If you are familiar with Highgarden, you would know this was a fairly typical evening gathering by the standards of the Reach's ruling house. The setting was elegant but relaxed—a large hall lit by soft candlelight, perfumed with flowers from the castle gardens. The guests of honor that night included Paxter Redwyne, the Lord of the Arbor, and Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun—both of whom were frequent visitors to Highgarden, especially in times of political courtship. Nearly all of House Tyrell was present to entertain the crowd, save for Ser Loras, who remained unseen, likely still recovering after the incident with Ser Gregor Clegane.
But for Dickon Tarly, the youngest son of Lord Randyll Tarly, this was anything but ordinary.
For one, his notoriously grim and disciplined father rarely permitted him to attend social gatherings like this. Highgarden's frivolity, in Randyll's eyes, was a corrupting influence on a young man meant to embody martial strength and feudal discipline. Yet somehow, Dickon had been allowed to come this time—perhaps because his father was present, or perhaps because the gathering coincided with greater political goals.
And then, there was Ser Arthur Bracken.
Dickon's eyes lit up as he beheld the man everyone was talking about—the tourney champion, the hammer-wielding warrior who had bested Ser Gregor Clegane in single combat. Arthur had not only won the melee and the team event at the Hand's tourney in King's Landing, but had also protected Ser Loras Tyrell during the chaos on the jousting grounds. His name was already being sung by bards in taverns from the Crownlands to the Riverlands, and even in Oldtown, they whispered about the new warrior-lord who bore a golden guandao and wielded a hammer like Robert Baratheon of old.
The older lords clustered in their own circles, drinking Arbor Gold and talking politics and harvest yields, while the younger generation gathered around the Redwyne twins. Horace and Hobber, known for their exaggerated storytelling, had become the center of attention, surrounded by Reach squires and heirs, including Dickon.
"By the Seven," Horace was saying, "my heart stopped when I saw Ser Loras fall. I thought that was it—the Mountain would split him in half like a log! And then Ser Arthur charged in, swinging that warhammer of his like some warrior from the Age of Heroes."
Horace paused dramatically, his hand in the air, as if miming Arthur's mighty swing.
"I thought the Mountain would turn on him, too," Horace went on, "but instead—CRACK! That cursed greatsword of his shattered under the force of Ser Arthur's hammer. It was glorious. Even the Hound looked like he couldn't believe it."
He raised a goblet of wine and drank deeply, the theatrics of his tale making some of the boys laugh as they watched his Adam's apple bob up and down. The mood was high, and the wine had loosened tongues and smiles.
Sensing his brother needed a break, Hobber took over with practiced ease. "All of King's Landing was stunned. No one thought anyone could stop Ser Gregor, let alone drive him from the field. But after just a few exchanges, the brute fled—his sword broken, his pride shattered."
"And unlike the fools who doubted, I knew from the moment Ser Arthur stepped forward that the Mountain was done for," Horace added with a smirk. "I always did have a good eye for heroes."
There was a collective murmur of awe from the other young nobles, with some cursing their misfortune at not having been there to witness the moment. One curious squire leaned forward and asked, "But why were you so sure, Horace?"
Before Horace could answer, the subject of their praise—Arthur Bracken himself—looked up from the plate of grapes he'd been quietly enjoying nearby. He chewed and answered with a half-smile, "Because he's already been beaten by me once. He knows that under my hammer, everyone's equal."
Laughter erupted, and Horace blushed as the jest turned toward him. Even he chuckled, raising his goblet in mock surrender. The tension melted into camaraderie, the kind that only forms through wine, shared stories, and mutual admiration.
In the midst of it all, Dickon Tarly watched Arthur closely, his expression unreadable. Behind his straight back and disciplined posture was the heart of a young man yearning for something more. He envied Arthur—not just his fame or his strength, but his freedom. While Arthur, a minor noble from the Riverlands, traveled from King's Landing to Highgarden, making alliances and shaping his own legend, Dickon remained chained to Horn Hill, where his father dictated every move.
"It must be wonderful," he muttered under his breath, "to follow a knight like Lord Arthur for a time. To see the world… to earn your name in battle."
A nearby knight overheard and encouraged him. "Well, he's right here, isn't he? Why not ask him?"
Dickon frowned, his voice low. "My father would never allow it. I'm not even supposed to be here without him."
Arthur glanced over at Hobber, raising an eyebrow as if to ask who the serious-faced boy was.
"That's Dickon Tarly," Hobber whispered. "Second son of Lord Randyll. Younger brother of Samwell—you know, the one who took the black. Dickon's the one his father's grooming as heir. Strict upbringing. Damn good with a sword, though."
Arthur's expression softened, and his earlier irritation with Randyll Tarly—whose pompous dismissal he'd endured that morning—eased slightly. Dickon was his son, but clearly not cut from the same cloth. Arthur could see it: the hunger in Dickon's eyes, the longing for purpose and greatness.
He was no ordinary boy.
And Arthur, ever the opportunist when it came to finding allies among the next generation, made a note to remember the name Dickon Tarly.
After all, in the wars to come, there would be room for young men with sharp swords—and even sharper hearts.
Randyll Tarly was a general of great renown, widely respected across the Seven Kingdoms. During Robert's Rebellion, he famously defeated Robert Baratheon at Ashford, a town at the crossroads between the Stormlands and the Reach. At the time, Robert had already secured victories at Summerhall, Stonehelm, and other engagements. Ashford marked the first time Robert was bested in open battle. While the clash involved only a few thousand men on either side, it nonetheless showcased Randyll's brilliance in tactical deployment and battlefield control—earning him a reputation as one of the finest military commanders in the realm, second only to men like Jon Connington or Tywin Lannister.
With a legacy like that, how could the heir he so rigorously trained turn out poorly?
At the very least, Dickon Tarly had the makings of a capable battlefield leader, shaped by years of drills and discipline. In contrast, Arthur Bracken's own camp, while filled with brave fighters and loyal retainers, lacked a dedicated tactician with noble pedigree and a command mind.
Arthur set his plate of grapes aside, reached out and wiped his mouth with Hobber Redwyne's silken sleeve—causing the Redwyne twin to yelp in protest—and briskly walked over to Dickon. With a low voice and a mischievous glint in his eye, he said:
"I heard you've been thinking about going on an adventure. I'd like to formally invite you to my lands in the Riverlands. Come travel with me for a while."
Let's get this Dickon to the Riverlands while we still can.
Arthur's mind was already working ahead. Within weeks, Tywin Lannister would muster a force of twenty thousand men at Casterly Rock and move them along the Gold Road. Once that army reached the Reach–Westerlands border, any connection between Highgarden and the North would be severed. If Dickon wanted out, it had to be now—otherwise returning home or moving freely across the realm would become nearly impossible.
Dickon, who had been listening intently, suddenly looked conflicted—torn between duty and desire. His stern features, usually composed in a mask of seriousness, flickered with emotion. "I… I'm not ready for this," he stammered. "And my father would never allow it."
The spark of hope faded into a familiar gloom. Arthur, following Dickon's gaze across the banquet hall, spotted Randyll Tarly among a cluster of Reach lords near Mace Tyrell and Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns. He seemed engrossed in conversation, not paying any attention to their end of the room.
Arthur leaned in and whispered quickly, "How old are you? Still asking your father for permission? If he says no, you can still slip away."
Dickon looked stunned, clearly unused to such directness. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
The surrounding Reach youths—sons and squires of lesser lords and bannermen—knew full well the shadow Randyll Tarly cast. This was the man who had forced his eldest son, Samwell, to abandon his inheritance and take the black, threatening to kill him if he did not. Randyll was known for his cruelty and strict expectations—unyielding, commanding, and devoid of patience for what he saw as weakness.
Everyone present understood: Dickon had never known freedom.
So they nudged and encouraged him, telling him this might be his only chance to break free of his father's grip—even just for a short while. After all, who better to learn from than Arthur Bracken, the newly risen hammer-wielding champion whose name was already spoken with reverence in Highgarden's halls?
Arthur gave Dickon another reason—one he suspected would land with more weight.
"Your brother Sam's at the Wall," he said, still speaking quietly. "You know how he is. I doubt his life's been easy among a company of thieves and killers. You could ride north, check in on him, maybe make things better for him. A Tarly among the Night's Watch would command some respect."
He wasn't wrong. Sam had suffered frequent abuse from his brothers in black when he first arrived at Castle Black—beaten and mocked, often unable to defend himself. But Jon Snow had helped him. After Jon fought off Sam's bullies, things had improved for the gentle Tarly. Of course, Arthur left all that unsaid. Dickon didn't need the full truth—only a compelling reason to come under Arthur's wing.
"I do miss my brother," Dickon murmured. "He's… he's a good man."
He met Arthur's gaze, the flicker of uncertainty still in his eyes. They stared at one another for a long moment—Arthur with subtle urgency, Dickon with visible hesitation. The moment stretched until it was nearly awkward, but then, finally, Dickon spoke.
"I'll go with you," he said at last. "After I return to Horn Hill tomorrow with my father, I'll find a way to slip out."
Horn Hill—ancestral seat of House Tarly—lay not far south of Highgarden, no more than fifty leagues by horse. Barely a day's ride if one moved quickly. It wouldn't be hard for Dickon to escape unnoticed, but only if he timed it right.
Arthur smiled and leaned in once more. In the candlelit hall of Highgarden, surrounded by roses, musicians, and whispering courtiers, the warrior and the young heir plotted in hushed tones.
The plan was simple. Once Dickon returned to Horn Hill, he'd wait for a moment when Randyll was distracted—perhaps riding out to inspect troops or deal with local lords. At the first chance, Dickon would slip away and ride north to the Bitterbridge, where Arthur would be waiting.
Bitterbridge stood at the fork of the Mander River and Rose Road, the main passage between the Reach and the Crownlands. It was a key crossing and a natural rendezvous for Arthur's caravan as they returned to the Riverlands.
Neither Dickon nor Arthur knew what challenges awaited them ahead—but both felt the same pull toward what lay beyond the safety of home.
And with that, an alliance was born—not of treaties and blood oaths, but of shared ambition, rebellion, and the quiet beginning of something greater.
JOIN MY PATREON YO READ ADVANCE 50+ CHAPTERS
Patreon.com/Kora_1