Horn Hill.
The Reach basked in the warmth of early spring. Greenery stretched as far as the eye could see, with trees heavy with fruit and fields brimming with tender sprouts. Herds of cattle and flocks of sheep roamed the rolling plains, wandering from sunrise to sunset in leisurely patterns, their hooves leaving gentle impressions in the soft earth.
"Father, are you going?" Dickon Tarly's voice trembled slightly as he looked at his father's stern face. His gaze then drifted toward the distant hills, his hands gripping the castle wall as though the stones could anchor his courage.
"Of course not."
Earl Randyll Tarly crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the moat below. The letter, soaked immediately by the flowing river, slowly unfurled, revealing the brief, ominous lines written upon it:
"Earl Tarly, King's Landing has been captured by me. As per our prior agreement, come to King's Landing at the earliest to confer with Stannis Baratheon regarding the Warden of the South. I will also personally present you with 'Heartbreaker'."
The ink began to blur as the water consumed the words.
Randyll turned to his son with a grave expression. "Dickon, this is a cake sweetened with poison. You must not touch it, and you must never speak of it to anyone."
Dickon's youthful excitement collapsed instantly. "Then… what about 'Heartbreaker'?"
"Let them keep it for now." Randyll's face was calm, but his eyes carried a steel-like warning. "Even going to King's Landing to reclaim 'Heartbreaker,' whether or not we accept Stannis's invitation, would brand House Tyrell as rebels. Horn Hill would stand against Highgarden. With the Hightowers indecisive, the Reach would fracture into three, and unity would vanish forever."
Dickon frowned. "Such a cunning scheme… all from House Stark? Sometimes rumors can't be fully trusted, can they?"
"Ah, I understand," Dickon replied with a heavy nod. Then, unable to resist, he asked, "Father, if you never intended to side with House Stark, why leave soldiers for Eddard Karstark?"
Randyll's brow furrowed. "It wasn't my choice. The enemy came under the cover of night, and their numbers far exceeded my estimates. I had no intelligence indicating that Harrenhal was garrisoned by ten thousand infantry, two thousand cavalry, and… two hundred giants of legend."
Dickon's eyes widened. He had heard the stories—the enormous giants, towering over men, strong as moving walls. In their last encounter, Eddard Karstark had relied on personal prowess and strange magic, leading a small elite force in a sudden strike. But now, he could command tens of thousands of soldiers at will.
"The battlefield is a treacherous place. One wrong command could mean death for tens of thousands," Randyll continued. "At the time, I had planned a breakout, ready to execute it at the right moment. But Eddard found me with his… peculiar magic and requested a parley."
"He's terrifying, yet strangely naive. He actually expected me to order my soldiers to throw down their weapons, strip off their armor, and flee back to the Reach in shame."
"Hmph. How could that be possible?"
"But I seized on the opportunity, promising to leave the infantry behind and retreat eastward swiftly. Only then could I safely return with the heirs of the great houses, their sworn bannermen, and their elite troops. Otherwise, it would have been a deadly fight, and even I might not have escaped."
Randyll had studied Eddard Karstark's tactics carefully. He favored decapitations—strategic, precise strikes to eliminate leaders quickly. In the Battle of Riverrun, Ser Fowler Preston had fallen. In the Battle of Red Fork, Gregor Clegane had died. The Battle of Twin River City… he dared not face it again.
Dickon nodded in partial understanding. "Then… do you still intend to fight for House Tyrell?"
"No." Randyll shook his head. "Horn Hill suffered heavily, yet the gains were minor. Now even King's Landing is under House Stark, Tywin's lands have been invaded, and the situation remains uncertain. The battlefield is too tangled; clarity is impossible."
He gazed at his son's confused expression, speaking slowly. "Tarly is one of the oldest houses in the Reach, tracing back to the Age of Heroes. Every lord is a warrior, courageous and bold. But a lord cannot be merely a warrior. One lapse, one misjudgment, and everything can fall."
"Now, son, it is time to wait patiently."
A gust of wind swept over the castle walls, making Dickon shiver despite the sun's warmth.
---
Through the narrow windows of the Throne Room, the setting sun's afterglow spilled across the floor, painting the hall in a deep, crimson light. The Iron Throne sat on the high platform, grotesque and forbidding—sharp blades protruding from every angle, a cruel throne for any mortal to touch.
Eddard tried to sit but immediately shifted, grimacing. The steel was cold and unyielding, the spikes stabbing at his back. The armrests cut uncomfortably into his skin. Had none of the Targaryen kings died of tetanus? He muttered a curse under his breath.
"My Lord, this is revenge," Ser Hogg Staunton said, kneeling below him. His voice trembled with grief as he recounted his daughter's fate. "My daughter… she is only thirteen. Kind, gentle, always smiling… yet she vanished near Flea Bottom. When found, her body was covered in abuse marks. She had not even had her first moon blood, Your Majesty!"
Eddard remained silent, his gaze fixed on Varys. The Red Keep's sunlight cast the Master of Whisperers in a red halo.
"You hired over twenty mercenaries, dressed in armor, slaughtered residents, then claimed loyalty to pin the blame on me?" Eddard held up the parchment Staunton had given him. "Over a hundred people died in your efficiency. Not even my Free Folk from Beyond the Wall have committed such crimes!"
Ser Staunton shook, voice cracking. "It is revenge! My lovely daughter deserved justice! Those who wronged her must pay!"
Varys intervened softly. "Respected Ser Hogg Staunton, perhaps there is a misunderstanding. Miss Avril was not entirely innocent. Eyewitnesses say she ordered her attendants to punish children who dirtied her dress, sparking a riot. Her attendants died under falling stones, and she was found two days later in a ditch."
Staunton's anger flared. "My daughter's dress was silk, exquisitely made. These children deserved death for disrespecting her!"
"Enough," Eddard interrupted, his calm voice heavy. "I am the Prince of the Trident, Regent of the Riverlands, Lord of the Crossing. You dared to pin your crimes on me. You deserve death."
Karas Snow, standing beside him, slapped Staunton across the face with an iron gauntlet. Blood and broken teeth fell to the floor.
"Karas," Eddard commanded, "execute him and his mercenaries. Put their heads on spikes outside the Red Keep to warn others."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Karas Snow obeyed without hesitation.
Eddard turned to Gaebbert Glover, seated at the consciousness desk. "Is that all for today?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," the Earl replied, standing.
Eddard nodded and descended the steps. Hunger tugged at him; he planned to eat before taking his family to Harrenhal.
"Lord Eddard," Varys called, "the High Septon wishes to meet you at Baelor's Great Sept."
Eddard sighed, his patience thin. "He can come here. I'll wait in the dining hall."
---
The Red Keep's dining hall was a feast of culinary expertise. Crab pies, roasted suckling pig, creamed quail, and oxtail soup graced the table. The chef had painstakingly ensured every dish was perfect, knowing lives depended on the evening's atmosphere.
"Not bad," Eddard muttered, tasting a bite of crab pie, its sweet, savory crab roe balanced perfectly with a hint of pear vinegar from Dorne.
Footsteps interrupted him. A figure, rounder and taller than the chef, blocked the sunlight. The crown on his head gleamed, catching the fading sun.
"Lord Eddard!" the High Septon announced, his oily face twisted in anger. "Your soldiers must be punished for their crimes against the Faith!"
Eddard's smile faded. He waved dismissively. "They worship the Old Gods, not the Seven. They do what they will. There is nothing I can do."
The High Septon's shock was visible. "What will it take for them to stop?" he demanded.
Eddard's eyes gleamed with resolve. "Three million gold dragons."
---
Full book àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)