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Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
A river flowed out of the mountains of the Westerlands, cut through the hills of Silverhill, skirted the cliffs of Goldengrove, and ran south until it joined the Mander beneath the white marble walls of Highgarden.
Since the river had no name, everyone just called it the Unnamed River.
Right now, it served as the line between life and death for two armies.
Eddard had nearly fifty thousand men pressed up against the east bank, patiently waiting for the right moment. Every ten miles he posted a sentry post, and Riverlands scouts patrolled the river day and night.
On the opposite bank, Renly's army kept shifting. At first only a few thousand men roamed the shore. Then the number jumped to twenty thousand.
Eddard's feints kept them running back and forth until they were exhausted. The more men Renly committed, the thinner his lines became.
Finally, Renly's army began to pull back.
The land west of the river emptied out. Only abandoned camps and burned-out campfires remained.
Eddard sent men across to check.
No ambushes. No traps. A few banners had even been left behind, still stuck in the mud.
The news reached the main camp.
Under the white direwolf banner, inside the plain command tent, a dangerous mood began to spread.
"My lord Hand, we should attack," said Lord Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall, speaking first.
"We have the numbers. His Grace has already taken Bitterbridge. The entire northern Reach is ours. After we cross, we hit Red Lake and Old Oak first, then sweep west across the rest of the Reach and hit Highgarden from two sides at once."
"The Tyrells are finished!"
The northern lords nodded. The Riverlands nobles voiced their agreement. Even Lord Jonos Bracken—Blackwood's bitter enemy—ran a hand through his coarse brown hair, thought for a moment, and stayed silent.
Eddard kept his usual cold, reserved expression, carefully studying the enemy's intentions.
Randyll Tarly was the one giving the orders on Renly's side. The man was famous for bold, unexpected strikes. His most famous victory had come sixteen years ago at the Battle of Ashford, when he defeated Robert at the height of his winning streak.
"Seven hells, Ned," Robert had once complained to him. "Losing isn't shameful. I'm not complaining. The man had five times my numbers and the fight was small. I didn't lose much. Losing is losing. But I didn't lose to that fat oaf wrapped in green leaves—I lost to Randyll Tarly leading the Reach vanguard!"
"Mace Tyrell had the balls to claim the victory afterward. I had already retreated before that fat bastard even found the battlefield. I never even saw his face!"
Robert never got the chance to pay Mace back. The Lord of Highgarden had marched off to besiege Storm's End right after.
A year later, Eddard led an army south, lifted the siege, and won a great victory.
A great bloodless victory, because Mace took one look at the situation and surrendered on the spot.
Eddard knew the truth.
He had never lost a battle, but he was not the invincible general people claimed. When he was younger he had been full of fire, convinced that throwing himself into the fight and killing the enemy was enough. Now he had to think about many more things.
Eddard stared at the map, asking himself the same question over and over.
Why had Randyll retreated?
The Unnamed River was at low water—neither too high nor too low—but it was still a natural barrier. Randyll shouldn't have given it up so easily. Abandoning it meant handing over half the Reach.
His army was now moving south, clearly planning to link up with Mace inside Highgarden and drag the war out.
But the longer this dragged on, the worse it would be for Randyll.
So why was he trying to drag it out?
Randyll Tarly hadn't slept through the night in days.
He was afraid. Afraid Eddard would see through his plan. Afraid the bait he had laid would be ignored and Eddard would march straight on Highgarden with his full army.
When the report finally arrived, a faint smile appeared on his usually expressionless face.
"Eddard has crossed the river at last!"
He quickly buried the smile behind his short, stiff gray beard.
Time was not on their side.
The combined strength of the four northern kingdoms far outmatched the Reach. Half the Stormlands army was tied down, and Dorne still hadn't moved. The Unnamed River was too long. If Eddard kept sending raiding parties across on floating bridges and barges, Renly's men would eventually be ground down like flour under a millstone.
At that point they wouldn't even need to take Highgarden. The Reach lords would break on their own.
So the northern Reach could not be held.
But retreating all the way to Highgarden was just waiting to die.
He had to split Eddard's army and then strike with superior numbers.
The only way was to deliberately abandon the Unnamed River line, trade space for time, and lure Eddard into dividing his forces to occupy the western Reach.
At the same time, they still needed to keep the siege of Bitterbridge going. His main army would be passing through the area, so he couldn't allow any news to leak.
But a lone force laying siege would be suicide, and if they pushed too deep into the Westerlands they would eventually be caught by Eddard's crossing troops.
Randyll couldn't find a single noble willing to take the job.
"Then we draw lots," Renly said, the only person who could make such an absurd suggestion.
In the end, Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor drew the shortest straw.
"Remember," Randyll told the plump, purple-faced man, wondering if he could actually be trusted, "not even a single raven gets out."
But when it came time to leave, the fat lord still looked uncertain. He grabbed Renly's sleeve. "My lord—when you come back, don't forget to pick us up."
Randyll simply boarded the ship in silence.
Warships lay quietly at anchor, sails furled, masts rising like a forest. The deep purple grapes of House Redwyne were painted on the hulls. Soldiers marched up the gangplanks, armor glinting in the twilight.
The first to leave were the small fast ships, slipping out of the harbor like gray shadows. Then came the medium warships, and finally the flagship.
The wake slowly faded on the ink-black water.
Slender Lord Paxter stood at the bow, shoulders slumped. His son stood beside him, glaring resentfully at Randyll.
Hmph.
A sparrow could never understand the ambitions of a hawk.
The army sailing south was only a feint.
Randyll had already ordered Renly to summon the fleet from the Arbor and bring it north under cover of darkness.
He would use naval superiority to bypass Bitterbridge entirely, strike straight at Lannisport, and force Eddard to turn back.
This plan could not be discovered.
It was impossible.
"What the hell is my uncle doing on a ship?"
Joffrey pulled out of [Stargaze] and rubbed his eyes.
He had checked on Renly's movements the moment the cooldown ended. Why was his uncle suddenly on a warship?