At the head of a force three thousand strong, Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill arrived at our camp—a tall, bald, stern man clad in simple black boiled leather. Slung across his back was a massive Valyrian steel greatsword named Heartsbane.
Every blade forged from such metal is unique and astonishingly beautiful. The Stark greatsword Ice bore a dark, nearly black hue with its distinctive rippling patterns.
Jaime's sword shimmered with a deep, almost anthracite black. My own Wind of Change appeared a dense crimson, glinting with shades of black and scarlet.
But Heartsbane displayed a violet-black pattern, speckled with tiny, sparkling flecks that flared in candlelight, making it seem as though the blade possessed a mysterious life of its own.
"Your Majesty," Randyll Tarly dismounted his horse, approached me, met my gaze for a few moments, and then gave a slight nod, revealing a slanted scar across his crown.
I had long noticed that serious men did not readily bow their heads, even before their liege. And if they felt their own strength and knew the king owed them, they would often carry themselves almost as equals. But I did not take offense at this. Especially considering everything Lord of Horn Hill had done.
"Glad to see you," I said, extending my hand. He gripped it firmly.
"Allow me to present my son, Dickon," he said with a nod, and stepping out from behind him was his spitting image—only about twenty years younger, not quite as stern, and not nearly as imposing. Besides, the young man wasn't bald; he had wavy hair that fell to his shoulders.
"Your Majesty," the young man bowed properly, following all etiquette.
"A pleasure to meet you, Dickon. I'm glad your father brought you along."
We exchanged a few customary pleasantries before I invited Randyll to rest and share a meal after his journey.
The feast turned out to be abundant and lively. All the major commanders were present—Jaime, Edmure Tully, and Archmaester Marwyn the Mage, who had by now become a full member of our circle. Randyll, aside from his son, was accompanied by three of his vassals.
Time and again, our men raised their cups to his victory over the Golden Company, while he, in turn, graciously congratulated us on preserving the army despite the Boltons' betrayal.
Lord Tarly had, among other things, profited well from the last war. He had not been allowed to claim the entire treasury of the Golden Company, but even what he received was more than enough.
The Hand had written to me that, in gratitude, he had permitted Tarly to keep half of the spoils, with the rest going into the royal treasury. This had stirred some dissatisfaction among certain lords. Mace Tyrell, upon returning to the capital, could not calm himself and sought once more to redistribute the loot.
In short, everything was proceeding as usual—lords elbowing each other aside over a juicy prize. More often than not, the reward went to the one who was stronger and more self assured. And Lord Tarly did not look like a weak man, even if he was technically a vassal of the Tyrells.
Toward evening, taking advantage of the last hour of fading daylight, I led Tarly on a tour of the camp. He often nodded approvingly, grunted thoughtfully, but on several occasions couldn't resist offering advice on how things could be organized better.
"I liked how you dealt with His Sparrowness," he said unexpectedly, when dusk had already fallen and we stood by the banks of the Trident, torches flickering around us as our guards kept watch.
Behind us stood a sizable retinue and escort. The wind stirred the flames of the torches. The water below reflected the light, while farther out it appeared dark and cold. The opposite bank lay swallowed in lilac twilight. There, thin streams of smoke rose into the sky from countless campfires. At the ford itself, torches were beginning to light up—the enemy had not gone anywhere. They were preparing for another night and were watching the crossing just as closely as we were.
"Really? Some would say I was overly cruel."
"Fools! All those games with the rabble could have ended very badly. I know this type of people—give them a finger, and they'll try to take the whole hand."
"I'm glad to hear approval from a man like you," I said, quite sincerely.
"That is one of the reasons I joined you willingly—not merely out of duty," Tarly said, hooking his thumbs behind his wide belt and rocking slightly from heel to toe.
"There are other reasons?"
"Your sister Myrcella and my Dickon are well suited for one another. Shall we discuss the prospects of their union?"
The shift in topic caught me off guard, and for a moment I didn't know what to say.
"Her betrothal to Trystane Martell is still in force."
"We both see that it is about to be dissolved."
"Have you raised this matter with the Hand?" I finally managed.
"No," he said, chopping the air with his hand as if striking with a sword. "I wanted to settle it with you."
"I see… I can't give you an answer right away. I need to think it over and discuss it with the Hand," I said, gesturing forward, suggesting we continue walking.
Randyll did not look pleased, and the shifting torchlight sharply outlined the crease that had formed between his brows.
Well, well, Tarly—you sly bastard! No wonder he hadn't spoken with Kevan Lannister. He must have assumed I was young, inexperienced, easier to sway and persuade. Whereas Kevan—had Tarly raised such a matter—would certainly have informed me of such a proposal in his letters.
So what was I to do? For now,I guess the best course was probably to deflect with vague answers and stall for time.
We would see what came of it.
(End of Chapter)
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