It was a moonless night, the kind of darkness that felt thick enough to swallow a man whole.
For Randyll Tarly, Earl of Horn Hill, this was not a time for rest, but for the relentless application of will. He rode a sturdy black stallion at the head of a column that seemed to stretch into eternity. He wore no ornate plate for this march, only a grey padded surcoat over fine-steel chainmail, practical gear for a man who lived by the blade. His face was a mask of cold, severe stone, his eyes never straying from the King's Road ahead.
Around him, the discipline of the Reach was on full display. Twenty riders in front, divided into five precise rows, acted as the vanguard. An equal number followed at his rear. Because the road was narrow and the surrounding terrain offered little protection, Tarly had ordered flanking rows of cavalry to move through the brush on either side. It was a textbook formation, designed to prevent the very kind of ambush he had used to humiliate Robert Baratheon years ago.
To his left, his younger son, Dickon, held the Tarly banner, a red-clad hunter drawing a bow on a field of green. Dickon was only twelve, yet he sat his horse with the robust confidence of a youth twice his age. To Randyll's right rode Ser Aenys Farwynd, a weathered veteran who had survived a dozen campaigns and whose eyes held the fierce, watchful glint of a hawk.
Randyll Tarly was a man who believed that weakness was the only true sin. "First in Battle" was more than a motto; it was his religion. When Renly Baratheon had died at Storm's End, Randyll hadn't mourned. He had acted. With thunderous efficiency, he had purged the Reach army at Bitterbridge of those looking to defect to Stannis, particularly the Florents. Now, by the command of Tywin Lannister, he was leading two thousand cavalry and five thousand infantry on a forced march that would have killed lesser men.
"Lord Roose," Tarly said, his voice a low, grating rasp. "How much longer until we reach the Crossing?"
Beside him, Roose Bolton rode in ordinary clothes, looking more like a traveling merchant than a high lord. He lacked Tarly's martial vigor; the forced march had clearly drained him, and he didn't even have the strength to wear a helmet. Yet, he offered a humble, whispery smile.
"At our current pace, Lord Tarly, perhaps two days," Roose replied.
Tarly didn't hide his disgust for the man. Roose Bolton was a traitor who had sold his King for a title. To a man like Randyll, Roose was a leech necessary for the war, perhaps, but a creature to be kept at arm's length.
"Are you certain the Wolf boy will take this path?" Tarly asked. "If he chooses the King's Road, we are wasting our breath on this mud."
"Robb Stark is a creature of habit and honor," Roose whispered. "The Twins is the fastest way North, and he has a wedding to attend. He will come to us, Lord Tarly. He will walk right into the cage Lord Tywin has built for him."
Randyll remained silent, merely tugging his reins. High above, a "fluttering" sound caught his attention. He instinctively reached for the weapon strapped to his saddle, the Valyrian steel greatsword Heartbreaker.
Roose squinted at the dark speck in the clouds. "It's just a raven, My Lord. Likely heading from the Twins to King's Landing. Old Walder always has something to whine about to the Hand."
Randyll didn't answer. He just spurred his horse faster.
The Twins.
Eddard Stark, no, Eddard Karstark snapped his eyes open in his tent. A jolt of adrenaline made his hands shake. Through the eyes of Blackfeather, he had seen them.
The enemy's speed was terrifying. From King's Landing to the Twins was a thousand-kilometer trek, yet Tarly's host was already closing in. He realized then that Tywin Lannister hadn't just gotten lucky; he had been digging this pit for Robb since the moment the Red Fork settled into a stalemate.
Young Wolf, you really didn't stand a chance against the Old Lion, Eddard thought, shaking his head.
He stepped out of his tent, Matthew and Paine falling in behind him like shadows. Even at midnight, the Twins was a hive of frantic, desperate activity. Torches and oil lamps turned the stone squares into an eerie, amber-lit stage.
"Make way!" a soldier shouted.
Groups of farmers and laborers were hauling timber through the square, the rhythmic clink-clink of hammers echoing off the high towers. Eddard had spent the last forty-eight hours turning the castle into a fireproof bunker.
He had hired every available peasant to dig wet clay and mud from the riverbanks. Now, teams of men were on the rooftops, smearing the thick, foul-smelling muck over the shingles to prevent fire-arrows from turning the city into a pyre. Outside the gates, the "Ice Warrior" cavalry was dragging in cartloads of felled trees. The thinner branches were being sharpened into cheval de frise, spiked barriers to choke the entrance, while the thicker trunks were being carved into defensive battering rams.
On the East Bank, the scorched-earth policy was in full effect. Eddard had ordered the total evacuation of the surrounding villages. Livestock, grain, and wine were being driven across the bridge. Anything that couldn't be moved was being burned. He couldn't clear the forests, but he could make sure Tarly's men found nothing but ash and cold stone to eat.
His most important move, however, was the ballistas. He had moved all sixteen of the heavy scorpions from the West Wall to the East. He'd seen how effective longbowmen were at picking off crews, so he'd ordered wooden "arrow-shelters" built over each weapon, reinforced with more fireproof mud.
But as he watched the chaos, Eddard felt the math of the situation weighing on him.
Robb was at Riverrun. Even with the fastest riders, it would take at least a week for reinforcements to arrive. Factor in the time needed to mobilize the lords and deal with the Frey remnants, and Eddard was looking at a ten-day hold.
And Randyll Tarly, the only man to beat Robert Baratheon was thirty-six hours away with seven thousand men.
"I can't just sit here and wait for him to knock," Eddard muttered.
He looked at the map in his mind, then at the System's Soul Power count. He had the gold, he had the magic, and now he had the Brotherhood.
"Matthew," Eddard said, his voice sharp and decisive. "Go find Lord Beric Dondarrion. Bring him here immediately. I'm done playing defense."
"Understood, My Lord," Matthew replied, sprinting toward the barracks.
Eddard looked out at the dark waters of the Green Fork. He wasn't going to wait for the hunt to come to him. He was going to show Randyll Tarly that in this world, even the finest hunter could become the prey.
"Dita!" Eddard called out to the knight inspecting the mud-coating on the gatehouse. "How many cartloads of clay do we have left?"
"Three, My Lord! The farmers are working as fast as they can, but the riverbank is getting steep."
"Tell them to keep digging," Eddard commanded. "I want this castle to look like a mountain of dirt by dawn. If Tarly wants to burn us, he's going to have to find something that can set mud on fire."
He turned back toward the River Tower, his mind racing. The plan was risky, borderline insane but if he could hurt Tarly before the siege even began, he might just buy the North enough time to breathe.
[System Notification: Tactical Planning Phase active.]
[Potential Objective: Disrupt Tarly's March.]
[Reward: High-Tier Soul Essence / Unlocked 'Siege-Breaker' Perk.]
"Let's see if your 'Heartbreaker' can cut through a storm, Randyll," Eddard whispered to the wind.