4th Month of 291 A.C. Somewhere in the Reach
Lord Randyll Tarly
The rebels were playing a very clever game, after their initial burst of activity in which they had burned down fields and hurt the tax collectors sent out by the crown and Highgarden, they had disappeared into the mist. Randyll knew that they would not be far from their base of operations, but where that was, was something he was not sure of. That was something that irked him a lot, he needed to know where it was in order to plan properly, but so far, there had been nothing and it was beginning to nag at him. His men were growing tired from the constant riding, Lord Mace, the great oaf was hounding his tail, demanding answers, and Randyll knew that unless he had results, soon enough the crown would get involved. And that was something he did not need, not now, not with the plans he had in place, the plans he needed to keep going, for things to keep working. Tyrell was eating away at the strength of the Reach, and Randyll had not fought as long and as hard as he had done to see it all fall apart at the seams, at the beginning of it all. He would see it last, even if it killed him.
The ground was green and pleasant underneath his horse's hooves, the air was fresh, and the sky was a clear blue. It was a lovely spring day, but Randyll was sure that there would be an element of darkness before the day was through, perhaps that was just him, but there had long been a sense within him that the Reach was a keg that was getting ready to explode. Ever since Luthor Tyrell had wed Olenna Redwyne, there had been a feeling that something would snap. The uneasy growth the Tyrells had made during the course of their reign over the Reach, was being stalled, Luthor Tyrell had been smart, but his wife was a harridan, someone who only thought in the short term, whilst the man's son was a fool completely. Randyll had known Lord Luthor, and had admired him, he despised the man's wife, and hated the son, but he was a lord and he knew his duty. His men moved in quiet behind him, their lances raised and ready for the fight that they all knew was coming. The rebels had to be somewhere here, their horses would be tiring soon enough, and then they would have to stop, even if they had not stopped before.
They moved forwards, and Randyll could have sworn he heard the drawing of a bow, but as he looked around there was nothing there to see, and so shaking his head, he keeps his attention fixed in front of him. Onward they ride, through the grass, long and sharp against their armoured legs, onward they ride, through it all and soon enough, Randyll knows they will be lulled into a false sense of security and that is something they cannot afford. "Gunthor." He calls out, and as the captain of the guard comes before him he says. "Take twenty men and go scouting ahead. I want to know what the position is before we move forward." The man nod and rides off. As Randyll watches the man ride off, he feels a sharp sting in his stomach, a sense of nervousness, a sense that all is not well with the world. He shakes his head once more and moves forward, but then stops when hears screams and what sounds like swords being drawn. Before he can summon more men, the whirs of arrows reach him and he turns around in time to see his men being shot down, arrows in their necks and their armour. He bellows a command, demanding his men start looking for where the archers are firing from, but as he does that, more and more of his men are falling.
Randyll growls his frustration then, and throws his lance down, drawing Heartsbane from where it rests against his back, bellowing out. "Come and show yourselves you cowards! Die like real men." There is no response apart from the constant whirring of arrows that take more and more of his men. Randyll remains rooted to the spot, unable to properly move, feeling a fear he has not felt since he was a boy, it shames him and angers him, but still he finds he cannot move. Eventually the arrows stop, and those of his men who are left are badly wounded and angry. A figure appears then, dressed in grey and black, a scar over one eye, a mad smile adorning their face. "You have failed Randyll."
Randyll looks at the figure and snarls. "You are dead. I saw you die!"
"What is dead may never die Randyll, you should know that by now. Except, you are going to die, and you will not come back." The figure responds.
"Then come and do the deed yourself." Randyll snarls.
"Oh, but I already have." The figure replies their mad smile growing ever wider.
At that Randyll feels something slick and wet fall down his armour, he looks down and sees blood and something else dripping down him, he looks at it, and then at the figure, who stands there smiling maddeningly. "How?" he asks, or rather croaks.
"I am death. But I am also the one who taught you how to fight Randyll, I know everything about you." The figure responds.
The arrows are whirring once more, and Randyll can hear his men falling down around him, but his thoughts are blurred and his focus is on the man before him. "My son?" he asks, his son the disappointment.
"Do not worry, your son will be fine. I will see to that. Now die." the figure responds.
Randyll screams, and then falls silent, killed by the man he knows as the black crow, as Samwell Tarly.