A/N: The army of the Greens has finally reached Tumbleton. As you might expect, this chapter alludes to the kind of violence that comes with the sack of a city. I've included this warning for those that may find this content disturbing. As always, comments and feedback are greatly appreciated as the story continues.

Hobert III

Hobert stared into the inferno. The market town of Tumbleton stood no chance against the flames of three dragons, and Hobert watched as they wheeled around to make yet another pass. Prince Daeron flew his own Tessarion beyond the walls of the town, burning the remnants of the enemy forces that had been arrayed before Tumbleton's walls. From the hilltop that he sat atop his palfrey on, the soldiers scurrying around seemed little larger than ants. At Hobert's side on his own grey charger was his attendant knight, Ser Jared, as well as several mounted men-at-arms bearing Hightower badges that were assigned to Hobert as his personal guard.

From his vantage point on the hill, Hobert had been given an ideal place to watch the battle between his cousin's army and the ragtag forces of the usurper Rhaenyra, a mixed force of Reachmen, Rivermen, and from what Hobert had been told, even Northmen. It matters not, cousin Ormund had stated to Hobert earlier that morning, they will break against our superior skill and numbers. Hobert had been more than inclined to agree.

He had seen how the hoary and half-wild Northmen had sallied forth from a postern gate to attack the vanguard of his cousin's army, blowing their warhorns and brandishing their weapons. They must surely be mad, Hobert had thought, fully expecting their charge to be shattered by the mounted knights of the van. Though they suffered grievous losses, the Northmen pushed deeper and deeper, until they had even reached the banners that Lord Ormund himself surrounded himself with as the army's leader. Though the fighting was much too far from Hobert for his aging eyes to make out any specific individuals, he had seen how Lord Ormund's banners had fallen.

By the Seven, Hobert had thought, horrorstruck. Not long after, the remaining Northmen had been cut down, and his cousin's army had seemed to regain a modicum of cohesion. It was then that two dragons rose into the sky from within Tumbleton, as Prince Daeron flew towards the fighting on his own Tessarion. Hobert had feared for the Prince's chances against two dragons, both of which were larger than his own. It quickly became clear that no such fears were warranted, however, as both dragons began to loose their flames on the town below them.

What treachery is this? Hobert had thought. However, he was not one to gainsay such an action, for it was clear that their unexpected allies were doing much and more to hasten an end to the battle. As the town burned, its main gate was raised, and Lord Ormund's army began to pour into the blazing market town. And so Hobert currently sat atop his palfrey, watching the town of Tumbleton burn for its treason.

Hobert had seen the approaching riders for quite some time from his elevated vantage point, and as they drew ever nearer, Hobert realized that they were being led by his goodson, Ser Tyler. Reaching Hobert, Ser Tyler removed his greathelm, and Hobert saw a grim expression etched across his features. Hobert felt a cool tingle of apprehension run down his spine, before breaking the short silence.

"What brings you all the way back here to me, Ser Tyler? The last I had seen you, you were riding in the vanguard with cousin Ormund." At the mention of Lord Ormund, Ser Tyler's frown deepened.

"I bring grave news, goodfather," Ser Tyler began, "Lord Ormund was killed when the Northmen sallied forth from a postern gate in the town. I've come to retrieve you, for the army is in desperate need of orders."

Hobert looked at his goodson in horror. Cousin Ormund was killed? He felt panic rising in his chest. It was then that he considered what else his goodson had said. "The army is in need of orders?" Hobert asked, distraught and confused. "Why not ask Ser Bryndon? He is more of a soldier than I am, and he was riding with you and Lord Ormund in the van."

Ser Tyler grimaced at his words, and Hobert felt as though his heart had dropped out from his chest. "Goodfather… Ser Bryndon was slain as well. You are the foremost remaining Hightower in this army. You are needed at the front to give orders."

Hobert felt as though he might faint. This can't be. Both cousin Ormund and cousin Bryndon? Hobert briefly considered whether he was trapped in the midst of a particularly awful nightmare, but the distant sounds of crackling flame and the scent of blood wafting from Ser Tyler's bloodstained doublet and sword were too strong to be imagined. The intense horror and fear that Hobert felt gave way to a sudden numbness of both his mind and body, and Hobert nodded stiffly at his goodson. "Alright then," Hobert said, his voice brittle and strained, "let us be off."

Though they were shrouded by dirty and bloody Hightower cloaks, Hobert could make out the unmistakable shape of bodies beneath both, lying on the trampled and broken ground not far beyond the main gate of Tumbleton. Chaos and confusion surrounded Hobert as he dismounted and approached the cloaked corpses. Hobert was surprised that the roar of flame, clash of steel, and screams of the dying seemed to be little more than a whisper in his ears as he walked forward in an almost trance-like state.

Hobert removed his greathelm and handed it off to a nearby man-at-arms. Kneeling towards the first cloaked form, Hobert silently lamented how his body ached and creaked under the weight of his plate armor. With a mailed hand, Hobert grabbed the edge of the cloak, drawing it back to see the face beneath. Ser Bryndon's eyes were unfocused and misted over in death, and his face was covered in a splotchy dark red-brown veil of dried blood. A savage wound had been dealt to the left side of his neck, a cut so deep that more of cousin Bryndon's head seemed separated from his body than connected to it. With a grimace, Hobert drew the cloak back over his face.

Turning to the other cloaked corpse, Hobert drew back the cloak that covered it. Hobert immediately turned away, retching up the remnants of his morning meal into the beaten dust of the battlefield. Lord Ormund's face, or rather what remained of it, was a gaping ruin. Whatever blow had killed his cousin had cleft his head nearly completely in twain, leaving naught but shattered bone and bloody pulp in its wake. Hobert was only able to recognize the corpse as Lord Ormund's because of a long scar that ran from his chin down the side of his neck, the result of a tourney accident in the days of his youth. Dabbing at the foul-smelling bile remaining on his lips and chin with a handkerchief, Hobert pulled the cloak back over cousin Ormund's corpse.

With a wince, Hobert struggled back to his feet, and turned to face his goodson, Ser Tyler, as well as several other Lords and landed knights of the Reach. Nodding at a corpse splayed out in the dust several feet away, Lord Unwin Peake spoke. "That crazed Northman was responsible for the deaths of both Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. Ser Bryndon took the man's shield arm off with his longaxe, but the man still killed them both with his battleaxe before taking several spears to the chest."

Hobert looked at the bloody and grizzled face of the dead Northman, staring blankly at the sky beneath a cracked helm. He looks as old as I am. Hobert could hardly believe it. How did an ancient man covered in naught but old mail and fur pelts manage to slay two of the most puissant knights of the Reach? Turning back to regard the assembled Lords and knights behind him, Hobert saw that Ser Tyler had stepped forward.

Holding out a sheathed sword to Hobert, Ser Tyler nodded solemnly in the direction of the cloaked corpses of Hobert's cousins. "As the foremost remaining Hightower in this army, goodfather, we thought it appropriate that you wield Vigilance." Taking his family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword from the hands of his goodson, Hobert was surprised at how light it was. Even the best castle-forged steel of Oldtown couldn't hold a candle to this, Hobert thought. Drawing the blade slightly from its sheath, Hobert stared for a moment at the rippled metal, before sheathing it once more. Handing off his old steel sword to a squire, Hobert buckled Vigilance to his sword belt.

A loud roar drew the attention of Hobert and the men gathered before him, and Hobert watched as Tessarion landed nearby. Prince Daeron unchained himself from his dragon's saddle, before sliding from its back and hopping to the ground. He strode over to the cloaked corpses first, examining the bodies of both Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. Afterwards, he made his way towards Hobert, nodding briefly at the assembled Lords and landed knights as they inclined their heads and bowed.

Stopping in front of Hobert, Prince Daeron removed his black steel helm, tucking it under his arm. His expression was grim, and his purple eyes had a deep sorrow in them. The Prince was Lord Ormund's former squire after all. "Ser Hobert," the Prince began, "I'm sure you are as aggrieved as I am at the deaths of Lord Ormund and Ser Bryndon. However, this army is in need of leadership now more than ever. Tumbleton is a burning ruin, and the men of the army run wild in its streets, pillaging, raping, and killing. As a Prince and the King's own brother, I order you to bring this army under control and stop their predations on this town at once."

As Hobert attempted to collect his thoughts, Lord George Graceford spoke up, disbelief evident in his tone. "But my Prince, the town of Tumbleton is home to naught but traitors! Surely they deserve the same fate as Bitterbridge?"

The reedy man took a step back in alarm as Prince Daeron turned to him in a sudden fury. "The people of Bitterbridge were responsible for the murder of my nephew, a Prince and a boy of scarcely three years! The people of Tumbleton have committed no such crime. They have undoubtedly been led astray by Lord Footly, the ruler of this town, but such treason is his to answer for, not his subjects!" Whirling back to face Hobert, Prince Daeron spoke to him once again, his tone grave and seething with a barely-controlled rage. "Ser Hobert, see that my orders are carried out. I'll have no more of this sack." With that, the Prince donned his helm and made his way back to Tessarion, chaining himself into its saddle and taking flight.

Hobert watched the Prince take flight, and when he looked back at the men assembled before him, he saw that all eyes were fixed on him. It took all of Hobert's bearing not to shudder as apprehension closed around his heart in a vise-like grip. Lords and knights waited expectantly for orders to carry out, but when Hobert opened his mouth to speak, his throat was dry and constricted, and no words came forth from his lips.

His goodson Ser Tyler attempted to come to his rescue. "What are your orders, goodfather? Surely we should act with haste to appease the Prince." Several of the Lords and knights surrounding Hobert's goodson murmured their agreement.

With a sharp glare at Ser Tyler, Lord Unwin Peake stepped forward. "This was a task entrusted to Ser Hobert, not you, Ser Tyler. Let the man speak for himself." He turned to regard Hobert. "What will it be, Ser Hobert? We all await your command."

Hobert felt sweat pouring down his face, and mopped at his face desperately with his kerchief. The walls of Tumbleton ahead of him were alight, and Hobert watched as a burning corpse plummeted from the battlements, splattering like rotten fruit when it hit the ground.

"I…" Hobert began, and he licked his dry lips nervously, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

He could see the flames roaring and blazing beyond the gate of the town, with shadowy forms darting in and out of the billowing smoke. Like the entrance to the Seventh Hell, Hobert thought with dismay.

"I need but a moment to collect my thoughts," Hobert rasped. He could hear distant shrieks and wails emanating from the burning town. How many are screaming for me to hear them from beyond the city walls? Hobert's mind was spinning, and he felt faint and short of breath.

Turning to a nearby man-at-arms, Hobert spoke. "Some wine, I beg of you. I need to clear my thoughts." The man nodded and strode off, looking for a skin of wine. Do something, damn you, Hobert thought bitterly. Are you such an old fool that you can't even carry out a Prince's direct orders? The Lords and knights stood watching and waiting for Hobert to command them to do something, anything.

"A moment please my Lords," Hobert said, hating how hollow and brittle his voice sounded. Heedless of his indecision, Tumbleton continued to burn.

Hobert thought that nothing in the world was as near to the Seven Hells as the ruins of Tumbleton. Many structures were naught more than smoldering ruins, and those that had survived the flames were scorched and vandalized ruins, as men of the army searched every nook and cranny of the ruined town for plunder. Like Bitterbridge, the plumes of smoke had climbed into the sky in such voluminous amounts that the sun itself had been blocked out, leaving the world shrouded in a dark grey hue lightened only by crackling flame. His palfrey liked being in Tumbleton little and less than Hobert himself did. The streets were black with ash, and choked with corpses. A large number were scorched and burned, though it seemed to Hobert that even more had been slain at the hands of men, not dragons. The bodies were piled so high in some streets and wynds that they had been rendered nearly impassable.

I did all that I could, Hobert thought. After the man-at-arms had brought him a skin of wine, Hobert had managed to collect his wits enough to send riders into the ruins of the city. He had commanded the men of the army to stop their sacking of the town, by orders of himself and the Prince Daeron. Only a few riders had returned, informing Hobert that hardly any had listened to the decree. "The others likely joined in," Jon Roxton had laughed. Hobert had been unhappy with the results, but could think of no other ways in which to enforce order. What more could I have done?

Hobert had sent Jon Roxton through the town with a stout force of mounted knights to secure Tumbleton's castle several hours before, as the town still burned. Roxton had sent back a rider not long after to report that the castle, as well as its Lord and Lady, had been secured. As evening arrived and the sky began to darken from dim grey to black, Hobert and the foremost Lords and landed knights of the army began to make their way through the winding streets of the town up towards the castle.

As the group of mounted Lords and knights rounded a corner, a cluster of men-at-arms in the street were forced to scatter out of the way, temporarily abandoning the corpses that they had been looting. As Hobert rode past, he saw one of the men tugging furiously at the hand of a particularly corpulent corpse that had the look of a successful merchant. The hand was covered in expensive rings, but the dead merchant's hand was so fat that the rings were not budging. The man-at-arms cursed in his wroth, and brought down his sword on the corpse's wrist in a savage strike, severing the hand. Clutching the ring-covered hand in one fist, the man stalked off to find more loot, his sword clenched tightly in his other hand.

The evening air was filled with a miasma of screaming, laughing, moaning, and a thousand other unsettling or downright sickening noises that made Hobert clutch tighter at his reins and wish that he was anywhere but Tumbleton. Worse than the noise, however, were the smells in the air. Charred meat most of all, but also ash, blood, and shit. It was enough to make Hobert want to vomit again. Instead he continued towards the small and stout castle that sat on a hill in the center of the town, overlooking its charred ruins.

Hobert's party found that the main road they had been taking was blocked by the scorched remains of a particularly large building that had collapsed into the street. They were therefore all forced to squeeze their group through a narrow winding wynd that continued up the hill. The walls of the surrounding buildings loomed large above their heads, stained with soot and scarred by flame.

As he rode along it, Hobert overheard a conversation that drifted from an upstairs window of a building that overlooked the wynd.

"Yer a right bastard, ya know that? I wanted a turn too, but then ya had to go and kill her instead!" one voice complained.

"Shut up!" snapped another voice, "tis a big town, there's more than enough coin and women for the both of us."

Hobert grimaced. I did all that I could. What more could the Prince have asked of him? None but the Seven truly could see the darkness that lingered in the hearts of men. The men of this army are under the Stranger's influence, and there is naught that any mortal man can do to dissuade them. Hobert could only hope that they came to their senses soon. We fight to defend the rightful King's throne, not bring death and woe to his subjects.

It was almost a relief when the walls of Tumbleton's castle and the seat of House Footly began to loom large in front of Hobert and his party. We've finally arrived. Hobert's sense of relief cooled as he noticed countless heads mounted on spikes along the walls. Riding under the portcullis into the castle's relatively small yard, Hobert found that it was nearly full to bursting with two large dragons, one of bronze coloration and the other possessing scales of a silvery color. Both were gorging themselves on a pile of headless corpses that had been dragged off to the far corner of the yard.

In the center of the yard stood Bold Jon Roxton, along with several of his household knights (including Ser Balman, still bearing the valyrian steel greatsword Heartsbane). Standing nearby were a young man and woman in fine black attire, both of which were covered in patterns of silver caltrops. To the other side of Roxton and closer to the feasting dragons stood two men in black plate armor. They had both removed their helms, which were also crafted of black steel and were winged. One had brittle white hair and bloodshot eyes, and was significantly smaller than his companion, who was barrel-chested and had closely cropped pale blonde hair.

Roxton stepped forward with a grin on his face. "The castle and town are completely under our control." He then nodded in the direction of the man and woman. "We took Lord and Lady Footly prisoner, and executed the rest of their castle garrison." Beckoning one of his knights forward with a gauntleted hand, the man stepped forward and held up two severed heads for all to see. "The head on the left is that of Ser Merrell 'the Bold', a traitorous landed knight from the Blackwater Rush, and the head on the right is that of Red Robb Rivers, the Bastard of Raventree Hall. Ser Merrell was killed as the castle fell, and Red Robb and his surviving archers were killed after they made their way back to the castle when the city began to burn."

As Bold Jon finished speaking, a man in plate stepped forward, bearing no sigil on his doublet that Hobert could recognize.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance my Lords," the man began, "I am Lord Owain Bourney. It was my men and I that slew the traitor Ser Merrell and opened the gates of the castle to you. My ruse of claiming to support the usurper Rhaenyra worked perfectly, and allowed me to help you in winning a great victory for the true king, Aegon, the second of his name." He glared as Lady Footly spit at his feet.

Jon Roxton laughed at her display of defiance, and made his way over to the captured Lord and Lady. With a gauntleted fist, Roxton tilted her chin up in order to force her to look into his eyes.

"You are truly a prize, my Lady. As brave and fierce as you are beautiful." Bold Jon's eyes glittered dangerously, and his smile was as sharp as steel. "A woman like you is wasted on a callow boy like him," Roxton nodded in the direction of Lord Footly. The young Lord scowled deeply as Bold Jon continued to speak. "You are a prize indeed." Roxton's grin deepened. "I think I shall claim you as a prize of war. I should think none would please me as greatly as you."

As Lady Footly glared at Ser Jon, Lord Footly spoke up, face red with anger. "I shall remind you Ser that we are your prisoners, and of noble birth besides. You have no right to treat us so." He tilted his chin up in defiance as Roxton spun to face him.

Bold Jon continued to smile as he spoke, but his eyes had grown dark and cold. "I should think that I am able to do what I please with traitors to the Realm." When Lord Footly opened his mouth to speak, Roxton drew his black Valyrian steel blade Orphan-Maker. "Isn't she beautiful?" Roxton asked softly, looking lovingly at the rippled black steel. Regarding Lord Footly, the smile on Roxton's face had melted away. "I should carefully consider your next words my Lord, for my Orphan-Maker is always thirsty for blood."

Lord Footly stood his ground, and glared at Roxton. "We are your prisoners, and have yielded to you. You are naught but a false knight if you think that you can treat us so."

In a flash, Bold Jon had struck Lord Footly in a savage slash with his Orphan-Maker, cutting the man nearly in twain. Lady Footly screamed in horror as Roxton tore his blade free from the corpse of her husband. Holding his blade up to regard the blood running along its length, Roxton scowled darkly. "She can make widows too," Roxton seethed, before wiping his blade clean on Lord Footly's doublet and sheathing it.

Stalking over to Lady Footly, Roxton grabbed at her gown and began to tear away at it savagely as the woman began to weep. Hobert was appalled. This is wrong. Roxton can't possibly do this, it goes against every knightly code in existence. Looking around, Hobert was dismayed to see that the other Lords and landed knights didn't seem to share Hobert's sentiments. Many were grinning and laughing, and some went as far as to shout out ribald jests. Others simply looked on impassively, or with disinterest.

Hobert felt a glimmer of hope as Lord Owen Fossoway stepped forward with a scowl and began to speak.

"Seven Hells Jon," the Lord of Cider Hall began, "at least take her off to some chamber in the castle first. I feel that I speak for most of us when I say that I have no desire to see you claim your prize." Roxton paused and grinned darkly, while others around Hobert chuckled at Fossoway's words.

No, no, this is all wrong, Hobert thought with despair. This isn't right, someone needs to stop him. Hobert licked his lips nervously. I'm the leader of this army now. I can make Roxton stop this folly right now. Hobert opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came forth. Roxton had begun to drag Lady Footly in the direction of the castle keep's main doors. Damn it, coward, speak up! In spite of himself, no sounds came forth from Hobert as he watched Roxton disappear beyond the keep's doors with Lady Footly in tow. Hobert was overcome with a profound sense of self-loathing. You feeble coward, damn you to the Seventh Hell.

Hobert barely noticed as Lord Peake approached the two men in black plate armor with winged helms, and began to speak to them.

"It gladdens all of our hearts that you have decided to add your support to the cause of the true king, Sers. We will send for you both as soon as we convene for a war council, in order to discuss the army's next moves, as well as suitable rewards for the both of you." Both of the usurper Rhaenyra's former dragon riders nodded curtly at Lord Peake's words. As the last of the meager evening light faded from the ashen sky, Hobert hollowly considered how he had never felt further from home.

The pavilion was crowded, and Hobert felt odd sitting in the chair that Lord Ormund used to occupy. It sat at the head of a long table running along the pavilion's length. Seated along the table were the most important of the Lords and landed knights in the army, and those of lesser note stood around the table. It had been two days since the battle beneath Tumbleton's walls, yet the town still smoldered. The soldiers of the army continued to run rampant in its streets, looting, raping, and pillaging.

The Prince is more than displeased at the actions of the army. Prince Daeron sat to Hobert's left, wearing his black steel plate armor. The golden dragon embossed across his breastplate glittered in the light of the braziers throughout the pavilion. After Hobert's earlier efforts to rein in the army had failed, the Prince had wished to begin executing the men who disobeyed his commands and continued to sack Tumbleton. "If honor and duty won't compel them to stop, then mayhaps the threat of a noose will," the Prince had said, but he had been dissuaded by Lord Peake.

"If you hang every man that has taken part in the looting and raping within Tumbleton, my Prince, then you will no longer have an army," the grizzled marcher Lord had said. "They'll fall in line easily enough when the army marches again, and Tumbleton will then be free of their predations." Though the Prince had seemed none too pleased with Lord Peake's solution, he had not made any further attempts to force an end to the sack.

As Hobert sipped some of the Arbor Gold within a goblet a servant had filled for him, a man-at-arms stepped into the tent. "The dragon riders have arrived, my Lords," the man stated, and at a nod from Hobert, the man stepped back outside to retrieve them.

Stepping inside, the two men wore their black steel plate as they had before, and strode towards the end of the table. Lords and landed knights moved clear of them, muttering, and neither dragonrider seemed to notice nor care of their discontent. In his short time knowing them, Hobert was not impressed by what he learned of each man. The smaller man, Ser Ulf, seemed a complete drunkard, and the larger man, Ser Hugh, had proven a brute. On his first day in the camp, Ser Hugh had goaded Ser Balman, the wielder of Heartsbane, into a duel of honor after repeatedly insulting him. Ser Hugh then killed the knight with his warhammer and claimed the Valyrian steel greatsword for himself. The weapon was currently sheathed in a scabbard borne across the hulking man's back.

As both of the usurper Rhaenyra's former dragonriders reached the far end of the table, Prince Daeron addressed them both, announcing the verdict that had been agreed upon by the assembled Lords of the army. "Ser Ulf White and Ser Hugh Hammer, you have both proven yourselves as a great boon to my brother's cause, and it is the opinion of myself and the Lords assembled before you to reward you for the aid you have given and will continue to contribute to our cause." As the Prince paused before continuing, Hobert noticed the unrestrained looks of avarice that had swept across both of the dragonriders' faces.

"Ser Ulf," Prince Daeron began, "I will recommend to my brother the King that you be named the new Lord of Bitterbridge and its surrounding town and lands." Turning towards the other rider, Prince Daeron continued. "Ser Hugh, I will in turn recommend to the King that you be named the new Lord of Tumbleton and its surrounding town and lands." As the Prince sat back, both dragonriders' expressions turned stony.

The larger dragonrider spoke first, his deep voice rumbling angrily. "Tumbleton and Bitterbridge are bloody ruins!" he snarled. "You lot are tryin' to make us Lords o' naught but ashes an' bones!"

The smaller dragonrider was the next to speak, his bloodshot eyes blazing with sudden rage. "Does the King mean to give us coin to rebuild our illustrious seats, or will he bugger us and turn the both of us into paupers?"

By this point, the murmurs and muttering of the Lords and landed knights had grown into outright calls and shouts of outrage, and Hobert could see that the state of affairs was rapidly deteriorating. Thankfully, Lord Unwin Peake rose from his seat, and the men throughout the pavilion quieted as he began to speak. "Tumbleton and Bitterbridge are more than fair compensation for men of your status", he began tersely, "and the both of you must needs be satisfied with them, lest we be forced to reconsider our judgement. You have made a bitter enemy of the usurper Rhaenyra through your betrayal, and have naught but the goodwill of King Aegon and his Lords to rely upon now. I suggest that you accept the awards that you have been given, and don't give us all further cause to doubt your loyalty to our cause."

As Lord Peake sat back down in his chair, it seemed to Hobert that the smaller dragonrider was nearly shaking with rage, and the larger seed was glaring balefully at all around him. "No, m'lord," the massive dragonrider began, "you forget that the both of us ride dragons. The bitch Rhaenyra still 'as plenty more than your King Eggon, and he still 'as yet to come out of 'iding. If you want us to help you take back King's Landing, then you all must needs think o' something better to reward us with than two piles o' ashes." With that, the two dragonriders stalked out of the pavilion angrily, heedless of the enraged Lords and knights around them.

Jon Roxton's face was red with anger as he addressed the Lords and knights surrounding him. "I say that we kill the both of them right now, and let the bravest of us tame their mounts and ride them into battle!" His words were met with enthusiasm by many of the Lords and landed knights.

Lord Peake stood back up as he addressed Bold Jon's words. "Now is not the time for rash decisions, Jon. Have you already forgotten what has become of the forces led by Lord Jason Lannister and Ser Criston Cole? They are all gone, dead or so hopelessly scattered as to make no matter. The actions of this army now may very well determine the war's outcome, so we cannot afford to make foolish mistakes."

At Lord Unwin's words, Roxton's expression had soured before he responded. "And by what right do you presume to give me commands, Lord Peake? You are not the leader of this army."

Lord Unwin glared imperiously back at Roxton. "Lord Ormund Hightower is dead. This army has been without official leadership for two days. I should be the leader. I have known a lifetime of battle, growing up on and ruling lands in the Dornish marches. I command one hundred knights and nine hundred stout men-at-arms, more men than most Lords in this army can claim to have contributed."

Crossing his arms, Bold Jon retorted. "That is all well and good, Lord Peake, but what this army needs to lead it is a warrior. The time for sieges and diplomacy has long since passed. We need a man who is willing to whet his sword with the blood of the King's enemies and lead his leal men to victory! I daresay that no man in this army can claim to be half the fighter that I am!" Roxton looked around at the men surrounding him with a dangerous glint in his eye, as though he was almost challenging one of them to gainsay him. None did.

Hobert was very worried. This army was Lord Ormund's army, a Hightower army. It assembled and marched from Oldtown, and much and more of the mercenaries marching along with it are under the direct employ of my family. I must needs speak now in support of my own candidacy as leader or not at all. Hobert cleared his throat, and nearly quailed in apprehension as all eyes turned to him. Standing, Hobert began to speak, feeling beads of perspiration gather on his forehead and face.

"My cousin, Lord Ormund, was the undisputed leader of this army until his untimely death. You all gathered beneath the walls of his city, Oldtown, in order to help my Lord cousin fight for the true King's rights. I am the foremost remaining Hightower in this army, as well as kin to the Queen Dowager Alicent and all of her children. It is I who should take command and lead this army to victory, to avenge my fallen cousins and see my kin keep their rightful throne." Though Hobert felt short of breath and nearly sick with anxiety, he forced himself to stand tall, and meet the gazes of the assembled Lords and knights with a steady gaze of his own.

Hobert was finally allowed a moment to breathe as a man forced his way to the front of the crowd of standing Lords and landed knights who lacked enough power and influence to be given a seat around the pavilion's table. Hobert recognized him as Owain Bourney, the Lord from the Blackwater Rush who had opened the gates of Tumbleton's castle to Lord Ormund's army. "I should be given the command of this army," Bourney began, eyeing the men around him coolly and confidently. "What this army needs most is a leader with cunning, and an ability to win great victories with minimal losses. As the usurper Rhaenyra's forces bear down on us all from the north, it is of paramount importance that we take the city of King's Landing before they arrive. I can win us the city, and keep more than enough of the army alive to hold it."

Approaching Lord Owain from his spot at the table, Lord Unwin Peake called out to him. "You claim to be a man of great cunning, yet all I see is a man from some unheard-of keep along the Blackwater Rush whose greatest victory was the result of betrayal!"

Lord Owain scowled. "My Lord Peake, the only reason Tumbleton is firmly in the hands of the rightful King is because of myself. Tis true that I didn't bring nearly as many men as you to fight for the King, but with the men I did have, I delivered this army an entire town and castle! You seek to name me traitor, but such claims are false. I have always been loyal to the true King. And in the eyes of the usurper Rhaenyra, are we not all traitors?"

Stopping a few steps in front of Lord Bourney, Lord Peake retorted with a scowl. "You speak well enough my Lord, but I name you for what you truly are: a craven. How do you propose that we take the city of King's Landing? Twould be difficult for you, I should imagine. After all, you are not inside the walls of the city and able to throw open the gates after putting a spear through the back of the man next to you!"

Enraged, Lord Owain closed the short gap of distance betwixt himself and Lord Peake. "I would tell you my plans to take the city, but I wouldn't expect a man as thoroughly wooden-headed and conceited as yourself to understand them! I name you for what you are, Lord Peake, an old man as uninspiring as he is unfit to lead this army!"

Quick as a bolt of lightning, Lord Peake drew a dagger from his belt and shoved it through Lord Bourney's left eye, clutching at the collar of the man's mail shirt with his other hand. Lord Owain's right eye went wide with shock, before misting over and becoming unfocused as the life left his body. With a wet squelching noise, Lord Unwin yanked his dagger free from Lord Bourney's eye and shoved his corpse backwards, letting it thump dully on the ground. He then bent forward for a moment, wiping his dagger off on Lord Bourney's tunic before straightening back up and sheathing his dagger.

"Once a turncloak, ever a turncloak," Lord Unwin said coolly, looking down upon Lord Bourney's corpse with disdain.

Hobert was speechless, and knew that his face must have been frozen in an almost comical expression of shock and horror. Prince Daeron was similarly horror-struck, staring in disbelief at Lord Peake, and the corpse sprawled out on the ground beyond him. All of the Lords and landed knights throughout the pavilion bore comparable expressions of disbelief and horror, save one.

Bold Jon Roxton laughed loudly and heartily. "By the Seven, Lord Unwin," the knight began, nodding at the dagger sheathed on Lord Peake's belt as he caught his breath. "You've made your point." Roxton threw back his head and laughed uproariously at his own jest.

Madness, all of it, Hobert thought, feeling an overwhelming sense of stupefaction wash over him. O Crone, please lend us all your guidance. We have desperate need of it. As was the case of all the prayers he had made on campaign, Hobert's impassioned plea went unanswered.