The rain poured mercilessly along the banks of the Blackwater Rush, a sure sign that autumn was near.
Inside House Tyrell's command tent, every seat was filled with knights. They had been stalled before Stannis's camp for three days—and the rain had fallen just as long.
At the highest seat sat Lord Mace Tyrell, the Puff Fish himself, with Randyll Tarly at his side. A little farther down were Ser Garlan and Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers. Beside Loras sat Margaery Tyrell.
Another meeting surrounded by roses, Tyrion thought irritably, his mind drifting to Robert Baratheon.
Poor king. Faced with a Red Keep crawling with Lannisters, had he felt the same helplessness?
Tyrion stood before the gathered lords, all eyes on him. A large table lay between them, covered in sand and stones that formed a rough model of the terrain, with carved oak pieces set to mark positions.
"Ser Loras and Bronn have sealed off a narrow point upstream," Tyrion began, holding a straight wooden stick. "Here—this spot. A horse at full gallop could reach it in about two hours. That's just about a mount's limit. Bronn reports that the river upstream has widened threefold."
"Fourfold," Ser Loras corrected. "Some villages farther up were flooded as well. I found them when distributing grain."
"I still don't see why we should be giving them grain," said Mace Tyrell. "If they go hungry, so what? They'll still work for us."
"But it keeps them from running to Stannis," said Tyrion. "Peasants are people. They may fear us, but fear won't keep their tongues still. Gratitude might."
Margaery nodded. "Father, he's a kind man."
"Kindness won't win us wars," Lord Mace snapped, sounding as if his daughter had betrayed him. "We need time—time for Lord Tywin to arrive. Who knows how long that will take? If we run out of grain first…"
"There's still no word from Father," Tyrion said pointedly. "Lord Tywin has already left Harrenhal. I believe he's moving west. From King's Landing, the last report I had said my uncle Stafford was defeated by Robb Stark. My cousin Daven now commands what's left, but his men are green."
"The Young Wolf is just a boy," Mace Tyrell said. "Lord Tywin will crush him easily."
"He will—but it takes time," Tyrion replied. "He still holds the advantage in the north, yet even so, he needs room to maneuver. Robb won't run wild in the Westerlands for long."
"As for Stannis, defeating him falls to us," Tyrion continued. "In numbers, we're not at a disadvantage."
"But we must act before King's Landing falls," said Garlan Tyrell. "With the upper river blocked, the Blackwater's level has dropped sharply. Stannis's ships can't sail up the channel—that's good news."
"The bad news," said Randyll Tarly, "is that the receding water has exposed more riverbank. Stannis has built strong defenses along the flats and is constructing siege engines. Most of the trees along the north bank are already gone."
"What about the Kingswood?" Tyrion asked. "Hasn't he tried to move through there?"
"Thanks to your mountain clansmen, Stannis's army hasn't gotten far into the Kingswood," Tarly replied. "Even his scouts can't reach very deep."
"He's short on timber now," Randyll went on. "Our men report his soldiers dismantling small boats to use for materials."
"And how are his fortifications?" Tyrion asked.
"From a tactical view—flawless," Randyll said evenly. "Whatever else one may say, Stannis is an exceptional commander. Experienced, disciplined, especially skilled in defense. His camps are solidly built, and each is positioned for quick mutual support."
He extended his hand, and Tyrion passed him the "command stick."
Randyll gestured over the sand table. "Here before us are two small forts, with the main encampment behind them, ringed by sturdy walls," he said. "If we attack here, reinforcements from nearby camps will arrive at once."
"There are seven such encampments in total," Randyll added. "Seven camps, all within supporting range of one another—easy to defend, hard to attack."
Seven… a curious number, Tyrion thought. Stannis had forsaken the Seven and turned to the Lord of Light—so why build seven camps?
Lord Mace sighed heavily.
"Then we should lure them into open ground for a pitched battle," said Margaery Tyrell. "What do you think, Lord Tyrion?"
Poor girl—she meant well, but she knew little of war.
"Stannis won't take the bait," Tyrion said. "He's always been clear-headed in battle. His goal is King's Landing—the Iron Throne, and Joffrey's head. He won't waste men on meaningless fights. On open ground, his chances would plummet."
He turned to Loras. "Have my letters reached his camp?"
"Every day," said the Knight of Flowers with evident satisfaction. "But it's useless. He stays locked inside his tent."
Tyrion had written several himself—little more than insults like, 'May the Others bugger your Lord of Light, then wipe their arses with your red-stag banner.'
But staying shut in his tent came with another price—fewer scouts.
And without scouts, an army is blind.
"Perhaps we could launch a counterattack from within the city walls," Mace Tyrell suggested, sounding as though he had found a workable plan. "If we can break through to King's Landing and take up a defensive position inside, wouldn't our chances of victory improve? After all, our strength lies in infantry, while Stannis's lies in cavalry. The walls could nullify that advantage."
"To break through to King's Landing would cost us dearly," said Garlan, studying the sand table that showed Stannis's lines. "And if his fleet manages to sail up the Blackwater, we'd have no chance at all."
Unfortunately for Lord Mace, his son's words left no room for argument.
As they debated, the sound of footsteps came from outside the tent. Bronn slipped inside, rain dripping from his cloak.
Mace opened his mouth, ready to scold the insolent sellsword for barging into the council, but Tyrion spoke first.
"Bronn—did you find it?"
"Found it, my lord. Just as you told Qyburn. The pyromancer Hallyne has directed all of King's Landing's large ships to sail upstream along the Blackwater—beyond the stretch we've already dammed."
Bronn brushed the rain from his shoulders. "I've ordered them to steer toward the reservoir zone."
"Then everything's ready," Tyrion said with a pleased smile. "Now we wait for Stannis to lose patience and begin his assault. Ser Garlan, Ser Loras—our only task until then is to gather every small boat and skiff we can find."