Tyrion and Garlan rode toward Randyll Tarly's vanguard to meet with Stannis.
Mace Tyrell had refused to come, insisting on staying behind to command the rear. Tyrion knew full well that Lord Puff Fish was simply afraid of Stannis.
Randyll Tarly, too, preferred to avoid the spotlight. He was a warrior who lived strictly by his vows and duties.
Between Tarly's vanguard and Stannis's main host stretched a wide, open field. Through the rain, Tyrion saw a group of riders waiting in the middle ground. He and Garlan urged their horses forward.
"Lord Stannis?" Tyrion called out to the two figures at the head of the group.
"It is 'Your Grace'."
Stannis was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his face taut and hardened by years under the sun. His skin looked as tough as iron. Though not yet thirty-five, he seemed ten years older.
Only a thin line of black hair remained atop his head, forming a shadowy ring behind his ears like the ghost of a crown. His beard was trimmed short and neat, a bluish shadow that framed his square jaw and the hollows of his cheeks.
Beneath his heavy brows, his eyes were like wounds—deep, dark blue, almost black.
Compared to Renly, he was certainly no beauty. Beside him stood a tall, gaunt nobleman with silver-gray hair and a long, pointed beard that gave his narrow face an air of cold refinement. His breastplate bore a red-gold fox encircled by a wreath of lapis-colored flowers.
"Lord Stannis, Lord Alester," said Ser Garlan.
"According to proper etiquette, you should address the King as 'Your Grace,'" said Alester Florent. Above them, the crowned stag banner of House Baratheon whipped in the wind.
Tyrion eyed Stannis's plain black chainmail and wool cloak with a sneer. "Lord Stannis, when did you get crowned king? I don't recall there being a throne on Dragonstone. The throne in King's Landing is occupied by my nephew."
"He is a bastard," Stannis replied coolly, his tone devoid of anger. "I am the true heir of House Baratheon—the rightful owner of the Iron Throne."
Joffrey Baratheon is a bastard. Well said, my lord, Tyrion thought. "Accusations without proof are meaningless. And if I may say so, you look neither like His Grace Robert nor like Lord Renly. Should I call you a bastard as well?"
Stannis's eyes narrowed. Behind him, his knights erupted in angry shouts.
"Lust Demon," Stannis warned, "you are testing my mercy and my patience."
"Mercy? What mercy would that be?" Tyrion asked. "A clean stroke of the blade, like the one you gave Renly?"
"If you disband your forces and order the garrison of King's Landing to open its gates, I will see that your rights are respected," Stannis said. "I will hang Jaime Lannister and Cersei Lannister. Their three children will die. Lord Tywin will take the black. And you, as heir to Casterly Rock, may continue to rule the Westerlands. If you wish, my daughter, Shireen Baratheon, shall be betrothed to you."
Hanging Cersei? I wouldn't object to that. As for your daughter...
"How merciful of you, my lord," Tyrion said with a laugh, glancing toward Garlan. "Lord Stannis would almost wipe out my entire family. It seems our definitions of 'mercy' differ somewhat."
"Blind and benighted soul," said Lord Alester solemnly. "May the Lord of Light protect you, Tyrion Lannister."
"Are we here to debate theology now? My lord, had I known, I would have brought a septon," Tyrion said, irritation in his voice. He despised that pious tone.
"You've always hungered for power!" Garlan snapped at Lord Alester.
"Ser Garlan, mind your tongue," the Florent lord cautioned.
"Alester Florent, what reward did Stannis promise you?" Tyrion asked. "Warden of the South? You switch gods and kings as easily as I change my boots. You're no different from this pack of chameleons standing before me."
He couldn't afford to show even a hint of friendliness toward House Florent in front of the Tyrells.
The lords behind Stannis broke into angry murmurs, and Tyrion's horse shifted uneasily beneath him, snorting white breath into the rain.
He could make out soldiers in the near distance—their spears, their armor—and perhaps archers hidden in the mist, crossbows aimed his way, waiting for a single order to turn him into a pincushion.
"Lust Demon, my army will crush you—and crush King's Landing with you," said Stannis. "Your head will hang on a pike beside the rest of your Lannister kin."
"You won't win a war with servants who've sworn to three masters," Tyrion said, pointing at the crowned stag banner above Stannis. "Under that same stag, they've served Robert, Renly, and now you. Maybe call them the 'three-stag servants.' Sounds about right."
Several knights spurred their horses forward, the wind from the Blackwater tugging at their rainbow cloaks—proof enough they'd once been Renly's Kingsguard.
"No one here is a 'chameleon' or a 'servant,' Lord Tyrion," said Bryce Caron. "My oath is to the king, and now His Grace Stannis is the rightful ruler of the Iron Throne—the last true blood of House Baratheon, heir to Robert and Renly alike."
"If that's true, then why didn't the Knight of Flowers join you? Where's Randyll Tarly? What about the Lady of Oakheart? Why did Renly's most loyal supporters refuse to follow?" Tyrion asked with scorn.
Ser Garlan sneered even colder. "And what's the worth of your oath? Look at yourself—still wearing that rainbow cloak. Didn't His Grace Renly give it to you when you swore to guard him with your life? He's dead now, yet you strut around in his colors as if nothing's changed."
Tyrion turned on another knight—Guyard Morrigen. "And what about you, Ser? You're Guyard of the Green Guard, aren't you? Weren't you one of the Rainbow Guard? Didn't you swear to give your life for your king? If I had that cloak, I wouldn't have the gall to flaunt it in public."
Morrigen's face twisted with fury. "Lust Demon, you should thank the gods this is a parley. If not, I'd cut out that tongue of yours for your insolence!"
"Like you already cut off your manhood? You call that bravery?" Tyrion burst out laughing.
"Enough!" Stannis roared. "Tyrion, the fire of the Lord of Light will burn you to ashes."
"My piss could snuff out your miserable torch."
Tyrion jerked his reins and rode off with Ser Garlan.