Thud... thud... thud...!
The earth shook, jolting Tyrion from his sleep.
Outside came the metallic chorus of chainmail and plate armor clattering as men rushed about. But this wasn't ordinary movement—the ground itself trembled, as if a hundred war elephants were charging at once.
Wearing only his nightshirt and clutching his boots, Tyrion shoved aside the tent flap. Soldiers ran back and forth through the camp in chaos.
"Pod!" Tyrion shouted.
Podrick came running, breathless. "My lord?"
"What's happening? What's all this commotion? What are the men doing?" Tyrion fired off questions in rapid succession.
"Stannis's army is attacking the city, my lord," Podrick said, pointing toward the distance.
Following the boy's arm, Tyrion could see it—far off at the base of King's Landing, along the riverbank. Siege towers swayed on their spindly frames, catapults hurled stones, and the enemy moved like a black tide of ants, swarming, spreading, and reforming. The monstrous engines rolled forward with a thunderous groan—that must have been what woke him.
"Seven hells... Pod, what were you doing? Why didn't you wake me sooner?" Tyrion barked, gripping a tent pole with one hand while trying to pull on a boot with the other.
"Lord Mace ordered that you not be disturbed, my lord," Podrick stammered. "He said he would command the battle himself."
"The gods save me," Tyrion snapped, stamping his foot. "May they bless you with a sharper mind! You're my squire, not the Puff Fish's! Remember that!"
He bolted toward the command tent.
Inside, Mace Tyrell sat comfortably at breakfast, waging war with a fried egg. He didn't even stop chewing when Tyrion burst through the entrance.
"Ah, Tyrion," he said cheerfully. "Sit down, have breakfast with me." He waved to the cupbearer. "Pour our guest from House Lannister a cup of milk."
"Mace," Tyrion said between breaths, "Stannis has begun his assault! Are we prepared?"
"Randyll Tarly and Garlan have already set out," Mace replied casually. "Randyll's taking the elite infantry across the river to the north bank. Garlan and Loras will lead the cavalry on the south bank to press the attack beneath the walls."
"And what about breaching the dike?" Tyrion demanded. "Has anyone been sent to give the order? Have the warships been warned to prepare for the flood?"
"Hm?" Mace dabbed his lips with a napkin, finally finishing his egg. "Stannis hasn't started the siege yet. I planned to give the order once the fighting begins..."
"Gods above." Tyrion nearly cursed aloud. "My dear lord, the river needs time to rise! If you wait for the fighting to start, it'll be far too late!"
"Bronn!" he roared, spinning on his heel, leaving Lord Mace red-faced and gaping behind him.
"Bronn!"
The sellsword wasn't far—he stood by his horse, sharpening his sword, just as he had back in the Mountains of the Moon.
"Bronn!"
"What is it, my lord?"
"Go upstream. Order the dike breached—now," Tyrion commanded.
"At once, my lord." Bronn slid his sword back into its sheath and swung onto his horse. "Should I return right after the water's released?"
"No. No horse runs faster than a flood. Come back by boat."
Tyrion hurried to the riverbank, where Randyll Tarly was overseeing the crossing. The Fearless Lord directed the men with practiced precision—six thousand elite infantry, their gear piled high on small boats.
Across the river, Tyrion could already see two thousand men on the opposite shore, arming themselves for battle.
"My lord, did you sleep soundly?" Randyll Tarly stood clad in chainmail, his plate armor and weapons stacked neatly on a small boat nearby. "While you were resting, my men have been preparing to cross the river. We'll take most of the heavy armor with us—those aboard the ships will make do with leather."
He was an experienced commander, even familiar with river combat. Only soldiers fighting on the banks need heavy armor, Tyrion thought. Your judgment is sound, Lord Tarly.
"Where do you plan to go?" Randyll asked. "Will you cross the river with me? Or would you rather watch the slaughter from a safer distance?"
Tyrion nodded slightly and turned away to find Garlan and Loras's cavalry forces.
House Tyrell's main host had gathered farther from the riverbank.
The green banner of the golden rose flew high above the ranks, a bright emblem of the house's wealth and pride—and a symbol that stoked every soldier's courage.
Beneath it stood Tyrell's finest knights and infantry. Clad in matching armor and bearing sharpened weapons, they stood in perfect formation, a sea of steel awaiting their lord's command.
"Garlan! Loras!" Tyrion called.
Ser Garlan sat astride his horse, fully armored. His sigil—two golden roses on a green field—marked him as the second son of House Tyrell.
The Knight of Flowers, by contrast, gleamed like a jewel. His ornate breastplate was glazed and engraved with a pattern of flowers—countless kinds—making him the most radiant figure among the knights.
"Lord Tyrion," said Garlan, dismounting with ease. "Do you intend to ride with the cavalry?"
"No," Tyrion replied simply. "But my cavalry is yours to command. Send men to bring them to you."
"Thank you, my lord. Your generosity and foresight are most appreciated," Garlan said earnestly. "Most of our infantry's equipment went to Lord Tarly, so we can barely muster ten thousand foot soldiers to ride alongside the cavalry."
"That will be enough," Tyrion said. "The rest can fight from the ships with wooden shields. Even peasants armed with pitchforks can kill a knight in the water. Oh—and the Gold Cloaks are under your command as well."
"My lord Tyrion, I… thank you," Garlan said with genuine gratitude. He hadn't expected Tyrion to place his entire personal guard in his hands.
"You'll be fighting beneath the city walls. With the Gold Cloaks assisting you, the garrison will recognize your men and avoid friendly fire," Tyrion explained. "Is that your armor?"
"Yes, my lord," Garlan replied. "Compared to my brother's, it's plain—nothing grand."
"But his skill isn't less than mine," said Loras from horseback. "I only best him slightly with the lance. He's the better swordsman." He shifted in his saddle. "Forgive me, my lord. My armor's laced too tightly—I'd rather not dismount just to exchange greetings."
"No offense taken," Tyrion said. "I understand completely. But I have an idea I'd like to discuss with Ser Garlan."
"Go on, my lord."
"I wanted to ask—what became of Lord Renly's body?"
"It's still with the army," said Loras Tyrell. "I would never leave him beneath the weeping walls of Storm's End. His remains will be kept safe, to witness me avenge him when I crush Stannis."
"And his armor—does it remain as well?"
"It does," Garlan answered.
"Ser Garlan," Tyrion said thoughtfully, "if I'm not mistaken, you and Lord Renly were of similar build. Would you be willing to ride into battle wearing his armor?"