The Brightest Sun

Chapter 51

Harry had unexpectedly found himself stood beside Randyll Tarly long after their ship took off.

The Reachlords had come with a half dozen ships, each with a crew of around fifteen men, and Dorne had provided another half dozen, sending them in the midst of pirates so as to wrestle ships and land from them. They had spent the better part of the last three days discussing how they would do so, with the Reachmen bringing some input to the task. They had landed their ships along the Western coastline at one point in their war, placing men at Crakehall and igniting Tywin Lannister's fury.

"How long should we expect it to take?" Randyll Tarly asked, jerking Harry from his thoughts on Westeros' wars. The man wasn't facing him; Randyll Tarly had spent the entire journey with his eyes somewhere Northwest of their location.

King's Landing, he guessed, knowing the man to be one of the few to ever give Robert Baratheon trouble on the battlefield and his eldest held hostage. Or Casterly Rock, seething at the thought of Tywin Lannister continuing to breathe where many of his fellow Reachmen did not.

"Bloodstone? Not long," Harry answered. "Perhaps a few hours."

Perhaps shorter, he knew. They had no true account of the numbers on Bloodstone, but the bulk of their men were more than prepared to take the islands, and Harry himself was more than enough to clear out the isle.

If only his magic did not feel so jumpy, he thought. The had come closer to the islands, sailing along the Broken Arm when he felt it, the stirrings of magic stronger than anything he had ever felt in Westeros. Stronger almost than anything he had felt in his entire life, his own magic reacting curiously.

The First Men crossed the Arm to wage war, and the Children had broken it in retaliation, he recalled Elia saying.

"The restoration," Tarly corrected. "How long until we launch the king's bid to restore his throne?"

Harry frowned, sweeping his eyes along the horizon as a tingle ran down his spine, the heavy feeling of magic becoming more pronounced.

"You would risk a war unprepared?" Harry asked, turning to face Randyll. The man had moved – forgoing his task of glowering into the ether at whichever House had earned his ire.

"Do you take me for a fool, my lord?" he asked, blue eyes cool as they stared at him.

"I took you for a soldier. One who knows not to eagerly run to battle," Harry said candidly, ignoring the press of magic as he eyed the man before him.

"As are you," Randyll stated. "Like calls to like, and you are not one with a life free of bloodshed, nor are you a stranger to death."

Harry smiled grimly, seeing his expression mirrored in the older man's face.

"War is not mere play for us. Certainly not this war," Randyll continued, face twisting as he pointed to the scar on his face. It was long, cutting across the side of his mouth to his hairline; had the cut been a touch closer to the right, Randyll Tarly would have been short an eye. "A token from Meryn Trant at the Fifth Battle of the Marches. I sent his head to his king and sacked Nightsong in answer. Don't speak to me of being an eager green boy. I've fought more battles than any commander in the Seven Kingdoms."

His blue eyes flicked to the opposite side of the deck, and Harry suppressed a sigh, knowing without turning just who the man was looking at. Arthur Dayne returning to his homeland had been a sour event; Ser Arthur staying to guard a girl had been a touchy point for the Reachlords, who had thought having the man at the Trident would have made all the difference. That Arthur quietly blamed the Reach for sitting in comfort in Storm's End did little to bridge the divide between them, but all parties had heeded their king's warning so far.