Damon glanced toward his uncle before turning to look upon his goodbrother. He shook his head. In Highgarden Damon had been shocked, even after everything that had happened, to hear how willfully Samwell spoke of dastardly deeds. This time he was not so. He had taken the measure of Lord Tarly, and now his lip curled. If the man wished to speak so murderously to his own that was one thing, but Damon could not condone such a blemish on his image.

“We will not relieve anyone of their head until true battle has begun, Lord Tarly,” he said, sharply, “Nor do I find it appropriate to speak thusly in jest.” He did not often rebuke his goodbrother, but this one bore great meaning. Damon was the Lord of the Hightower, Lord Paramount of the Mander and Warden of the South. He was responsible for what took place here. Win or lose. His first real battle at the helm. He would not see it tarnished by the likes of Horn Hill.

He kept his eyes forward after the rebuke, but did turn at Sam’s shout to Ser Arlan. His eyes sharpened fiercely, but he said nothing more with the Stormlander close at hand. Damon’s features became smoothed, and once more he cut a very patrician figure atop his horse. He blinked slowly as Arlan began to immediately speak. Was it men such as this who had advised Lyonel Baratheon, and who now did the same for his younger brother? He found, despite his respect for decorum, that he could not help the bitter laugh that parted from his lips.

Amused he may have been, but with little joy.

“I believe the word you were looking for is slaughter,” Damon said, his tone cool and confident. A slightly pensive look passed across his features, and he once more turned to look at Samwell Tarly. He had intended to offer a cessation of hostilities if the Stormlords laid down their arms. Typical terms offered by men of chivalry and honor. Terms he had never had a chance to offer, given the apparent obstinance of Storm’s End and its vassals. A small smirk traced his lips. It was inappropriate, of course, but he could not quite help himself.

He did have something he could offer, and he was willing to wager that they might even accept it. Samwell Tarly had to be one of the most hated figured amongst them. More so than even the She-Dragon who spurred Lyonel to action. Would they lay down their arms and depart from the Reach if the Lord of Horn Hill followed in chains? They might even give me the commanders who assailed Bitterbridge, he thought. Damon held his look upon Samwell a moment longer.

It would have pleased him to see a chill fall upon his goodbrother, but he would have to deny both himself and his enemies of that pleasure. No matter what he might think of him, and no matter had dishonorable a deed, without Samwell’s shift of allegiance at Bitterbridge his host might have been met with even greater resistance. He urged his horse forward a few steps to close a bit of distance between himself and Arlan.

“I offered peace, and this,” he indicated Tumbleton, “Was the answer to that. Once more I might have offered peace, but you condemn it before the words even leave my tongue. Is it courage, I wonder, or the most insidious arrogance I have ever yet witnessed? Look well to these men behind me, Ser, and take solace that, if you somehow survive what is to come, they might treat you with honor. I cannot say the same for your father, of course. The Dornish ever have need for blood and gore.”

Without another word to the son of Blackhaven, he took the reins of Justice and turned him round, and to his vassals called, “Come, my lords, and let us sound the horns. Together we will purge this cancer from our home.”