Oldtown Sails to War

Posted on Thu Jan 20th, 2022 @ 12:16am by Ser Uthor Flowers & Lord Garth Blackwater

Mission: The Iron Price
Location: Oldtown

Rising from Battle Island where the Honeywine widens into the Whispering Sound, the Hightower was the tallest structure ever built by the hands of man. From a labyrinthine base of unadorned black stone rose a stepped, stone tower with a great beacon on the top, bright flame to lead ships to safe harbor. Usually, that flame burned red and orange but now it had burst forth in an eerie green color. Everywhere in Oldtown, in Honeyholt, in Blackcrown, in Three Towers, in the Sunhouse, in Uplands, in the scattered villages between and on the waters on or near the Whispering Sound, people looked up at that eerie green flame. It meant only one thing. War.

Ser Uthor Flowers, a man often called the Bastard of the Hightower when he wasn't near and sometimes when he was, stepped back from where he had thrown a powder onto the flames and climbed back down into the tower. He walked grimly through the narrow corridors and into a room where seats lined a long, wooden table. There were chairs for Lords Beesbury, Bulwer, Costayne, Cuy, and Mullendore, but only two men sat there now: Ser Jon Hightower and Maester Peremore. Even for the Keepers of the Citadel, he was their maester. Sworn to the Hightower proper. "Lord Blackwater has called the banners," Ser Uthor said directly, "and Lady Hightower has ordered me to take command of the Hightower fleet. I am to sail to the Shield Islands to meet up with Lord Parmen and the other Reach fleets. From there, we will bring the King's justice to the Iron Islands. They have rebelled against the Iron Throne. They have set much of King's Landing aflame."

"What would drive them to such a thing?" Maester Peremore asked.

"They're Ironborn!" Ser Jon said as if no other answer were truly needed.

"I do not know nor do I need to know," Ser Uthor answered in a measured but firm tone. "Whatever grievance they had, their own actions have left the Realm with only one recourse. It is the King's command that they be brought to justice and I intend to see it done."

"And what would you have of me?" Ser Jon asked.

"You are still the Commander of the City Watch," Ser Uthor reminded him. "Our shores will not be safe from Ironborn reavers until this rebellion has been firmly put down. The defense of the Whispering Sound remains of crucial importance."

"As you say," Ser Jon answered, though he practically spat out the words. Then he frowned more seriously. "Did Lady Hightower send word of my son?"

"Ser Alixander is fine," Ser Uthor replied. "Preparations for his marriage are proceeding apace."

"I do approve of the match," Ser Jon said, though even there he was holding something back.

If Ser Uthor noticed, he did not comment. "We all have preparations for make." He nodded his dismissal.

...

Ser Jon returned to his own chambers in the Hightower some hours later, having issued orders to the Watch to strengthen the guard in key places and to be more vigilant checking travelers lest the Ironborn try to sneak into the city to reek havoc from inside the walls. "Myrcella?" he asked, seeking his wife.

Myrcella Cuy rounded the corner in a lace-made blue-green dyed garment which hung about her body in a way that was charming, though unintentional. She sunk her teeth into a plump green grape from the vine she was holding as she moved toward her husband with bare feet dancing across the hard, cold stone. She, like her husband, was no longer as young as she once was, but she still displayed the youth of years gone by; she was a child of Sunflower Hall and she always managed to find the sunny side in every situation.

She moved to the table where her husband was standing and climbed atop it, sitting right in front of it and placing a grape on his lips with a broad and inviting smile. She said nothing, but rotated her shoulders in a girlish fashion.

Jon parted his lips and ate the grape. He couldn't help smiling warmly at his wife. He leaned forward to kiss her gently but his dour expression soon returned. "You must have seen the beacon. Another damned Ironborn rebellion. What is dead just keeps resurfacing like a putrid..." He stopped himself. His wife could do without that analogy. "Joanna gave the command to my late brother's bastard."

A look of subtle sympathy crossed Myrcella's face and she placed her hands, immediately, on her husband's cheeks. They had always been like fire and ice, but it worked for them. He was grumpy and rigid, she was light and expressive.

"Oh, Jon, it's her cousin. You can't blame her for favouring him a bit." she said with a gentle voice. Either she was laying her curiosities about the Ironborn aside or they didn't exist at all. "And I know how hard you work; how frustrating this must be for you."

"It's not myself I worry about. It's not vanity. If Urrigon were alive or he had a legitimate heir, I would not envy him his command. It's just...This is not a good image for the House. These things do matter." He sighed. "What will the Bulwers think? Or the Costaynes? Or your family?"

"They will bristle and gripe as they always do." Myrcella said, rolling her eyes a bit as she thought about the stuffy lords and ladies who could be so quick to pass judgement and to size people up on station. She had always harbored less strict views, though she had been hesitant in sharing them. "And then they will obey the orders of this house, as they always have. What will it change, after all, to have a few lords whispering?"

"Perhaps nothing," he allowed, although he didn't seem entirely convinced. "I don't like war but I like the feeling of hiding behind walls while other men do it even less. Still, the city must be defended." He smiled now.

"You could always write to Joanna in protest. She might see the reason in your argument and change her mind. Is there time before the Oldtown Fleet sets sail?"

"Not really," he said. "Joanna has always been too independent."

"Well, I'm sure that independence is soon to end with her soon-to-be husband. For better or worse, it seems, Aethan Valaryon will be running Oldtown for the foreseeable future. At least that's what all the women are saying." She said, referencing the rumor-mill around the female nobility. "But what can one do?"

"Perhaps," Jon said, "though our niece is rather headstrong." He didn't sound like he meant it as a compliment.

"Do you think it shall be her running things then?" she asked, her interest growing. She was always trying to find out what he knew for her own interests and, of course, for the group of gossipers she was so frequently a part of. Her eyes sparkled as she asked him, her hands finding his shoulders again.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I imagine they will mostly live on Dragonstone or in King's Landing."

"Then Oldtown shall be ours." she answered, smiling again. "So, leave the boy to his command, Jon. You have affairs to attend to here."

"I do," he said with a grin. Then he hoisted her up and grinned even more brightly. "I do," he repeated, kissing her.

She kissed him back, her hands finding the sides of a body which had become very familiar to her. They were rare in that their marriage was mostly happy and they had always been rather close, despite, or perhaps because of their differences. She giggled quietly, working the drawstring on his breeches, knowing a few minutes of fun wouldn't hurt the war effort.