Randyll Tarly
"When will you stop thinking with what's in your breeches and start thinking with what's on your shoulders?"
"When I'm older," Dickon replied calmly, though the muscles in his jaw tightened.
Randyll liked his son's reaction. That was how a son ought to be—unyielding and stubborn. It was how he had raised him.
"The princess is beautiful, no doubt of that. But far more important is what she may bring us."
"And what is that?"
"Kinship with the Lannisters, a rich dowry, and closeness to the king and the other prince. And do not forget the blood that would run in your children's veins, should all go as we hope."
"Sounds promising," Dickon said with a nod.
"Aye, promising enough. Only we are not the only ones clever enough to see it."
***
At first, Randyll had meant to speak with the Hand about the prospects of such a match. After looking about the capital, however, he changed his mind and decided to begin with the king instead. All the more so since he had been conveniently summoned to the Ruby Ford.
He had seen the king once before, after the Battle of the Blackwater, when Tywin formally took up the office of Hand in the Red Keep and a feast had been held to mark the occasion.
Back then, the boy had inspired nothing but contempt in him. He was no Sam, true enough, yet neither could he boast of anything of worth. He had only bared his teeth like a frightened cur, hiding behind Cersei's skirts and sheltering behind the swords of the West.
Much time had passed since then. Joffrey had crushed the brewing uprising of the city rabble, taken Riverrun, fought successfully along the Trident, and during the standoff at the Ruby Ford had effectively turned the tide toward complete victory.
It seemed the boy had changed—and had begun to resemble Tywin.
"Don't talk too much, and mind your tongue," Randyll warned his son as they approached the Ruby Ford. "The king is not as simple as he looks."
"You used to say otherwise."
"He used to behave otherwise. Yet after the butchery in King's Landing, he showed that he is worth something after all."
"Why do you keep returning to that?" Dickon rose slightly in his stirrups, stretching his muscles.
"Because what he did was incredibly important. And very few people understand it."
"What was so important about it? He merely scattered the rabble and killed a bunch of peasants."
"Learn to look at the root of things, Dickon," Randyll frowned. "It's like a snake just hatched. At first, you can crush it easily. But if you give it time to grow, it may bite and kill half the countryside. Do you understand?" His son nodded, though not quite convincingly, and Randyll felt the need to add, "By killing those people, the king prevented far greater problems and saved many other lives."
***
At the camp at the Ruby Ford, he and Dickon were accompanied by a force of three thousand men. Most of them were his own seasoned troops, along with several noble knights from the Reach and their retinues.
His own archers were there as well—reliable, capable men commanded by Ser Hugh Flowers. The knights of Westeros did not particularly favor the bow, preferring sword, lance, or axe. But Flowers had a deep respect for it. He often boasted that he could "hit a maiden in her flower from a hundred paces."
King Joffrey surprised Randyll by shaking his hand and speaking to him as an equal. That was something to think about.
Almost immediately, they were invited into a vast tent to dine. The food was excellent, and the toasts celebrating the victory over the Golden Company warmed his heart. He could see that his achievements were appreciated. Mace Tyrell had never treated him like this.
There were plenty of noble lords around the king—Edmure Tully, now forgiven; William Mooton, who had nearly become kin; and the Kingslayer himself.
Randyll and Jaime had crossed paths before, yet now both men seemed to understand at once that whatever lay ahead between them would be neither simple nor easy…
That same evening, they set out to inspect the camp. To his surprise, the king did not spare himself and personally accompanied him everywhere.
He liked how things were arranged. Not perfect, of course, but quite good.
On the riverbank, they spoke for a while. Randyll praised the king for how he had handled His Sparrowness, then turned the conversation to Dickon and Myrcella.
The king did not please him. He was clearly stalling, replying with vague, generalities.
Several days passed quietly. Then Joffrey departed for home, taking all his people with him and leaving Randyll in command at the Ruby Ford.
Well, he was at least grateful to the king for not pestering him with petty oversight, for placing him in command of the host, and for arranging matters so that his own liege lord, Mace Tyrell, did not interfere in an attempt to claim his share of glory.
For a time, he drilled the army and prepared for the campaign. Then, when orders came from the capital, he marched, easily drove the Boltons, the Freys, and the Blackfish from the ford, and pushed them north.
How all those people managed to coexist was beyond him. Then again, politics had seen stranger absurdities than these.
All the while, he continued training his son, entrusting him with tasks suited to his abilities. At first he had given him a hundred men, then two hundred, then five hundred—and now Dickon handled a thousand with confidence enough.
It was Dickon, with a sizable force, whom Randyll had left to guard the Crossroads while he himself marched into the Vale with the main host and laid siege to the Bloody Gate.
The fortress was deemed impregnable, yet here as well their allies did not fail them. Tyrion Lannister had in his service a former sellsword—now Ser Bronn of the Blackwater—and maintained ties with the clans of the Mountains of the Moon.
It was those men who secured their victory, attacking the garrison of the Bloody Gate from the rear at the very moment when Randyll's entire host was bleeding and sweating in a futile attempt to scale the walls.
He had done exactly what he intended—drawing the garrison into battle, distracting them from other directions, and allowing the mountain clans to do their work.
Lord Tarly slaughtered all who refused to lay down their arms, pushed forward, and blocked the Moon Gate from the west.
Here he had been forced to wait while Joffrey and the Kingslayer took Gulltown and advanced into the Vale. News passed constantly between him and his allies, and he found himself impressed by the way the Kingslayer conducted the war—hard, swift, and decisive, just as Randyll himself preferred.
(End of Chapter)
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