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GOT Chapter 101: This Road Is Closed
🕑 Added 2025-08-26 21:10:47 +0000 UTCNightsong was the seat of House Caron, perched on the Dornish Marches in the southwest of the Stormlands, at the northern edge of the Prince’s Pass and the Red Mountains. It took its name from the towers said to sing in the wind. House Caron owed its fealty to the Baratheons of Storm’s End.
But today, no one gathered here had come to hear the towers sing. None of the parties present hailed from the Stormlands.
Lord Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill and head of House Tarly, had brought his soldiers here to hold the line.
He wore a fine suit of plate armor that gleamed with a silver sheen. Over it was a surcoat depicting his house sigil—a striding huntsman, red on a green field.
Lord Randyll Tarly had not donned his helm. Above his bald head loomed a sky heavy with dark clouds. His thick, graying beard framed a stern face, his cold eyes fixed on the force arrayed before him—a host numbering at least ten thousand.
“Randyll Tarly, why do you bar my way?”
Meeting his gaze, Prince Oberyn Martell rode forward on a white warhorse, a mocking smile curling his lips.
Faced with the Red Viper’s question, Lord Randyll’s expression did not waver. His face remained grave, his eyes stern, as he looked out across the mountain hollow at the Dornish banners rippling in the wind.
At last, he drew back his gaze from the standards, turned slightly, and fixed his eyes on the prince before him.
“This is Nightsong. If Dornish soldiers take even half a step farther, you will be trespassing into the Reach.”
“Illegal?” Oberyn echoed, as though he had heard a jest. A sharp laugh flickered in his voice. “Forgive me, but I don’t quite understand what you mean by illegal, Lord Randyll Tarly.
“If it’s a matter of you being unable to read—or perhaps Horn Hill is simply so remote that word travels too slowly—I don’t mind having a maester read aloud the command sent by the ‘Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.’”
His tone dripped with scorn, and on those words—“Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms”—he put deliberate emphasis, twisting them into mockery.
He even gestured as if he truly meant to summon someone to read out the decree.
But Lord Randyll Tarly’s face did not change.
“My duty is to keep you and your army within Dorne. The Reach is not a place for you to march into."
“Or, if you must, you might consider taking another road.”
His tone was rigid, brooking no argument.
Oberyn Martell’s eyes narrowed, danger glinting in their depths at such defiance.
“There is only one place I mean to go, Lord Tarly. You and I both know where that is.”
But Randyll Tarly did not flinch. He sat tall in the saddle, unmoving beneath the weight of Oberyn’s threat.
“Where you intend to go is none of my concern, Prince Oberyn. My duty is to guard the Reach."
“As for your intentions—spare me. I will not heed your words. I will only trust what my own eyes can see.
“And I am not stopping you. You clearly have another choice. If you wish to do what you mean to do, then I have only this to say: ‘Take another road.’”
“This road is closed!”
Lord Randyll Tarly’s tone carried a trace of warning, but to the ear it sounded as unyielding as cold steel.
“Lord Tarly, as you yourself said, this is Nightsong, in the Stormlands. You have no right to speak to me in this way—whether by law or by strength.”
Seeing Randyll Tarly’s stance—that there would be no negotiating—Oberyn Martell let his mocking smile fade. His eyes, dark as eternal night, bored into Tarly’s with the venomous stare of a viper.
“In matters of law, what I do is precisely what Robert Baratheon desires.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t had the chance to tell you, but it’s clear enough he has no wish to see you bar my path here.”
“And as for strength—heh.” The Prince of Dorne gave a cold laugh, gesturing toward the host of tens of thousands massed behind him.
Yet even before this blunt threat, Lord Randyll Tarly showed no fear. With only some three thousand men of his own house at his back, he met the Red Viper’s gaze squarely, unflinching.
His voice was as hard as stone: “Perhaps what he least wishes to see is a Martell host marching anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms outside of Dorne.”
At those words, Oberyn’s face hardened, and a faint killing intent seeped from him like a rising tide.
“Then perhaps some think the spears of House Martell have grown dull!” As he spoke, the Red Viper slowly drew a spear from where it hung at his saddle, its point glinting with a faint, brownish sheen.
Seeing Oberyn shift into a battle stance, Randyll Tarly’s eyes softened only slightly.
He raised a hand, sweeping back the cloak from his shoulder, and pointed northward. “March north into the Crownlands. There are places there where you might be of use—if you think you can arrive in time.”
“But if you truly mean to cross the Reach and threaten our lands, I will be waiting for you beneath the Red Mountains. And there, with Heartsbane, I will give you your answer.”
With that, Randyll Tarly made it clear he had no wish to trade further words with Oberyn.
He had achieved what he came for—bringing his soldiers here, standing firm in the Stormlands, and halting the advance of the Dornish host.
As a sworn bannerman of House Tyrell of Highgarden, and head of one of Westeros’ most renowned military houses, his duty was plain. He could not, and would not, allow a Dornish army to pass unchallenged into the lands of the Reach.
After all, once past him, the Dornish army would be facing Highgarden directly.
That was something he would never allow.
And in truth, his purpose in blocking Oberyn here had never been to force a battle with Dorne.
So although his stance was unyielding, leaving no room for negotiation, his actions had left just enough space for both sides to de-escalate.
Watching Randyll Tarly’s departing back, Oberyn Martell’s eyes grew cold, though deep within them flickered a trace of conflict.
His destination was Casterly Rock—something long agreed upon with Doran.
As for the King’s Landing route Randyll Tarly had pointed out, that task had been given to another force.
It was a fleet, carrying fewer than five thousand men, that had sailed directly from Ghost Hill and north across the Stepstones.
Leading it were Quentyn Martell and Arianne Martell. Their objective was King’s Landing, though no one truly expected them to fight. Yet plans seldom kept pace with change—Tywin Lannister’s sudden maneuvers had left Oberyn’s main host in an awkward position.
Even so, he did not alter course, choosing to continue on toward Casterly Rock.
But it was now clear that the Tyrells of the Reach had been well prepared for him—even going so far as to place Randyll Tarly here to block his path.
“Father,” said Obara Sand as she stepped forward, “he dared to provoke you. I’ll kill him for you!”
Obara Sand was Oberyn Martell’s bastard daughter by an Oldtown prostitute. Cold and fierce by nature, strong, quick, and hot-tempered, she had joined her father’s host bound for Casterly Rock as a warrior in her own right.
She fought with spear and whip, and both weapons were in her hands now as she glared murderously at Randyll Tarly’s receding form.
At her words, however, Oberyn grew calmer. Thoughtfulness flickered in his eyes as he reached out to press his eldest daughter back.
“Your uncle is right. Perhaps you ought to learn something from him.”
Nearly thirty, tall and long-legged, her close-set eyes framed by the same mousy brown hair as her mother, Obara’s reputation as the eldest of the Sand Snakes was well-known.
To hear such words from her father left her wide-eyed.
Unable to contain herself, she shouted: “Then what are we to do, Father? I never thought you would be a coward!”
Her answer came in the form of a sharp slap across the face.
“Remember what our purpose is—”
“And besides, I believe Randyll Tarly is right.”
