The battlefield was a cacophony of dying horses and the rhythmic, terrifying thud of giant footsteps. Seeing that even the most elite heavy cavalry of Highgarden, the pride of the Tyrells could not inflict so much as a scratch on the armored behemoths, Randyll Tarly decisively issued the retreat.
The sharp, piercing notes of the retreat horn tore through the morning mist, cutting across the thunder of hooves. The heavy cavalry from Goldengrove, still in a fast trot and not yet committed to a full gallop, reacted with superb horsemanship. They pulled their reins, performing a wide, disciplined arc outside the giants' reach, and began to fall back toward their fortified camp on the hill.
With no one left to stop them, the giants raised their massive iron-shod shields and strode forward once again, their eyes fixed on the Striding Hunter banner of House Tarly.
In the wake of the failed charge, Eddard searched the mud and the corpses until he found his prize: Garlan Tyrell. The "Valiant" was lucky; he hadn't been crushed by the giants' feet, though his helmet bore a deep, jagged dent. Eddard clicked his tongue. Even if the man woke, he'd be dealing with a concussion that no amount of milk of the poppy could truly cure.
Eddard hoisted the armored knight onto his shoulder and followed the giant phalanx toward the "hedgehog" formation at the crest of the hill. To the south, Tytos Blackwood's cavalry halted their advance, observing the shift in momentum. To the north, the ten thousand Free Folk led by Styr were closing the distance, their steel spear-tips glinting in the pale light.
Randyll Tarly watched the pincer close, his expression a mask of cold, severe stone. He had made up his mind to fight to the death. He had no ballistas, no scorpions, and no answer for the giants. If he stayed, his army would be pulverized. If he retreated into the open plains to the east, his fear-stricken infantry would be mown down by Blackwood's riders.
He was waiting for a single opportunity to strike Styr's "rabble" to the north, a soft target that might allow him to break the encirclement when a new banner was raised.
A white field with a golden sun shimmering between two black towers.
Eddard Karstark emerged from behind Marga's shield, carrying the unconscious Garlan Tyrell like a sack of grain.
Caw! Caw! Caw!
A jet-black raven landed on Eddard's shoulder, its voice raspy and startlingly human. "Randyll Tarly! Talk! Like the walls of the Twins! Talk!"
Tarly's eyes narrowed. He had heard the rumors of the "Winter Wizard," but seeing a speaking bird and armored giants in the same hour was a heavy meal for a man of the Reach to digest. He squeezed his horse's flanks, riding forward to meet the Karstark lord in the "dead zone" between the two armies.
"Lord Tarly, a pleasure to see you again," Eddard said, casually dropping Garlan Tyrell into the mud. "A gift. Consider it a down payment on our conversation."
Tarly dismounted, gesturing for his squires to take Garlan away to the Maester. "Lord Eddard. Regent? Wizard?"
"Titles are for the bards, Randyll. Call me Eddard."
Tarly stood his ground, his hand resting near where Heartbreaker should have been. "When two armies are arrayed, what is there to talk about? Surrender? I have ten thousand men. It is not certain who wins if the steel meets."
"I will win," Eddard said, his confidence as cold as the frost on the grass. "The only uncertainty is how many of your men die before you realize it. The soldiers of King's Landing are gone, Randyll. You are an island."
"The soldiers of King's Landing are gone!" Blackfeather echoed from Eddard's shoulder.
Tarly frowned. "Swords are sharper than words on a field, Karstark."
"Swords merely pave the way for words," Eddard countered. He fed a scrap of meat to the raven, his gaze never leaving Tarly's. "I am preparing for a war, Randyll. Not this squabble between lions and wolves. A war between the living and the dead. Have you heard of the Others?"
Tarly sneered. "Fairy tales. Wet-nurse stories."
"Your own son, Samwell, killed one with a dragonglass dagger north of the Wall," Eddard said. "They control the dead. They are not legends; they are a census of the future. While you fight for Joffrey's chair, the Sea at Eastwatch is freezing. When the snowflakes fall on Horn Hill, you will face millions of dead men. What will you do then? Sail for Essos and leave your family's bones to be toys for demons?"
Tarly looked at the ground, silent. Then, Eddard raised his palm.
[Active Skill: Thunderbolt triggered.]
A ball of crackling blue energy manifested in Eddard's hand. He slammed it into the earth. BOOM! A black, smoking pit was blasted into the soil, the scent of ozone filling the air.
Tarly took two involuntary steps back, his eyes wide. The physical reality of the magic broke his skepticism.
"The magic is returning, Randyll," Eddard said. "Renly died to a shadow. I have seen the dead walking. I am offering you a way to save your house. Take your men back to the Reach. Free yourselves from this Lannister leash. When the real winter arrives, put on your armor again and fight for the living."
"And then what?" Tarly asked, his voice low. "Do you intend to sit on the Iron Throne yourself?"
"I intend to give the crown to Stannis Baratheon," Eddard admitted frankly. "He is a man of duty, unlike the madmen in the capital. In exchange, I want the Westerlands. Casterly Rock and Lannisport will belong to the Sunburst."
Eddard leaned in. "And if you agree to take the Reach home now, I will include a condition in my treaty with Stannis: The Tarlys shall be the Wardens of the South. And Heartbreaker... well, the sword should be in the hand of a man who knows how to use it."
Randyll Tarly looked at the smoking pit, then at the dark Valyrian blade at Eddard's waist. A glint of shrewdness flashed in his eyes. He couldn't simply surrender, his honor as a Tyrell vassal forbade it. But he was a general first.
"I refuse to surrender, Lord Eddard," Tarly said, his voice regaining its rasp. "A Tarly does not kneel on a field without a fight. Nor will my lords follow a man who quits before the first arrow."
He looked at Eddard with a rare, grudging respect. "However... I believe your words of the dead. Give the order to attack. After the first contact, I will order my soldiers to retreat toward the eastern plains. As for how many survive the 'rout'... that is in the hands of the gods."
Eddard pursed his lips, realizing the old man needed a face-saving exit. "Such a hassle. But fine. A 'rout' it is."
Tarly mounted his horse and rode away without looking back. Eddard turned to Marga, tapping the giant's shield.
"Back!" Eddard shouted in the Old Tongue.
The stage was set for a "defeat" that would effectively end the Reach's involvement in the war of the five kings, clearing Eddard's path to King's Landing.
[System Notification: Negotiation Successful (Unconventional).]
[Strategic Status: Tarly host in 'Scripted Retreat'.]
[Reputation with Randyll Tarly: Respected Adversary.]
[Soul Power Gained: 300 SP.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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