Chapter 16 – The Battlefield
At dawn the Lannister host unfolded like a steel rose, each petal a blade, each thorn a spear. The Kingsroad had been claimed by banners; the center—the main body—was commanded by Kevan Lannister, Lord Tywin's brother.
In front of the center, the bowmen stood in three ranks, flanking the road to east and west. They checked bowstrings with calm hands; quivers chimed at their belts as arrow shafts swung gently. Between those archer lines, pikes formed solid blocks—fifteen-foot spears glinting cold enough to turn the blood to ice in any footman's or horseman's veins.
Behind them came rank upon rank of infantry—spearmen, swordsmen, axemen, even men with warhammers—shoulder to shoulder. Three hundred heavy cavalry ringed Kevan Lannister himself; the great lords and their retinues massed there too.
To the right, a wall of mounted men stretched on and on—roughly four thousand strong, thickly armored and frightening to behold. Over three-quarters of the army's knights were gathered there, a massive iron fist poised to strike.
At their head rode Ser Addam Marbrand, badge ready, the standard-bearer's flag beside him showing a burning tree—orange flame against ash. Around and behind them, banners braided together: the purple unicorn of the Freyermonts, the striped boar of House Krych, the squat cock of House Swyft, and more rolled into that same brazen field.
Lord Tywin himself sat on the high ground, commanding the reserve. From his hilltop vantage he could see the whole field and pour forces wherever the fighting demanded. His tent crowned the rise, the reserve arrayed around it—half cavalry, half infantry, more numerous even than the right wing; a force that looked to number five thousand at a glance.
Podrick's post, however, lay far to the army's left flank.
There the Green Fork ran close to the road—a marshy shallows, reeds in thick bands, dark water running swift. The river itself formed a natural barrier, making a flank envelopment by Robb Stark's men far more difficult. That was precisely the spot Gregor Clegane—the Mountain—had chosen to hold, by instruction of the commanders.
The "Mountain" rode in under the black-on-yellow three-hound standard, a monstrous figure atop a horse Podrick had once only seen on screens. He wore heavy, dark gray plate mail scored by axe and blade; the armor bore scars but no banners, no decoration. In his hands a two-handed greatsword was as light as a dagger to most men—he lifted it with one arm and pointed the tip toward the field, roaring orders.
"Whoever flees, I'll gut him myself!"
His voice rolled like thunder. As he turned his head, he spotted Tyrion Lannister, small and oddly placed on horseback, shield in hand.
"You, little demon—hold the left. Let's see if you can keep this river!"
Gregor Clegane posted Tyrion at the extreme left—if the river line held here, Stark's army could not outflank them from that side unless their horses decided to run on the water.
Tyrion led his men to their position, hand on his axe, eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of the river.
"We defend this ground," he barked. "Stay close to the water. Keep the river in sight. Let nothing come between us and the Ford!"
"They dare foul our river—then we'll chop off their manhoods and feed them to the fish!"
Crude speeches have their effect—especially when they hit exactly the part that excites Shagga, son of Dolf, the most.
Or perhaps it was simply because the two axes in his hands thrilled him beyond reason.
He lifted both axes high and smashed them together with a clang.
"Long live the Halfman!"
With Shagga starting the chant, the other clans refused to be outdone.
The Stone Crows bellowed next, then the Black Ears and the Moon Brothers.
Even the Burned Men—though they didn't shout—raised spear and sword to clatter in salute.
"Long live the Halfman!"
"Long live the Halfman!"
For a moment, the left flank surged with raw, savage energy.
"When the fighting starts," Bronn said, half-cheering along with the clansmen, "stick close to the big fellow."
"You mean… follow him?" Podrick asked, lifting his spear to point at the largest man on the field. No one was harder to miss than Gregor Clegane.
Bronn nodded—then shook his head, smirking.
"Yes—but only because they'll make the best bloody arrow magnets. Look at him. Every archer on the field will aim at that first."
Podrick blinked—then slowly realized that, gods help him, it made perfect sense.
He pointed toward Tyrion, who was riding anxious little circles behind the line.
"We should tell him this good news. Look at him—another minute and he'll be out in front of Gregor Clegane."
Of course, Tyrion Lannister wasn't nearly foolish enough to lead a charge—even if the clansmen shouted "Long live the Halfman!" ten thousand times. His circling was not enthusiasm—it was inspection, nerves, and sheer terror.
The ground ahead was uneven, half slick mud by the riverbank, half gentle rise toward the Kingsroad. Farther east lay broken, stony ground—low hills with sparse trees that had long since been cut for farmland.
The war drums thudded. Each beat hammered at Tyrion's ribs. Sweat pooled beneath padded leather and steel, his guts twisting into painful knots.
He watched the Mountain ride up and down the line, barking orders. Then his gaze shifted over the "left wing" he'd been given.
The force was called cavalry, but bore little resemblance to the steel fist of knights on the right.
This was the West's leftovers—a patchwork host of:
light horse archers in worn leather
undisciplined free riders
hedge knights with no squires and less honor
farmers on plow horses clutching scythes
a handful with rusted heirloom blades from their grandsires
boys dragged from the alleys of Lannisport without finishing training
And then there was a dwarf… and his gang of mountain tribesmen.
"…food for the crows," Bronn muttered under his breath as he and Podrick pulled up beside Tyrion, eyes fixed on the chaotic assortment of men who would soon face Stark steel.
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