Chapter Text
“Is that all of them,” Captain Phasma’s rolling purr of a voice could be heard over the wailing and the shouting as she rode up, and addressed the Hand astride his horse. Hux curled his lip slightly and wrinkled his thin nose in disdain.
“It will be enough. Make sure they’re on the ships by sundown.” He shifted slightly in his saddle, taking a brief glance around at the filthy townspeople gathered, mothers grasping for their children as soldiers beat them back. The children were small, some barely of walking age, not only boys but the girlchildren as well. They sobbed and tried to flee, but it was no use. Hux cast a disgusted gaze upon it all and spurred his horse away from the scene. “And Phasma,” he added with a sniff, “See that these people understand their duty. Make an example, if necessary.”
The Kingsroad was near empty in this part of the Crownlands, save for the Hand and his small party as they rode south past Rosby. Dark was falling by the time they reached the keep of one of the old families to host them for the night.
Hux was not overly fond of the Stokeworths--but they were useful for information or getting work done. The small party passed under their flag-ridden gates and the already-weary Hand of the King heaved a slight sigh as they were immediately received. A night, and then back to King’s Landing. He’d send a raven with his figures and calculations tonight, and ride out again in the morning.
Dinner was, as Hux assumed it would be, an ordeal. Too much chatter, and far too much noise besides. The food was acceptable, but the company did sour things. Even the wine wasn't to his taste--the Westerosi had their vintages, but this he knew to be hippocras, and the Yunkai'i lord was not overly fond of the heavy flavors and the odd thick taste, only accented by the fact it was served heated. He sipped it but slowly and sparingly, which did nothing but amplify his displeasure with the situation.
Then, something interesting.
“...Those ridiculous riders--they’re calling themselves simply the ‘Resistance’; but by all accounts they seem to be nothing but vandals and brutes!” The lady of the house turned to Hux with a simpering smile, “Of course, you’ll have heard all about that by now…” In fact he had heard some, this ‘Resistance’ was riding throughout the Seven Kingdoms by now, down as far south as Dorne and as far to the north as the Wall. He would do far worse than send their lot to take the Black if he caught any of them. For the time, he took a drink of wine and let his brow rise slightly.
“Of course,” he responded simply, “But as you well know, Lady Stokeworth, any information is of great use to the crown.”
“Oh yes of course!” Came her hurried reply, “House Stokeworth has always been loyal, my lord Hand, since the--”
“--Time of the Conquest, yes, even a foreigner like myself is quite aware of your history, my lady.” This seemed to dampen her vigor slightly, and she faltered a moment.
“Yes of course. I’m afraid information on these outlaws is terribly hard to come by, they’ve done nothing but raid traveling parties and there is word that they’re being backed privately by the Starks--” Hux’s goblet hit the table a bit harder than expected.
“The Starks are all but extinct. Leia is but lucky to be alive, and that allowance is tenuous, moreso should she leave the North and Winterfell again.” Lady Stokeworth took a nervous sip of wine and offered a slight nod of assent.
“Quite right, my lord Hand…” Hux disregarded her after that. There were always whispers of things coming from the North, but if Leia Stark was half the woman he thought she was, she wouldn’t be so stupid as to back this ‘Resistance’ outright.
Dinner passed in silence.
That night, Hux was presented with guest chambers and sent for ink, parchment, quill, and wine. He penned a letter to King’s Landing as he drank, not particularly looking forward to being back in the Keep to deal with Ren and his ridiculous band of ‘knights’. The King humored that boy too much, and it had made him unstable--even more than he was before. Targaryen blood, Hux sniffed to himself, even in Yunkai they spoke of the Targaryens of Old Valyria and the madness that plagued their line. But the dragons were gone, and the Targaryens had essentially died with them. The resurgence of Anakin I Targaryen and his ascension to the throne was raved about in history books now, even Hux knew the stories there. Still. There were no more dragons, and the Targaryens held no real power any longer. King Snoke would usher in a new era with the establishment of the First Order, and with Hux as his Hand of the King, his reach had already extended to the Masters of Yunkai and Meereen.
Hux scratched more figures to parchment, one sheet to be rolled up, sealed, and sent by raven to King’s Landing. A second sheet was for his personal ledger. The numbers were slowly decreasing, he noted, certainly with today’s shipment taken into consideration. Hux sighed heavily, taking a long drink. They had been showing the smallfolk some mercy by visiting one town each month--but there were no longer enough children being produced. Hux’s brow furrowed slightly as he went over the figures once more before sealing the folded parchment.
The castle was quiet in the late hours, and the Hand’s trip to the rookery was a peaceful one. Sealed ledger in hand, Hux made his way up to the maester’s tower to send a raven, but as he passed by a set of small windows his attention was drawn suddenly to torches gathering in the yard below. Riders--he saw two from his place on the stairs, clearly filthy and in disarray, but clad in the pale armor of the Order’s soldiers. His eyes narrowed as he watched a moment longer, and then turned around in his path away from the ravenry.
Sure enough, he was met on his stroll by one of the soldiers, flanked by two of House Stokeworth’s guards.
“My lord Hand, riders in the night. They claim to have a message for you, my lord,” One of the guards glanced at the Order soldier, and Hux quirked a brow slightly, looking at them expectantly.
“Well?” The soldier coughed quietly, shaking their head, still in white helm--though now all of the pale armor was crusted with mud and blood and some mix there between.
“Am-ambush, my lord--at the docks--” the garbled voice came, muffled by the helmet, laboriously breathing.
“Ambush? Explain.”
“They--they came in from the north, rode us down to the shore, burned two of the ships before they could sail--”
“Two of the ships? And the third?” Hux demanded, but the soldier shook their head.
“Sailed out into the Blackwater. Her sail was ablaze, my lord, but we did not see her sink.” the Hand let out a long, low breath. Two ships destroyed, and a third yet unaccounted for. His voice was terse,
“And the cargo?” A wet cough from under the helmet before the hesitant reply.
“Lost, my lord Hand.”
Hux’s gloved fingers constricted around each other, the parchment he’d been holding crumpling under his harsh grasp, and there was silence in the hall for a long moment before the Hand spoke again.
“Find Captain Phasma. Inform her that I want the village made example of by dawn.” A pause, and then Hux’s pale eyes turned frigid as they fixed on the soldier. “Was I unclear?”
The First Order soldier went to attention immediately, giving the pale man in front of them a hurried bow.
“No, my lord Hand.” Hux finalized his crumpling of the parchment in his hands and ran his tongue over his teeth briefly before taking a breath and turning towards his rooms again.
“And do tell the captain I expect to hear word of this tomorrow.”
Dawn broke through the haze of smoke and lingering fire. Horses whinnied in the wreckage of buildings and carts, struggling to free themselves, and bodies were strewn about in the dirt and soot and debris that was previously a village just north of Rosby. Riders had gone after anyone trying to flee, already having ridden down more than one villager into the woods and fields beyond, but the majority had died still in the confines of the blazing village center. The villagers had been outmatched, most of them aging or women, and farmers who could hardly defend themselves against the First Order's Unsullied soldiers. The better number of them had died where they stood, now charred and bloodied in the mud, but some still gasped and groaned and pleaded for death, bleeding out too slowly.
Captain Phasma sat in her gleaming armor astride her horse, watching the smoke continue to rise into the morning. A soldier approached, facing the charred scene with her briefly.
“Orders, Captain?”
“Leave it. Let the crows break their fast here. On to the Kingsroad again.”
“Yes, Captain.”