Randyll Tarly's reputation was not hollow.
He was widely acknowledged as the greatest soldier in Westeros, a man whose presence was as heavy as a mountain and as sharp as a sword. To underestimate him simply because he had followed orders and held his position was to invite death—a thought Robert Baratheon may have fleetingly entertained in his contempt.
Randyll's "strategy" wasn't about cunning tricks or deceit, but the seasoned calm of a master tactician. He commanded the Reach army like an extension of his own arm. Their formations broke and reformed with seamless order during the charge, a direct reflection of his tactical mind—immovable as a mountain in stillness, thunderous as a storm in motion.
But Randyll's "valor" was even more dazzling. On the battlefield, he always led from the front. The ancestral Valyrian steel greatsword, "Heartsbane," seemed weightless in his hands, yet every swing carried the force to split stone. Where his blade went, shields shattered and armor cracked. Few knights could withstand even a single exchange. This prowess not only terrified enemies but inspired his own men to fight to the death.
Even in peacetime tourneys, stripped of the killing intent of war, Randyll Tarly was the opponent no knight wished to face early. In the joust, his impact was overwhelmingly fierce; in the melee, his swordsmanship was precise and ruthless. Countless knights hungry for fame had broken their lances and dreams before him. The fearsome name of "Heartsbane" had been forged in countless arenas long ago.
In the very first exchange of sword and hammer between Robert Baratheon and Randyll Tarly, the ear-splitting clash of metal and the violent numbness shooting up his arm were like a bucket of ice water dousing Robert's battle fever. All contempt vanished instantly—this was absolutely not some useless trash he could smash with two or three blows. This was a rare, deadly rival!
Every swing of "Heartsbane" from Randyll was heavy, precise, and seasoned. The Valyrian steel flowed with a dark luster in the sunlight, its sharpness far exceeding Robert's imagination. It didn't just withstand the heavy blows of the warhammer; it constantly found gaps at impossible angles, nearly slicing open Robert's armor several times. Robert's earth-shattering attacks were calmly parried one by one, returned with even deadlier strikes.
The two fought on horseback, exchanging dozens of blows in the blink of an eye, sweat mixing with the flying dust. Robert's wild roars contrasted sharply with Randyll's steady breathing. Just after a brutal, head-on clash, the tip of "Heartsbane" slid along the haft of the warhammer at a brilliant angle—
CRACK!
With a crisp snap, Robert felt his hands go light. The heavy warhammer he had built his fame on was sheared in two, the massive head crashing heavily to the ground. This sudden turn left Robert with a fatal opening.
How could Randyll Tarly miss such a chance? With a flick of his wrist, "Heartsbane" screamed through the air, turning into a flash of cold light that chopped solidly into the junction of Robert's shoulder and neck!
The giant Lord of the Stormlands shuddered violently, the immense impact instantly destroying his balance. He swayed, and finally, with a look of disbelief, toppled heavily from his horse, crashing to the ground with a boom.
The moment Robert Baratheon fell like a collapsing mountain, the entire Stormlands army seemed to suffocate from the blow. His loyal bannermen's eyes nearly popped from their sockets. Lord Cafferen, closest to him, let out a roar of grief and rage, spurring his horse forward without hesitation, raising his sword to protect his fallen liege.
"Protect the Lord!"
His courage was commendable, but the gap in skill was a chasm. Rage and the will to protect could not bridge the difference between him and Randyll Tarly. Randyll merely turned coldly, "Heartsbane" swinging out in a blur.
The first strike shattered Lord Cafferen's desperate parry, sparks flying as the web of his thumb split open.
The second strike crushed the shield he barely managed to raise with irresistible force, cleaving the edge of the shield clean off.
The third strike was fast as lightning, vicious as a viper! Seizing the moment Cafferen was unbalanced and open, the cold edge of "Heartsbane" drew a perfect arc of death—
A flash of sword light passed, and a head, still bearing an expression of shock and fading bravery, flew from its shoulders. The headless corpse remained upright in the saddle for a moment before tumbling heavily into the mud and blood.
Randyll Tarly stood with his sword, looking like the Stranger himself, declaring the fate of any rescue attempt in the cruelest way possible.
Robert staggered backward, his massive body swaying. The agony in his shoulder and neck threatened to tear apart his will. He pressed a hand firmly over the terrible wound, warm blood still gushing between his fingers. This piercing strike, however, acted like a bucket of ice water, clearing his mind which had been clouded by berserker rage.
He looked up and saw Randyll Tarly fighting like a god of war possessed. The Valyrian steel sword "Heartsbane" was a whirlwind of death in his hands. Wherever Randyll went, Stormlands soldiers fell like harvested wheat. No one could stop his edge for even a moment.
The line was collapsing at a visible speed.
"Retreat!" Robert roared with all his remaining strength. The order was mixed with pain and unwillingness, yet it was unmistakably clear.
The horns sounded mournfully. The Stormlands army, already shaken, instantly lost their last will to fight. They broke like a landslide, turning to flee toward the rear.
How could the Reach army let such an opportunity slip?
Well-trained and disciplined, they moved like closing iron pincers, flanking rapidly from both sides, attempting to completely encircle Robert and his army on the blood-soaked riverbank.
Robert's eyes were splitting with rage. He snatched a battle-axe from a guard, fighting like a wounded lion, charging left and right through the chaos. Every swing of the axe brought a spray of blood as he tried to carve a bloody path out.
Even wounded, his personal prowess was terrifying, but one man's valor could not reverse the collapse of the entire battle. The flood of defeat could not be stemmed. For every spot he saved, more soldiers fell into encirclement elsewhere.
Watching his loyal men falling around him, Robert knew that further delay meant total annihilation. He closed his eyes in pain and roared again, a deafening command that completely severed the hope of victory for the day:
"Full retreat!"
Randyll Tarly sat on his horse on the bloodstained field of Ashford, watching the dust rise from Robert's routing army. Scarlet blood still dripped from the edge of "Heartsbane." With just one command, his Reach cavalry could turn this victory into a complete massacre. However, he raised his arm and gave a clear, hard order: "Halt pursuit. Regroup."
This order stunned some officers hungry for glory, but no one dared question the commander who had just cut down an enemy lord and defeated Robert himself.
Randyll's gaze looked past the battlefield, as if seeing the "Queen of Thorns" sitting in the cool halls of Highgarden.
Before he left, Lady Olenna Redwyne had not only warned him against attacking first but had given a meaningful final instruction: "If battle is unavoidable, remember, it is enough to make the soldiers bleed a little. But do not, under any circumstances, kill the rebel leaders... especially that Baratheon. Do not kill him for me."
Randyll instantly understood her deeper meaning. The Old Rose, who seemed to stay out of it, had actually laid multiple paths for House Tyrell.
Crushing Robert's army would demonstrate loyalty to the Crown. But killing Robert Baratheon would forge a blood feud with the Stormlands and all the rebels, completely cutting off Highgarden's room to maneuver in the future.
Just as the dust was settling on the battlefield, a much larger formation appeared on the southern horizon—Mace Tyrell, the Warden of the South, had finally arrived "just in time" with the main host of House Tyrell, banners waving and armor gleaming.
The portly Lord Mace rode to the front, looking smugly at the retreating enemy and the standing Randyll. He took it for granted that this victory was due to his "divine arrival."
"Lord Randyll! Well done!" Mace's voice was booming, filled with undisguised pride. "It seems the mere sight of my great host arriving has frightened the courage out of these traitors!"
Randyll Tarly glanced expressionlessly at his liege lord, too tired to even offer a word of explanation or agreement. He simply sheathed his sword silently and turned his gaze back to the north. There, the real storm was far from over.
In the air, it seemed as if a silent, cold snort could be heard.