Arrows in the Dark
The tavern was, as loathe he was to admit, indeed a rather fine establishment. The wine was decent, even by Reacher standards, and the table on the roof terrace was pleasantly warm in the mid-day sun, a canopy of cloth above him spending shade and keeping the worst of the heat away. He had been sitting here for quite a while by now, taken a few cups though carefully watered down and a hearty bowl of stew to go along with it. A long shot from what the kitchen at home provided, yet Randyll Tarly had been on enough campaigns to learn to appreciate the simple things when the times called for it. If this was any other place, he might have actually enjoyed his stay.
His son on the other hand looked like a deer staring down a pack of wolves—constantly fidgeting and throwing worried glances all over the other filled tables. Legionnaires were all around them, most of them in light tunics bearing only a sigil of house Targaryen on their chest and arms, others not even bothering to remove their heavy plate when they sat down for a quick beer before hurrying off to whatever tasks they had. The pudgy boy had always been timid and skittish, and it showed gravely right now. The two of them had come in the disguise of sellswords, bearing worn-down arms and clothes to blend in with the smallest group of guests, and Randyll had made sure to hammer home the importance of that ruse. All these Targ men were their enemies, and if they were found out there was no telling what the Dragon would do with them. Sadly this was just another lesson that Samwell seemed determined to fail at.
"Stop staring at these people, boy." A jolt went through Samwell at the words, but at least he tore his eyes away from whatever man he had his eyes fixed on. They hadn't come here to look at legionnaires, but something else. The Lord Tarly just shook his head in resignation. He had taken the boy along to get his own look at what might one day soon become their enemies, hoping that between the danger of discovery and seeing an army from up close he would finally get the importance of his lessons. No such luck, though.
"Father, it's just... that..." He trailed off awkwardly at the glare leveled his way and let his eyes fall to the cup of watered wine before him. Another sour note escaped Randyll's lips at the display. If the boy was at least willful or headstrong, he would have something to work with, but Samwell often came off more demure than his daughters. Even Dickon, who has half his age, stood up better for himself. The boy had even wheedled out sword lessons from his master at arms, all without prompting from his father. But Samwell? The only one with whom the boy spoke of his own accord at all was the Maester, reading dusty tomes ever since he had forbidden the Septa from reading him fairy-tales and similar useless dross.
While Lord Tarly pondered the cruelty of fate, a stir went through the patrons of the tavern, and when his son's eyes turned to the horizon, he knew why. They were flying again. What had brought them here had been a rumor that was just too insane, even by the standards of the tall tales coming from the Stepstones on a daily basis these days. Dozens of dragons flying above Westhaven, circling restlessly and sometimes ridden by legionnaires. It was just too ridiculous for anyone to believe at face value, and while other Lords who undoubtedly heard about it being told in their harbors dismissed it as a wild fancy, Randyll Tarly was at his core a cautious man. It might have been just a load of bull, but what if there was a kernel of truth?
When he had come here, he first saw nothing in the skies, almost feeling the trip and the danger it brought a waste, but right after his second cup of wine, he saw that things were both slightly better and far worse then his worst fears. It was not quite dragons the sailors had seen, the things rising into the air too small and graceless to truly match the tales of Dragons. They looked similar enough, but yet like something unwholesome that was just aping a dragon without truly being one. On the other hand, though, there weren't dozens. There were
hundreds.
The sun was almost blotted out by their wings when they rose the first time in the morning, a great swarm of leathery wings and bestial cries. But then the chaos had split and beasts with riders directed those without into some crude formations as if they were horses carrying knights into a charge. They were teaching order to the beasts until almost noon, then landed them again in the sprawling camp of the Legion, probably to feed the creatures. This time, though, the flock that rose was much smaller, maybe five times ten or thereabout, yet each one carrying a rider. Something else was different about the saddles, and Lord Tarly sorely regretted not having one of those Myrish far-eye contraceptions. Then again, what poor sellsword could afford such a thing?
As the riders and their beasts took formation again, he bent over to the table to his son who also watched in rapt attention to the display. "Look closely what they do. Your life might one day depend on it." The boy cringed immediately and went pale at his father's words, though at least he didn't take his eyes off the flying beasts.
They sat in silence for a few moments, the formations still circling, until the boy spoke up on his own for the first time since they entered this tavern. "You think you will have to fight them, father?"
"Either with them or against them. So might you." The response was half-hearted and rather absentminded, for Randyll had other things to ponder. When they had seen the first flight, it looked as if the creatures were supposed to swoop down and fight with claw and teeth, led by one with a rider to direct them. This, though, looked like something else, and he couldn't quite deny the ill feeling in his stomach. He would trust Heartsbane against any kind of sorcerous monster, but that would only work when they actually came close enough for a sword to matter. It was well known that the Dragon had dealings with some group of Dothraki, and the idea of a large host of mounted archers that could
fly was rather sobering.
"Crossbows", the single word was muttered on the other side of the table. Samwell wilted under his father's gaze as he noticed that he had been heard, and it took him a while to remember his lessons. Speak strong or not at all, that he had been taught and not that well, for when he found his tongue it still was barely more than a whisper coming from him. "If I had to fight them, I would use crossbows. The Dornish managed to slay Meraxas with a scorpion, so a crossbow could maybe kill these things." That idea almost kindled a speck of pride in Lord Tarly's heart, but the next words easily squashed it again. "Maester Gyldayn speculated in his book that many crossbows could bring down a dragon too, or at least blind it." So again the boy just repeated what he had read somewhere. The Seven beware that he ever did more than that.
The idea wasn't entirely without merit, though, and a lot more palatable than the alternatives that Randyll could come up with. It was not the first time that he seen a flying warrior, after all, and he had mulled over the implications quite a while, though so far in the terms of at most small groups of them, not these apparent hordes the Dragon was gathering. The fey things that wandered the Reach these days had similar soldiers in their ranks, some flying on mounts, others on their own power. He had to admit that the aerial joust he had seen in the sky of Highgarden had been impressive, and those very fey on their graceful mounts would certainly fare quite well against the Dragon's misbegotten beasts.
However, they were too few. In all his years, Lord Tarly had seen far too many a knight blindly charging into a gaggle of peasants, only to be dragged from his horse and unceremoniously hacked to pieces through the gaps in their armor. Great skill could triumph over great numbers, but only to some degree, and even the Fey were no exception. Their arms grew tired too and their magics too ran out, of that the Reacher lords were sure by now, no matter how doggedly the Fey tried to imply otherwise. But that also meant they were not the answer to the problem before him. Even if those two great 'knights' of the fair folk he had met could bring down a hundred beasts each, the remaining few hundred would tear them apart just the same. That is, if the duplicitous bastards would not bail on him at the first sign of being outmatched.
Footsteps closed in while the Lord of Horn Hill was in thought and halted only when they reached their table. "Checking out the competition, huh? I'm not looking forward to face something like them on the field." A light, Essosi accent came with the words, though the speaker himself would not have looked out of place among the Dragonseeds, baring his threadbare leather armor marking him as a sellsword of some sort. "Mind if I join you? You are the only table with a good view that isn't filled up with the Dragon's people." Quickly, Randyll glanced over to his son, who bore a rather frightened look and was no of use right now, so he just nodded.
Meanwhile the dance of the beasts had changed tact again. With a rider on each of them, their formations had become much neater and more orderly. Now they flew passes over a valley behind a few hills between the tavern and the Legion's camps, and every time they went over what Randyll assumed to be the center of it, each of them dropped something to the ground. Boulders if he was not mistaken, probably training to harass a cavalry charge, for arrows did little against plate mail, but a bolder to the head would kill a knight just as well as a commoner. "You are not here the first time, I assume." His eyes looked back to the man who had now taken a seat on the free side of the table, a small, leather bound booklet laid out before him. "Do they always drop their stones like this? It doesn't look as if they could hit that well against anything but tight ranks."
The man merely smirked at him. "Ah. A good question. I would say we wait a bit longer, then you will see for yourself. They usually do a run with live fire towards the end and that will make it clearer." The feeling of annoyance at being treated with so little respect bubbled up in Lord Tarly at this blasé attitude, yet it had become a familiar companion over the last weeks. The sailors on the ship hadn't been any better. At least it meant that their disguises held.
What was somewhat odd, though, was how the stranger's attention went right back to his son. "I have heard you quoting some Westerosi scholar earlier. Your father taught you your letters?" Samwell gave a curt nod without daring to make a sound, and for a moment the Lord of Horn Hill worried that his son's habits might be suspicious, but the stranger just leveled a pleasant smile at him. "Good for you. My father only taught me how to lie to money lenders and file down a dice. Looking for a spot in the Legion for you, then?"
That notion caught Randyll by surprise. Fighting with common footmen was hardly appropriate for a lord's son, and there was the fact that the Dragon was an enemy of the Iron Throne. Then again, while the practical side had issues, the idea itself wasn't that bad. It might just grow a spine in the boy. "Would they have him, then? He isn't strong of arm and gets red in the face from running once over the courtyard, so they would have their work cut out for them to whip him in shape."
The man seemed to mull it over for a moment, then nodded towards one of the legionnaires bearing a cape and some markings above the dragon sigil on his shoulder. "He is a bit young for the shield wall anyway, though the officers are always looking for aides. If he knows his letters and numbers, they will happily take him, and he seems a sharp boy besides. Give it a few years and he could be an officer himself." That soured Lord Tarly's enthusiasm for the idea right back down. He wanted see the boy trained with blade and shield, not encouraged to wrangle parchment while being a dogsboy of his betters. "Might be better to go to the Deep and have him tested at the Scholarum for the gift, though. Might be a wizard's or archivist's robe in his future."
This got Samwell's attention, and for the first time he looked up and straight at the sellsword. "You think I could be a mage? Learn magic?"
"Sure. Why not?" Randyll knew quite a few reasons why his son shouldn't learn godless witchery, yet these opinion were unlikely to make him many friends in these lands. Before his son could ask any more questions, the sellsword pointed to the horizon. "That was the fifth pass. If they are doing the full thing today, you will see something rather impressive in a moment."
Happy that this nonsense was interrupted, Lord Tarly looked back on the beasts that were the reason for this voyage. All the creatures now flew in a single, huge formation, though not as tight as before. Again they passed over the valley, yet now they didn't drop stones into the middle. Only when the whole formation was over it did they do something, all dropping a stone at the same time. For a few heartbeats, Randyll was confused what was supposed to be impressive by this, but then he heard the roar coming over the hill. Fire. Yellow and red flames licking over the hill, doubtlessly filling the whole valley there and throwing up thick, black smoke. Around him the legionnaires cheered, yet the old commander's heart sank at the display and he was left to stare dumbly.
The stranger spoke again to his son, no surprise about what had happened in his voice. "I think they named that tactic after some Westerosi battle or something. Firefield?"
"I think you mean the Fields of Fire," came the reply.
AN: There is a lot of subtext going on in this, though at the core it's a showcase of the Darkenbeast company training for large-scale battle and a character piece on Randyll Tarly.
As for what the Legion is doing there, they are training to drop alchemical payloads by Darkenbeast, using stones as dummy projectiles. Occasionally they also use actual Alchemist Fire to get the beasts used to flying over the resulting inferno. Needless to say, a Reacher lord has some unfortunate associations with a whole area suddenly being set ablaze from above.
