Most of the soldiers waited far from the riverbank.
They didn't know what was about to happen. Holding spears and wooden shields, dressed in simple leather or padded armor, they stood in small groups along the shore.
Their commander had promised they wouldn't be sent to die like cannon fodder, yet doubts still weighed on their minds. They whispered among themselves, glancing back at the man on horseback behind them—Tyrion Lannister.
If not for Tyrion's presence, this ill-equipped, uninformed army would have surely seen desertions.
Time passed, but the sun never rose. It hid behind a thick shroud of fog.
Before them, the Blackwater Rush had shrunk to a thin, sluggish stream. Despite the heavy rains of recent days, the river hadn't risen—a sight both strange and unsettling.
Gradually, a deep rumbling echoed from the distance. The soldiers turned toward the sound, but no lightning split the sky. The noise didn't come from above—it came from below.
Suddenly, the river turned murky. The water level began to climb rapidly, the current growing fierce and fast. Shouts spread through the ranks. Men at the front tried to back away, while those behind, caught off guard, stumbled and shoved in confusion.
"Hold steady!" Tyrion shouted from his horse. "Don't panic!"
The river came surging forward like an enraged beast, thundering out from the dark forest with unstoppable force. The once-quiet riverbank erupted into chaos, as if the Seven Gods themselves had sounded a war horn against R'hllor.
Tyrion looked toward King's Landing. The siege towers' spires were gone—whether swallowed by fog or swept away, he couldn't tell.
The river kept rising, the current growing stronger. The great warships of the King's Landing fleet drifted slowly down from upstream, ghostlike in the dense mist, gliding closer to the soldiers before coming to a stop.
"Why aren't there any torches lit on the ships?" some soldiers whispered.
Of course not, Tyrion thought. He dismounted, and Podrick steadied him to keep him from falling.
The soldiers stepped aside, forming a narrow path. Tyrion waded into the freezing water, feeling it soak through his boots. A gangplank lowered from the nearest ship. Gripping the rope, he climbed aboard.
When he reached the deck, Bronn reached out a hand and pulled him up.
"Want to change your boots, my lord?" Bronn asked, pointing at his soaked feet.
Tyrion shook his head.
"Where are the small boats?"
"As you ordered, tied together with thick hemp rope and fastened to the stern."
"Have the soldiers board," Tyrion said, walking toward the bow. From somewhere in the fog, he thought he heard the sound of a horn.
The bow was stacked high with barrels—hundreds of them on this ship alone, and countless more across the fleet.
He pried one open. Inside was sand. Brushing it aside revealed layers of clay pots beneath.
Wildfire.
A flammable liquid that burned endlessly. Once lit, wildfire devoured everything it touched. It could seep into cloth, wood, leather, even steel—and make them burn. It could even burn upon the surface of water.
This was the weapon provided by the pyromancer Hallyne. The process of making wildfire was long and perilous, known only to the Alchemists' Guild, who claimed it required magic.
"Untie the stern ropes and let the great ships go first," Tyrion said. "We need to scatter wildfire at the river mouth to keep Stannis's fleet from entering. The soldiers in the small boats can sweep the field behind them."
...
Before long the great ships were moving again.
Cries of battle rose from both banks of the Blackwater Rush, like whispers of an old god stinging Tyrion's ears. The battlefield excited him no more than a dentist's chair. He would rather have sat comfortably in a tent and dueled noblewomen all day.
But he thought of Margaery. He had not seen her this morning to receive a blessing before battle. Where was she? Not with Garlan or Loras either. Had she stayed away for fear the soldiers might see her and start idle gossip?
"Lord, we are nearing King's Landing," Bronn reminded him.
Tyrion hurried to the starboard rail. A few siege ladders leaned against the walls, but no one was climbing. The garrison above wore red and gold; all were Lannister men and Gold Cloaks. He tried to lean out to look at the base of the walls, but Bronn hauled him back. A helmet had appeared on his head without his noticing.
"My lord, are you trying to get yourself killed?" the mercenary scolded, pulling him from the rail. "One arrow and your skull's pierced. Who's going to feed me for the rest of my life then?"
"What's happening down there?" Tyrion asked.
"Stannis's men are nearly wiped out," Bronn said. "When the flood came, fully armored knights and infantry sank to the riverbed to feed the rain. Some light troops tried to reach the walls to get away from the water, but stones from the ramparts smashed their skulls."
"No survivors?"
"Yes," Bronn said. "The rest were frightened out of their wits when they saw the Tyrell army, especially the fellow with the stag-horn helmet. Wherever he passed, Stannis's men dropped their arms and surrendered."
"What of the port side?" Tyrion asked, meaning the north bank swept by Randyll Tarly's forces.
"The bald Great Lord is merciless," Bronn said. "Common soldiers and minor nobles were executed on the spot. His heavy infantry charged like savages. I've seen knights less brutal than them."
"Some lucky bastards, neither drowned nor crushed, fled into the woods."
"Then they'll meet Timett, Shagga, and Chella," Tyrion said. "That's a fate worse than death."
"In any case, Stannis's land army is finished," Bronn concluded.
"Finished it is," Tyrion agreed, "but that's only half his forces. He still has his fleet."
The ship slowed.
"Looks like we're almost there," Bronn said, removing his helmet.
The river ran fierce. Stannis's ships struggled to enter the estuary from the bay. Vessels piled up. Men in the water swam toward them like drifting straws.
"Stop here!" Tyrion shouted. The boat rocked violently and he lurched forward two steps. Stannis's ships stood in a line through the fog, like a desperate wall.
He lifted a clay pot and hurled it from the bow. It struck the water and burst. A green oil spread across the surface and drifted toward the river mouth.
"Bronn, when they're all out, set it alight," Tyrion ordered. "I will drown his men with water and burn his ships to cinders."
Burn them. Burn them all.
...
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