able to strip off his scorched garments and wash the soot and ash from his body along the bank of the Mander. Bathing in cold river water like a peasant was one of the last things that Hobert would have expected himself to be doing even a day before, but he supposed that he was lucky to still be alive and relatively unharmed after nearly burning alive. It was hard for him to feel fortunate, however, when he considered the fate that ultimately awaited him and all the other remaining leaders of the army. A quick death, if the usurper Rhaenyra is merciful. If not… Hobert shuddered to consider the alternative.
As he approached his tent, Hobert realized just how exhausted he truly was. Despite his tiredness, Hobert doubted he would get much sleep at all. I must needs try to get some, for it will be a long day tomorrow. Before pulling back the flap, however, the man-at-arms standing sentry at the tent's entrance addressed Hobert. "You have several visitors, Ser. They're waiting inside." Intrigued, Hobert nodded his thanks and stepped inside.
In the dim light of a single brazier stood Lord Unwin Peake, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler Norcross, and Ser Roger Corne. Hobert felt a cool tingle of apprehension run down his spine as he regarded the grim expressions across all of their faces. "Ser Hobert," Lord Unwin began, "it is time that we discussed our next plan of action."
Hobert frowned in confusion before responding. "Plan, Lord Unwin? What is there to plan? There is naught that we can do now but agree to the usurper Rhaenyra's terms, lest we all doom ourselves to be burned by dragonflame."
Lord Peake crossed his arms, responding in a curt tone. "Agree to the terms they give us? Yes, I'm afraid that we must. However, that does not mean we all must needs hang our heads in shame and wait for the usurper Rhaenyra to find time to execute us all for treason." Lord Peake spat out the last word with vitriol, his face contorted with anger. A moment later, however, Lord Unwin continued to speak, his features set in a grim calmness once more. "Are you still a King's man, Ser Hobert?" Hobert nodded without hesitation. I marched to uphold King Aegon's rights, and my cousins have died doing the same. I will not abandon the cause now, even if it had the chance of saving my life.
The four men standing before Hobert all nodded in approval at him. "Good," Lord Unwin responded with a cold smile. "It seems quite likely that the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders will wish to send their Queen a message tomorrow morn, to inform her that they have defeated all of our dragonriders, and forced our army to surrender. They will surely wish for such a victory to be known to the Queen as soon as possible." Lord Unwin smiled cruelly before continuing. "And if these upjumped peasant bastards think themselves shrewd, they will likely order us all to affix our personal seals to the letter in wax, to corroborate their claims. And that is where they will gravely error."
Lord Unwin pulled a rolled-up parchment from within a small leather pouch on his swordbelt and unfurled it. From such a distance, Hobert was unable to make out the written words with his aging eyes, but the five seals affixed at the bottom in red wax were unmistakable. Three castles for House Peake, interlocked chains for House Roxton, a large cross for House Norcross, three corn cobs for House Corne, and a three-headed dragon for House Targaryen. Prince Daeron's seal, Hobert realized in astonishment. "Read it, Ser Hobert," Jon Roxton said with a grim smile, and Hobert took the letter from Lord Unwin's outstretched hand. Squinting in the dim light of the brazier, Hobert began to read the message.
To the vile Usurper Rhaenyra,
Your desperate attempt to end us with the last of your bastard dragonriders has failed. They appeared in the early morning sky atop their mounts, and dealt our army grievous harm from the sky, raining fire down onto us as we slept. However, such tricks are the work of skulking bastards, and ultimately fail when tested against the mettle of trueborn men.
The Prince Daeron, as well as the dragonriders Hugh Hammer and Ulf White, took to the sky atop their dragons and slew every last one of your dragonriders in a fierce battle among the clouds. For all their tricks, your dragonriders and their pitiful mounts could not stand against the combined might of Vermithor the Bronze Fury, Silverwing, and Tessarion.
Though our army has taken losses, we still have more than enough men to wrest control of the city of King's Landing from your thieving hands. We are but fifty leagues away, and will soon march against you with the full might of the chivalry of the Reach and three battle-tested dragons. If you don't believe us, then you are welcome to wait in vain for the return of your dragonriders. We will deliver their heads and those of their mounts to you when we take back the rightful King's city. The mummer's farce is finished, Princess Rhaenyra, and you and yours will pay dearly for your folly. May the Seven have mercy on you all, for we will not.
Hobert's eyes were wide, and he licked his lips as a wave of anxiety washed over him. "But- but how?" was all he managed to stutter out.
Lord Unwin smiled cooly as he took the letter back from Hobert. "I believe that you are the man most well-acquainted with maester Aubrey out of all of us, Ser Hobert. It was he who found the Prince's seal on Prince Daeron as he was treating him and gave it to me. And it is him who will be present at our meeting with the usurper's dragonriders tomorrow morn, and send out any messages that are drafted. It will merely be a simple matter of attaching our own message to a raven bound for King's Landing in the stead of the one that the dragonriders dictate and have us affix our seals to."
Hobert was utterly confused. "But to do so would mean that maester Aubrey is breaking his sworn vows as a maester of the Citadel. Why would he do such a thing?"
Lord Unwin's smile was sharp as a sword's edge. "Maester Aubrey was born a Prester of Feastfires, one of the chief houses in the Westerlands sworn to House Lannister. Much and more of his kin marched from Lannisport in Lord Jason Lannister's host at the war's start, and now much and more of them lay rotting in the Riverlands. So the answer is quite simple, Ser Hobert. Maester Aubrey wants revenge."
Lord Unwin's smile was replaced with a deep scowl. "Princess Rhaenyra's avarice has led to too many needless deaths, deaths that demand vengeance. Aubrey is not the only man who has lost kin to this war. Your cousins Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon are dead because of Princess Rhaenyra's folly, Ser Hobert. And mine own son-" Lord Unwin's voice cracked, and he clenched his fist, eyes blazing with hate. "Mine own son, my last son, Ser Titus, is dead because of her."
Taking a deep breath, Lord Peake stared firmly at Hobert. "And so, Ser Hobert, we need but one more seal affixed to this letter." The four men stared at Hobert expectantly, and Hobert began to feel beads of perspiration appear on his forehead.
"But… but Lord Unwin, what do you hope to achieve with this letter? By sending it, we will surely mark ourselves and the remnants of this army for death if our deception is discovered!" Hobert took a deep breath after speaking, and wrung his hands fretfully.
Lord Unwin sighed in annoyance. "If, Ser Hobert, If! No matter what we do, we are dead men if the usurper Rhaenyra wins this war. You are correct, Ser Hobert. This letter will likely achieve nothing, and we will likely burn for our deception. But if we do nothing, we will still die! By sending this letter, we give the King, and ourselves, a chance at changing our fortunes, no matter how slim that chance may be. The letter may do nothing, Ser Hobert, but it also may do something. And as our situation stands, we can currently hope for no better."
Hobert's heart was pounding in his chest. Lord Unwin's hand was outstretched, the letter clutched in his grasp. The four men before him were all waiting for Hobert to make his choice. Lord Unwin is right. We're all dead men walking, as the situation currently stands. What will the usurper Rhaenyra do to my family if she wins this war? None can truly know what problems this letter may cause for the Queen and her Lords when she receives it. This is the King's last chance, this is House Hightower's last chance, this is OUR last chance.
Hobert took the letter from Lord Peake's hand, and retrieved Lord Ormund's seal from a leather pouch on his swordbelt. Smiling, Hobert's goodson Ser Tyler held out a small pot of red wax that he had kept warming by the brazier. Bracing the letter against a scorched trunk that had been dragged from the remains of his burned pavilion, Hobert dipped Lord Ormund's seal in the wax and pressed it to the letter, watching as the shape of a stout stone tower appeared in the rapidly-drying wax. With a shaking hand, Hobert handed the letter back to Lord Unwin. It has begun. Seven save us all.
Despite being covered in soot and ash, the pavilion was still bright yellow beneath, and its entry flap was covered in red ants that had been sewn into the canvas in bright crimson thread. Though his pavilion had been spared destruction by dragonflame, Lord Marq Ambrose himself had been burned to death as he attempted to rally a large group of fleeing soldiers the day before. I suppose even the Seven have their cruel japes to play. It was in the deceased Lord Ambrose's pavilion that Hobert, Lord Peake, Ser Tyler, Jon Roxton, and Roger Corne awaited the usurper's dragonriders. Maester Aubrey was present as well, with quills, inkpots, and parchment to write with.
With a shaking hand, Hobert quaffed down another goblet of Arbor Gold. Several scorched barrels of wine were found in the ashes of the camp the night before, and Lord Unwin had ordered them dragged into Lord Ambrose's pavilion. Wine had always helped to steady Hobert's anxieties and fears, but on this morn, there was naught that could alleviate the growing terror within his heart.
"Peace, goodfather," Ser Tyler said kindly, and Hobert gave his goodson a thin smile. Hobert was a bad liar, but he would have to play along with the ruse Lord Unwin had crafted well enough so the dragonriders wouldn't expect their deception. And if it is discovered, we will all surely burn. At sixty years of age, Hobert was an old man, and had been fortunate to live many more years than most. The Seven had given him a long and prosperous life, and the prospect of dying did not frighten Hobert. Burning to death did terrify him, however.
Though he had seen Tessarion's flames at the battle on the Honeywine, Bitterbridge, and Tumbleton, it had always been from a great distance, and he had never truly witnessed the horrific sight of a person burning to death. However, that was before the usurper's dragonriders attacked the army the day previous. The scarce little sleep he had had the night before had been fraught with nightmares of the horrors he'd seen.
The older he became, the more difficult it was for Hobert to sleep throughout the night before he'd need to make water. Hobert had awoken in the pre-dawn dark with a painfully full bladder, and risen from his cot, shivering in the early winter chill as he walked to his chamber pot. Afterwards, Hobert realized that he was not likely to sleep any longer, and so he began to dress himself, not wishing to wake his squire.
The earth-shattering roar resounded across the camp as Hobert had finished shrugging on the last of his outfit for the day, a chainmail gorget around his neck. Rushing as fast as his aching legs would allow him to the entrance flap of his pavilion, Hobert flung it open and looked to the sky. Three dragons descended from the pre-dawn gloom, and the burning began moments later. One flew in the general direction of Hobert's pavilion, releasing great gouts of dark green flame from its massive black maw.
In a panic, Hobert dropped the flap closed and stumbled back, falling painfully on his arse. Moments later, an unbearable heat filled the air around him, and to Hobert's horror, he looked up to see green flame hungrily eating the canvas walls and roof of his pavilion. Hobert's squire had awoken, blinking his eyes blearily as he staggered to his feet and looked around himself in confusion and fear.
"RUN!" Hobert screamed at the boy, and when his bewildered squire hesitated, his tired mind still reeling from the sudden chaos, Hobert grabbed his shoulders and forced him towards the pavilion's flap. The boy ran. The roof of Hobert's pavilion was sagging dangerously low, and Hobert realized that he had mere moments before it completely collapsed in a flaming heap.
Fear made Hobert's movement awkward and clumsy, and as he lurched towards the flap of his pavilion, he remembered a possession within that he couldn't possibly leave behind. "Vigilance!" Hobert shouted to himself, and scrambled to the desk at the center of his pavilion. He snatched the sheathed Valyrian steel sword from the tabletop, and sprinted towards the pavilion's exit with a speed he didn't realize his old body capable of. Staggering outside, Hobert was knocked flat on his face as his pavilion collapsed behind him a moment later, in a great rush of blisteringly hot air.
Pushing himself to his knees, Hobert felt blood begin to gush down his upper lip and chin from his badly bruised nose. The air around him was so hot that he felt as though he were boiling alive. The roaring flame sucked the air from his lungs, and Hobert hacked and coughed. He somehow retained the presence of mind to buckle Vigilance to his sword belt before crawling forward, staying as low to the ground as possible, where the air wasn't as thin.
The acrid smoke made his eyes burn, and tears leaked from his eyes, only for the intense heat to turn them to mist before they had even run halfway down his cheeks. In moments, the center of the camp had been turned into a hellscape. Hobert was horrified when he realized that the screaming around him had become nearly louder than the roar of flame.
He saw a shrieking man writhing on the ground, covered in bright green flame. It consumed his leather jerkin, his tunic, his leather boots. His hair was alight, his skin blackening and charring. Another man was beating desperately at the flames consuming his friend with a blanket, only to scream in pain when the blanket itself was caught alight, scorching his hands. Hobert watched, speechless with horror.
He nearly fainted from fright when a horrifically blistered and burned hand reached from beneath the burning remains of a tent to clutch frantically at his doublet. "Please," a voice rasped from beneath the smoldering fabric. "The pain… it hurts so bad. Just kill me. I beg of you."
Hobert recoiled in horror, wrenching free of the burned hand. "No, don't leave me!" The voice screamed. "JUST KILL ME!" Hobert crawled away, his mind spinning. Everywhere he looked, flames were burning, and men were dying. It was all too much. He curled into a ball amongst the ash and flames, and squeezed his eyes shut, continuing to choke on the acrid air.
When the burning finally stopped, Hobert's surviving men had found him curled up in the center of the charred ash heap that had been the Hightower portion of the army's camp, with his eyes squeezed shut and hands over his ears.
Hobert was so caught up in his horrific reverie that he didn't realize how badly he had begun to shake, until he lost his grip on his goblet, and spilled Arbor Gold over his doublet. "Apologies, my Lords," he said in embarrassment. He mopped at the stain with his kerchief, and try as he might to stop it, his hand continued to tremble violently. He closed his eyes and took several deep, rasping breaths, and eventually the shaking subsided.
He opened his eyes to see the usurper's dragonriders entering the tent. Hobert sat still in his seat, and watched and waited as the seeds were offered seats around the table that Hobert and the other Lords and landed knights were seated at, accepting them with curt nods. Stay calm, there is no way that they will be able to predict our scheme. The sound of his heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears that Hobert feared that all the men in the room would be able to hear it.
The brown-haired dragonrider coldly introduced himself as Ser Maegor, while the red-haired dragonrider named himself as Ser Gaemon Waters. The silver-haired seed introduced himself as Ser Addam Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark. The words spoken after were but a dull murmur in Hobert's ears as he clasped his hands tightly in his lap in a white-knuckled grip. It was then that he heard the words that he had been both anticipating and dreading. "Before these discussions continue," Ser Addam Velaryon began, "the three of us must needs send a message to Queen Rhaenyra, to report on the outcome of our attack on your army."
Before he could stop himself, Hobert began to speak. "Yes, it seems that would be wise. Our maester Aubrey would be more than willing to draft and send such a message for you." The three dragonriders regarded him, and Ser Gaemon Waters nodded at Hobert in acknowledgement with a slightly arched eyebrow. From where he sat beyond the three dragonriders, Lord Unwin Peake gave Hobert a chilling glare. If I keep babbling so, they will surely grow suspicious.
After a long moment, the three dragonriders cautiously thanked Hobert for his hospitality and turned to regard Lord Unwin as he asked a question. The moment they turned away, Hobert had to bite his lip to keep himself from bursting into nervous laughter, a horrible gibbering cackle that threatened to claw its way up his throat. By the Seven, man, control yourself. Hobert raised his goblet of Arbor Gold to his lips and took a deep sip, pleased that his hand only shook slightly as he did so.
Just as Lord Unwin had predicted, the three dragonriders dictated a message to the Queen, which maester Aubrey listened to attentively as he transferred it to the parchment with quill and ink. Afterwards the three seeds all took the message and read it over. These upjumped peasants know how to read? Hobert was astonished.
With a nod to his fellow dragonriders, Addam Velaryon turned to address the Lords and landed knights before him. "To prove the validity of this message to the Queen and her Lords, we request that you all affix your seals to our message, my Lords." Hobert was pleased with himself when he managed to offer a calm nod in response.
He stood at the end of the line of Lords as each man dipped his seal in hot wax before pressing it to the letter. When it was Hobert's turn, he dipped his seal into the wax pot with a trembling hand, and accidentally tipped it over as he withdrew his seal. Thankfully, the letter itself was not ruined by the spilled wax. Hobert gave the men surrounding him a thin apologetic smile. "My apologies," he muttered, "I'm ashamed to say that my hands have grown less steady with my advanced age." Once again, the three dragonriders nodded at Hobert's explanation, seeming to accept his words. Hobert pressed the seal to the letter, and sat back down in his seat.
Maester Aubrey waited for the wax to dry, before rolling the message up and tying it tightly secure with twine. As Lord Unwin began to discuss what terms the dragonriders intended to give to the remaining mercenaries in the army, Hobert watched as Aubrey crossed the room to his caged ravens. As Hobert poured himself another goblet of Arbor Gold, he spared a quick furtive glance at the three dragonriders. All three were still regarding Lord Peake as the grizzled Marcher Lord spoke.
Glancing back nonchalantly in Aubrey's direction, Hobert watched as a silent and nearly imperceptible rustle of parchment occurred in the maester's sleeve. The message that the dragonriders had dictated disappeared up his sleeve, while Lord Peake's message appeared suddenly in his hand. Aubrey deftly tied the message to the raven's foot, before carrying it to the pavilion's flap and tossing it into the open air. With a rustle of black feathers, the raven flew off into the early morning sky. Hobert had to stop himself from letting out an immense sigh of relief. The deed is done.
Since their initial day of negotiations, two more days of deliberation had passed within the deceased Lord Ambrose's pavilion. Hobert found himself surprised at just how shrewd the usurper Rhaenyra's three dragonriders were. There were little and less details that any of the three seemed to miss, and though none had been raised in a court due to their low birth, they spoke eloquently and seemed to quickly grasp many topics of discussion without too much difficulty. It is fortunate that Lord Peake's scheme was so well-planned, for they would have likely caught us had we made even a single mistake.
At the end of the first day's deliberations, Ser Addam Velaryon had requested that any prisoners held by the army be turned over. Lord Alan Tarly, Ser Alan Beesbury, and Ser Tomard Flowers had been released from Tumbleton castle's dungeon that evening, and had joined the usurper Rhaenyra's dragonriders during the next two days of deliberation. Their wrath is considerable. The Alans and the Bastard of Bitterbridge had been of the opinion that Hobert and the remaining Lords and landed knights of the army should have been executed immediately for their treason 'and other crimes', but the dragonriders had expressed hesitation, stating that they wished for them all to face the Queen's judgement.
And so the deliberations continued for two more days, while maester Aubrey informed Hobert and the other Lords and landed knights that no correspondence from King's Landing had arrived. The dragonriders wished to force the army to stand down and make the surviving Lords and landed knights return to their seats to await the Queen's summons for judgement. However, Hobert and the others continued to insist that they could agree to no terms until their leader, Prince Daeron, was well enough to join such deliberations and agree to their terms.
On the evening after the third day of deliberation, Hobert sat alone at the edge of his cot, his head clutched in his hands. My nightmares have only grown worse. It wasn't only the attack of the usurper's dragonriders that haunted his dreams anymore, however. Visions of Bitterbridge burning and Lady Caswell flinging herself from her castle's battlements to hang now haunted his fitful sleep. Tumbleton's burned and butchered townsfolk waited for him in his dreams as well.
Wine didn't help, nor small amounts of milk of the poppy provided by maester Aubrey. The faces of the slain seemed to always be waiting for him when he closed his eyes, grotesque and twisted, staring at Hobert with accusatory eyes, glassy and unfocused in death.
"Murderer," they whispered, a terrible rasping chatter uttered from hundreds of burned and bloated lips. Hobert shook his head in denial, trembling with fear.
"You're mistaken!" Hobert pleaded, as they shuffled closer and closer, surrounding him. "I didn't give the orders!" he cried out to Lady Caswell and the people of Bitterbridge. Unmoved by his pleas, they shuffled closer. Hobert fell to his knees, raising his hands before him in a plaintive gesture of supplication.
"I tried to stop them! I did everything I could!" Hobert screamed at Lord Footly and the townsfolk of Tumbleton. Staring at him with glassy eyes, they continued forward, drawing ever closer.
As a multitude of charred and rotting hands began to reach towards Hobert, he began to weep. "Mercy!" Hobert cried, cowering in terror.
The hands stopped reaching towards him for a moment, and Hobert felt a glimmer of hope as they all hesitated. Then, in unison, the dead spoke. "No." Their hands reached out and grabbed hold of Hobert.
It was at that time that Hobert woke, shrieking in terror and shaking uncontrollably. Hobert considered himself a pious man, and had always assumed he had lived his life in a way that would please the Seven and save him from an eternity in the Seven Hells. But after his time spent marching with Lord Ormund's army, he wasn't nearly as sure. I was too much of a coward to speak out against what I knew was wrong. Though I did not slay them, my hands are stained with the blood of innocents.
Was there a way for him to find redemption for such grave crimes? Hobert wanted to believe there was. The alternative was too horrible to consider. Surely the sixty years of life that he'd lived were enough to wash away the evils that he'd abetted whilst marching with Lord Ormund's army?
The fear within himself remained, but Hobert also felt a glimmer of newfound resolve. I won't fail again. If I find myself standing at the precipice of an atrocity again, I will not falter.
"Ser Hobert?" a voice called, and Hobert recognized it as maester Aubrey's.
"What is it, maester?" Hobert called back. The maester entered his tent, and Hobert was worried to see the grave expression on the maester's face.
"It's Prince Daeron, Ser Hobert," the maester began. "His condition has grown much worse throughout the day. As his nearest remaining kin, I thought you should know that he will not linger for much longer."
Hobert felt his mouth grow dry. "May I… may I see him now, maester?" he asked. The lad is dying. He should not die alone.
Maester Aubrey nodded gravely. "Of course, Ser Hobert. However, he has been given copious amounts of milk of the poppy to ease his pain. I do not know if he will be at all aware of his surroundings."
Hobert nodded. "It matters not, maester. I'm the only kin of his left in this army. I should be with him."
The pavilion was dark, with only the dim light of a single brazier to keep the blackness of night at bay. As Hobert entered, the Prince Daeron Targaryen was shrouded in shadow from where he lay atop his cot. Hobert found a stool in the center of the pavilion and carried it over to the side of the cot, sitting beside the Prince.
Hobert had never seen so many bandages on a single person before. Even Tom Flowers wore less after the Honeywine. During his fight atop Tessarion over the camp, the Prince Daeron had fought Ser Addam Velaryon atop his own Seasmoke. From what scattered stories Hobert had heard, the fight had been a close thing, but was ended when Seasmoke caught Tessarion's face in a direct blast of flame, blinding and mortally wounding the Blue Queen. The Prince had had the misfortune to be partially caught in the same blast of flame, and was gravely wounded.
Despite maester Aubrey's best efforts, the Prince's burn wounds had been too severe, and infection had set in quickly. The stench wafting from the Prince's bandages was enough to make Hobert feel sick to his stomach, but he did his best to ignore the nausea as the Prince began to stir. "Between the fever and the milk of the poppy, it is unlikely that the Prince will even recognize you," maester Aubrey had told Hobert.
Hobert was therefore surprised when the Prince turned his heavily-bandaged face to regard him, and whispered "Ser Hobert?"
Hobert quickly nodded. "Yes, my Prince."
The Prince nodded slightly in acknowledgement, which was difficult to do because of the bandages wrapped about his face. Only one bloodshot purple eye was visible beneath all of the bandages, staring at Hobert.
The Prince continued to speak, his voice a ragged whisper. "I feel very odd, Ser Hobert, and I seem to be unable to stand. Will you help me?"
Hobert felt dismay, but shook his head. "I'm afraid that I cannot, my Prince. You are in a very grave condition."
The Prince huffed in annoyance. "But Ser Hobert, I must! As Lord Ormund's squire, I must attend to him!" Hobert looked at the Prince in shock for a moment, before the realization set in. He recognizes me, but is unaware of where he is.
"It is alright, my Prince," Hobert said quietly. "Lord Ormund wishes for you to recover as quickly as possible, so you must needs get your rest."
The Prince nodded slightly, and was beset with a sudden fit of hacking coughs. Hobert could only watch in dismay, and hope that they subsided quickly.
When the coughing finally stopped, Prince Daeron turned to regard Hobert again with his single uncovered eye. "Where is Tessarion, Ser Hobert? It is hard to describe, but I have such a queer feeling that something terrible has befallen her. I couldn't bear it if something has happened to her!" His purple eye looked plaintively at Hobert, bright with fever. Tears welled within it, and began to run down his cheek, running into the tightly wrapped bandages below.
Hobert took the Prince's bandaged hand in a light grasp, so as not to cause him any pain. He wanted to weep, but instead he smiled kindly. Stay strong, Hobert. He is not long for this world. Don't cause him grief in his last moments. "Tessarion is alright, my Prince. She is waiting patiently for you to recover along with the rest of us."
The Prince sighed in relief. "That is wonderful to hear, Ser Hobert. I should like to go flying on her as soon as I am able."
Hobert smiled and nodded. "As you wish, my Prince. If I may, I would suggest that you try flying along the Honeywine River. The countryside is beautiful at this time, and I'm sure it will look even better from dragonback."
Hobert noticed that Prince Daeron smiled widely, though most of his mouth was concealed beneath the bandages. "That sounds wonderful, Ser Hobert. Thank you, truly." The Prince's head suddenly fell back against his pillow, and his breathing became so faint that Hobert could barely hear it. Still smiling, the Prince closed his eye. "How very wonderful." the Prince whispered contentedly, and then he breathed his last.
When the Old King died, the Realm wept in mourning from the frigid Wall to the streets of Oldtown. When Prince Daeron Targaryen drew his last breath, he had naught but the tears of one old man to mourn his passing.
The three dragonriders climbed onto their mounts, and each chained himself and a single passenger in with them atop their dragon. Ser Tomard Flowers sat with Ser Maegor atop his Grey Ghost, Lord Alan Tarly with Ser Gaemon Waters atop the Cannibal, and Ser Alan Beesbury with Ser Addam Velaryon atop Seasmoke.
From what Hobert had learned, Ser Gaemon Waters had retrieved Heartsbane from Hugh Hammer's corpse when he investigated the area around Vermithor's corpse to ensure that both dragon and rider were dead. When he learned that it was the ancestral Valyrian steel weapon of House Tarly, Ser Gaemon had returned it to Lord Alan when the man was freed from Tumbleton castle's dungeon. Heartsbane now sat in a scabbard across Lord Alan Tarly's back.
Ser Maegor had flown back to where he had killed Ulf the White, and confirmed that Silverwing was alive, but very much unable to fly, at least currently. That would complicate Jon Roxton's ambitions to tame her and fly her into battle, Hobert thought grimly.
Once all the dragonriders had secured themselves and their passengers atop their dragons with their saddle chains, Ser Gaemon Waters turned to face Hobert and the other assembled Lords and landed knights before them and began to speak. "With the death of Prince Daeron, the terms we negotiated no longer need his approval. You all will disperse this army and return to your seats, to await summons for the Queen's judgement. If you refuse to do so, we will return with Fire and Blood. Make no mistake, my Lords. Amnesty will not be offered a second time."
With that, the three dragons took flight, beating their wings powerfully as they climbed into the air above the ruins of Tumbleton. The massive black dragon let out a powerful roar that was quickly echoed by the two dragons surrounding it. The three dragons then turned and flew northeast, in the direction of King's Landing.
Hobert watched them go with considerable trepidation. Around Hobert, Lord Unwin Peake, Ser Jon Roxton, Ser Tyler Norcross, and Ser Roger Corne watched them disappear into the distance. Lord Richard Rodden had come as well, though he lay on a litter on the hillside alongside the others. Turning to Lord Unwin, Roger Corne cleared his throat and spoke. "What now, Lord Peake?"
Lord Peake turned to regard the Lords and knights standing about him. "We will not disperse the army. If our deception is discovered and they return to burn us, it is better that we burn here, rather than bringing down dragonflame on all of our seats." Lord Unwin sighed. "Beyond that, we wait. We will learn what all of our fates are to be soon enough."
A/N: Hobert Hightower is alive, and only time will tell what his ultimate fate will be from here on out. With all paths to success seemingly closed to them, the surviving Greens of the Hightower army seek to make a new one of their own. As always, comments and feedback are greatly appreciated as the story continues!