The trumpets and horns blared loudly, calling the host to arms.
On Clover Field, we drew up our forces and made ready for battle. Jaime held command, with Lord Randyll Tarly at his side.
Our host formed up in a straightforward battle line, divided into four main parts—the right and left flanks were cavalry, while the large center consisted of infantry. We also had a reserve composed of both cavalry and foot soldiers.
The right flank rested against the Blueburn, which prevented any flanking maneuver from that direction. Lord Tarly commanded there, with nine thousand men under him—mounted knights from the Vale, Riverrun, King's Landing, and Storm's End.
The center was made up of infantry gathered from all lands still loyal to us. There were more than twenty thousand—spearmen, heavy infantry, and archers.
The left flank consisted of the elite cavalry of the West and the Reach. This was our striking fist—twelve thousand riders mounted on the finest horses in Westeros.
Throughout the host stood wagons fitted with scorpions, along with numerous archers. Nearly five thousand men remained in reserve, commanded by Edmure Tully.
Formally, I was responsible for the center, though I was aided by William Mooton, Erik Fell, Bronze Yohn Royce, and Bonifer Hasty with his Holy Order. And I was shielded by Honor and Valor, while behind us stood the Roaring Flame.
The center, though the largest formation, had a simple and clear task—to hold firm and withstand every attempt by the enemy to break through.
***
Yesterday, at the war council, the disagreements between the two main commanders surfaced again. It had already become clear that Jaime and Randyll, to put it mildly, did not harbor friendly feelings toward each other. Once again, they began grumbling, arguing over who was superior and who would command the host in the coming battle. All the while, they kept casting meaningful glances at me, since it was the king who had to officially define their roles and authority.
At such moments, the feudal ways of Westeros tried my patience—every lord, touchy as a maid, eager to snatch a greater share and press himself to the fore. Vanity, however you named it, was among the most striking qualities of the great men of this realm.
Randyll was older, more seasoned—and in all his years of war, he had never lost a single battle.
Jaime was the more highborn—my kinsman, whom I trusted, and who stood by me in all things. He had lost but once—at the Whispering Wood—and, in the chain of events that followed, lost his hand as well. Somehow, that had changed him profoundly, and as a commander, he had grown beyond measure.
Tarly had defeated the Golden Company, driven the Blackfish from the Ruby Ford, taken the Bloody Gate, helped secure the Vale, and most recently, alongside the Tullys, conquered the Twins.
After the treacherous betrayal of the Boltons, Jaime had managed to bring the battle at the Hill to a draw and preserve the host. He held firm at the Ruby Ford, took Gulltown, and slew a dragon.
So who was I supposed to choose? And choose I had to—because having two commanders was a good way to see everything fall apart.
After some thought, I appointed Jaime as the overall commander. Randyll Tarly swallowed the insult. He said nothing, but the look he gave me spoke volumes—I knew we would return to this conversation, and that he would find a way to twist things so that I would be obliged to compensate him for the slight.
Jaime and Randyll settled on a strategy they called a turning movement. Our right flank would be sacrificed, allowing the foe to break it and press their advance along the banks of the Blueburn. Meanwhile, the center would hold at all costs, and the left flank would crush its opponent and, sweeping in a wide arc, drive them back—wheeling both hosts so that, in the second phase of the battle,the enemy would be pressed against the water.
It was roughly the same plan Tywin Lannister had intended to use during the famous Battle of the Green Fork, when he placed his weakest and most untrained troops on the left flank—along with Tyrion's mountain clans. Back then, Roose Bolton had faced him, and he did not take the bait. Today we faced different men, and we hoped our plan would succeed.
In truth, no one intended to actually sacrifice the right flank. It only needed to hold for a time, then begin a gradual retreat, luring the enemy forward. It was, perhaps, the most difficult sector of the battle—requiring a delicate maneuver and absolute discipline to ensure our forces did not break and run. That was precisely why Randyll Tarly commanded it.
***
Under strong protection and with the covering fire of scorpions, I felt relatively safe and watched with curiosity as, to my right and slightly behind, King Joffrey had taken position with all his men. The banners of House Lannister and House Baratheon flew proudly there, fine weapons gleamed, and the Kingsguard and the most noble knights bustled about.
It was all a facade.
At yesterday's council, I had proposed a trick—to dress ordinary soldiers and knights in royal garments, give them banners and cloaks of the Kingsguard, and make them play the part of King Joffrey and his retinue. Around them, we placed the greatest concentration of scorpions and archers, hoping with all our might that Daenerys Targaryen, observing the battlefield from the sky, would not be able to resist the temptation—to end everything with a single swift and deadly strike.
The council had been delighted with my plan.
"Lann the Clever—or Tyrion—would certainly approve," Jaime had said with a grin.
"It may work," Lord Tarly said, giving a curt, dispassionate nod.
(End of Chapter)
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