Chapter 203

The Reach, 300 AC.

Randyll Tarly.

The Mander is the greatest river in the Reach. Broad, deep, and placid, its calm waters serve as the fertile lifeblood of the south, carrying grain barges and trade galleys deep into the realm. Heavy seagoing vessels sail upstream with ease as far as Highgarden, while swift longships can press leagues beyond. For centuries in the Age of Heroes, Ironborn reavers used this gentle highway to bring death to The Reach. In those dark days, before the Shield Islands stood guard at its mouth, the tranquil river proved as perilous as the Sunset Sea itself. Tens of thousands of good men of the Reach lay at its bottom. Randyll, with what little sense of humor he possessed, appreciated the gods' particular joke: a river once synonymous with death and piratical terror had now become the sole hope for life and freedom of an entire region.

The Dothraki horde had swept through the Stormlands in a bloody frenzy, destroying everything in its path. Randyll himself had assumed the impatient khal would march straight for King's Landing, where he would clash with King Renly. Whoever won that fight would seize the heart of the continent and rampage across the rest of Westeros unopposed. But the savage had, once again, proven himself utterly unpredictable, and had instead begun gathering his forces for a bold push into the Reach. Only sound military instinct and good scouts had allowed Randyll to see the plan coming in time.

For a long while, he had served King Renly faithfully: carrying out orders, killing the crown's enemies, winning where other men died, and what had he gotten in return? Contempt, censure, and neglect. Yet Randyll had endured it; Mace the Besieger's own foolishness had, if nothing else, tempered his character well. He would have gone on honoring his oaths regardless, but King Renly had thoroughly disillusioned him in the end. The younger of the Baratheon brothers lacked the martial qualities of a true king, listened to fools, lost every battle that mattered, and had somehow managed to grind down what had once been an unbeatable host of over a hundred thousand men. Following him further was a fine way to end up dead.

The king had forgotten that an oath of fealty carries obligations along with its privileges. King Renly had failed his own people utterly, and now his own house's lands, the Stormlands, lay reduced to a wasteland. The Dothraki had trampled everything the Baratheons' ancestors, and those of other noble houses, had built up over generations. Randyll wanted no such fate for his own homeland, and so he had raised his banners in defiance. He struck a bargain with the Lannisters, took full command of his own forces, and set about preparing to meet the savages' invasion head on.

The Dothraki moved along the Roseroad at an unhurried pace, plundering and burning everything they passed. Their slow advance bought a few precious extra weeks to raise what defenses could be managed, though nothing ever goes entirely to plan, least of all a defense hastily thrown together across 60 leagues of ground. Randyll made use of everything available to him: he put more than forty thousand refugees to work, drew on the full backing of several of the region's strongest houses (lords are no fools, and they know well enough when the fire's already at their own backsides), commandeered every available vessel, burned every bridge behind them, raised wooden barricades, improved every likely crossing point against the enemy, built an effective system for rushing reinforcements where needed, pressed reluctant lords into sharing their resources, and settled a mountain of both mundane and less mundane matters besides. However hard he worked at it, he could not, in a mere couple of months, raise a truly impenetrable defense. But it would be enough to hold back the savages.

"Ranged combat will be our priority, so have Lord Caswell focus his efforts on producing arrows and moving supplies forward. Bitterbridge will serve as our command post; we'll coordinate every one of our forces from there. The Dothraki carry only short bows, with a range of a hundred feet or so at most, against ours which is double theirs. The Mander is wide, and that will give us plenty of chances to shoot the savages down with impunity." With every passing day his army swelled with fresh men arriving from every corner of the Reach, though he found himself adjusting the plan daily to match. "Ser Raymund, Ser Borros, and Lord Uthor will hold our forward mounted companies, to be called on only as a last resort."

"And if the horse fuckers decide to throw everything they've got at breaking through in one spot?" A young man cut in, with no regard for rank.

"Then we answer accordingly, in keeping with the plan." Randyll had grown tired of repeating himself. "I'll send a knight to you after this council, and he'll fill in whatever gaps remain in your understanding. Any further questions?"

Silence. The boy flushed red, but fear kept him from pushing his luck any further.

"Moving on. Ser Edmond and Lord Lymond will hold the two crossing points with the worst fords. Your task is simple: sit tight and guard them. Do not rise to any provocation, and engage in close combat only as an absolute last resort. Should that happen, send a rider at once. I'll say now that reinforcements from the nearest reserve will take twenty to thirty minutes to reach you." The older men among them nodded, and Randyll pressed on. "Lord Titos, you'll answer for the fleet. Your chief task is reporting enemy movement and patrolling the waters by night. Set your own watch rotations, but see that the men stay sharp at all times." Titos nodded.

They spent a full hour more laying out instructions. Those present listened with close attention; not only their own lives hung on this, but the survival of the Reach itself. Randyll Tarly had never cared for politics or court intrigue, though that hardly meant he lacked experience in either. The original army of ten thousand had since been reinforced by another seven thousand swords of decidedly mixed quality: guardsmen, sellswords, hedge knights, and other men of conscience who had chosen to stand for their home. At the start of the month, all of them had brimmed with confidence and fire, but as time wore on, and the flood of refugees kept arriving with their tales of horror, that resolve had begun to waver. Lord Tarly commanded deep respect across the Reach, and had become something of a pillar of courage for the common soldiers. Should he fall, the army would fall with him.

Contrary to his men's somewhat pessimistic mood, Randyll himself felt confident in the defense. The river's current carved out fords, but on average they allowed no more than ten or fifteen men abreast, fewer still for riders. Then there was the temperature: autumn now, the water running cold; however strong the Dothraki might be, no man defies his own body's limits. Then the width: even at the narrowest, most accessible crossing, a man had to cross at least ninety yards of open water, with the rest running far wider still. And finally, Randyll Tarly had no intention of simply sitting back and watching the savages ford the river unchallenged. If his commanders held to the plan, they stood every chance of breaking the Dothraki.

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T/N:

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