Chapter 15 – The Horn
"Before you came back, he told me the same thing," Bronn said lazily, jerking his thumb at Podrick. "I'd bet good coin he'll piss himself when it starts."
Podrick's earlier words had left Tyrion speechless.
Bronn chuckled beside him, thoroughly enjoying the boy's discomfort.
Even if no one believed him, Podrick didn't bother arguing.
He would rather be prepared and afraid than dead and proud.
"No need to panic, Pod," Tyrion said, patting his squire's shoulder—though if he'd bothered to put on any clothing, the gesture might have felt more comforting. "You don't have to fight. You're twelve. No one can force you—not even my father."
Then Tyrion turned to Bronn. His smile faded; his tone grew serious.
"As for the girl, I'll keep Shae. The others you mentioned… spare me. And tell me—did you happen to catch that knight's name? The one you took her from?"
"I'd hate for him to wind up next to me in battle."
Bronn rose in one smooth, catlike motion. His sword spun through his fingers as if weightless.
"Don't fret, dwarf. I'll be beside you when the fighting starts."
Podrick watched, mesmerized by the man's fluid movements.
He suspected his Agility needed to break at least 10 before he could hope to move like that.
"Keep me alive through this battle," Tyrion said, "and name your reward. Anything."
Bronn caught the meaning behind those words—the worry.
"Who'd bother killing the likes of you?" he snorted, flipping his blade to his left hand before slicing the air with it.
"My father, for one," Tyrion muttered. "He's putting me in the vanguard."
"If it were me, I'd do the same," Bronn answered. "A short man with a big shield—archers will hate you more than the plague."
"Strange," Tyrion sighed. "You almost cheered me up."
"No doubt about it."
"Then I must be mad."
Weighed down by dread, Tyrion pushed himself to his feet and returned to the tent. Moments later, the lively noises inside resumed.
Outside, Pod and Bronn exchanged a look and shook their heads.
"I'd best get some sleep," Bronn said, giving Pod a brief nod. He slid down beneath the chestnut tree, shut his eyes, and drifted off instantly.
Podrick added wood to the fire and resumed tending his gear.
Minute by minute, the night thinned—
until a blaring horn ripped through the darkness.
A wild, urgent call tore across the camp, echoing through the night air:
Faster! Hurry!
Spears clashed. Horses screamed.
Pale mist crawled in from the river like long, searching white fingers.
Podrick shot to his feet, chain and plates clattering.
"We should hurry, Bronn."
Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted toward the tent.
Inside, Tyrion had been jolted awake. He stumbled to his feet, legs weak and heavy.
"That's the assembly horn!" he shouted, heart pounding. "Battle call!"
Podrick rushed in, arms full—Tyrion's padded leathers and the mismatched armor gathered in his hands.
"My lord—armor on. We must move!"
"What's happening?" Tyrion demanded, voice tight.
"The Northern host made the first move. They marched south under cover of night along the Kingsroad. They're less than a mile north—already in full battle formation."
Unlike Tyrion—who was jolted awake in panic—the messengers had long since ridden through the camp with the news.
Podrick tossed the padded armor to Tyrion as he spoke, working quickly.
"Get the tribesmen ready to move!"
"Bronn's already gone."
Podrick's hands moved fast. While Shae helped Tyrion into his shirt and boots, Podrick was already fastening the mismatched armor around him.
Two new skills had even popped into his panel earlier that night:
[Armor On: Lv1 (6/100)]
[Armor Off: Lv1 (3/100)]
"If I die," Tyrion told the girl, "make sure you shed a tear for me."
"How would you know if I didn't?"
"Oh, I'll know."
"I believe you will," Shae said softly as she placed his oversized helmet on his head. Podrick connected it to the gorget beneath.
Tyrion buckled his belt, hung his short sword and dagger at his side.
The groom arrived with his horse—still the same sturdy brown mount, armored just as heavily as Tyrion.
They stepped out of the tent.
The camp was chaos—men and horses stumbling through the predawn cold.
Some tightened saddles, some loaded carts, others stamped out campfires.
A frantic mess—but with the iron discipline of soldiers who had done this before.
Podrick didn't waste time. With one hand, he hoisted Tyrion and shoved him into the saddle. Then he handed him a heavy iron-rimmed shield and a battle-axe.
"Ser Dragon-Knight, keep the shield high to block the arrows. For the rest—don't worry. I'll be at your side."
"You are not coming, Pod," Tyrion said, only now processing his movements. "That's an order. If things go poorly, I want you to escort this young lady safely away."
Podrick ignored him. He smacked the horse on the flank, sending it surging forward with Tyrion clinging on.
A horn sounded in the distance—low, mournful, bone-chilling.
The mountain clans clambered onto their half-starved mounts, shouting, cursing, jeering—more than a few still drunk from the night before.
Podrick turned to Shae.
"I'm sorry, miss. I can't take you home safely. I have to ride to the battlefield too."
The groom brought him a horse—not as fine as Tyrion's, but sturdy at least. Better than the gentle dappled mare he'd learned on.
Podrick slipped his boot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle in one smooth motion.
Weapons were already strapped in place:
Left side: a wooden shield painted with a proud golden lion
Right side: a spear secured along the saddle
A longsword at his hip
A short dagger at the back of his belt
He secured himself, then looked down at Shae's worried face as he lowered his helmet and locked the gorget in place.
His voice echoed slightly through the steel:
"If you stay close, they'll keep you safe. Tyrion won't die. He'll live a long life—and die in his bed."
"Oh, right—I'm pretty sure that's his dream. If you want details, ask him yourself."
His laugh distorted inside the helmet, Podrick pointed Shae toward the servants hurriedly packing up, then wheeled his horse and galloped after Tyrion.
Dawn crept over the horizon—narrow ribbons of pale red slipping through the clouds in the east.
The western sky remained a deep violet, scattered with the last fading stars.
The moon hung smaller now, thin and high.
Did Jaime ever think of death before riding into battle?
Tyrion wondered as he rode, unsure if this sunrise would be the last he ever saw—or if his dread made him a coward.
Mist curled across the ground, thinning as sunlight burned through.
Dew clung to the cropped grass like a field of scattered diamonds left behind by a passing god.
The mountain clans rode close behind, each tribe clustered around its own chieftain.
Podrick caught up. Bronn rode at his side.
They exchanged a glance.
No one spoke.
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