Hobert VII
Hobert supposed that in some ways Great Wyk wasn't so different from Oldtown. In both places, it wasn't hard to smell the salt of the sea, and to find wharves reaching out into vast waters beyond. It filled him with a sense of peace, in the precious few moments that he had purely to himself. Of course, such tranquility never lasted long. The title of "Crown Regent of the Isles" was no empty vanity that had been lavished upon him.
With the late Dalton Greyjoy's refusal to stand down and be welcomed back into the King's Peace, the King, his Hand, and Regents had declared the title "Lord of the Iron Islands" forfeit, thereby depriving the Greyjoys of their paramountcy over the entirety of the Iron Isles. Veron Greyjoy, the new Lord of Pyke, had quietly accepted this verdict and the relegation of his influence to the isle of Pyke itself. Lord Greyjoy was one of only four Lords of the Ironmen remaining that had accompanied Dalton Greyjoy in his depraved campaign against the West and lived to bend the knee. The other three surviving Lords currently knelt in obeisance alongside Lord Greyjoy before Hobert and the assembled leadership of his army.
Veron Greyjoy knelt at the far left of the four, and to his immediate right was Torgon Blacktyde, the reigning Lord of Blacktyde. A close friend and steadfast comrade-in-arms to Lord Greyjoy, Lord Blacktyde had been captured along with him by the Lady Elissa Farman and her militia at Faircastle, and had been allowed back into the King's Peace with assurances that he would deliver the island of Blacktyde peacefully to Hobert's army. The other two Lords of the Ironmen present had sworn the same. Lord Arthur Goodbrother of Hammerhorn had been dragged dazed and half-drowned from amongst the burning flotsam clogging the strait of Fair Isle, after the Kings' dragonriders had destroyed the Iron Fleet in a short but devastating battle. Lord Dagmar Saltcliffe's capture was far more puzzling than any of the others'. According to the knights of the West that had apprehended him, Lord Saltcliffe had been found wandering on an eastern beach of Fair Isle, facing the strait in which the disastrous battle had recently occurred. He had been soaked through, shivering, and utterly incoherent, vacillating between bouts of weeping and enraged raving against the perfidy of his Drowned God.
All four of these Lords had made good on their word in time, delivering their seats back into the King's Peace without bloodshed. In short order, the other Lords of the Ironmen had capitulated as well. In some cases, naught remained of the menfolk of these Houses but withered greybeards and young boys, too old or too young to join the doomed Red Kraken on his cursed voyage. In other cases, distant cousins and kin had struck their seats' banners in surrender. Though they regarded the men of the mainland with hateful eyes and oft spit in the dirt as they passed by, they had knelt and been given amnesty the same as any others capable of seeing sense in the Isles. Of course, Ser Erwin and many of the knights in Hobert's army had been furious at Hobert's decidedly open-handed actions in pacifying the Isles. Ser Erwin in particular had emphatically argued that all Ironmen deserved naught but the sword tenfold times over for every life they'd taken in the West, but Hobert had categorically refused him. We are here to enforce the King's Peace, not for the wholesale slaughter of his subjects.
"As you have so sworn your fealty, may you now depart in peace," intoned Septon Lyman, standing at Hobert's side. Formerly the most wizened Septon in service at Casterly Rock, he had humbly requested to relinquish his duties to his other brothers in the Faith at the Rock and accompany Hobert's army to the Isles. Hobert had quickly come to admire his advice and company, as a voice of temperance and forgiveness in a maelstrom of sabre-rattling and calls for vengeance. Though Ser Erwin Lannister is my second in writ, Septon Lyman is my true second, in word and deed.
The four Ironborn Lords stood, but made no movement to depart. After a moment of awkward and expectant silence, Lord Arthur Goodbrother gruffly cleared his throat and spoke. "Lord Regent," he addressed Hobert cooly, "there is one matter that I am loathe to depart without mentioning once more. That of the garrison of Corpse Lake."
Hobert forcibly suppressed a grimace. Will I hear no end to this? The garrison of Corpse Lake, a castle on Great Wyk held by a cadet branch of House Goodbrother, had been notable in its spirited refusal to stand down to Hobert's army. Despite repeated threats, they'd kept the gates closed and answered envoys with naught but arrows. It's a miracle that none were killed whilst attempting to approach the castle. Eventually, some of the less fanatical defenders had lost heart at the sight of two dragons arrayed beyond the castle's walls, and had opened a postern gate in the dead of night, allowing Hobert's men to seize the castle and capture the majority of the defiant garrison.
That was only the beginning of the trouble, however. The fate of the captured garrison was a question that loomed large in the mind of each and every soul at Urrathon's Watch, the port town of Great Wyk that Hobert had claimed as his new headquarters. Unsurprisingly, Ser Erwin and much of the army expected for the garrison to be made an example of, a warning to any other denizen of the Isles that thought to resist the occupation of their home. Hobert had hesitated to have them all killed, however. Does bloodshed not beget bloodshed, after all? By slaughtering the garrison, some Ironmen may learn to fear us, but all will quickly learn to hate us. Hobert could think of no quicker way to turn the ambivalence of much of the Isles' populace into hatred, by striking the heads off of those that they saw as noble warriors and defenders of their ideals.
Of course, Hobert's clear hesitance to act had won him no acclaim amongst the men that he led, either. Even Hobert could notice how his inability to act decisively was seen as weakness in the eyes of the hardened knights and men-at-arms under his command, and the longer he hesitated the more their resentment grew. What to do, what to do?
Eventually, Hobert drew in a short breath, and responded to Lord Goodbrother. "A decision on the matter of Corpse Lake's garrison will be made in due time, my Lord," he began, noting how frowns appeared on the faces of both Ironmen and Mainlanders. Ignoring the growing unease he felt, Hobert continued: "I bid you and your fellow Lords now return to your seats, and make the necessary preparations for the departure of your kin." Hostages had to be sent to King's Landing of course, to ensure the Ironborn Lords' good behavior. King's Landing is the best I can do, Hobert mused as the frowns of the Ironmen deepened, Ser Erwin had wanted them sent to Casterly Rock. Despite his attempts at amelioration, however, it seemed that Hobert had done naught but inflame the anger of both his army and the native denizens of the Isles.
Hobert was nearly ready to collapse from his chair in utter exhaustion. The day had been dreadfully long, and the tasks laid before him seemingly endless. Largely, he had been saddled with audience after audience. For the most part, they were filled with messengers sent by the various garrison commanders that had been set up throughout the Isles in order to maintain the peace and ensure that Hobert's new regime remained somewhat stable. The reports weren't catastrophic, but they were no cause for celebration either. It wasn't as though there was any news from the Mainland to bring him joy either. Besides largely denying his requests for more men and supplies, the only news of note that he'd received from King's Landing lately was that the Lady Jeyne Arryn had died of an illness she'd been stricken with during her journey from the Vale.
Many of the members of his army beyond the men-at-arms and freeriders were lesser nobles, younger sons and younger brothers of various Lords throughout the Realm. Mainly Rivermen and Westermen, but there was a sizable contingent of Northmen as well, who emphatically insisted that they had left the North for good and all, so as not to be a burden on their families in the dead of winter. These nobles expected new lands and titles as recompense for their participation in Hobert's campaign in the Isles. In reality, Hobert's "campaign" wasn't much of a campaign at all, with most of the Iron Isles' castles capitulating fairly quickly and mutedly, with the most dedicated and uncompromising of their warriors already rotting in the West or silty ash settled at the bottom of the Sunset Sea.
When it had become clear that Hobert was not intending to lead a violent campaign of retribution and annihilation, but rather one of occupation and pacification, a large amount of his army had dissipated, leaving once peace in the Isles had officially been declared. They saw no reason, no opportunity, to remain in the Isles, a motivation which Hobert wasn't entirely unsympathetic to. However, the loss of much of his army meant that banditry and retaliatory ambushes by hardline Ironborn refusing to accept the peace in the countryside dealt real damage to the garrison of mainlanders stationed on each island, and that Hobert's authority as Crown Regent of the Isles hardly extended beyond the walls of any town or city in the Isles. To hear Ser Erwin's messenger speak of it in his latest report sent from Harlaw where he served as commander of the island's garrison, the Lords of the Ironmen that had been allowed to surrender were likely colluding with the bandits and revanchists. Hobert wasn't too sure what he thought about the state of the Ironborn Lords' loyalty, but it certainly didn't seem promising. The Lords did what was asked of them, but often begrudgingly, and with a bare minimum of effort and alacrity.
It all made Hobert wish to scream and rip out what few pitiful hairs remained atop his head. Can't they see? I'm the only man that stands between the people of these accursed Isles and Ser Erwin's sword! After a recent attack on his garrison that had killed five men, Ser Erwin had marched into the square of Harlaw's largest town and hanged fifteen of their hapless citizens, declaring that three Ironmen would die for every Mainlander that was murdered. When he'd discovered this, Hobert had sent a private letter to Ser Erwin, condemning his actions and forbidding him from using such retaliatory attacks in the future. He'll find other ways to subvert my orders, I'm sure. How was Hobert to do his duty to the Crown and Realm when his allies hated and disregarded him as much as his former foes?
The Lord Constable Maegor's actions did little to help Hobert's situation either. He flew from island to island on his dragon, helping to spearhead each garrison's efforts in dismantling the ancient tradition of thralldom. While Hobert had no issues in principle with tearing such a disgusting system down, the dragonrider's rapid action on the issue was causing significant trouble. Apart from the outright consternation and rage that was building within the native populace as they lost what they perceived to be rightful 'property', many thralls found themselves suddenly homeless in a hostile land, with huge amounts of them clamoring for passage back to the mainland on ships that Hobert simply didn't have to spare. Additionally, given that the Ironborn mostly relied upon their thralls to do the work of mining and farming, the profitability of mines had plummeted as thralls fled from the former mines and fields that they'd been bound to, as well as causing genuine fears of famine on the Isles to become prevalent.
Hobert was doing his best to remain dedicated to the seemingly insurmountable tasks laid before him as Crown Regent, but with each morn, he woke with a little less resolve, and a little more of the old listlessness and apathy that he'd spent a lifetime cultivating. How can any one man be expected to succeed here? Did… did Lord Velaryon send me here to fail? The outcome of Hobert's actions in the Isles would ultimately reflect back upon House Hightower. Failure in the Isles would mean a catastrophic loss of prestige for his kin in Oldtown, already suffering from a surfeit of goodwill in the aftermath of the cursed "Dance".
Hobert's increasingly despondent ruminations were interrupted by the sound of his study's door being opened. A servant in Hightower livery stepped through the door, and cleared his throat. "Lord Regent," he began, "there is one more man who wishes to have an audience with you."
Hobert nodded tiredly in acknowledgment of the servant's words. "Who is it?" Hobert asked mutedly. What new crisis am I about to learn of? Who else has killed who, and what will I be expected to do about it?
The servant couldn't fully conceal the flash of disdain that passed across his face, as fleeting as lightning. "A knight, Lord Regent," the servant said evenly, "he claims to be your kin." The last of the servant's words were cloaked in a brittle politeness that did little and less to conceal his true feelings about the visitor.
Hobert nodded, his interest piqued. "Send him in then," he said, and the servant stepped back into the hallway beyond with a quick nod. A moment later, a young man stepped into Hobert's study. His armor was more frayed leather than steel, and what steel he had was tarnished, his slightly lumpy breastplate in particular betraying how often a smith's hammer had been needed to hammer it back into shape. Nonetheless, the dull metal was cleaned and polished meticulously, and the knight himself bowed deeply in deference to Hobert.
"Please, rise," Hobert said courteously. After a moment, the man straightened, and gave Hobert a nod of thanks. As he stood more prominently in the light of one of the braziers, Hobert realized just how young the knight truly was. He must have only recently won his spurs. Grabbing a pitcher of Arbor Gold, Hobert filled two goblets, and offered one to the knight across his table. "My servant says that we're kin, you and I?" Hobert wasn't sure what to make of this knight. A man who claimed the Hightower name, but was armed and armored as modestly as the humblest hedge knight.
With a nod of thanks, the knight took the offered goblet and quaffed half of its contents in several large gulps. Hobert hid his grimace with a measured sip of his own. An impressive vintage, and yet he swills it like a tavern's ale. No highborn that Hobert had ever met would have done such a thing.
The knight wiped the wine from his upper lip with his frayed sleeve. "Yes Ser," he began, "I am Ser Humbert Hightower, the twenty-seventh of his name."
Hobert raised his eyebrows. He neither knew nor had heard of any 'Humbert Hightower' during his long years in Oldtown, much less one who claimed to be the twenty-seventh of his line.
Before Hobert could think further, the young knight continued. "I am descended from Humbert Hightower, the first of his name. He was a younger brother of Lord Garth Hightower, who ruled Oldtown during the reign of King Edmund Gardener, the second of his name. Our family keeps papers that we had the maesters make for us. They'll prove the truth of my words!"
Hobert nearly spat out his wine. He traces his descent from the main line of our family back into the reign of the Gardeners!? Hobert hadn't even known such a distant branch of his family had existed. "Are you," Hobert began, collecting his wits, "are you of Oldtown?"
The knight nodded eagerly, stepping closer to Hobert's desk. "I was a member of Oldtown's watch, like my father and elder brother 'afore me. I marched with the Lord Lyonel's army towards the end of the war, but we didn't see any fighting. I was, well I was hoping that I might swear my sword to you now." Seemingly remembering himself, the knight stepped back once more, and adopted a more deferential posture.
Hobert thought for a moment on the knight's words. A Hightower, though so far removed from the family tree he may as well be one of the smallfolk. Closing his eyes a moment, Hobert could almost imagine how most of his kin would sneer at such claims, at the sight of this hedge knight claiming the same blood and lineage as them. Lord Ormund, Ser Bryndon, cousin Alicent, or cousin Otto would all have had the young man horsewhipped for making such claims of kinship, for presuming to be their honored kin.
Such thoughts made Hobert frown slightly. And what do I care what they would have thought, would have done? Hobert was surprised by the sudden vitriol he felt within himself. What good did any of their pretensions do for them? Ormund, Bryndon, and Otto were dead, Alicent mad and locked away. Banishing thoughts of the rest of his kin from his mind, Hobert gave the young knight a small smile. "By all means, Ser Humbert. I will gladly accept your fealty. It will be good, I think, to have honored kin to rely upon once more."
The sept that had been hastily built within Hobert's headquarters at Urrathon's Watch was no Starry Sept. Where Hobert would have expected to smell incense, or hear the occasional distant chanting of the faithful, there was instead silence, and the pervasive smell of sawdust. The entire structure was shrouded in gloom, the icons of the Seven crude wooden statues coated in cheap paint that was far too gaudy for a place of worship. Even so, Hobert would have to make do.
As he oft did more than late, Hobert knelt before the statue of the Crone, praying for guidance in these times of struggle and strife. Much was expected of him, and as always, Hobert felt woefully inadequate for the position that he'd been appointed to. The whisper of grey robes next to him made Hobert look to his side. Septon Lyman stood at Hobert's side, and he nodded deeply at Hobert as a greeting.
"Forgive me, Lord Regent," the Septon began, "but I couldn't help but notice that you've been before the Crone's altar for some time. The night grows quite late. Far be it from me to discourage the faithful from seeking advice from the Gods, but even the most pious need rest from time to time." Septon Lyman smiled gently, the skin about his emerald-green eyes crinkling.
Hobert smiled back weakly. "My apologies, Septon Lyman. I fear that there is much that troubles my mind these days. Sometimes, it all feels as though there is naught to do but fail. I keep company with the Gods when I can, in the hopes that they will bless me with their guidance."
After a moment's consideration, Lyman sat on a rough-hewn pew, and motioned for Hobert to join him. Hobert rose to his feet, grimacing as his knees creaked painfully, and walked over to the pew, seating himself beside the Septon.
Lyman sat in silence for a moment, regarding the silent and rough-hewn faces of the Seven that surrounded them. After a moment, he spoke. "I won't presume to know all the troubles that ail you, Lord Regent. But I feel as though I may be able to guess at some of them. The King has tasked you with pacifying a hostile land, home to perfidious reavers and thieves. As if keeping these Ironmen in line wasn't difficult enough already, my kinsman Ser Erwin frustrates every one of your tentative plans with unrepentant violence, sowing further dissent." Lyman turned to look at Hobert with a stare of measured coolness. "Have I spoken falsely or out of turn, Lord Regent?"
Mouth nearly agape, Hobert slowly shook his head. With a small nod, Septon Lyman turned to regard the visages of the Gods once more before continuing. "The Ironmen have destroyed much and more of my former home in the West, and caused untold suffering. Ser Erwin and his knights are not without legitimate grievance." For the briefest of moments, Septon Lyman's face twisted in anger, banishing its measured placidness as a thrown stone would break the surface of a pond.
Less than a heartbeat later, the serenity was back upon Septon Lyman's features, as though the rage he'd displayed had existed only in Hobert's imagination. "Even so," Septon Lyman sighed, "I fear that my kinsman Ser Erwin is ultimately mistaken in his actions." Septon Lyman turned to regard Hobert once more. "You and I are both scions of ancient lineages, Lord Regent. Kings of the First Men in their own right, long before the coming of the Andals, and long before the light of the Seven first shone upon our home."
Ser Lyman ran his thumb and forefinger through the golden curls of his short beard for a moment, deep in thought. "Before our ancestors had the Seven, we worshiped the Old Gods. Savage and cruel entities that demanded such acts as hanging the entrails of the condemned amongst the boughs of Heart Trees. Savage and unnatural Gods worshiped by savage and unnatural men. Then the Andals came with the one true faith, and brought the light of civilization and redemption to the First Men that would listen. First Men like the Hightowers and the Lannisters. With the Seven came peace and prosperity."
Septon Lyman frowned slightly. "The Ironmen and Northmen have rejected the true faith, and remain savages in barren and destitute lands. And yet, where the light of the Seven shines, so does prosperity grow. When the Manderlys made White Harbor, bringing the Seven north of the Neck, their new home prospered." The aged Septon smiled knowingly. "So too can prosperity be brought to these Isles, and its peoples be civilized as our ancestors once were. With the Faith, all things are possible."
Hobert was enthralled, his mind awash with the possibilities. The Faith may do what the sword never has been able to. The Ironmen have never truly been broken, not in ten thousand years. But can they change, under the watchful eyes of the Seven and their earthly representatives?
"I implore you, Ser Hobert," Septon Lyman said with conviction, "write King's Landing, and ask for the King and his regents to officially rescind King Aenys' writ, that which allowed the Greyjoys to banish the Faith from these Isles so long ago. I know of sympathetic ears and minds amongst the ranks of the Most Devout in Oldtown, those who would be willing to focus the full effort of the faithful on converting these Isles and bringing their peoples into the light of the Seven. I promise you, Ser Hobert, where the Seven's power grows, so will peace and prosperity. A chance to affect real change, for good and all."
Hobert sat in silence for a time, absorbed in thought. A chance to affect real change, Septon Lyman had told him. Was that what the Iron Isles needed? Ser Erwin, and many of the knights that accompanied the King's army felt differently. They think that all the Ironmen are good for is being put to the sword, or working to death in the mines for their new rulers. It did not take a brilliant man to realize that they would constantly be watching for any justification to crack down on the Lords of the Ironborn that remained. Mayhaps it is nothing less than these 'Men of Iron' deserve. Never once have they offered the mainland an open hand of reconciliation.
And yet, Hobert had spent much of his recent life watching men live and die by the sword. So much death, and for what? Fallow fields, empty homes, and a new generation weaned on an insidious hatred borne of loss. Will this be my legacy in the Isles? Is this what the Seven would want? Hobert looked longingly at the cask of Arbor Gold that he'd had hauled into his chambers. What I want is a drink, yet instead I sit and think. The absurdity of the sudden rhyme appearing in his head made Hobert laugh aloud. Mayhaps, in another life, I could have been a mummer. Making a fool of myself for my patrons' laughter, coin, and food. Hobert certainly was no stranger to feeling like a fool. Was that not what he'd been since leaving Oldtown? A fool in shining motley, dancing to the discordant tune of evil men and women.
Alike to Florian the Fool, except all that Florian did was in the name of honor and love. Most of Hobert's actions were driven by an abiding fear and apathy. Another life… The concept caught at the edge of Hobert's consciousness, wriggling like a fly caught in the spider's web. Hobert wondered more seriously for a moment about the life he'd lived, and after a moment, thought of all the lives he could have lived, all the different Hobert Hightowers that could have existed, but didn't. Decisions made throughout his life that had seemed so trivial, so natural, at the times that he made them. If I'd chosen differently, how different could it all be? Would such altered decisions, beyond a change in Hobert's own thoughts and convictions, truly mean anything? Your acting differently would have meant nothing. Hobert's inner voice was always quick to deride him and to rob him of his confidence, leaving him silent and awkward in a world full of stronger personalities.
"What if it did matter?" Hobert spoke aloud to himself, with more rage in his tone than he'd expected. He was tired of that little voice within himself telling him that he was nothing, could do nothing. Hobert imagined himself at the meeting at Bitterbridge, speaking up against the planned sack. Of admonishing the Prince Daeron and Lord Ormund that the tragic death of Prince Maelor, an innocent child, need not be used as the twisted justification for bloodshed and slaughter. He imagined stepping up decisively beyond the walls of Tumbleton, ordering the army to stop its sack and hanging the monsters that ignored him, whether born in a castle or a hut. He imagined standing up and stopping Jon Roxton from slaughtering Lord Footly and raping his wife. He imagined a world in which Hobert Hightower wasn't a coward, and had always stood up for what he knew to be right.
Hobert blinked suddenly and remembered where and who he was, a tired old man in a crude wooden chair. There was a lump in his throat, and his eyes were wet and watery. You've been a coward all your life, the voice within him began, "but it doesn't always have to be that way." Hobert cut in. He could, and would, do what was needed to bring change to the Iron Isles, as the Septon wished.
Suddenly invigorated with energy, Hobert slid his chair up to the ornate desk in the center of his chambers. Hands shaking with anticipation, Hobert grabbed as many sheafs of parchment as he could find, as well as a quill and ink. He began to feverishly write his first letter, though he knew it to be only the first of many in a long night of writing. He would use every ounce of power within his position as Crown Regent of the Isles, as a 'war hero' of the Greens, and as a member of House Hightower to forge a lasting accord between the Isles and the Mainland, one that would welcome peace and banish death in the light of the Seven. He worked with all that he had, and imagined a future in which he could be proud of the legacy that he'd left behind.