Randyll Tarly
A few days later, the war came to an end, and Randyll was present in the royal tent when the king announced the terms of surrender to the Arryns. It was then that he first saw Robert Arryn—and barely restrained his contempt. He had never seen such a sniveling little wretch. If he had sent his own son to the Wall, then this boy deserved to be drowned in a barrel of water like a kitten, so that he would not disgrace such an ancient and noble house.
The king returned to the capital, while Randyll left the Vale, joined up with his son's detachment, and marched north to bring the bastard Freys to heel.
A month later, the Twins fell. Once, he had thought Edmure Tully a weak-willed worm, but he approved of the River Lord's decision to execute around twenty of the most dangerous Freys. It had been necessary—and right. Vassals must always be kept firmly in hand, reminded from time to time what fear feels like.
The frightened Freys quieted down, meek as mice beneath a broom. They had clearly been impressed—both by the executions and by the fury of the otherwise calm Tully.
***
At the Twins, troubling news reached them. Daenerys Targaryen, with three dragons, had attacked the sleeping Red Keep. There were many dead, burned, and wounded.
Lord Tarly approved of such a bold and decisive move—a foe like that was always a pleasure to war against. But Myrcella's death filled him with fury and a hunger for vengeance. By then, the Tarlys, strengthening their influence with every victory they delivered the king, had begun to believe in earnest that Joffrey and Kevan would no longer be able to ignore their demands. Princess Myrcella had seemed ever closer at hand… and then came this blow.
The Targaryen bitch would answer for it.
***
Together with Edmure, they returned to the capital. It was gratifying that, at his insistence, Dickon had clearly managed to establish a good rapport with the River Lord—such connections were always valuable.
They returned to the capital with a prize—Greatjon Umber, lord of Last Hearth. Though he was still considered a prisoner and his status had not yet been fully resolved, Randyll spent several evenings with him, drinking wine, feasting on roasted boar, and swapping war stories. Umber was a proper man. In truth, Tarly liked the harsh North and its lords. There was strength in them, a hard power too often lacking in many of the lords of the Reach.
***
In the castle, after all the funerals and meetings of the Small Council, Lord Tarly considered how matters had changed. Before, he had placed his hopes upon his son, but now it seemed time to look at things from another side. He had three unmarried daughters, and the king had a younger brother still unbetrothed.
And since nothing had come of Myrcella, it was time to push for such a marriage instead. The king's brother was no worse than his sister—and perhaps even better.
All the more so since Kevan was gone, and it had become easier to pressure the king. Though the new Hand, Lord Mathis Rowan, saw through his aims and ambitions clearly enough. And the Rowans, like the Tarlys, were bannermen to the Tyrells, and had no wish to watch Horn Hill grow stronger.
In short, another phase of the struggle for power had begun. Lord Tarly had never been fond of all this behind-the-scenes maneuvering, but now, with Lady Olenna dead, it was clearly not a time to stand aside.
He felt it with all his heart—the marriage of Tommen to any girl would, in many ways, determine the future face of Westeros.
Meanwhile, the Martells seemed to have finally brought Daenerys to heel and had marched out. They entered the Reach and began burning castles.
***
The dragons frightened them all, but there was no choice but to forget fear and march south.
Randyll Tarly managed to secure command of the vanguard of the advancing host.
Within a couple of weeks, they reached the Blueburn. Before the battle, another council was held, where it was decided who would command and what the overall plan would be.
Lord Tarly once again tried to push forward his own candidacy. The king gave preference to the Kingslayer. Though Tarly nursed a grievance, he understood that this, too, could be turned to his advantage in the future.
For now, there was battle ahead.
He was given command of the right flank and all the cavalry from the Stormlands, the Vale, the Crownlands, and Riverrun. From the Reach, only his own thousand men stood with him.
The hosts formed opposite one another.
"A fine day for a feast of crows," Lord Tarly said, turning to Dickon. "In battle, don't gape—watch how the dragons move. And don't you dare die. I need you alive."
"I understand, father!" Dickon looked calm and composed. He seemed unafraid, yet his father knew him too well not to see otherwise.
Even so, Randyll did not fault him for it. Watching the distant shapes circling in the sky, he himself felt an unpleasant chill. At least one of those beasts had already been slain—only two remained now.
Those dragons inspired nothing but contempt. If any little girl could lay her hands upon such a weapon and become a great commander, then to Randyll it seemed the ruin of the world itself. It was wrong. True warriors learned the art of war almost from the cradle, relying upon their own wits, patience, cunning, and the strength of their bodies—not upon fire-breathing beasts.
A dragon swept all of that aside, allowing battles to be won not through the genius of command, but through one simple fact—the possession of a dragon itself.
***
Before him stood the full strength of Dorne. He could see their famed banners and standards.
And he saw that host begin to move beneath the sound of horns
"To work, sers," he raised his great Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane, lifted himself in the stirrups, and shouted with such force that half the army could hear him, "Let's show these bloody Dornish that their place is in hell!"
The host answered with a rising roar and the blare of horns.
(End of Chapter)
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