Ser Jon Roxton did not return quietly to Oldtown.
Ormund Hightower had escaped the forest with only the hardest remnants of his army, yet the men who reached the city with him were not placed behind its walls to recover. Within days, small bands of riders began appearing across the lands north of the Honeywine. They travelled without great banners, carried little baggage, and avoided every road wide enough for Dravvaxx to see them easily from the sky.
At first, the attacks resembled ordinary disorder following the collapse of an army.
A farm was stripped of grain during the night. Horses vanished from a village that had supplied Honeyholt. Two wagons carrying salted meat were discovered burned beside the road, their guards killed and left without boots or weapons. Men wearing no colours demanded food in Aegon’s name, then disappeared before the nearest loyal patrol arrived.
There were enough deserters wandering the Reach that no one could immediately say whether Ormund had ordered the violence or merely released it through failure. That uncertainty ended when the first bodies were found beneath Roxton colours.
The dead belonged to a Bulwer patrol guarding a road between two lesser villages. Eight men had been killed. Seven lay where they fell, while the patrol captain had been hanged from an oak with a green cloak tied around his throat. A message had been carved into the trunk beneath him.
Thus are turncloaks rewarded.
Lord Bulwer read the report in Honeyholt’s hall without speaking. His face remained still, but the hand holding the parchment tightened until the edges folded beneath his fingers.
"Jon Roxton," he said at last. "He always preferred his messages plain."
"You are certain it was him?"
"I know the work. Roxton believes fear becomes more useful when men understand exactly who caused it. Ormund may approve, but Ser Jon will be leading the riders himself."
Landrey stood across the table, mud dried along the hem of his cloak. "Our scouts found tracks from perhaps sixty horses. They moved south after the attack, then split into smaller groups near the wooded hills. Whoever commands them knows how we patrol."
"Roxton watched our lines for weeks from inside the forest," I said. "He saw how Landrey moved cavalry, where the Reach companies were weakest, and how quickly Honeyholt answered raids. He learned because he expected to use the knowledge later."
Lord Bulwer placed the damaged parchment upon the table. "He is not striking villages for supplies alone. My house changed allegiance, and Roxton intends to make every tenant beneath my protection pay for it."
"That will not be allowed."
Bulwer looked directly at me. "Then give me men and let me hunt him."
"No. You are the target he wants."
"That is why I should answer."
"That is why you would ride into the first trap he offers. Roxton knows you are angry, and anger makes distance look shorter than it is. Landrey will direct the pursuit. Your men will provide guides, but they will operate beneath his command."
Bulwer’s expression hardened. "My villages are burning while I remain under supervision inside Honeyholt."
"Your villages will burn faster if Roxton captures or kills you. House Bulwer has only recently sworn to Rhaenyra. Your death would leave the succession uncertain and encourage every man who called your oath cowardice."
"I do not require protection from the consequences of my own allegiance."
"No, but your people require their lord to survive long enough for that allegiance to mean something."
He did not agree willingly. He agreed because the logic left little space for pride.
The raids continued. Roxton never gathered enough men to threaten Honeyholt or meet our cavalry in open battle. He worked in companies of twenty, forty, or sixty riders, joining them only when he wanted a larger target.
They moved at night, rested beneath trees or in abandoned barns during daylight, and relied upon frightened villagers, hidden Hightower sympathisers, and old supply caches prepared before Ormund’s defeat.
Their purpose was not conquest. They wanted loyalist territory to become expensive to defend.
Bulwer lands suffered most. Villages that had sent men to swear beneath Rhaenyra’s banner were punished first. Grain stores burned. Livestock was driven south or slaughtered where it could not be taken.
Wells were fouled with carcasses. Houses belonging to bailiffs, reeves, and men known to support Lord Bulwer were marked for destruction while neighbouring buildings were left standing.
Roxton wanted the difference noticed. A village that remained neutral might lose food. A village that served Rhaenyra would lose sons. Several captives were released after being beaten and made to carry messages back to their lords. One arrived at Honeyholt with two fingers removed and a warning written upon a strip of leather tied around his neck.
Oldtown remembers.
I read the words once before handing the leather to Dick.
"He wants us to answer brutally," Dick said. "If we begin hanging every suspected sympathiser, Roxton gains more hiding places than we remove."
"I know."
"That sounded disappointed."
"It sounded tired."
Dick laid the strip beside the other reports. The table had become covered in small acts of violence. A destroyed cart near Blackbar lands. Three Tarly scouts killed beside a ford. A Beesbury messenger vanished on the road south. Every mark was too minor to change the campaign and serious enough to demand attention.
The army at Honeyholt remained near nine thousand, though many men were still recovering. Dravvaxx could fly short distances again, but using him to hunt raiders was nearly useless. Roxton travelled beneath woods, broke his companies apart, and rarely remained in one place long enough for a dragon to reach him before he vanished.
Burning every grove that might hide riders would only finish the work Roxton had begun against the villagers. I refused to do it. Instead, Landrey built a quieter campaign.
He reduced the size of the patrols so Roxton could no longer predict where a great mounted company would appear. Legion riders travelled without banners and used ordinary cloaks over their armour.
Loyal villages prepared bells, horn signals, and mounted messengers who could reach the next settlement quickly. Bulwer guides marked wells, abandoned hunting lodges, forest lanes, and every place a band of armed men might hide for half a day.
The Unsullied were unsuited to chasing cavalry across wide countryside, but Black Rat placed small detachments at the principal storehouses and bridges. Their presence allowed Landrey to stop guarding fixed positions with mounted men and send more riders after Roxton.
Prisoners were questioned carefully. Most knew little. Roxton divided information even among his own men. A rider might be told where to gather at sunset without knowing where the company would travel after dark. Messages were carried verbally. Orders changed frequently. Men who fell behind were expected to reach Oldtown alone or not at all.
Those methods made betrayal difficult. They also made coordination fragile. Landrey waited for that fragility to show.
During the second week, his riders nearly trapped a Roxton company beside a burned mill. The raiders escaped through a flooded meadow where local guides refused to follow after dark. Five were captured, and one admitted that Roxton maintained three principal gathering points north of the Honeywine. By the time patrols reached them, all had been abandoned.
During the third week, Roxton attacked a Bulwer convoy carrying seed grain to villages damaged by earlier raids. The escort lost twenty men, but the wagons survived because Legion cavalry arrived before the raiders could burn them. Roxton withdrew in good order, leaving six dead behind and taking several wounded men with him.
Landrey returned to Honeyholt after that clash with a cut across the back of one hand. "He was there," he told me. "I saw the black armour and Orphan Maker on his hip. He held the rear while the others crossed a narrow stream."
"You came within bowshot?"
"Closer. We exchanged blows before his horse carried him clear."
"You should look more pleased to have survived."
"I would have been more pleased if he had failed to do the same."
Landrey unfastened his glove carefully, revealing swollen fingers beneath the cut. The injury was shallow but painful.
"He is taking greater risks," I said.
"He has fewer men. At the beginning of the month, he may have commanded four hundred riders across the different bands. I doubt he has more than two hundred and fifty now. Some are dead. Others have deserted or returned to Oldtown after deciding burned farms were not worth dying for."
"Then he will become more dangerous before he becomes weaker. A commander who knows time is shortening often reaches for the result he cannot afford to wait for."
Landrey looked toward the campaign map. "Lord Bulwer."
"Yes."
Roxton’s raids had failed to reverse Bulwer’s allegiance. The villages suffered, but the lord remained beneath Rhaenyra’s banner, and his soldiers continued serving beside ours. Sooner or later, Roxton would stop punishing symbols of betrayal and attempt to kill the man himself. We gave him the opportunity. The plan was Landrey’s.
Lord Bulwer would leave Honeyholt with a small escort and travel toward his own lands, appearing to answer the demands of his people after weeks of remaining behind fortified walls. His departure would be visible. Messages would travel through channels we knew Hightower sympathisers could access. The escort would consist mostly of Bulwer men, with only a handful of Legion riders showing openly.
The rest would follow at distance. Bulwer listened to the proposal with a humourless expression. "You refused to let me hunt Roxton because I would become bait, and now you ask me to ride out precisely for that purpose."
"I refused to let you become bait without a trap around you," I said. "That distinction keeps the idea from being merely stupid."
"Landrey will command the hidden riders?"
"Yes. Two Legion companies will move along parallel roads. Black Rat will place Unsullied near the river crossing to close the southern escape. Dravvaxx and I remain at Honeyholt because a dragon circling above you would make the deception unconvincing."
Bulwer considered the map. "Roxton will expect hidden men."
"He will. We want him to believe he has found them. One Legion company will reveal itself too early and allow his scouts to report where it waits. The second will remain farther west until he commits."
"And if he recognises the deception?"
"Then you reach your territory safely, and we lose nothing except time."
Bulwer’s gaze hardened. "If he attacks, I will not remain behind shields while my men fight."
"I would not ask it. I am asking you to remember that killing Roxton is not worth dying before Landrey closes the road."
He agreed.
The ambush took four days to produce results.
Bulwer left Honeyholt beneath rain, travelling with eighty men and two wagons. The visible Legion riders remained close enough to appear protective but not numerous enough to discourage a determined attack. Landrey’s first hidden company moved south and deliberately allowed itself to be noticed near a stone bridge. Roxton’s scouts saw them and carried the report.
For two days, nothing happened.
Bulwer reached the first village without attack. The villagers gathered around him with complaints, petitions, and accounts of lost grain. His presence strengthened their confidence, but it also confirmed to every watcher that the journey was real.
On the third morning, Roxton struck.
His men came from three directions along a wooded road between low hills. Archers opened from the eastern slope while mounted raiders charged the front and rear of Bulwer’s column. The wagons overturned within moments. Several horses bolted, and the visible escort formed around Lord Bulwer exactly as Roxton expected.
The first hidden Legion company approached from the south. Roxton saw its banner and withdrew north-west. That was the road Landrey had left open. The second company waited beyond the ridge.
Landrey told me the full account later, though much of it had already reached Honeyholt through riders sent ahead. Roxton’s men realised the trap only after the first ranks crossed the ridge and found Legion cavalry moving toward them from the west. They tried to turn south, but the company they had deliberately drawn out was already closing behind them.
The fight became a running battle through wet fields. Roxton’s raiders had spent a month avoiding direct contests, and many remained skilled enough to escape individually. Some abandoned the road and forced horses through hedges. Others scattered into orchards or small woods. Perhaps half the band broke away before the ring closed fully.
Roxton stayed with the centre. He and Landrey met near a flooded ditch where neither horse could move freely. Orphan Maker cut through Landrey’s shield and nearly took his arm before three Legion riders forced Roxton away. His horse was killed by a spear thrust during the struggle, throwing him into the mud beneath it.
He continued fighting on foot. Two men died trying to seize him. A third lost several fingers. Roxton surrendered only after a mace struck the side of his helm and brought him to one knee, while half a dozen spearpoints surrounded him closely enough that another swing of Orphan Maker would have ended in his death. Landrey took the Valyrian steel sword personally.
Ser Jon Roxton arrived at Honeyholt near sunset. He rode with his hands bound before him, mounted upon an ordinary brown horse beneath the guard of twenty Legion cavalry. His black armour was dented and streaked with dried mud. One eye had swollen nearly shut from the blow that ended his resistance. Blood marked the corner of his mouth, but his posture remained straight.
Landrey rode beside him, carrying Orphan Maker across his saddle. Men gathered as the prisoners entered Honeyholt’s outer camp. Bulwer soldiers watched in silence. Several had lost family during the raids. Villagers from the surrounding lands had come to trade or seek compensation and recognised Roxton before anyone announced his name.
The first stone came from somewhere behind them. It struck Roxton’s breastplate and fell away. A second hit his horse. The Legion guard moved quickly, placing shields between the prisoner and the crowd while officers ordered everyone back. Some shouted for hanging. Others wanted Roxton delivered to Lord Bulwer’s villages so the families could decide what remained of him.
Roxton looked at them with open contempt. He did not speak until Landrey brought him into Honeyholt’s hall. I waited at the far end beside Black Rat, Dick, Lord Bulwer, Jasper, and several knights whose lands had suffered during the raids. Guards closed the doors once the prisoner entered.
Landrey placed Orphan Maker upon the table. The blade remained beautiful despite the blood dried near its edge. Dark steel caught the torchlight, old and sharp enough to make every ordinary sword in the room seem temporary.
"Ser Jon Roxton," Landrey said, "captured north of the Bulwer road after attacking Lord Bulwer’s column. Forty-three of his riders were killed, seventy-one captured, and the remainder scattered. We found lists of villages, patrol movements, and suspected loyalist households among his belongings."
Dick opened a leather packet taken from Roxton. "The lists match several places attacked during the past month. There are also written orders authorising the destruction of grain stores and the execution of men helping Rhaenyra’s patrols."
"Whose seal?" I asked.
"No seal. Some orders are in Roxton’s hand. Others were carried verbally, according to the prisoners."
Roxton gave a quiet laugh. It was not the short bark of a man trying to appear fearless. It was controlled, contemptuous, and tired.
"You required a month and a half the cavalry in Honeyholt to catch two hundred riders," he said. "I had begun to wonder whether the famed Dread Legion knew how to fight anywhere without a dragon overhead."
Landrey’s injured hand tightened against his belt.
I looked at Roxton. "You spent that month burning villages, killing patrols from hiding, and running whenever enough soldiers arrived to answer you. You are in a poor position to lecture anyone about courage."
"I fought the war still available to me. Ormund reached Oldtown with fewer men than he needed, and your turncloak friends offered roads, grain, and guides to his enemies. I reminded the Reach that betrayal has consequences."
Lord Bulwer stepped forward. "You murdered farmers because their lord made a choice you disliked."
Roxton turned his swollen eye toward him. "Your choice left men to surrender in a forest after you had sworn to follow the Hightower banner. You purchased your pardon by offering Rhaenyra soldiers who had marched for Aegon."
"Ormund left us to die so he could escape."
"And you survived by kneeling. Do not expect admiration."
Bulwer’s face darkened, but his voice remained controlled. "I do not need admiration from a knight who hanged patrol captains and cut fingers from messengers. I need only see you judged."
Roxton looked back to me. "Then judge me. Your hall is crowded with men eager to see blood, and pretending this requires thought insults everyone present."
He was not wrong about the eagerness. The charges against him were clear enough. He had led armed raids against villages under royal protection, executed prisoners, destroyed food required by civilians, attacked patrols, and continued fighting after Aegon’s death. His month of violence had not served any immediate military objective beyond terror and punishment.
Execution could be justified. Perhaps it was expected. A hanging would satisfy the villages he had harmed. Beheading him as a knight would deny Oldtown a dangerous commander and prevent another escape, ransom, or exchange. Returning Orphan Maker to Rhaenyra’s custody would also remove Valyrian steel from the Green cause permanently.
Yet Roxton remained valuable alive.
He had ridden beside Ormund during the siege, the forest retreat, the battle, and the escape toward Oldtown. He knew how many soldiers remained behind the city’s walls, which gates were strongest, what supply caches had been prepared, and whether Aemond had sent word before disappearing from Harrenhal. He might also possess knowledge about Corlys’s assassination, Vaemond’s possible supporters, and messages passing between Oldtown and the remaining Green houses.
He would not surrender such information easily. That did not make it worthless. Imprisonment created its own dangers. Roxton’s name carried weight. Oldtown might attempt to ransom or rescue him.
The longer he lived, the more likely his supporters would turn him into a symbol of resistance. Keeping him inside Honeyholt required guards who could be used elsewhere, and every family harmed by his raids would see his continued breathing as proof that noble blood received mercy denied to common killers.
I looked toward Black Rat. "What would you do?"
He answered in High Valyrian, unconcerned by Roxton’s inability to understand. "If he knows something useful, question him before killing him. If he knows nothing useful, keeping him consumes food and guards. A dead enemy does not escape."
"That is practical rather than lawful."
"Law is not my office."
Dick heard my reply and understood enough of Black Rat’s tone to guess the argument. "Executing him today prevents questioning him tomorrow. Imprisoning him today does not prevent execution after we know what he can offer."
Lord Bulwer looked sharply toward him. "Every day of questioning is another day the families he harmed wait for justice."
"Justice delivered quickly can still be poorly informed," Dick said. "Roxton may know Ormund’s plans, Oldtown’s stores, or who helped him move through loyal territory. Killing him before learning that would serve anger more than the queen."
Bulwer turned to me. "My villages did not suffer from poor information. They suffered because he ordered it. You do not need a confession to know that."
"No," I said. "I do not."
Roxton watched the disagreement without fear. If anything, he appeared entertained.
"You already chose," he said. "A man intending to execute me would not ask a sellsword, a ledger keeper, and a turncloak whether permission was required. You want me alive because you hope I will tell you something worth the discomfort."
"I have not chosen."
"Then you are slower at judgement than you were in the sky."
Landrey placed one hand beside Orphan Maker on the table. "He killed my men after the war in this part of the Reach was already lost. He burned farms because he could not reach the army. I brought him here alive because you command me, not because I believe he deserves a cell."
The hall settled into silence. Every person within it had already decided what Roxton deserved. Black Rat measured usefulness. Dick measured what might still be learned. Landrey and Bulwer saw the bodies left beside roads and hanging from trees. Roxton himself seemed almost eager for an execution that would let him die as Ormund’s loyal knight rather than live as a prisoner of the queen he had opposed.
I looked down at Orphan Maker. The Valyrian steel blade lay between us, dark, ancient, and indifferent to the judgement awaiting the man who had carried it. Execution would be simple. Imprisonment might be useful.
Neither choice would restore the villages, replace the grain, or return the dead to their families. One offered finality. The other offered answers and the risk that mercy would be mistaken for weakness.
"Take him below," I ordered. "He is to be held alone, under Legion guard, with no visitors and no communication outside his cell. Orphan Maker remains in my custody until the queen rules otherwise."
Bulwer’s disappointment was immediate. "You are postponing justice."
"I am preserving the choice until he has been questioned. That is not a pardon."
Roxton smiled through the blood at his mouth. "A cell, then. I expected something sharper from the man who killed Aegon."
"You may still receive it."
The guards moved to either side of him. As they led Roxton from the hall, the shouting outside began again. The crowd had learned their enemy remained alive. Their anger passed through the stone walls in a dull, continuous roar.
I rested one hand against the table beside Orphan Maker. Ser Jon Roxton was my prisoner. Whether he would leave Honeyholt for a royal cell or a headsman’s block had not yet been decided.