Hobert VI
The king's council chamber was awash with voices, yet Hobert found it difficult to focus on what any of them were saying. Seated in his customary place in the chair to the King's immediate right, he took another measured sip of Arbor Gold from his goblet. His hand itched to raise the goblet to his lips once more to replace the festering fears and doubts in his belly with wine. However, Hobert forced himself to set the goblet down.
He looked dully around the table, at those who sat around it. To his left the King sat in silence, resting his chin against his steepled and interlocked hands, listening gravely to the arguments whirling about him. His mother, the Queen Dowager Alicent, seated gracefully in her own seat to the King's immediate left, listened with an expression of consternation and frustration. Hobert's eyes passed over the other faces in quick succession: Lord Unwin Peake and Lord Borros Baratheon, furiously arguing, Lord Larys Strong, listening and watching intently, Grand Maester Orwyle, desperately attempting to keep an accurate record of the meeting's happenings, and Ser Tyland Lannister, his horrifically maimed face hidden behind a silken veil.
Hobert's eyes lingered on the last man present, the newest face amongst the members of the King's small council. Ser Malentine Velaryon sat in silence, his face expressionless, and his deep blue eyes unfocused. Like Hobert, it seemed that Ser Malentine had little regard for the chaotic meeting of the King's counselors occurring around him. The knight of House Velaryon's thoughts were elsewhere, and Hobert was willing to hazard a guess as to where.
As he stood upon the lower steps of the Iron Throne, beneath the Queen Dowager, and above her the King himself, Hobert couldn't help but smile at the exuberant jubilation that seemed to spread like an uncontrolled fire throughout the throne room. A dragon had appeared above King's Landing, and yet the King and his people rejoiced for it. Nay, it was not the mount of one of the Pretender's thugs, but that of Good Queen Alysanne. However, Silverwing's new master was Ser Malentine Velaryon, a knight who proved faithful and true even as most of his kin turned traitor.
In desperation, the King had arranged for an expedition to be sent forth to the ruins of Tumbleton, in the vain hope that Silverwing might be tamed, and brought firmly beneath the King's banner once more. A sizable force couldn't be spared, for the King needed every warrior that he could find to remain in defense of his city. At Hobert's suggestion, a party of seven knights were sent forth to Tumbleton, in the hopes that such a number of puissant men would prove pleasing to the Gods and win their favor. Hobert had even managed to get his goodson, Ser Tyler, named as leader of this vital expedition.
With Silverwing's appearance, it seemed that the King and his counselors had been vindicated in what had originally seemed a far-fetched and unlikely hope. The scales of fate tipped ever further in King Aegon's favor, and if the Gods were good, the Pretenders' holdouts would realize the futility of their efforts and surrender.
Ser Malentine had entered the throne room to the blaring of trumpets and cheers of its occupants. His sea green and silver doublet was torn and mangled, its cloth stained with dried blood. His armor was dented and scarred, glinting dully in the torchlight as the knight strode forward. Approaching the Iron Throne's dais, he removed his helm and knelt before it, his eyes focused dutifully on the floor.
The King stood atop his throne, the wide and jubilant smile gracing his features making his numerous scars for once less severe in appearance. "Please, Ser, I bid you to rise, and stand proudly before me! You have achieved a greatness that few men dare to dream of! Ser Malentine Velaryon, you and your comrades need never kneel before me again. It is thanks to your bravery and determination that the Realm will be saved, and the traitors destroyed for good and all!"
Ser Malentine stood, his face tight with restrained emotion. He nodded in deep reverence and respect to his King, and the court cheered ever louder. As Hobert considered the King's words, his happiness faded momentarily. Descending the steps of the throne to Ser Malentine, Hobert clasped the knight's shoulder. Upon closer inspection, Hobert could see that Ser Malentine's face was covered in bruises, some faded and some fresh. Cuts and scabs adorned his face. Hobert leaned in close as he spoke, so as to be heard over the din of the surrounding crowd.
"What of your brother, Ser? My goodson, and Ser Hugh of Pennyford, or the rest?" Ser Malentine stared at him with a stricken expression, before shaking his head slowly. Hobert was speechless as the realization struck him. His hand fell limply from Ser Malentine's shoulder. It had been his idea to send the seven men. The Gods had blessed the King's cause with a new dragonrider, but at the price of six souls. Hobert had asked his goodson to go, had tasked him with this mission, in the hopes of winning him glory, and the King's favor. "What have I done?" Hobert muttered, as horror and grief began to grow within him. With no tongue with which to express his grief, Ser Malentine stood before Hobert in silence as tears welled in his eyes.
Hobert was dragged forcibly from his memories by the King's fists slamming loudly down onto the tabletop. The heated argument between Lords Baratheon and Peake died almost immediately, as both men turned to regard their seated monarch. King Aegon had stood from his seat, and was currently clenching and unclenching his fists on the tabletop.
"By taking Duskendale, the traitors have made their intentions clear!" the King seethed. "We can no longer await the arrival of Lord Lyonel's army, nor the arrival of the Redwyne fleet. Our enemies seek to put a dagger to our throats, and force us to act on their terms." The King's face was red with rage. "In so doing, they have gravely erred. Duskendale is nothing to us. The Darklyns have time and again proven themselves spineless cravens and traitors. For that they will pay, dearly."
The square rubies of the Conqueror's crown glinted in the torchlight as the King looked at the large vellum map spread across the council table. "This war should have ended the moment my cursed half-sister lost her head! Those who joined her cause would have been punished for their treason, but I would have allowed them to keep their heads, their seats, their titles, and even some of their lands."
The King grit his teeth in rage a moment, his eyes looking at the seats and crests of noble houses upon the map that continued to defy his rule. "This entire war was folly, from its very start. If my half-sister had accepted the inevitability of my kingship, how much misery could have been prevented?" The King's voice had become distant as he spoke, and he gazed into the looming shadows of the council chamber for a moment. Whatever he hoped to find seemed to elude the King's sight. His mouth twisted into a scowl, and he grabbed his goblet of Arbor Red, drinking deeply from it, before slamming it back down upon the tabletop.
"I gave the traitors time to surrender. To debase themselves before my throne and beg for mercy, which I would have given them. I am not my half-sister. I do not name my allies traitors and tear their tongues from their mouths before beheading them." The King reached for a nearby pitcher of wine, but after a moment of consideration, he instead lowered his hand back to the tabletop.
The King chuckled darkly, lifting a missive from the tabletop. The crisp parchment bore the seals of Targaryen, Velaryon, Stark, Tully, and Corbray, among others. "Instead," the King spoke, his voice low, "they had the gall, the arrogance, the audacity, to ask that I surrender, return my hostages, and accept the kingship of a mewling boy. They would name me Lord of Dragonstone, and allow me to live out my days there. An island that I've already taken!" Lords Baratheon and Peake scoffed at that, but Hobert paid more attention to his cousin Alicent. Her face was a hard, impassive mask, but Hobert could see how her fingers dug deeply into the skin of her palms at her son's words. If she isn't careful, she'll draw blood.
"No more," Aegon seethed, his eyes narrowed. The melted, scabbed skin on the left side of his face seemed to gather pools of shadow from the dim light of crackling torches and braziers. "They have chosen fire and sword, and I will gladly deliver it to them." He smiled cruelly. "They do not know what we know. They do not know of the bravery and skill of Ser Malentine Velaryon. My half-sister's baseborn thugs do not realize that they will face the might of Silverwing once more in battle."
The King drew a dagger from his belt, and slammed its point into Duskendale on the map. "Here is what I propose. We ride forth from the city with every knight, man-at-arms, and soldier who rides a horse. Ser Malentine and I will fly ahead over the sea to avoid detection, and we will strike Duskendale at night. With our flames, we will raze the town to the luck, we'll burn the bastard riders alive before they ever get near their dragons. The cavalry, well…" The King's hateful smile deepened. "The cavalry will strike into the army encamped outside, and put to flight those that they can't kill quickly enough."
The King nodded across the table at Ser Malentine. "Our greatest advantage lies within the fact that our enemies do not know of Ser Malentine's successful taming of Silverwing. They will remain ignorant of this knowledge until it is far too late. Our enemies, certain of their eventual victory, have grown complacent. Duskendale will serve as a pyre for the traitors of the Realm, and their rebellion will die with them."
After a moment of consideration, Lord Borros spoke up. "Who shall lead the van, my liege?" His tone was not fiery, nor domineering. His question did not seem to be a demand, but rather a quiet query.
The King turned to face the Lord of Storm's End. "Unless there is dissent, or alternative suggestions, I intend to give Ser Jon Roxton leadership of the van. Are any of you opposed to this?"
Lord Unwin Peake shifted a moment in his seat with a frown, but did not contest his King's choice. Lord Baratheon, however, sat back in complete silence. It seemed to Hobert as though an expression resembling relief had spread across the stormlord's features.
Leaving his knife planted in the map, King Aegon sat back down in his seat. "Methinks this battle will be our last, my Lords," he stated simply. "We must needs prepare quickly, and show them all the price of their treason."
The King's council sat in silence for several moments following the King's words. Hobert had never been a military-minded man, but he could see no fault in his King's battle plans. Lord Peake was the first to break the silence. "As you command, it will be done, my King. A decisive strike to end the war for good and all."
Not to be outdone, Lord Baratheon spoke up next. "I will ensure that my knights and men-at-arms are prepared to ride forth at your command, my liege!"
The King nodded gravely. "You will all make the necessary preparations, with haste. A moment of hesitation is a moment wasted." As the various members of the King's council began to stand from their seats, King Aegon continued to speak. "However, there is one more matter that I must needs present before you, my lords."
Hobert and the others returned to their seats, and at a nod from the King, Lord Larys Strong produced a rolled parchment from his gray sleeve, and reached across the table to hand it to the King. Hobert did not miss the way in which Lord Baratheon glared at the Lord of Harrenhal. A mishap between Lord Strong and one of Lord Baratheon's daughters in the castle Godswood, from what I've heard. Before unfurling the parchment, Hobert's liege spoke once more. "The matter of succession in the case of my unfortunate demise has always been pertinent. Even so, precious few words have been spoken about it."
The King placed a hand atop that of his mother's as she drew herself up in her seat, pre-empting her heated words. "I have no intention to fall to the swords or flames of my enemies. Not now, nor ever. They've been trying to kill me throughout this entire war, and they have not succeeded." The King's jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. "With every cruel murder carried out by the vicious cravens that supported my half-sister, my heirs have been lost to me. All of my sons, and all of my brothers."
King Aegon's expression was contorted with hate. "The Pretenders' Lords name me a murderer, and a tyrant. And yet, I have allowed her children to live, whilst they murdered mine. I gave them all a chance to submit to my rule, and they slaughtered my brothers." The King clenched his hands into fists. "I will not allow my half-sister's brood to sit the Iron Throne. That wretched boy of hers, who bears my name, will never wear my crown."
The King unfurled Lord Strong's parchment upon the tabletop. Hobert, along with the rest of the council, began to read its contents. I, King Aegon Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, being sound of mind, do officially by royal decree name Gaemon, son of Esselyn, a natural son of my body. Henceforth, he shall be known as Gaemon Waters…
The King's decree continued, and bore his official seal at the bottom of the parchment, but Hobert stopped reading and looked up in shock. The other individuals seated around the table looked up at their liege with similarly surprised expressions.
"My King," cousin Alicent began, her voice dangerously soft, "who is this Gaemon of which your decree speaks?"
Despite his previously harsh demeanor, the King looked slightly embarrassed in spite of himself. "The boy is the result of an… indiscretion on my part, in the final years of my father's reign. Needless to say, I am certain that the boy is mine." The King leaned forward slightly, pressing the palms of his hands into the tabletop.
"This boy, Gaemon Waters, has been named a Royal Bastard by my decree. The counsel that I seek now, my Lords, is whether this natural son of mine should be legitimized and ensconced as my heir." The King looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each of his seated councilors.
Hobert was speechless. However, he was not naive enough to be completely caught off-guard. He had heard tales of the King's reputation when he was still a Prince. It was altogether reasonable and expected for young men of noble birth to 'sow their wild oats', as it were, but to recognize the bastards that resulted from these indiscretions was another matter entirely. Especially when the mother was lowborn.
For once, the King's lords were not eager to speak up immediately, and loudly declare their stance on the issue being discussed. It seems as though none wish to be the first to speak. Cousin Alicent's eyes had narrowed, and she silently sat forward in her seat, staring intensely at her son. The King met her gaze for several moments, but he was the first to blink, and lower his eyes to the tabletop.
"Name a bastard as your heir, my son?" The Queen Dowager seethed.
The King opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by his mother's baleful glare. "You would shame your wife and your lineage by naming some whore's whelp as heir to your Realm, that which was ruled by your fatherbefore you, and all who came before?"
Lord Strong proved the first to be brave enough to face Alicent's ire. "If I may," he began, undaunted in the face of the Queen Dowager's fury, "the King's cause is built upon the precedents set by the Great Council in the days of King Jaehaerys. The Princess Jaehaera, for all her impeccable lineage, would be contested as our King's rightful heir. We must needs have an alternative to the Pretender's sons, should the worst befall our beloved King."
The Queen Dowager stood from her seat as she responded. "I have not forgotten the precedents of the Great Council, my Lord," she hissed. "You forget, however, that our King still has a wife. A wife that has proven more than capable in the time of their marriage to provide him with heirs, and will provide him with many more! If the King names a bastard as heir to his realm, we will destroy the legitimacy of our cause!"
Hobert, his mouth dry, spoke up haltingly. "You are correct of course, cousin. However, the Queen's condition…" he slumped back into his seat as the full brunt of his cousin's fury was turned upon him. Her eyes blazed with a near murderous rage, and without speaking a single word, she caused the words upon Hobert's lips to wither and die. Swallowing painfully, Hobert lifted his goblet to his lips and drank deeply, speaking no more.
"The Queen has suffered greatly in this war, more than any child of the Seven should." Alicent breathed deeply, schooling her features to a severe calmness. "But my daughter is strong. Her condition improves by the day. She understands her responsibilities and duties as Queen." The Queen Dowager turned to regard the Grand Maester. "My daughter's health has improved greatly, has it not, Grandmaester?"
Grand Maester Orwyle looked almost surprised at the fact that he had been addressed. He looked to the many parchments spread before him for a moment, as though he sought his answer from amongst their scrawled words. "Y-yes, your Grace," Orwyle stammered, his expression terrified. Several beads of sweat trickled down his face. "The Queen Helaena im-improves by the day. Yes, without a doubt."
With a satisfied expression, cousin Alicent turned to the King. "There you have it, my King. You are correct. The Realm is in desperate need of an heir. It is long past time to give your wife another sweet son to replace those that she has lost. Let us all-" Alicent glared at the men seated around the table- "forget this nonsense about naming a bastard as heir to the Realm. I cannot prevent the boy from being recognized as a Royal Bastard, but I trust that you all see that his legitimization would be an unmitigated disaster. The King's heir must needs be of worthy blood."
For once, Lords Peake and Baratheon nodded in agreement. Ser Tyland Lannister murmured his agreement shortly after. Grand Maester Orwyle nodded profusely as he wiped his brow with a kerchief, the chains about his neck jangling with the frantic bobbing motion. Lord Strong inclined his head slightly, but for just a moment, genuine anger flared across his features before they returned to their usual indifference.
Though he hesitated, Hobert voiced his agreement with his cousin after a moment. Mayhaps cousin Alicent is right. The King had already sired two sons with his wife before this horrid war began. He can have more.
The King nodded slowly, his jaw clenched. He clearly recognized that he and Lord Strong's proposal had been firmly rejected. "Alright then," the King grated out. "But allow me to make my orders clear. I will soon fly into battle, and it would be utter foolishness to discount the possibility of my death. As you have all advised, my bastard will not be legitimized. However, if I am to die in this battle, you must crown my daughter Jaehaera as Queen. You must swear this to me, in the name of all Seven Gods. The traitors will not have their King."
Hobert sat in silence for a moment, considering his King's words. To crown Jaehaera would be to spit upon all that we originally claimed to fight for. What my kin has died for. Under the auspices of which Tumbleton and Bitterbridge were sacked. We would definitively prove ourselves men without honor, with no higher purpose than avarice and ambition. The King stood his ground, watching his lords and waiting for their responses. Though many voices were subdued and unenthusiastic, the Queen Dowager, Hobert, and every other individual in the chamber swore on the Seven that they would crown the Princess Jaehaera if the King were to die in battle.
Having received his council's vows, the King dismissed them. Hobert felt utterly exhausted, and he drank deeply of the wine that remained in his goblet. The lords Peake, Baratheon, and Strong quietly exited the chamber into the corridor beyond, going their separate ways. Grand Maester Orwyle helped the blinded Tyland Lannister to guide his steps. As Hobert made to leave, his joints aching, King Aegon called after him. "Cousin Hobert, will you accompany me to the Godswood? I have further need of your counsel." Though confused by this sudden request, Hobert nodded his head in acquiescence.
Hobert's breath misted in the air before him as he walked, and he pulled his grey cloak more tightly about himself. He walked along a stone path alongside the King, and Ser Marston Waters followed along behind the both of them at a respectful distance. King Aegon still moved slowly and deliberately, but his back was only slightly hunched, and his limp was so slight as to nearly be unnoticeable. It's as though he is an entirely different man from the one I remember reclaiming the Red Keep. Considering how serious the King's wounds received at Rook's Rest had been, he had made a near-miraculous recovery, and only continued to improve as time went on.
Flakes of snow lightly drifted down about them, and the Godswood was utterly silent, but for their crunching footsteps. The King was the first to break the silence. "Thank you for accompanying me here, Ser Hobert," Aegon began. He stopped walking, and Hobert turned to face his liege in confusion. The King closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "I have walked these paths more since I've retaken this city than I ever did during the reign of my father."
King Aegon patted his left leg, that which gave him his limp, with a gloved hand. "I've found that walking here has done more for my recovery than any amount of milk of the poppy or strongwine could." He sighed. "It is also blessedly quiet here, in the winter . No one asking for favors, arbitration, or orders. I can think clearly, without the meaningless chatter swirling about me." Opening his eyes, the King began walking forward once more, and Hobert dutifully followed.
The King looked over his shoulder at Hobert as he spoke. "I trust that what we discuss here will remain in confidence, my Hand?"
Hobert nodded immediately. "Of course, your Grace. I am your man."
The King nodded. "For that I am grateful. My Kingdom has survived thanks to the loyalty of my allies." He did not speak for several moments more, seemingly considering what to say next. "What I ask of you now, Ser Hobert, is not your counsel, but merely for you to listen."
At Hobert's nod, King Aegon continued to speak. "Since I've returned to this city, I have had some time to think. About my kingship, and my Realm. I thought that this war would have largely ended with the execution of the Pretender. I was mistaken. There are many, it seems, who would prefer to die than to accept me as their King."
The King sighed. "So they will die for their treason. Those who will not bend the knee will be broken and destroyed." The King looked back at Hobert, his scarred and scabbed face obscured by twilight shadows. "Methinks, however, that I must also focus on becoming a King worthy of the crown I wear, the sword that I bear, and the throne on which I sit. If this war ends in victory, as I hope it will, I must needs show the Realm that I am a monarch worthy of their fealty."
King Aegon chuckled darkly. "The Prince that I used to be was not a man to inspire confidence. Half the Realm chose a murdering harlot over me as their liege, despite the superiority of my claim, and the legitimacy of my cause." The King looked up at the darkening sky, and the first of the stars that appeared to shine coldly over the world below. "With the destruction of Duskendale, I intend to prove to the Realm that I am a King they must needs fear. But after? I will need to prove that I am also worthy of their loyalty."
King Aegon grimaced. "My rage, in times of war, will see my foes destroyed. They have well earned such a fate through their treachery and treason." The King paused for a moment, considering his words. "However, such festering anger will do me no good in times of peace. I have allowed my hatred to cloud my judgement for far too long."
He breathed deeply, and looked for a moment at a bare tree, its spindly branches reaching into the darkening sky. "I claimed my vengeance against my cursed half-sister when I saw her head struck from her shoulders. As for my uncle Daemon?" His face twisted in rage. "If he is truly dead, as many seem to believe, I can only hope that vile kinslayer is rotting in the deepest depths of the Seven Hells."
The King sighed heavily. "I had felt that I had been robbed of my vengeance against my uncle when reports of my brother's battle with him above the God's Eye began filtering into the city. When his daughter insulted me in the Dragonpit…" the King's fist clenched. "She spoke the words, but I could only see his face, hear his voice." King Aegon shook his head. "Branding her brought me no joy, no sense of justice. And now?" The King hesitated. "Methinks I should not have done it. Her father's crimes were not her own. But what's done is done. I cannot afford to hesitate, at the precipice of victory, or defeat."
The King stopped before the Godswood's heart tree, a massive oak covered in smokeberry vines. He turned to face Hobert once more. "Of all the traitors yet unaccounted for, there is one that personally vexes me above all others. Ser Jarmen Follard." The King smiled, but it was mirthless, and more akin to an angry grimace. "Amongst the members of my father's court, one would have been hard-pressed to find a more honorable and well-loved knight than him. He may have been one of the only men in court to remain free of its intrigues, and hold respect among both the supporters of my half-sister, and mine own."
King Aegon's hard expression softened, and he smiled wistfully for a moment. "Ser Jarmen also helped me to mount my first pony, and taught me to ride. When he refused to bend the knee, I didn't want him harmed. He was a good man, and loyal. I wanted him to join me, to believe in my cause, and my right to the Kingdom." The King frowned once more. "I forced him to watch every execution. The death of every traitor that opposed me within my court. I had him dragged to the headsman's block, and had his neck placed upon it. Even then, he refused to bend the knee."
King Aegon shook his head. "Ser Jarmen was a good man. I wanted him to serve me, as he had my father and great-grandfather. Men of his skill, loyalty, and devotion are worth their weight in gold. But he wouldn't. No amount of fear or brutality would change his mind." The King drew himself up in the shadow of the heart tree, and firmly regarded Hobert. "The Realm must fear its King. But it also must love him in equal measure. Without fear, there is not enough respect, but without any love, there can be no true loyalty." The King approached Hobert, and placed a hesitant hand upon his shoulder. "In my reign, there must needs be both. If I cannot achieve this, then I am no King at all."
The Small Hall of the Tower of the Hand was meant for far more people than those who currently inhabited it. There were tables and benches enough to seat around two hundred souls beneath the hall's high-vaulted ceiling. However, Hobert sat alone at the high table, staring at the array of food that had been spread across its surface before him. The Red Keep has changed hands multiple times in this war, along with much of the castle's staff. The castle's cook was the same that had served King Viserys. Along with much of the smallfolk in the castle, the cook was not punished nor killed when the Keep was taken throughout the war by different factions. Cooking for a Queen one evening, and then a King on the next.
As always, the food looked and smelled delicious. Hobert knew that its taste would surpass all expectations. Had he been in his apartments within the Hightower, before the war, he would have torn into such a meal with abandon. Now, however, Hobert picked at his food, as a vulture would pick at the remains of a carcass.
In truth, enough food was spread across the tabletop to feed ten men. Hobert glanced around the hall. But for several guards and servants, it was completely empty. A typical evening. Hobert had initially expected that his position as the King's Hand would have meant constant dinner invitations, or requests by enterprising knights and lords to dine with him at the Tower of the Hand. However, aside from the occasional dinner with cousin Alicent, or the even rarer meal with some little-known landed knight, Hobert's only constant companion at meals had been his goodson, Ser Tyler. It seems that most residents of the keep know as well as I do that I'm a mummer's farce of a Hand, and care little and less for my company.
The lack of his goodson's good-natured and jovial presence was his own fault, of course. I sent him on that mission to Tumbleton. I sent him to die. Another mistake, another regret, to leave him lying awake at night. I've spent this war stumbling into mistake after mistake. An old fool who leaves naught but ruination in his wake.
Hobert had been putting off writing a letter to his daughter Prudence, the mother of Ser Tyler's children who did not yet know that she was a widow. He didn't know what to say, nor how to explain it. I sent her husband on some foolish mission, that was his doom. No one forced him to go, and none had suggested that I send him. It was all my doing. Hobert set his fork back down upon his plate, and drank deeply of his wine.
His goblet empty, Hobert stared for a moment at the nearby silvered pitcher of wine. His hand itched to grab it, fill his goblet, and continue drowning his sorrows until they were forgotten in a stupor of drunkenness. Instead, he cast his eyes desperately about the room, looking for any sort of diversion.
A young servant girl was passing in front of the table, having just finished sweeping the floors near the hall's entrance. "You there!" Hobert called out to her, his tone sounding more harsh than he intended for it to.
The girl stopped in her tracks, her visage growing pale as she turned to face him. "Yes, m'lord?" she squeaked, terrified.
Hobert smiled at the girl apologetically. "My apologies, young lady. I did not intend to startle you so. Come up here, if you'd be so kind."
The girl stiffly made her way up upon the raised platform that contained the high table, and walked around the table to stand before Hobert, who was still seated. Her face continued to bear a terrified expression, and her hands fidgeted at her sides for several moments, before she grabbed the sides of her apron to still them. "What do you require, m'lord?" The girl asked.
Hobert gestured at the plentiful amount of food spread out atop the table that he sat alone at. "Surely, you must be hungry. Please, take a seat, and help yourself. I can't hope to finish all this food by myself." Hobert let out a weak, awkward chuckle, before grimacing and quieting after a moment.
The girl stared at Hobert in shock for a moment, her mouth wide open. After a moment, she flushed bright red in embarrassment, thanked Hobert for his kindness, and awkwardly sat down in a seat next to him. She awkwardly served herself a slice of meat pie on a silvered dish, before picking up the slice with grimy hands and taking a bite. The silverware that had been placed by the plate sat forgotten on the tabletop.
As she ate, Hobert lifted his fork, and continued picking at his own plate of food. He found the servant girl's lack of etiquette charming, and after a moment he remembered why. It reminded Hobert of the dinners he used to have with his wife and daughters at the Hightower, before they were women grown. His eldest daughters, Jeyne and Prudence, had observed table etiquette with the utmost degree of severity, to the approval of their mother. His youngest, Malora, had not been nearly as concerned with such pretensions, and tore into her food with her hands on many an evening.
One such night, her mother Joyeuse had grown wroth at her lack of concern for her manners, and shouted at her that she was to return to her room, and go to bed without supper. Malora had run from the table in tears. After he had finished his meal with his wife and elder two daughters, he bid them all goodnight. When they'd left, Hobert had placed two lemon cakes on a plate, and made his way to Malora's chambers.
His youngest daughter had pulled the covers of her bed above her head, and Hobert could hear her soft sobs beneath them. "Malora, sweetling," he'd called gently, "won't you come out?" Slowly, reluctantly, his daughter had peeked out from the edge of her covers, eyes bloodshot and still full of tears. However, her eyes had lit up at the sight of Hobert standing before her bed with the plate, and she hopped to the floor from her bed excitedly, her tears forgotten.
They'd sat on the floor of her room together, the both of them eating their lemon cake with their hands. Afterwards, his daughter had wrapped her arms about him in a tight hug, and Hobert had laughed merrily. "Thank you, papa," she had said to him, with a smile so happy it could have broken his heart.
Hobert smiled, and set down his fork once more. His goblet of wine sat forgotten on the tabletop. Standing from his seat, he addressed the servant girl, who looked up at him inquisitively. "Please," Hobert began, "eat as much as you like." Hobert raised his voice, so the guards in the hall could hear him as well. "That goes for the rest of you as well! Eat your fill. Don't let all this fine food go to waste!"
Surprised, the guards hesitantly approached the table, with several murmuring a cautious "thankee, m'lord!". Leaving them all to the food, Hobert began to climb the long staircase of the Tower of the Hand to his bedchamber. The melancholy, doubt, and fear were still within him, but at least for a time, so was some small measure of happiness. Mayhaps, tonight, I'll dream of better things. Hobert hoped that it would be so.
Hobert awoke from a blessedly dreamless sleep to the sound of a fist loudly pounding on his bedchamber's door. "Wh-what is it?" he asked groggily, a tired confusion clouding his senses. "Who's there?" he asked, as a sudden fear woke him more fully.
The door swung open, and Ser Marston Waters of the Kingsguard entered. "Lord Hand, you must needs come with me," the knight said gravely. Hobert climbed quickly from his bed, and hurried towards his wardrobe. He halted in his movements when he heard Waters clear his throat behind him. "My Lord Hand," he spoke, his gruff tone more urgent, "there is no time. Please follow me."
Confused and concerned, Hobert followed the knight of the Kingsguard, pulling a cloak on over his woolen nightgown and putting on his shoes. He was halfway down the steps of the Tower of the Hand when he realized that he had forgotten to take off his night cap. It can't be helped. They quickly made their way across the courtyard beyond the tower, and Hobert shivered as unforgivingly frigid gusts of winter wind blew about him.
They journeyed quickly through the halls of the Red Keep. The passageways were completely abandoned, and torches burned brightly, warding off the darkness of night. The hour of the wolf? Or mayhaps the hour of ghosts? Hobert braced himself once more against the cold as he and Ser Marston crossed the drawbridge that spanned the moat of iron spikes surrounding Maegor's Holdfast.
Hobert had been so focused on the oddness of Ser Marston's request, and the journey they had taken, that he hadn't considered more deeply why it was happening. "Does the King have need of me, Ser? At this hour? Has something happened?" Hobert felt a deep, gnawing fear appear in the bottom of his gut. "Have the traitors pre-empted us? Do they now approach?"
At all of his questions, Ser Marston merely shook his head. Traveling deeper into Maegor's Holdfast, Hobert became less and less sure of where he was being taken. He no longer recognized the corridors he was being led through. Rounding a final corner, Hobert saw Lord Commander Willis Fell, standing outside of a fairly nondescript doorway.
Hobert approached the Lord Commander, his consternation beginning to turn into frustration. "What is the meaning of all of this? What has happened? Does the King have need of me?"
Ser Fell opened his mouth to respond, his expression grave, but he was cut off by the sound of another voice as two more men rounded the corridor's corner. "By all Seven Gods! I'll have someone's head if my time is being wasted!" Lord Borros Baratheon approached Hobert, Ser Fell, and Ser Waters, accompanied by a lone grizzled guardsman bearing a golden three-headed dragon patch. Lord Baratheon too still was dressed in his night clothes, and draped in a black-and-gold cloak. His large black beard was wild and unkempt, his eyes narrowed in frustration and anger.
"What in the Seven Hells is all this, Ser Willis? Why have we been summoned to this corner of Maegor's Holdfast in the dead of night, like conniving catspaws?" Lord Baratheon and Hobert both watched the Lord Commander, waiting expectantly for an answer.
Lord Fell spoke quietly, his tone deadly serious. "What the both of you are about to see, must be kept in confidence, for now. Aside from myself, Ser Waters, and this guardsman, none else yet know of what has transpired." Ser Fell nodded in the direction of the door behind him. "This door leads into the Queen Helaena's apartments."
The Lord Commander took a torch from a nearby sconce and opened the door, stepping into the room beyond. Lord Baratheon strode in next, followed by Hobert. The first thing he noticed was just how cold the room was, nearly as frigid as the blustering winds outside. Hobert nearly ran into Lord Borros' broad back, for the man had stopped still in his tracks. Stepping around him, Hobert's eyes widened in horror.
The King was sprawled on the floor in the center of the chamber, surrounded by a large puddle of blood that seemed to drink in the light of Lord Commander Fell's flickering torch. The King's skin looked pale and grey, and Aegon remained motionless upon the cold stone floor. As if in a trance, Hobert walked closer. Upon further inspection, Hobert could see that his liege's eyes were unfocused and misted over, his jaw slackened. A deep red gash had been sliced across his throat, from which his lifeblood had spilled forth to stain the floor all about him.
"By all the Gods," Hobert muttered in mute horror. "How has this happened?"
Lord Borros, as though snapping out of a trance, spoke up angrily, though his voice sounded unmistakably shaken. "Who has committed this foul act? How did they gain entrance to the Holdfast, to this chamber? Have they been apprehended?"
Hobert stood suddenly, and turned to the Lord Commander, his stomach churning. "What of the Queen Helaena? Where is she?" By all the Gods. Can the poor woman find no respite?
Lord Commander Fell closed his eyes for a moment, exhaustion and grief appearing prominently across his features. "The Queen is dead as well," the knight said hollowly. He nodded in the direction of the chambers' far right corner, in the direction of a window. The window was open, and the curtains about it blew fitfully in the cold gusts of the winter air.
Hobert approached the window, and as he drew nearer to it, he noticed the bloody knife lying at the windowsill's base. A small knife, meant for the cutting of food, or peeling of fruit, but sharp nonetheless. Hobert then noticed the bloody footprints. They led from the King's corpse to the windowsill. The curtains themselves were marked prominently with bloody handprints, and fluttered in the gusts of winter air, haphazard and askew.
"As I stood watch, I heard a loud crash from within the chambers, followed by the screaming of the Queen," Lord Commander Fell began. "When I rushed through the door, I saw the King, lying on the floor and clutching at his neck, in a pool of his own blood. The Queen-" Lord Commander Fell paused, visibly fighting back tears. "She was already by the window, and had opened it. I- I wasn't fast enough. I tried to stop her. She was gone before I'd taken even three steps."
Hobert's eyes had widened, and he found it hard to breathe. His throat was painfully constricted, and the deep gnawing pain within his gut that he knew all too well had returned with a vengeance. Lord Borros' eyes were wide, and for once it seemed as though the abrasive and boisterous stormlord was truly at a loss for words.
With a deep sense of dread, Hobert leaned out of the window, looking over the iron spikes of the moat below. What he saw nearly made him vomit, and when he leaned back into the Queen's room, he clutched his face in his hands, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. "Gods, gods, gods," he whispered, plaintively. The winter wind whistled mournfully through the keep's crenellations, high above.
The torches and braziers burned brightly within the small council chamber, for daybreak was still a long way away. Hobert sat in his chair, wearing his doublet and mail, with Vigilance in its sheath on his sword belt. The chamber, though it contained the majority of the King's council and most fervent supporters, had been silent as the grave.
Cousin Alicent had paced the floor of the chamber like a caged beast, with a nearly manic look in her eyes. Lord Borros, having dressed in doublet and mail as well, had his hands clenched into fists atop the table, and stared intensely at the varnished wood, tense and unmoving. Lord Peake's expression was hard and cold, as though his features had been chiseled from stone. Ser Malentine Velaryon sat with an expression of deep consternation, his hands folded in his lap.
With the arrival of Grand Maester Orwyle and Ser Tyland Lannister, the meeting of the deceased King's council had finally begun in earnest, for the Lord Larys Strong was nowhere to be found. Lord Peake had informed them all that the men he had sent to secure the King's bastard son had returned empty-handed. Apparently, the boy and his mother had likely vanished along with the clubfooted Master of Whisperers. Lord Baratheon had derided the Lord of Harrenhal as a "cowardly, scheming, rat", but none had any ideas how to go about apprehending the vanished Lord or the King's bastard son.
"How many know of the King and Queen's death, Lord Commander?" the Queen Dowager asked, her visage and tone displaying a carefully maintained calmness.
The Lord Commander looked about the room seriously before responding. "None but the individuals in this room, Ser Marston Waters, who is standing watch outside the Princess Jaehaera's chambers, and a guardsman, who continues to stand guard outside of the Queen's apartments." The Lord Commander grimaced. "However, we will be unable to prevent news from spreading after daybreak. The Queen-" he hesitated, a pained expression suddenly dominating his features. "The Queen will surely be noticed in the moat, and the alarm will be raised."
Hobert winced at the Lord Commander's words, remembering all too well the sight of the Queen Helaena, broken upon the spikes of the moat far below the window of her chambers. "What, then, is to be done?" Hobert asked weakly. He was tired, so, so, tired. The golden chain of interlocked hands around his neck had never felt heavier.
Cousin Alicent placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. "We must needs carry out the King's orders. Retrieve the Princess Jaehaera. We will crown her, and place her upon the Iron Throne before her father's leal lords, so that they may swear fealty to her. We must act with haste."
Despite the Queen Dowager's urgent words, none of the men in the chamber seemed eager to move, or speak up. The muscles about cousin Alicent's cheekbones tightened, and her right eye twitched momentarily. "What," Hobert's cousin began, her voice tight with a barely-contained rage, "are you all waiting for?"
Lord Unwin Peake stood, and coldly regarded the Queen Dowager. "Such a rash decision hardly seems prudent." He looked coolly at all the individuals gathered about the council table. "You all know as well as I that the King's lords would never accept the crowning of his daughter as their monarch. Even if we knew the whereabouts of the King's natural son, he too would win no support amongst our allies!"
The Queen Dowager's face twisted in hatred. "You swore a vow, Lord Peake," Alicent hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "Along with the rest of the King's council, you swore on all Seven Gods that you would crown his daughter in the event of his death!"
Lord Peake, unbothered by the Queen Dowager's fury, regarded her with cold disdain. "I swore to the King that I would crown his daughter, if he died in battle. Though I grieve my monarch's death, he did not perish on a battlefield, but within a bedchamber. I am breaking no vow." Lord Peake continued, his voice flat and firm. "I will not crown the King's daughter. Such an action is meaningless. The King has no valid heir of his body that may be elevated to the Iron Throne."
Hobert watched in shock as Lord Baratheon quickly stood, speaking up loudly. "Nor I! I was the King's leal man. But our King is dead, his line of succession extinguished." He glared at Alicent and Hobert. "Crowning that mewling girl isn't only utter foolishness, it is suicide!"
The Queen Dowager looked about the council chamber, eyes wide. Her composure, always so impeccable and carefully maintained, was beginning to crack and fall to pieces. Gazing about the room, she found no support among its remaining occupants. "Traitors!" she seethed. "Low, craven, cowards! If you won't fight for the rights of your King's heir, then we will!" Alicent turned to regard Hobert. "Come, cousin!" she practically hissed, face red with rage, and a mad glint in her eyes. "You are my son's Hand. We must rally the King's leal men within his keep, and crown his heir!"
Hobert stared at her, from where he still sat in his chair. He thought of all that he had seen, and all that he had suffered through. The fear, the grief, the abject misery. If we crown Jaehaera, we will burn for it. He thought of the King and Queen's last living child at that moment. A miserable, terrified girl who jumped at every shadow, and wept at loud noises. If I crown her, I will kill her. The Pretender's thugs will suffer no reigning rivals to their Queen's heir. They'll murder her, as they murdered her brothers. Her only hope is to remain a Princess, not a Queen.
"No." Hobert whispered, staring at his feet.
"What?" his cousin said, her voice little more than a dangerous growl.
Hobert looked up to regard Alicent. "I said, no. The Princess Jaehaera will not be crowned. It's all over. The war ended with the King and Queen's deaths." Hobert's voice cracked with grief, and he felt tears well in his eyes. "Your son, cousin! And your daughter! It's over. There is no more war to be fought. Please, listen to me. You have lost your children, but you need not lose your last grandchild!"
Alicent jerked her head back at Hobert's words, as though she had been struck. "No," she muttered. "NO!" she then screamed. "It cannot be! After all I've given, all I've lost!" The Queen Dowager staggered backwards, until her back connected harshly with the stone wall of the council chamber.
With her back against the wall, Alicent slid slowly to the ground. Clutching her face in her hands, she began to weep. "It cannot be for naught!" She cried out. "My sons, my sweet daughter," she groaned in agony. Alicent's pained sobs grew in intensity, and they struck at Hobert's heart like daggers. "My babies, my babies! Please, please, PLEASE!"
By this point, the knights and lords around the council chamber were all on their feet. To a man, they were stunned. Eventually, Grand Maester Orwyle made his way over to Hobert's cousin, and gently helped her to her feet. "I will return her to her chambers, and make her a tonic to help her rest," the bearded maester told Hobert and the others. Lord Commander Fell silently accompanied the both of them from the council room, as Alicent muttered incoherently through a veil of tears.
After a moment, Lord Peake spread out a piece of parchment across the tabletop, and retrieved an inkpot and quill. The grizzled marcher lord looked exhausted, but a defiant fire still burned in his eyes. "Methinks, my lords, that it is time to begin drawing up our terms for peace. We had best not keep the Pretender's army waiting."
Not a single man in the room raised his voice in dissent.
A/N: With the final claimant's death, the Dance of Dragons draws ever closer to its inevitable conclusion. As always, comments, thoughts, and feedback are greatly appreciated! Thanks to Tom2011, TMI Fairy, CaedmonCousland, HarwinSnow, hideki667, Darbiboi, Vault Boy, and all of you guests that have left reviews on the last chapter; they are always enjoyable to read.