Hugor III
He had dreamt of his daughter again. At least, Hugor believed that was who she was. Every memory left to him was part of a maddeningly incomplete tapestry; half-remembered faces and places that he could rarely associate with a certain time in his life. The memories of the war were easy enough. He remembered parts of the sack of Duskendale, mainly running down townsfolk on horseback as their homes and livelihoods burned. But there were other memories, other battles, that he couldn't put a time and place to. The fighting was just as brutal, the killing just as merciless, but in terrain utterly unlike that of the Crownlands and Riverlands. Essos, mayhaps? Hugor may have been a mercenary, at some point. He was old enough to have lived and fought in many places. Even so, answers to his own many questions remained elusive.
The memories of his daughter were frustratingly indistinct. He could remember that she had been too bold by half, yet charming enough to get away with more than she should have. Hugor knew that he had loved her dearly, just as he knew that he had lost her, long ago. Long before any war. As Septa Larissa always said, the Gods gave and took, though Hugor privately felt that he had lost much more than he'd ever gained in his long life. Whenever he saw his daughter in his dreams, she wore the amber brooch. It was always a jarring and distressing sight, filling him with indescribable fear and disgust. Hugor knew that the brooch was out of place in his dreams; his daughter had never owned nor wore it. Yet still it appeared, to haunt and torment him for reasons that he no longer remembered.
The opening of a door, and the cold gust of winter air that followed in its wake, was enough to pull Hugor from his thoughts. Marq the Miller entered the hut, stomping snow from his worn and stained boots as he closed the door behind himself. That's everyone, then. Though Larissa's followers were no army, they did have an informal hierarchy, of sorts. As the first of her followers, as well as the only knight in their number, Hugor was Larissa's undisputed second. Just as an army had serjeants, however, Larissa had her own grizzled followers that the newcomers listened to and obeyed. Garrett was one, Marq the Miller another. Jeyne of Harrentown, and Patchy Elwic, self-named and so-called as much for the missing eye and arm as for the tattered and patched cloak he wore. The five men (and woman) who answered only to Larissa herself, and concerned themselves with the group's worldly matters while Larissa largely concerned herself with her charity and theology.
When Larissa had specifically requested their presence that evenfall, they had been quick to gather. The Septa's party had been allowed several huts for their own use within the walls of Lord Strong's village, as honored guests. They could leave any time (a bald-faced lie if Hugor had ever heard one), but Larissa had not yet given the order to. The elders of the village they'd used to inhabit had long ago sworn their fealty to the cause of Lord Strong and his bastard Prince, as had every Kingswood peasant enclave that Hugor had heard of. Both native inhabitants of the Kingswood and outsiders who'd found refuge there felt ill-used and cheated by the Lords of the Realm, but most of all, they were angry. Who was this boy in King's Landing, the child of the tyrannical Rhaenyra, to tell them that the Realm was now at peace, and that their grievances were laid to rest? For the indigent and restless inhabitants of the Kingswood, nothing had been forgotten, and absolutely nothing had been forgiven.
Hugor had been shocked at the extent of Lord Strong's hidden army, awaiting the order to march forth from their disparate communes and fight for their King, little Gaemon, bastard son of King Aegon II and a whore named Essie, both of whom Lord Strong kept well-guarded. Much of this army would be untrained and starving refugees, it was true, but their number would also include many woodsmen and women, skilled at tracking, trapping, and archery. In their ranks too would be many veterans, listless and homeless soldiers that chose a new King to fight for rather than to become broken men. Lastly but perhaps most importantly were the mercenaries, soldiers of fortune from beyond the Narrow Sea that had been brought to Westeros to fight a war. They had come in considerable numbers only to find themselves abruptly out of work, paid far less than they were promised, and dismissed from Lordly retinues with stern warnings to not cause any trouble and to take the nearest ships back east. The large majority had, angry as they were. But some hadn't. Some mercenaries now waited in the Kingswood at Lord Strong's command, salivating at the prospect of a new war and the plunder that was sure to follow.
Where Larissa and her followers fit into this growing movement was a question that Hugor hoped would be answered tonight. There will be no neutrality in what is to come. We must either take up Lord Strong's cause, or be long gone by the time the Kingswood and Crownlands burn.
With all of her subordinates gathered before her, Septa Larissa finally closed her leather-bound copy of The Seven-Pointed Star. She set it aside with a small and placid smile, but Hugor had known Larissa long enough to see the doubt and uncertainty that roiled behind her eyes. "Amongst the first generations of the Andal pilgrimage to Westeros was a war-leader known as Argos Sevenstar. He along with his seven sons led one of the largest pilgrimages to leave Andalos, landing with his host at the mouth of the White Knife in the North. Argos, his sons, and their followers hoped to establish a new kingdom in the North, and to bring the Seven north of the Neck as no Andal host had yet tried."
Septa Larissa smoothed her dress idly with her hands as she collected her thoughts for a moment. "In this, Argos and his host failed miserably. Though sources are unclear due to a lack of cohesive record-keeping by the First Men, what is clear is that the Starks and Boltons forged an alliance to see Argos defeated, and destroyed his entire host at the Battle of the Weeping Water. King Theon Stark was able to seize nearly all of Argos' ships, and built more of his own as well. With them, he sailed with an army across the Narrow Sea to Andalos and laid waste to its coastal lands, including the Sept from which the first pilgrims had received the blessing to travel west in search of new lands."
Septa Larissa sighed deeply. "The attack was such an affront to Andals on both sides of the Narrow Sea, that for a time they nearly set aside their differences in order to launch a 'Great Pilgrimage' against the North, in order to see its peoples destroyed or subjugated. Such efforts failed, as personal differences and petty conflicts tore any tentative attempts at a grand alliance apart."
Hugor watched the Septa in silence along with the others. Though he oft didn't understand why she would say the things that she did, he also knew that her point would become clear in time.
"Though The Seven-Pointed Star encourages peace whenever possible, it allows for 'Holy War' in the case of causes that are sufficiently righteous. Such reasoning is why the Andals began their armed pilgrimages to Westeros in the first place. Early theologians argued that conflict is intrinsically linked with Faith, as all people, men and women, young and old, rich or poor, must fight a lifelong battle against temptation and sin in order to preserve their piety, and remain within the Gods' favor. A faithful man, they said, may fight with the favor of the Gods so long as he fights just as dedicatedly for the preservation of his immortal soul whilst doing so."
Hugor continued to sit silently as he digested Larissa's words. It was easy to forget that the Septa had devoted much of her life in her Motherhouse to the mysteries of the faith. It was the war that had compelled her to leave its peace and quiet in order to preach to the traumatized masses left behind by the war.
Whatever her ultimate point was, it was clear that Larissa was nearing it. "When Arlan Durrandon, third of his name, invaded the Riverlands with his host in support of House Blackwood's revolt against House Teague and the Faith, the High Septon and Most Devout were greatly aggrieved, and issued a formal complaint to the Storm King. At the war's end, with the extinction of the Teague royal line, the High Septon preached that the Riverlands, ever torn asunder with conflict, ought to be made a direct protectorate of the Faith. It was the High Septon's reasoning that placing the Riverlands under the Faith's direct protection would be a powerful deterrent against the ambitions of the Kingdoms that surrounded the region, and promote peace."
Hugor raised his eyebrows. He had not heard of this conflict before, or of the ambition of the Faith in its aftermath. "King Arlan refused the High Septon," Larissa continued, "and instead added the Riverlands to his own domain. This betrayal of the Faith proved to be one too many. The High Septon declared anathema against Arlan and the entire Durrandon line, knowing that such an act would dangerously weaken the Durrandons' standing amongst their own vassals, and embolden rival kingdoms in taking action against the Storm Kings."
Larissa shook her head. "King Arlan, in desperation, made a pilgrimage from Storm's End to Oldtown, but was denied entrance to the city by the High Septon. He waited beyond its gates for a week, barefoot and garbed in beggars' rags, and fasting almost to the point of starvation. At week's end, the High Septon eventually allowed King Arlan to enter Oldtown and the Starry Sept, and impressed by the King's penance, removed his anathema against the King and the Durrandon line. Even so, the High Septon spent the rest of his life advocating for the Riverlands to be made a protectorate of the Faith."
Larissa smiled sadly at Hugor and his compatriots. "Though war is an evil, twisted thing, and a blight upon the innocent, the Faith teaches that it can be fought for a righteous cause." To Hugor's eyes, it seemed as though saying such words nearly made the Septa physically ill, and that she herself hardly believed them. "In this case, it seems that whether we wish it or not, war will come to the Realm once more." Larissa paused, her expression visibly twisted with deep pain and consternation. "Lord Strong wishes to crown an innocent boy King, for purposes that I can't begin to guess at. Those that surround the child all have their reasons to see him on the Iron Throne, and I can only fear what they may be."
Larissa pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead, and breathed in deeply with her eyes closed. "As loyal adherents of the Faith," she said evenly, opening her eyes once more, "it seems that our duty must be to join the cause of young Prince Gaemon. We shall provide guidance both spiritual and temporal, and keep the boy on the path of righteousness. If the Gods favor our efforts, it may be that we'll finally seat a King on the Iron Throne who will cherish life, and ensure that the needs of all of his people are remembered and respected. A kingdom that will protect the peace, as the High Septon wished to so long ago."
Hugor was silent for a long time, as were the others. Larissa waited in expectant silence, but did not try to encourage an immediate response. Have we not all spent our time together trying to escape the evils wrought by war? What justice is there to be found at the end of a blade? Even worse, Hugor felt like a hypocrite for his misgivings. What friend to peace are you, murderer? Hugor had always found it difficult to believe that he was a victim of the war, as the Septa claimed all people were.
Men like Marq the Miller and Garrett were victims, men who had suffered much and more at the hands of evil men, the victimizers that had shed rivers of blood. Is that not what I am? I can build homes for peasants and ponder the mysteries of the faith around a fire in the company of friends, but what I do now is little help to those I thoughtlessly slaughtered. Hugor hadn't hated most of the people he'd killed, those that he remembered and those that he didn't. They'd meant nothing to him at all, which in many ways seemed even worse. Some fought back, and some didn't. The only fault that they all shared was that they were unlucky enough to get in my way, and that they weren't strong or skilled enough to slay me instead.
The worst part of it all was that Hugor couldn't even remember the full extent of his crimes, the ills that he had done. The guilt remained, however. It was hollow and shallow, bereft of its own source, but unceasing. I was not raised and trained to take part in righteous causes. I was taught to kill, and to be good at it. I'm naught but a blood-stained, rusted sword that is trying to forget its purpose, and convince itself that it can be a carpenter's hammer.
"Aye, Septa," Marq the Miller eventually said, "a King for all of us. As worthy a cause to fight for if there ever was one." Jeyne and Patchy Elwic nodded in agreement, and Garrett nodded in assent a moment later.
Hugor was surprised by his compatriots' assent. We banded together to fight the ruination that threatened to overcome the lot of us. Are they so willing to plunge themselves back into a new war? It was nearly impossible for Hugor to trust that such an idealistic peace would ever be achieved. And to even attempt that, we'll have to overthrow a King that enjoys the support of Westeros' nobility. It was impossible, near madness. And yet, there's a chance. What good is my cynicism in the face of a better future?
Mayhaps it wasn't idealism. Mayhaps such a cause was purely a means for men like Marq the Miller to be able to tell themselves that his family had been murdered for something other than the avarice of Princes and Lords, knights and mercenaries. That their wrongfully shed blood might water the fields of a plentiful future. A rusty sword, stained with blood. That's what I called myself. Mayhaps it's time I whet my blade for a higher purpose, as the Seven intended. The folly of it all made Hugor want to laugh, or mayhaps it was a sob that he felt roiling deep in his chest? He stayed silent instead, not trusting his jumbled thoughts. A moment later, Hugor added a short nod of assent to that of the others, and hoped that the blood to be shed would be worth it in the end.
The knight had been captured as he traveled through the Kingswood. Apparently, he had observed several woodsmen skinning a poached deer in an encampment near the Kingsroad that passed through it, and had given pursuit along with his squire when they fled. Unbeknownst to the knight, the Lord Strong had begun posting forward scouts and garrisons near the geographical edges of his influence within the Kingswood. This was to prevent unwanted eyes and ears from ascertaining the goings-on occurring within the burgeoning domain of the so-called Gaemon Palehair. The knight's squire had been felled by expert arrow-fire when he and his master refused to stand down, the knight surrounded, swarmed, and eventually made prisoner.
Standing before Larys Strong and his chief supporters in the inn's common room, the knight didn't look so impressive, his face bruised, his black-and-white doublet torn. The white swan on black had nearly been turned brown by dirt. Byron Swann. Hugor was unsure of where the name had come from, but it seemed to fit the fuming face of the knight standing before them all.
"I am a knight, and a nobleman!" he was shouting, apoplectic. "I shan't presume as to why you associate yourself with vulgar brigands such as these, my Lord Strong, but I must protest most strongly my detainment. I am a sworn knight of the Lord Borros Baratheon, and if you do not fear my wrath, you should surely fear his!"
Lord Larys smirked, and nearly impercetibly shifted more of his weight onto his cane as he leaned forward to respond to the knight. "I remember you, Ser Byron of House Swann." His voice was as cool as it ever was, and Hugor doubted if the man had ever raised it above a normal speaking tone in his life. "If my memory does not fail me, it was the help of vulgar brigands such as mine that allowed you to seize and open the gates of the Red Keep, and to capture the Pretender Rhaenyra and her whelps." The half-smile remained, but Lord Strong's eyes were pitiless.
"When you recounted your tale of valor to the late King, your exploits seemed to distinctly lack aught but you and your intrepid squire, may the Seven rest his soul." Though no aspect of Lord Strong's tone could be accused of mockery when offering his condolences, the words seemed to drip with an unspoken derisiveness. Ser Byron surely noticed as well, for he snapped his mouth shut with a twisted grimace even as he initially made to offer a retort. From her chair behind Lord Larys, Septa Larissa frowned as well. For her, supporting Lord Strong was not a matter of loyalty or regard, but pure pragmatism. Even so, it was clear to Hugor that she resented the Clubfoot's casual impiety, and mockery of the Gods.
Ser Byron wasn't finished complaining about the circumstances of his imprisonment, however. "I warn you, Lord Strong," he seethed, "when the Lord Borros learns of my disappearance, he will send more men to search for me. I know not what twisted schemes you have hidden amongst these trees, but they will be torn asunder by Stormlander swords should you not release me!"
Murmurs filled the inn's common room at that. Few knew exactly how Lord Strong planned to win little Gaemon Palehair his crown, but it was clear that the time was not yet right. Levies amongst the native villagers and refugees were still being gathered, arms and meager armor still being scrounged and forged with whatever metal could be gathered. The fight will be impossible enough when prepared. We will be as lambs to the slaughter if King's Landing learns of us now. Ser Byron thought he'd gained ground for himself, as a small, cruel smile began to slip across his face.
Lord Larys was not long in denying him his growing satisfaction. "Lord Borros Baratheon remains in King's Landing, with all of his sworn men and retainers." There was no longer a smirk on the Clubfoot's face, only a placid mask devoid of any emotion, indistinguishable from the stony visage of a statue. "If you left King's Landing by yourself, it was because for one reason or another, you are no longer a part of Lord Baratheon's retinue. One knight and a squire would never be sufficient for conducting the official business of a Lord Paramount in times of peace." The smile on Ser Byron's face curdled and died. Whatever footing he'd thought that he'd found with his threats, it had been pulled right back out from under him.
"Ser Hugor," Lord Strong called, and Hugor stepped forward from the common room audience expectantly. "See Ser Swann back to his accommodations, if you would be so kind."
Hugor nodded, and took Ser Byron roughly by the arm, pulling him back towards the entrance of the inn. Whatever fire and defiance he'd mustered for his presentation before Lord Larys and his informal council had been utterly snuffed out, and Swann moved along almost listlessly. He didn't even bother to look at Hugor. Hugor led him across the bustling village, jerking the despondent knight this way and that to avoid the throngs of folk making ready for war.
Smiths' hammers rang in impromptu forges all about, the warm glow of forge fires bright in the late-afternoon gloom of winter. Those that knew how to maintain a weapon did so, and those that didn't watched and tried to mimic their actions with whatever meager weapons they bore themselves. Footsteps, the occasional hoofbeats, and casual conversation punctuated with orders or shouts made for an undulating, unending stream of sound that tugged at the edge of conscious perception. Hugor walked amongst it all, pulling Ser Byron along, and felt an odd sort of peace. These sounds, these surroundings, were intimately familiar to him, akin to the touch of an experienced lover. An odd comparison, perhaps, but Hugor felt that the former provided as much comfort as thoughts of the latter, despite his lack of memories to substantiate either experience.
In time, they approached the building that housed Larissa and her adherents. An ancient and sturdy granary of timber and stone in times of plenty, it was now where Hugor and his comrades found what sleep and rest that they could as they sharpened swords and trained, waiting for time and fate to catch up to them, as it always did. A small outbuilding was connected to the side of the granary that faced the village green, with only an inner door providing access. It was here that Ser Byron Swann was imprisoned, as it was the only place that was as well-guarded as its guards were unconcerned with any possible promises of wealth and glory that could be made by the knight of black and white for freeing him.
Nodding at Patchy Elwic as the man moved to take a chair by the inner door of the outbuilding, Hugor pulled Ser Byron across the floor of the granary, before pushing him past Elwic into the outbuilding's cramped confines. The knight offered no protest, simply leaning his back against the outbuilding's outer wall and sliding to the floor.
"Cause no trouble," Hugor warned, unsure if the knight even heard him.
Byron Swann looked up, eyes hollow. "For what?" he murmured quietly. "All I risked, all I've done, for what?"
Hugor remained silent, simply watching the Stormlander knight as he rambled.
"How many times did I risk my life for the glory of my liege? To fight the war on his behalf, as he pissed his breeches and hid in the Red Mountains?" Swann's eyes glittered at that, animated momentarily with hate. It seemed that Ser Byron lacked the capacity for much else, as the despondency came back almost as quickly as that brief glimmer of rage had appeared.
"Why weren't you there with him, in the Red Mountains?" Hugor asked, unsure of why he'd even asked the question. What do I care about him or the Red Mountains?
Swann shook his head as though half-asleep. "I couldn't go back. Not there. I told myself I'd slay Syrax before I went anywhere near-" Swann's eyes snapped up to Hugor's face, as though he were truly seeing him for the first time. His eyes widened, and they stared at each other in perfect silence for several long moments.
Eventually, Hugor turned on his heel and left quietly, closing the outbuilding's door behind himself and barring it. Ser Swann made no further sound from the other side of the door. Nodding once more at Elwic, Hugor crossed the granary towards its main exit once more. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and Byron Swann as possible, for the time being. As he crossed the village grounds, he couldn't help but feel as though Ser Byron's eyes were on his back, impossible as it was. A gaze that cut through fog and mystery, driving straight for the contents of a man's soul.
It was important for the legitimacy of the King's cause, Lord Strong had told him. Such reasoning made very little sense to Hugor, however. "A King must needs be crowned," the Lady Sylvenna had told him, when he'd been called before Lord Strong's Sand was not much of a Lady at all, by Hugor's estimation, but she insisted on the title as much as she did for Essie, Gaemon's mother. The Lady Esselyn didn't care as much for the title, and was more likely to blush and smile shyly at the use of the honorific and formal name than to accept it as her due as the future King's mother.
A whore for a Queen mother, Hugor had oft thought to himself wryly. The second we'll have had in the last ten years, after the Pretender. The second thought gave Hugor pause. It contained far more vitriol than he'd expected of himself. What do I care about Rhaenyra Targaryen? I never knew her, did I? The anger that had accompanied the thought felt like another man's rage, not Hugor's. It made little and less sense, so he quickly put it out of his mind.
The Lord Larys and Lady Sylvenna had insisted on Hugor's participation in the coronation, however. Hugor remained unconvinced. There were surely better people to do the crowning aside from a simple hedge knight as himself. It was Larissa that had finally changed his mind on the matter. "Who better to crown our King than you, Ser Hugor?''
Though the words themselves were calm and collected enough, Larissa's eyes were downcast as she spoke, and there was an odd twist to her mouth. "If King Gaemon is to be a champion of the downtrodden, should he not be crowned by a simple hedge knight? It is the acclamation of the poor and weary that we require, not the mighty and distant Lords of the Realm." As it usually was, the Septa's words had a way of changing his stance on a matter. Hugor was a stubborn man. Push him hard, and he'd dig his heels in and resist with all his might. Septa Larissa never pushed him with her arguments. She'd point, prod, and reason in circles around Hugor until he found that his stance on the matter had been ploddingly shuffled to the conclusion that Larissa had wanted him to make all along.
It was how he now found himself walking in slow, measured paces across the village green. It was silent, and a light snowfall had begun, a sprinkling of flakes that melted upon reaching the ground more than they stuck. Night had fallen, and torches crackled and spit in the hands of the watchers, ringed about the green as they were. The light dusting of snow across the green proved enough to preserve the barest impression of footprints.
Far to the left, one set of prints displayed an odd amalgamation, with a clear footprint on the left, and a dragged impression for the right. The Clubfoot. On the far right, another set of smaller footprints. The Septa. In the center, two sets of footprints near to the size of Larissa's. Sylvenna and Essie. And in between the two sets of their adult-sized prints, were the far smaller footprints of a young child. Gaemon Palehair, our King to be. Due to his small size and stride, the boy had left nearly twice as many prints as the elders that accompanied him. Next to the much larger prints that pressed far deeper into the crusting of snow, Palehair's prints seemed almost unnoticeable and wholly insignificant, overshadowed by the impression left behind by his caretakers.
Hugor forced his eyes away from the boy's footprints as he felt a sudden lump appear in his throat. What are we all doing? Hugor knew as well as everyone else that the scheme to place little Gaemon on the Iron Throne was far-fetched at best, and hare-brained at worst. He forced himself to regard the boy, standing impatiently between his mother and her companion. He looked bored, and it appeared that the only thing preventing him from fidgeting was the firm hand of Sylvenna upon his shoulder. Tiny snowflakes nestled in the long, fine, white-gold locks of his hair, and his violet eyes looked almost black in the final fading rays of weak winter sun. We're going to get the boy killed, Hugor felt with a sudden sick certainty. In a momentary trick of the fading evening light, Hugor could have sworn that he saw six fingers upon the boy's left hand, rather than five. I must be going mad.
As he continued forward, Hugor grimaced, turning his face down toward the ground so that his expression would be lost amongst gathering shadow. Even if I tossed the crown in my hands aside, I would not save the boy. Too much has been done already, our treasons already committed. There is naught for any of us to do now but win or die, including little Gaemon, though he likely understands little of the schemes of his elders. And what a crown Hugor bore. It was a gaudy thing, crafted of gold and inlaid with jade and pearl aspects of the Seven about its circumference. Lord Larys had told Hugor with no small amount of quiet amusement that the crown of the former King Aenys I was the only one disregarded enough within the Red Keep to be spirited away easily along with Palehair in the chaos following Aegon II's death.
Having reached Gaemon, who was dressed in the finest patchwork raiments that could be scrounged and sewn, Hugor knelt before the lad. The boy stepped forward shyly and hesitantly at the gentle urging of his mother, and regarded Hugor with wide and inquisitive eyes. From behind the dark and frigid clouds of the night sky, the moon appeared, bathing the village green in silvery light that practically glowed in gentle refractions off the light dusting of snow. In a simple yet firm motion, Hugor placed the crown atop the boy's head, before standing and stepping back. It is done.
The crown was too big for the little King, and it slipped dangerously low down his brow, nearly covering his eyes. A raucous and exultant cheer arose from the crowd encircling the green. "Hail the King!" shouted many, "Hail King Gaemon!" called others. "King in the Wood!" some cried, and yet there was one acclamation that seemed to obliterate the sound of all others. "A KING FOR ALL OF US!" It was raised by more and more voices with every breath. Some shouted it, some laughed it, and others wept it.
The crowd pressed in on the green in an exuberant rush. In short order little Gaemon had been placed upon a shield and lifted into the air by the hands of haggard and scarred men that smiled as though they'd just been told they would one day rule the world. And mayhaps, in this one moment, we all do.
Though for several seconds King Gaemon remained motionless atop the shield, face taut with shock and fright, a new expression began to work its way across his face. Small and subdued at first, the King's smile grew wider and wider as his subjects continued to cheer below him. Palehair tried vainly to push his crown further up his forehead, succeeding only in allowing it to fall lower, partially obscuring one eye. He giggled then, the sound high-pitched and exuberant. The sound hurt Hugor's heart as much as it filled him with joy. Is this one night of hope worth all the loss and strife that is to follow? Compared to the alternative, that of a cold and grey existence of meandering from broken place to broken place, Hugor could almost wish it was so.
"Won't you spare me a moment of your time, Ser knight?" Ser Byron Swann's voice was muted by the stout wooden planks of the wall that separated himself and Hugor, but he could hear the mockery in the Stormlander's tone all the same. From where he leaned against the wall next to the door of the outbuilding, Hugor rolled his eyes. He had volunteered to sit watch over the Stormlander knight that evening, when the celebrations surrounding King Gaemon's coronation had finally died down late in the night. The rest of Larissa's adherents (those that didn't stand watch beyond the main doors of the granary) slept soundly in their cots, as the hour of the wolf reached its zenith.
"Come now, spare me from my boredom, Ser Hugor." the voice continued to drip with biting sarcasm, and Hugor misliked the emphasis that Ser Byron put on his name.
Hugor rapped his fist lightly on the wall behind him, and whispered back in a harsh grunt: "Quiet, you. The Septa may have pity for you, but I have little and less. Keep up your nattering, and I'll ensure that no one remembers to bring your morning meal."
A low chuckle emanated through the wall behind Hugor. "Come now, Ser, don't be cruel. I only wish that you and Lord Strong had told me earlier of what you planned. A pretty bit of theatrics, that. Enough to make the best Eastern mummer proud. When they raised that whoreson bastard on the shield, I thought I may shed a tear."
Ser Byron had managed to witness the coronation on the village green through a tiny grated opening near the outbuilding's roof, far too small to escape through, but big enough to see outside through. "Come now, Ser, but a moment of your time."
Hugor was at about his wit's end. Standing, he made his way to the outbuilding's door. Hand on his sword hilt, he unbarred the door, and entered cautiously, wary of an ambush. Far from an ambush, Ser Byron stood against the opposite wall, watching Hugor's entrance with a knowing grin. "No trick, Ser," he said simply.
Hugor simply closed the door behind himself, never taking his eyes off of Ser Byron. "What do you want?" Hugor growled, feeling a sudden urge to slap the slimy grin off the Swann knight's dirt-stained face.
"Is that tone really necessary?" Ser Byron inquired innocently, still smiling. "You don't have to keep the act up anymore. You can tell Lord Strong that I want to join the both of you, and aid in whatever scheme you've cooked up."
Hugor frowned, his anger quenched by sudden confusion. "I know not what Lord Strong intends, but I am no schemer. The Septa has deemed helping Palehair our best course, and I trust her judgment. Where she goes, I follow."
Ser Byron tutted softly, with a small shake of his head. "Come now, you bore me with this act. I will admit, I barely recognized you with that grey hair, close-cropped as it is. That nasty scar has done wonders for your visage as well. But now that I've made the connection, I know exactly who you are. I've known you too long not to, Ser."
Hugor's frown deepened, but he wanted to know what schemes Ser Byron was trying to get up to. "What vested interest have you in the cause of King Gaemon, and his people? Are you not the leal knight of Lord Borros Baratheon?"
Ser Byron rolled his eyes before laughing. "That boisterous, cowardly cunt? I think not. Lord Larys saw right through my farce. My former liege had cut me loose the moment my service to his cause during the war inconvenienced him and his political ambitions."
Ser Byron shook his head, a grimace upon his face. "When Aegon the Elder still ruled in King's Landing, Borros and I laughed over mulled wine about the night I spitted the Strong bastard upon my sword, and the way his stupid whore of a mother howled at the sight."
Hugor's fist involuntarily clenched at Ser Byron's words, but the knight continued speaking, not having noticed: "You of all people would have liked to have seen that!" Swann smiled knowingly; Hugor's face felt carved of stone. What?
Swann continued, his mirth suddenly vanished. "When the younger Aegon took the Throne, however, my bravery in taking the Red Keep suddenly became a deep and unforgivable transgression in the eyes of the Crown. The boy called for my expulsion from court, and my false friends and comrades hanged me out to dry." Ser Byron's face twisted with rage. "Borros, his betrayal cut deepest of all. He always was a loud-mouthed fool, but I was loyal and thought him a friend. I thought wrong. He tossed me aside as a child would throw away an unwanted toy."
Ser Byron spat upon the floor of the outroom. "Fuck Borros, fuck Aegon the Younger, and fuck each and every last cunt in King's Landing." He looked up at Hugor, eyes blazing. "I'll say it again. Whatever you and Lord Strong are planning, I want in. I'll gladly throw away my life if you can offer me even the barest chance of gutting Borros with my own two hands."
Hugor had to take a moment to collect his thoughts within the expectant silence. "I'll relay your message to Lord Strong," Hugor began, "but I still don't know what you could possibly want from me. I'm a simple hedge knight, sworn to the cause of Septa Larissa. Where she goes, I go. What cause she supports, I support. I've never been a man of any import, and I don't ever expect to be."
Annoyance flashed briefly across Ser Byron's face, but it quickly turned to incredulity as he realized that Hugor was telling no lie. "You- you mean you really don't know?" the Stormlander spluttered, the words coming out half a cackle.
Uncertainty roiling within his gut, Hugor made an impassive mask of his face. "Don't know what?" Even to his own ears, Hugor's voice sounded leaden and quiet.
Ser Byron laughed aloud. "Gods, even Pentoshi mummers couldn't act a farce such as this! Who you are, Ser. You truly don't know, do you?"
Hugor tried to wet his lips, to no avail. His mouth was utterly dry, and tasted of ash. "Who am I?" A simple question, but for Hugor, it seemed to bear all the weight of the world behind it.
Ser Byron's eyes never left Hugor's face as he responded. His voice was quiet, and in a queer sort of way, almost gentle. "Ser Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."