"...and that's essentially the situation."
On the docks, Lord Randyll Tarly listened quietly to Samwell's account, standing in the glow of the setting sun, silent and unmoving.
Over the past months, he had heard various rumors about the son he had cast out, each one leaving him both surprised and somewhat proud.
But today, surprise did not come close to describing his feelings.
If not for his arrival yesterday at Eagle's Point, seeing the scorched earth and personally questioning the survivors of that brutal battle, Randyll would have believed Samwell was lying.
But it was all true.
His son had truly defeated the Daynes' elite forces and led his men onto Dornish soil.
What an honor!
This only strengthened Randyll's belief that casting out his eldest son had been the correct choice. If he had not, how could Samwell have unearthed the hidden hunter's blood within himself and become a true Tarly?
Of course, he no longer bore the Tarly name.
But that was irrelevant.
To Lord Randyll, a conqueror named Caesar was far superior to a timid Tarly.
After all, the Caesar family was but a branch of House Tarly. Though the blood connection might dilute over generations, it would never fully disappear.
"You've done well."
At last, Randyll spoke, his tone filled with rare emotion.
Samwell froze.
It suddenly dawned on him that this was the first time he had ever heard praise from his father.
In all the original Sam's memories, not a single word like this had ever been uttered.
Never.
Perhaps swayed by the remnants of his predecessor's emotions, Samwell found himself unexpectedly moved.
But he quickly collected himself, reminding himself not to forget the cruelty of the man standing before him.
Of course, one must give credit where it's due.
Now it was clear that House Tyrell would not be lending support. Lady Olenna likely had other plans or simply did not want to confront Dorne at this time; they would abandon Eagle Point without hesitation.
Without House Tarly's assistance, he would suffer devastating losses, likely losing everything he had built.
So, he would remember this debt to his father, and one day repay it.
As he considered this, Randyll spoke again: "That Qyburn you mentioned—a capable man. I never expected the Hightowers would invest in you to this degree. Make sure to put him to good use."
"Qyburn is indeed skilled," Samwell replied with a smile. "But he wasn't sent by the Hightowers; he had just been expelled from the Citadel, and I happened to meet him."
"Is that so?" Randyll's mouth curved in a slight, ironic smile. "Such a coincidence?"
Samwell was taken aback.
It dawned on him that Qyburn's timing had indeed been almost too convenient.
While it was true that, in the original story, Qyburn had been exiled from the Citadel for unethical experiments, how had he arrived just when Samwell needed him most? And, no less, at the very moment Samwell sought advice on silver mining from "Mad" Moroya, as if the man had been placed there specifically to ensure they would cross paths.
Leyton Hightower!
A shiver ran down Samwell's spine as he realized this was likely the work of the old Lord of the Hightower.
He had been cautious, yet he had still fallen into the schemes of Westeros' most formidable players...
"Don't worry too much," Randyll reassured him. "The Hightowers may not intend harm."
"I understand, Father." Samwell nodded.
At the same time, he reined in any remaining pride from his memories as a transmigrator, now unwilling to underestimate any of Westeros' major powers.
Especially this man standing before him, a master on the battlefield.
Samwell realized he now had a rare opportunity to learn from one of the best generals in the Reach—and perhaps all of Westeros.
His self-devised "military theories" were good enough for outwitting wildlings, and his occasional flashes of inspiration had helped him prevail against strong foes. But he knew he still lacked formal training in large-scale battles involving thousands, if not tens of thousands, of soldiers.
And his father was a natural master at exactly that.
"So, what do you propose we do next?" Randyll asked, his eyes sharp as he studied the battlefield.
Clearly, he wanted to test his son, who had undergone such a drastic transformation.
"Father, I've been working on a plan to break through." Samwell began organizing his thoughts, hoping for insight on whether his ideas would pass his father's scrutiny. "Princess Arianne has gathered nearly twenty thousand soldiers to contain us on this narrow strip by the docks. They may have trouble breaking through, but we're equally trapped, the narrow mountain pass acting as a cage for both sides."
"So, we need a new front."
A gleam flashed in Randyll's eyes as he prompted, "How would you create one?"
"I've been watching them closely these past days, and it's clear that the strongest of the Dornish reinforcements are the troops from High Hermitage—around three thousand, all elite soldiers."
"You're certain?" Randyll's tone showed he already grasped Samwell's intent.
"Absolutely!" Samwell nodded, firm.
Randyll's intense gaze fixed on Samwell, as if gauging the reliability of this intelligence.
Samwell met his father's stare without wavering.
He had seen it all himself through the eyes of his hawk, down to the last detail.
After a pause, Randyll spoke again, "So you're thinking of advancing upriver along the Torrentine to attack High Hermitage directly?"
"Exactly!" Samwell was somewhat surprised by Randyll's intuition.
The renowned general had grasped his plan almost immediately.
He could only be grateful that Randyll was on his side. An opponent with such a keen sense for tactics would be an absolute nightmare.
"It's a solid idea," Randyll affirmed with a nod. "The maximum forces High Hermitage can field are likely already here. The castle must be close to empty."
Samwell chuckled. "With Starfall's main bloodline nearly extinguished, the branch family at High Hermitage would be desperate to seize an advantage, eager to earn merit and set themselves up as the next rulers of Starfall."
"Indeed. It seems you've learned a lot these past months." Randyll's gaze softened, pride evident in his eyes.
"You flatter me, Father." Samwell replied modestly, then added, "If you agree with the plan, should we set out tomorrow to raid High Hermitage?"
But Randyll shook his head slowly. "No need to rush. We'll wait a few more days."
Samwell didn't understand. "Why?"
"Before I left, I sent your brother to Brightwater Keep to request aid from House Florent. If they agree to send troops, they should arrive shortly."
Samwell's face lit up with relief.
His mother's father was Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater. With that blood connection, there was a real chance they would lend support.
Family always comes through.
Once again, he understood why noble houses put such stock in marriage alliances.
Just look at House Tyrell. Their power in the Reach wasn't supreme, but by marrying into Houses Redwyne and Hightower, "Lord Puff Fish" Mace Tyrell secured his hold as Warden of the South.
"Alright then, we'll wait a few days. Father, after your journey, you must be tired; you should rest."
"No." Randyll shook his head, gesturing toward the mountain path. "That pass and those ridges up there are all lines you abandoned, yes?"
"Yes."
"Then, now that I'm here, I'm taking them back. This place is far too cramped as it is."
Samwell blinked in confusion. "But isn't it better to wait? And the men must be exhausted."
Randyll's mouth curved into a slight smile. "Not necessary. We reached Eagle Point yesterday and rested a full day. The men are ready, and the Dornish won't expect us to counterattack at this hour."
At last, Samwell understood.
Dusk was approaching, the time when the Dornish would likely start pulling back to camp, at their most relaxed. They would never anticipate a Reach force launching an assault immediately upon arrival.
"The key to success in battle..." Randyll's voice was firm, imparting his wisdom, "...is seizing the moment when it arises."
---
In the Dornish camp, Princess Arianne had just finished rallying the troops, serving camel meat to entertain the knights.
The tent was filled with laughter, a celebratory atmosphere.
Though spirits had dipped after hearing of the Reach reinforcements, morale was quickly recovering. After all, they still held the numerical advantage.
As they were discussing tomorrow's offensive and strategies to dampen the Reachmen's spirits, a breathless messenger burst into the tent.
Arianne's brows drew together. "What is it?"
"Your Grace, it's an emergency! The Reach forces...they're attacking!"
"What?"
Arianne shot to her feet, knocking her plate of camel meat to the ground.
(End of Chapter)