Marwyn the Mage
After Highgarden, Marwyn transferred to the train of Ser Brinden Bridges—a smiling knight of middling height, around forty years of age, with hair the color of ripe wheat. The Bridges were one of House Tyrell's bannermen, and now Brinden was leading a sizable force of nearly two thousand men to the northeast.
By then, everyone knew that King Joffrey had charged Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill with raising an army. Tarly himself was at Bitterbridge, and fresh forces were converging on him from all sides.
Such a prominent figure as an archmaester was always a welcome guest. Ser Brinden gladly invited Marwyn the Mage to accompany his company. There were many miles yet to travel—why not make them pass more pleasantly in the company of a clever conversationalist? And it would not hurt to learn the latest news from Oldtown.
Before Bitterbridge, they were met by a sea of tents spread far and wide. Cooks were preparing food; noise and laughter sounded everywhere. The Tyrells had gathered no small host, and now all of them—cheerful and animated, like youths before their first sex—discussed the coming war.
In the camp, Marwyn managed to speak with Lord Tarly. Tall, lean, and bald, with a gray beard, he moved with brisk, sharp energy despite his age. For all his considerable wealth, he was a true warrior and preferred, of all garments, a boiled-leather jerkin and trousers with rough boots. He rarely removed his mail, keeping his body hardened through constant training, and across his back hung an ancient Valyrian steel sword bearing the name Heartsbane.
"To what do I owe the honor, Archmaester?" Lord Tarly spoke curtly and bluntly. The folds running from the wings of his nose down into his beard spoke of this man's authority and ferocity.
"I am bound for King's Landing and wish to meet King Joffrey. Would you share the latest news?"
"You won't find him in the city. The king, along with the Lord Commander, set out from the capital just days ago. They've led their forces north, toward the Ruby Ford."
Marwyn scratched his chin. It seemed matters were growing more complicated, and seeing the king would not be so simple after all.
They were seated in a large tent. Once it had been painted in bright colors, but the years had taken their toll. The fabric had faded, the dyes lost their brilliance, and the Tarly sigil painted in several places—a red huntsman on a green field—had grown pale and scarcely noticeable.
Knights and lords came and went almost without pause to see Randyll; squires reported on completed orders and received new commands. Life boiled within those canvas walls, and it became immediately clear that Tarly felt like a fish in water here, skillfully holding the army in his grasp and keeping control over every matter and detail.
Close to Tarly stood a very young boy—no older than thirteen—his younger son, Dickon. It seemed Randyll had already begun shaping his future heir.
Marwyn knew many stories, including those some preferred to hush up. Thus he was aware that Tarly also had an elder son, named Samwell at birth.
However, the Tarlys had always been a warlike, stern, and fierce house, renowned since ancient times for their martial prowess. Of his elder son, Randyll himself had once said, "Sam is like fresh horse dung—just as soft and just as useless." Despairing of achieving anything with him, the father had sent Samwell to the Wall and forgotten about him, focusing entirely on his younger son.
Harsh? Very. Yet from Tarly's own perspective, it was entirely logical. Of course, he might have sent the boy to the Citadel, but the old warrior likely feared the rumors that would inevitably arise. The Tarlys were a highly visible house, and if hundreds of eyes—novices, acolytes, maesters, and archmaesters—were to see Sam every day, the gossip about all this would never cease.
Had Marwyn taken an interest in politics and hungered for power, it would have been a shrewd move to secure Samwell Tarly as a personal apprentice.
"Tomorrow morning I'm sending a detachment of archers to King's Landing. If you wish, you may join them," Tarly said after a moment's thought.
"And who commands them?"
"Ser Owen Inchfield." Tarly raised a hand to attract the attention of a steward standing nearby. "Shelby, find Ser Owen and bring him here."
"At once, my lord." The young man left the tent.
After Tarly introduced the archmaester to Inchfield, he apparently considered his duties as host fulfilled. Pleading his obligations, Randyll departed to inspect one of the newly arrived companies.
Marwyn did not even think of taking offense at such indifference. First, he believed everything had gone well enough. And second, everyone knew Lord Tarly was hard as an old horseshoe and had no patience for trifles. He was, as the saying went, a man of action, intent on doing his duty rather than concerning himself with etiquette or politeness.
(End of Chapter)
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