ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Randyll Tarly’s movement struck the Westerlands like thunder over already frightened horses. Until then, the Reach had pressed, watched, bargained, and bled just enough to claim involvement. Now one of the most disciplined commanders in the south was moving north with a real army, and every lord in the region began pretending he had expected it.

Outside the Reach forward camp, thirty thousand men formed into a marching column. Infantry and cavalry moved in good order beneath the pale late-autumn sun. Banners snapped in the wind, armor caught the light, and scouts rode ahead while mobile rangers guarded the flanks. The center held dense infantry formations, supply wagons, and light siege engines. Randyll himself rode beneath his banner near the heart of the host, not rushing, not creeping, but advancing with that steady rhythm soldiers trusted and impatient nobles despised.

There was no forced march. No attempt at secrecy. The army walked the main road as if announcing that its purpose was legitimate because it had chosen not to hide. The target seemed clear enough: Deep Den.

News reached every faction quickly.

Inside Deep Den, the Lannister remnants reacted like a cat with its tail caught under a boot. Lord Creigh demanded the gates be sealed and every man prepared for a fight to the death. Lord Sarsfield went pale and whispered that the Reach had joined the barbarians after all. Ser Kevan Farman and the other fence-sitters suddenly became very popular in private corners. Smith’s envoy, sent to discuss surrender terms, was driven out before he finished speaking, mostly because Creigh needed to prove he was not afraid and chose diplomacy as the nearest thing to hit.

The drawbridge rose. The gates shut. Men crowded the battlements. Deep Den’s walls began to look less like protection and more like a pot lid over boiling water.

At Old Oak, Ser Arthur Tyrell received the report and lost what little patience he had been pretending to possess.

“What does Randyll think he is doing?” he shouted at the messenger. “Who ordered him to march on Deep Den? Does he remember who commands in the name of Highgarden?”

Humfrey Hightower stood nearby, his face thoughtful and unpleasantly calm. Men like Humfrey rarely wasted outrage when suspicion was cheaper.

“My lord, the move is strange,” Humfrey said. “Randyll has no deep loyalty to the Lannister remnants. Attacking Deep Den could force them into Battania’s arms or make them fight to the last. Neither helps us unless he wants something else.”

“What?”

“To seize the fruit before anyone else does. If he takes Deep Den while Battania surrounds it, he claims victory over Lannister loyalists and becomes the man who ended the crisis. He would enter any negotiation with stronger ground. Randyll is not Tyrell blood. His prestige has grown through merit, and men admire successful soldiers. That can become inconvenient.”

Ser Arthur’s anger cooled into calculation. Suspicion had been offered a chair, and it sat down gladly. Randyll Tarly was loyal, perhaps. But loyalty in Westeros was a horse that tended to limp once inheritance, glory, and opportunity were placed on its back.

“Send riders,” Ser Arthur said. “In Lord Mace’s name, order Randyll to halt and return. He is not to begin a war without approval.”

Humfrey gave a small, bitter smile. “By the time they reach him, he may have already acted. And he may not obey.”

“Then do we sit and watch?”

“Perhaps. If Randyll wins, we claim his result in the name of the Reach. If he loses, or if he and Battania bleed each other, that also serves us. Sometimes a man should let two proud beasts bite while he keeps his fingers.”

Ser Arthur did not answer at once. The idea was ugly, but not without charm. Political thought often smelled that way.

At Casterly Rock, Arthur Greyoak received the detailed report with less shouting and more silence. He stood before the map as Grey Shadow, Diana, and several messengers waited.

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“What is he carrying?” Arthur asked. “Engines, supplies, pace?”

“Thirty light catapults,” the scout said. “Ten ballistae. Many ladders and ram components. No large siege towers. The supply train is medium. Enough for a short operation, not a long siege.”

Arthur tapped Deep Den with one knuckle. A short operation. That did not sound like Randyll preparing to grind down a mountain fortress. It sounded like armed pressure, a feint, or a move tied to another promise. The question was whose.

“Any recent word from inside Deep Den?” he asked.

Grey Shadow stepped forward. “Lord Creigh has reinforced the defenses and executed two knights of House Sarsfield who tried to leave the fortress for contact. That temporarily suppressed the peace faction. The private soldiers of neutral nobles have begun disobeying unified command by claiming local duties, illness, or lack of orders. The atmosphere is unstable. Also, a small group disguised as woodcutters left through a hidden path in the rear mountain this morning, heading southwest. Our people are tracking them.”

“Southwest,” Arthur said. “Toward the Reach. Or Old Oak. Or Randyll.”

The map did not answer, rude piece of parchment that it was.

“Warn Smith. Heightened vigilance. Deep Den may attempt a breakout, contact, or staged surrender. Tell him to guard his flanks. Randyll is not marching for decoration. Intercept the woodcutters if possible and learn whom they meant to meet.”

The order left quickly.

Before the room settled again, another scout arrived from the outer gate.

“My lord, Randyll Tarly has sent a messenger. He waits outside the camp.”

“A messenger now?” Arthur said. “Bring him.”

The Reach knight entered with steady courtesy, neither humble nor arrogant, which was probably taught somewhere expensive and useless. He presented a sealed letter. Arthur broke the wax and read.

To the Battanian leader, Lord Arthur Greyoak: My army moves north to deal with the Lannister remnants in Deep Den. I have no wish to make an enemy of you. Restrain your forces, do not block our path, and do not attack our flanks. When the matter of Deep Den is settled, you and I may meet to discuss the affairs of the Westerlands. — Randyll Tarly.

Arthur read the letter twice.

It was not an ultimatum. Not exactly. It was a declaration wearing the clothes of a probe. Randyll was stating his target, leaving an opening for cooperation, and betting that Arthur did not want to add thirty thousand Reachmen to his immediate problems. The annoying part was that he was not entirely wrong.

Arthur looked at the messenger. “Reply to Lord Randyll that Battania also considers the Lannister remnants enemies. If his army seeks only to purge those enemies, we will naturally provide convenience. But Deep Den is already under siege by my forces. If he wishes to enter the fortress, take prisoners, or claim anything from it, should that not be discussed with the army already holding the ring?”

The messenger listened carefully.

“As for the affairs of the Westerlands,” Arthur continued, “we can speak after Deep Den is settled.”

It was a polite way of kicking the ball back. If Randyll wanted to fight Lannisters, fine. If he wanted spoils, entry, or influence, he would have to admit Arthur stood there first.

After the messenger left, Arthur turned back to the map. Randyll moved north. Highgarden watched. Old Oak held still. Deep Den trembled. Smith stood between all of them with twenty thousand men. The situation had worsened, naturally, because wars had manners only when killing the wrong people.

“Send orders to Kator and Beland,” Arthur said. “Stop harassing the Reach lines. Pull back twenty miles and show caution. Make it appear we fear Randyll’s main force and are contracting our defenses. Increase scouts toward Highgarden and Old Oak.”

Diana frowned. “You want them to think our attention is fixed on Deep Den.”

“Yes. Randyll’s movement creates opportunity. If others believe our rear is empty or our strength stretched, someone may grow greedy.”

“And if they do?”

Arthur looked at her. “Then they become useful.”

He gave the next order in a lower voice.

“Draw three thousand elites from Lannisport and three thousand from Casterly Rock. You select them personally. They gather in the back hills of the Rock with five days of rations and bolts. No movement without my command.”

Diana’s eyes sharpened. “Yes, my lord.”

“Send word to Grey Shadow as well. Spread the same rumor in Deep Den, the Reach camp, and Old Oak. The Battanian army is running low on grain. Some units are slaughtering horses. Morale is wavering. Arthur Greyoak is trying to buy food from sellsails across the Narrow Sea and may abandon some occupied areas to consolidate his strength.”

The room understood the shape of it.

A wounded beast invited hunters. Greedy hunters often stepped where patient ones would not.

Orders flew from Casterly Rock before sunset. The Westerlands, which had barely begun to breathe after Tywin’s death, tightened again. Randyll’s army was a boulder rolling toward Deep Den. Arthur, beneath the surface, began laying stakes and nets. Whether the lion hunt would catch a lion, a rose, or the hunter himself remained hidden in the fog of war.

Late autumn wind passed through the stone openings of Casterly Rock and made a thin, mournful sound. Arthur listened to it for a moment, then returned to the map. Weather, war, and politics all enjoyed making noise before trying to kill someone.