Life, meanwhile, did not stand still. At times we organized hunts in the nearby forests. One day, we held a small tourney, at the start of which I bestowed knightly spurs upon more than a hundred of the bravest men—those who had distinguished themselves above the rest. Among them was Jacob Liddon.
Among those who received their rewards was a hedge knight named Ragnar Ran—a tall, powerfully built man, he was one of those who had defended me when I fell from Snow.
Instead of spurs, which he already possessed, I granted him—and two other knights, Irven Swygert of the Stormlands and Rolf Keith—the white cloaks of the Kingsguard.
Swygert had proven himself not only in the battle at the Hill, but also during the retreat, when he repeatedly charged straight into the thickest press of the advancing enemy and forced them back. And Rolf Keith had performed magnificently while covering the crossing of our forces at the Ruby Ford. The detachment left behind on the bank to shield the main host's retreat had been almost entirely wiped out. Everyone knew that those volunteers who agreed to join that unit had little chance of survival. But Keith lived—he fought to the last, then cast off his armor and managed to swim across the Trident. Wounded and exhausted, he was picked up by sentries in a boat.
As best I could, through stewards and trusted men, I checked the reputations of the new Kingsguard and found no serious flaws. Yes, they had their minor sins—but Westeros had never been rich in saints, and such a commodity was rare and costly in any age.
At times, it weighed on me—that I tried so hard, searched for loyal men, only for them to inevitably die.
One day, when several septons arrived in our camp, Ragnar Ran, Irven Swygert, and Rolf Keith took their vows. For the first time since my arrival in Westeros, I had a full complement of Kingsguard—and I could trust them as men proven in battle. Well, if I could not trust them, then whom could I trust?
Throughout these days, we corresponded with Margaery, and at last managed to choose names for our twins that satisfied everyone. The elder we named Tywin, and the younger Luthor. A clear expression of tradition and respect for our kin.
Meanwhile, Daven Lannister did not sit idle and continued pressing the ironborn. First he retook the Crag, and then Banefort. The battle there was fierce, and Daven the Loud lost more than five thousand men.
After that, the Greyjoys finally understood that they had nothing more to gain on land. They shifted all their efforts to the sea and began harrying our coasts. They couldn't cause any serious trouble after the naval battle at the Feastfires but they were still a constant irritation. And for now, while we don't have a proper fleet, we simply had to endure it. There was at least one consolation—the major cities and strongholds were safe. The ironborn targeted only small, poorly fortified castles. Success did not come often, but on those occasions they looted, raped, and burned, never attempting to push deeper inland and retreated almost immediately at the slightest hint of danger.
It was unpleasant—like a splinter in the ass—but tolerable compared to our other troubles.
All our attention and hopes were fixed on Randyll Tarly. It was on this man, his generalship, and the army he had gathered that our expectations now rested.
And Tarly did not disappoint. From Bitterbridge, he advanced toward Cape Wrath. He led nearly forty thousand men with him.
At first, fortune favored the Golden Company. They had more than twenty elephants and managed to surprise us. Tarly's vanguard lost a couple of minor engagements near the ruins of Summerhall.
Then Tarly reconsidered the new information, revised his strategy and tactics—and showed what he was truly capable of.
It took him a month to drive the Golden Company back to Rain House. He struck them day and night—out of ambush, in set battle, and on the march.
The Golden Company was good—truly good—and more than once the situation at Cape Wrath hung in a fragile balance.
And yet Tarly broke them... The Gallant Men was destroyed entirely, and of the ten thousand Golden Company soldiers who had so recently boasted of conquering King's Landing, only a few hundred survived—they managed to board ships and sail back to Pentos.
All this time, the whole of Westeros watched Tarly with bated breath—it was there that the future course of the war was being decided.
I still remained at the Ruby Ford. Jaime and our other wounded were slowly recovering. And I myself was gradually finding my rhythm again.
With Jaime in such a condition, I simply could not abandon the Ruby Ford. Nor could I hand command over to Edmar Tully — though he had proven his loyalty, I did not dare leave him alone against his own uncle. Littlefinger might try to deceive him, and so I kept the situation under my own control as much as possible. I had no other commanders of sufficient stature, and so I was forced to continue leading the host myself—even though I could easily have found a dozen more useful and important tasks elsewhere.
Theoretically, I could have summoned Lord Mathis Rowan from the capital and entrusted the army to him. In fact, at the very beginning that was exactly what I intended to do. BBut then I thought better of it. Had I done so, everyone would have seen it as the king refusing to share the hardships, that he was running from responsibility with his tail tucked between his legs. And most of all, they would have seen that I had been defeated by the Blackfish.
But if I returned to King's Landing after the tide of the war had turned, no one would think that. It would simply be a regrouping of forces, and I would claim a new victory.
This time, at the Ruby Ford.
(End of Chapter)
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