The Witch-King of the Vale [GoT x LotR]

The Reach. Ashford.

Lord Randyll Tarly.

How thoroughly Randyll was sickened by all of this hypocrisy and idiocy. At the very start of the war, the alliance of the Reach and the Stormlands had assembled an army the world had never seen. Thousands of campfires threw up a curtain of smoke, horse paddocks stretched for miles, entire forests had been felled for siege engines: catapults, trebuchets, battering rams. The pavilions of lords and knights bristled from the grass like mushrooms after rain. All the knighthood of the south had answered the call of King Renly Baratheon. Nearly a hundred thousand men roughly put.

And how had King Renly used that strength? Feasts and tourneys instead of a pair of decisive engagements that would have ended the war outright. A year and a half had passed, and the whole south was reaping the fruits of a handful of men's inaction. The Greyjoys pillaged the western coast without consequence, Dornish bastards attacked from the south and attempted to plunder the Reach again, Stannis Baratheon pressed from the north, and the Tywin Lannister threatened from King's Landing. Four problems and not one solution. Renly and his Hand, Mace the Siege-Breaker, blundered about like a headless chicken, unable to decide what needed doing. The situation was wretched, yet even so the lords had spent their energy pulling the blanket in every direction. Factional scheming, particularly in wartime, never led anywhere good. It had produced defeats on the field that were as costly as they were humiliating.

To Tarly's astonishment, even intriguers and windbags occasionally stumbled on a workable idea, and they had managed to devise a passable strategy against their enemies. Let Stannis plunder the West and bleed his army down, seal the Gold Road and prevent the Lannisters from returning home, and when the lions had no choice but to assault fortified positions, break them. Not a particularly reliable plan, too many variables, but at least there was a logic to it.

Tarly harbored no illusions. He understood perfectly that his enforced stay at Deep Den was the work of the Stormland leeches, who had not forgotten who had defeated them eighteen years ago. A shameful exile was how Randyll read the whole arrangement. But duty stands above personal grievance, so he had obeyed. And in time a chance had presented itself: a guaranteed way to eliminate one of his king's four enemies and seriously weaken a second, without losing a single soldier.

By the reports of his spies, it had all gone as planned. Stannis Baratheon, the central point of contention over the throne, was dead. Eddard Stark was missing. Their armies were reduced to sorry remnants led by a talented but very young man. The Lannisters had taken their losses too, and Kevan would remain effectively paralyzed in the West for a long time yet. All that remained was the Old Lion in King's Landing without a threatening garrison to their side now, which would amount to nothing once they gathered all their strength into a single fist.

From every tactical and strategic standpoint Randyll had executed a brilliant stroke, one for which the king ought to have rewarded him personally. Tarly had underestimated the influence of the palace slugs and the stupidity of the king. He was summoned to court like a common criminal. And these palace slugs had the gall to accuse him. Him. Using the most absurd pretexts imaginable.

"...And now the Lannisters will be free to consolidate in the West. All because of Tarly's insubordination! How many more valiant sons of the Reach and the Stormlands must die!? Why must we answer for the mistakes of others!?" Lord Morrigan was haranguing the room, and the sheep were listening to every word.

"Since when are lords tried for deeds of valor on the field!? Lord Tarly, without losing a single soldier, has weakened our king's enemies. We ought to be thanking him, not punishing him!" At least someone had not entirely lost his mind to tourneys and feasts.

"...He broke the order!"

"...He acted as the situation demanded!"

"...The situation now is gone to absolute shite!"

"...I'll rearrange your face for you right now!!!"

The scene was becoming increasingly ugly. That some would condemn his actions had been expected; scavengers exist everywhere and he had been prepared for that. Randyll had imagined the king would summon him privately, and he would explain his reasoning and demonstrate its soundness. He had been wrong. The whole thing had been turned into a public farce in which weaklings and greenboys could openly mock him. Tarly had never felt so humiliated in his life.

"My lords, my lords!" After ten minutes of what could only be called a market brawl, Renly finally chose to speak. "Lord Tarly acted from the best of intentions. His long experience has saved hundreds of men on the field more than once, yet we have all forgotten one simple truth: men err, and Lord Randyll is no exception. Therefore I have decided: in recognition of his past service, no sanctions will be applied to Lord Randyll Tarly. However, he is relieved of command of the northern army and transferred to the western coast, where his principal task will be to put an end to the ironborn raids on our shores. This is my word."

Had there been any silence in the room, the lords present might have heard teeth grinding. Randyll, watching the self-satisfied face of Tyrell, understood exactly where the scheming had originated. Not Mace, of course. The fool was incapable of it. This had Olenna Tyrell's scent on it from a mile away. Only one small thing was needed to be certain.

"Who will replace me in command of the northern army?"

Randyll tried, honestly, to keep his voice level. He did not entirely succeed.

"Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden. Despite his infirmity, he acquitted himself well in the defense of the coast. His talents will serve me now in the East."

"Then I will take my leave, Your Grace." Without waiting for permission, Tarly left.

He had kept himself far from politics and scheming his entire life, considering such pursuits beneath him, and yet even he had no difficulty tracing cause and effect. The crippled Tyrell had failed to meet his obligations, so Olenna had decided to plug the gap with him while tidying up the problem. Her perfect little heir would now build a reputation out of thin air.

Enough. How many times would the Tyrells use him? And Renly was a fool if he allowed the roses to lead him by the nose. It was time to think about a new king.

...

The Iron Islands. Pyke.

Balon Greyjoy.

The entire Greyjoy family was assembled in the main solar at Pyke. Balon, as head of their house and Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands. Victarion, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, a man of great standing among common sailors. Aeron, a priest of considerable authority whose word any lord would heed. And Asha and Theon as representatives of the younger generation, both competing for the chance to lead the ironborn in time. Though Balon and his brothers knew well enough that if Theon showed himself capable at even the minimum level, it would not matter how capable the daughter was: the son would be preferred.

"Stannis is dead," Victarion said, direct as always. For that quality Balon loved him in his own way.

"I know." He considered the elder Baratheon's death stupid and disgraceful. Though when had death by the headsman's axe not been considered disgraceful?

"Loyalty to a dead man is the worst thing imaginable, especially a pagan. Stop wavering. Take what has always been yours by right!" Aeron frequently had useful thoughts, though they were buried under layers of the Drowned God's fanaticism. Balon heard the subtext and ignored it.

"We are not dogs looking for a master," Victarion backed his brother. "The Baratheon girl... and frankly, any living Baratheon falls short of deserving the loyalty of the ironborn."

"Agreed." A hysterical boy-king, a small hostage of the Vale, a plump little nothing, an gullible sword-swallower, and a sickly girl: that was all that remained of the great House Baratheon.

"So we keep raiding the West and the Reach?" Theon asked, earning strange looks from his elder kinsmen and a contemptuous one from his sister.

"No. Why raid scorched earth when there are untouched fields full of lion gold?" The Lord Reaper watched his heir's eyes light up. His victorious raids had reminded everyone that Theon was ironborn. Now he would have to understand that he was a Greyjoy, not a Stark. "Victarion, order the captains to prepare for a march on the North and the Riverlands."

While Balon issued his orders he kept brief glances on Theon. It was not difficult to guess what the first thoughts of a man enslaved by his upbringing would be. The Lord Reaper would not allow his heir to be kept like a dog on a leash. The killing of those he had recently called his friends: that was the true trial, prepared specifically for his last remaining son. He would write the letter, yes, but he would not send it. Blood is not water. Balon believed that his own flesh would not send word to his captors, and if he was wrong, the old maester had already been instructed and would report to him.

It was time for the world to remember that you cannot put a kraken in chains.

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