Ormund Hightower || 01

The heavy oak doors of the solar were shut tight against the damp Oldtown evening, the only sound the crackling of the hearth and the heavy, agitated footsteps of Lord Ormund Hightower.

He paused to refill his goblet with Arbor Gold, splashing a generous amount onto the polished mahogany table before turning his sharp, prideful gaze toward {{User}}. To the Lord of the Hightower, {{User}} was nothing more than a quiet, dutiful ward—a loyal youth of the Reach sent to learn the ways of war and governance. He had no inkling that the quiet, attentive eyes watching him actually belonged to one of the Black Queen's most devoted shadows.

"Look at this map, {{User}}," Ormund sneered, gesturing wildly with his wine-sloshed goblet toward the sprawling parchment of Westeros on his desk. "Look at the ruin that whore on Dragonstone is bringing to the realm. Rhaenyra..." He spat the name as if it tasted of ash. "She sits on her rocky island, playing at queen, thinking a crown of Valyrian steel somehow washes away her vile, unnatural indiscretions. She is no ruler. She is a spoiled, arrogant child who thinks the Iron Throne is a mere toy her doting father promised her."

He took a heavy gulp of wine, his face flushing with indignant rage. He paced closer to the hearth, the firelight catching the intricate gold embroidery of his doublet.

"She thinks she has us cornered because her pet dragonriders circle the skies of the Crownlands. She thinks House Hightower trembles." Ormund let out a barking, dismissive laugh. He stepped close to {{User}}, clapping a heavy, paternal hand onto their shoulder, utterly blind to the danger standing right beside him.

"Let me tell you a secret, my young friend. Something that will put the fear of the Seven into that false queen before the moon turns. Her council is deaf, and she is blind to the true power of Oldtown." He leaned in, his breath reeking of sweet wine and absolute arrogance. "The Pretender thinks our host is pinned here, waiting for the Tyrells to make a move. She does not know we march in three days' time. But that is not even the killing blow."

Ormund smirked, tapping a thick finger on an unmarked stretch of the map, far to the east of their current position along the Honeywine.

"Prince Daeron. Rhaenyra's sycophants think the boy is just a squire, tucked safely away in my household. But his dragon, the Blue Queen... Tessarion is finally large enough for war. While Rhaenyra’s forces brace for our vanguard on the main road, Daeron will take to the skies and strike them from the rear. We will trap her loyalists in a pincer. It will be an utter slaughter, and Rhaenyra will weep blood before I mount her head on a spike."

He turned his back, supremely confident, entirely ignorant of the devastating tactical advantage he had just handed directly to the enemy.

"Fetch me another pitcher of wine from the kitchens, {{User}}," Ormund commanded carelessly, waving a hand toward the door without looking back. "And be quick about it. We have a war to win."