Casterly Rock was renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms for its immaculate grandeur. Its halls were carved from solid stone, its walls veined with gold, and its courtyards paved with flawless, pale marble. It was a monument to order, wealth, and the unyielding dignity of House Lannister.
Which was precisely why Tyrion Lannister felt an almost spiritual joy as he watched twenty grown men completely ruin one of its finest training yards.
"No, no, no! Stop!" Tyrion bellowed, standing atop a high wooden mounting block so he could properly yell at men who were three times his height. "You look like a herd of blind cattle slipping on wet cobblestones! Reset the line!"
Before him lay what used to be the Lower Tilting Yard, a pristine stretch of compacted earth favored by the most elite knights of the Westerlands. Following his father's malicious command to form a team for King Robert's new "Northern Games," Tyrion had immediately requisitioned the yard. He had then ordered the castle stewards to divert a steady stream of water from the upper cisterns directly into it for two days straight.
The result was a glorious, ankle-deep, sucking quagmire of thick brown mud. Lord Tywin had wanted Tyrion to play in the dirt? Tyrion was going to ensure it was the most spectacular dirt in the West.
Standing in the center of this swamp were twenty of the largest, thickest-skulled, broadest-shouldered men Tyrion had been able to requisition from the Lannister vanguard. He had specifically asked the Master-at-Arms to send him men whose necks were wider than their heads.
The Master-at-Arms had delivered magnificently.
"Lyle!" Tyrion shouted, pointing a small, leather-gloved finger at a man who resembled a shaved bear. "When I say 'brace,' I do not mean stick your chest out like a pigeon looking for a mate! I mean drop your weight! Bend your knees!"
Lyle the Ox blinked slowly, mud splattered across his heavy brow. He looked at Tyrion with wide, earnest, utterly simple eyes. "My mother always said, Lord Tyrion, that a man should stand tall to meet his fate. She said, 'Lyle, a bent knee is a broken spirit.'"
Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache blossoming behind his mismatched eyes. "Your mother was a wise woman, Lyle, but she never had to stop a thousand pounds of angry Northmen from pushing her into a ditch! If you stand perfectly straight, a stiff breeze will knock you over! If you drop your weight, you become a rock!"
Lyle pondered this heavy concept for a long moment. "My mother also said a rock is as a rock does. I will be the rock, Lord Tyrion."
"Thank you, Lyle," Tyrion sighed heavily. "Listen to me, all of you!"
The men, panting and dripping with brown sludge, turned their attention to the diminutive Lannister.
"This game—the Shield Wall—is not a tavern brawl," Tyrion lectured, pacing back and forth on his wooden block. "It is a puzzle of leverage. The Northmen win because they act like a single, massive entity. You are twenty individual idiots trying to push a wall. You need to become the wall!"
Tyrion grabbed a long wooden stick and drew a shape in the air.
"Imagine a lever. If you push at the top of a tall tree, it snaps or uproots easily, yes? Because of the height!"
He pointed to a massive man named Dake, whose arms were thick as tree trunks, but whose face was completely devoid of deep thought.
"Dake! Do you understand?"
Dake stared at him, taking the question entirely literally. "I would simply cut the tree down with an axe, my Lord. Pushing a tree is a waste of effort."
"It is a metaphor, Dake," Tyrion groaned.
"A metaphor cannot strike me," Dake stated proudly, crossing his massive arms. "My reflexes are far too fast. I would catch the metaphor and break its neck."
Tyrion stared at the giant man, entirely unsure if Dake was mocking him or if the man's brain was simply a solid block of iron.
"Step forward, Dake," Tyrion commanded, giving up on comparisons. "Gregar, step up beside him!"
Gregar, a man with a jaw that looked like an anvil, took his place.
"Lock arms," Tyrion commanded. "Over the shoulders. Tightly! If I can slide a piece of parchment between you, you aren't close enough!"
The two behemoths awkwardly threw their massive arms over each other's shoulders, grunting as their heavy leather padding mashed together.
"Now, drop your hips. Lean forward slightly. Imagine you are trying to push Casterly Rock into the sea."
The two men bent their knees, their boots sinking deep into the mud. They actually looked quite formidable.
"Excellent," Tyrion praised, clapping his hands. "Now, the rest of you! Form up behind them! Three ranks! Create the wedge!"
The remaining eighteen men scrambled into the mud, shoving each other out of the way as they tried to figure out where a 'wedge' was supposed to go. After two minutes of swearing, splashing, and one man accidentally headbutting another, they managed to form a vaguely triangular shape behind Dake and Gregar.
"Hold that formation!" Tyrion yelled. "Do not move!"
"I must admit, Tyrion, when Father told me he had assigned you to manage a troupe of mud-wrestlers, I assumed he was speaking figuratively."
Tyrion turned around on his block.
Standing at the edge of the tilting yard, safely out of reach of the splashing mud, was Ser Jaime Lannister. The newly reinstated heir to Casterly Rock looked resplendent in a finely tailored tunic of crimson silk slashed with gold. In his right hand, however, he held something decidedly not from the Westerlands.
It was a heavy, perfectly square bottle of flawless, clear glass, half-filled with an amber liquid.
"Jaime!" Tyrion greeted, a genuine smile breaking his frustrated scowl. "Welcome to my citadel of higher learning. Please, do not step into the yard. You'll ruin your boots."
Jaime chuckled, walking over to the wooden fence. "I have no intention of joining your swamp, brother. But I thought you might require refreshment. I just purchased this in Lannisport. Ten gold dragons for a single bottle."
Tyrion hopped down from his block, carefully stepping on dry stones, and approached the fence. He looked at the square bottle. He recognized the clarity of the glass and the smoky scent wafting from the cork.
"Northern Fire," Tyrion noted, accepting the bottle. "Lord Stark's whiskey."
"Exactly," Jaime said, his green eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Look at the glass, Tyrion. It is entirely flawless. The merchants are paying a king's ransom for it. The North is draining our vaults with luxury goods, and now we are playing their muddy games in our own courtyards."
Tyrion took a sip straight from the heavy bottle. The rich, peaty burn grounded him.
"Lord Stark is a terrifyingly practical man," Tyrion agreed, handing the bottle back. "He conquers our palates while his men conquer the fields. Which brings us back to my current misery."
Jaime looked past Tyrion to the twenty massive men standing frozen in the mud, their arms locked, their faces red with exertion as they held the awkward squatting posture.
"Why these men?" Jaime asked, raising a golden eyebrow. "If you wanted sheer, brutal force, why did you not borrow some of Gregor Clegane's hounds? Polliver, or the Tickler? They are vicious."
"Because they are butchers," Tyrion stated flatly. "They break ranks to inflict pain. This game does not reward cruelty, Jaime; it rewards cohesion. I need men who will do exactly what I say, exactly when I say it. These men may be as bright as a sack of wet flour, but they are disciplined."
"They look perfectly miserable," Jaime noted.
"They are learning angles and leverage, Jaime," Tyrion said proudly. "Father thought he was delivering an insult when he gave me this task. 'Let the dwarf play in the dirt with the other freaks.' But he failed to realize that what Eddard Stark invented is a master builder's puzzle. And if there is one thing I excel at, it is dissecting puzzles until they submit."
"You had best dissect it quickly," Jaime advised, taking a sip of the Northern whiskey. "The whispers from the South are interesting."
"The spies say Bryden Tully marches Riverland heavy infantry into the muddy banks of the Red Fork every dawn, and worst of all, our uncle Kevan received a report from Sunspear. The Red Viper is personally training a team of unarmored spearmen to run in formation across the shifting desert dunes."
Tyrion groaned, rubbing his temples. "Doran Martell is sending runners. The Blackfish is preparing for mud. The entire realm is quietly arming for a mock war, and my team thinks a metaphor is a physical object they can strangle."
Tyrion turned back to the mud pit.
"Squad!" Tyrion shouted, his voice cracking like a whip. "Prepare the wedge!"
The twenty men grunted in unison, dropping their hips another inch, locking their arms so tightly their biceps bulged against the leather padding.
Tyrion looked at Jaime. "You see twenty idiots. I see a single, two-ton battering ram. Observe."
Tyrion pointed to a massive, heavy wooden barricade that was normally used to train warhorses to charge through obstacles. It was made of thick oak planks, braced with iron, and weighed as much as a small cottage. It was currently sitting at the far end of the mud pit.
"Target the barricade!" Tyrion bellowed to his men. "Remember the angle! Do not push up! Drive through!"
"My momma said a rock always rolls downhill!" Lyle the Ox bellowed earnestly.
"Just push the wood, Lyle!" Tyrion screamed. "FORWARD!"
The twenty men moved. It was not a chaotic, flailing charge. It was a terrifying, synchronized march. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Their heavy boots hit the mud at the exact same time. The shape of the wedge did not break; it remained perfectly rigid.
They hit the heavy oak barricade.
The sound was like a thunderclap.
The twenty men did not bounce off. They did not stop. Employing the low, rooted stance Tyrion had drilled into them for a week, they hit the wood beneath the center of its weight.
The heavy iron braces groaned. The oak planks shrieked in protest. And then, with a violent, cracking explosion, the entire massive barricade was ripped from its moorings in the dirt, lifted slightly into the air, and shoved backward a full ten yards before collapsing into the mud in a heap of splintered wood.
The twenty men stopped, panting heavily, completely uninjured, their formation still relatively intact.
Jaime Lannister's jaw actually dropped. He stared at the shattered barricade, then looked down at his diminutive brother.
"By the Seven," Jaime breathed, genuine awe coloring his voice. "If you put spikes on their shoulders, they could breach the gates of Riverrun without a ram."
"Exactly," Tyrion grinned, taking the whiskey bottle back and taking a smug sip. "Father told me to build a team for a game. I am building him an infantry vanguard that cannot be broken. The Northmen rely on stubborn endurance. We shall rely on superior leverage. And sheer, terrifying mass."
"Impressive as that is," Jaime said, recovering his composure and crossing his arms. "The King's tournament involves two games. Pushing a wall of wood is one thing. What about the other madness? The one with the ball?"
Tyrion's smug smile instantly vanished, replaced by a look of despair. He rubbed his temples vigorously.
"Ah. Yes. The Charge," Tyrion muttered, his voice dripping with misery. "That... is proving to be a slightly more complex knot to untangle."
"Why?" Jaime asked, amused by Tyrion's sudden deflation. "It's just running and tossing a leather sack."
"Because, Jaime, you can teach a gargoyle how to push a wall," Tyrion explained wearily. "But teaching a literal-minded gargoyle how to gently toss an object sideways while running at full speed is like trying to teach a fish how to sing."
Tyrion turned back to the yard.
"Break formation!" Tyrion ordered the panting men. "Bring out the Egg!"
One of the squires scurried over to a dry bench and retrieved a heavy, oval-shaped object made of thick boar leather, stuffed tightly with sand and wool. He handed it to Dake.
"Now," Tyrion said, returning to his mounting block. "We will practice the lateral pass. Dake! What is the first rule of the Egg?"
Dake held the heavy leather ball up, examining it with intense, literal scrutiny. "I must hold the Egg. I must not let the Egg break. If the Egg breaks, the bird inside will die."
"There is no bird inside the Egg, Dake," Tyrion sighed, closing his eyes. "It is sand. What is the second rule?"
"Don't throw it forward," Lyle the Ox supplied helpfully from the side, eager to please. "Only sideways or backwards. Like a crab running from a boot."
"Precisely," Tyrion nodded. "Now. Dake, you will run toward the far end of the yard. Lyle, you will run beside him. Gregar, you will try to tackle Dake. Dake, before Gregar tackles you, you must pass the Egg to Lyle. Are we clear?"
The three massive men nodded slowly. It looked like a very complex piece of strategy was turning in their heads.
"Now!" Tyrion shouted.
Dake tucked the leather ball under his arm like a loaf of bread and began to run. He splashed through the mud, a terrifying, unstoppable force of nature.
Lyle ran parallel to him, about five yards away, waving his hands. "I am the crab! Give the Egg to the crab, Dake!"
From the opposite side of the yard, Gregar charged. He roared a battle cry, lowering his shoulder to intercept Dake.
"Pass it, Dake!" Tyrion yelled from the sidelines. "Pass the Egg!"
Dake saw Gregar coming. Panic flickered in his eyes. He remembered the rule: throw it sideways. But he also remembered his own logic.
Dake stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his entire body toward Lyle. He wound his arm back as far as it would go, his muscles bulging, and hurled the heavy, sand-filled leather ball with the force of a trebuchet.
The ball did not arc gently. It flew like a cannonball.
It struck Lyle the Ox directly in the center of his forehead with a sickening THWACK.
Lyle's eyes rolled back in his head. His arms went limp. He fell backward into the mud like a felled tree, completely unconscious.
Simultaneously, Gregar, who had been fully committed to his tackling charge and was unable to stop in the slick mud, plowed directly into Dake. The two giants collided with a fleshy crunch, tumbling into the brown water in a tangle of limbs and curses.
Tyrion stood on his block, his hands covering his face in absolute despair.
From the fence, Jaime burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, clutching his stomach as he watched the three massive men groaning in the mud.
"Flawless execution, Tyrion!" Jaime gasped, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "The enemy will be completely terrified! Or they will die of laughter before they even reach the field!"
"Shut up, Jaime," Tyrion grumbled from behind his hands.
Tyrion lowered his hands and glared at the carnage in the yard.
"Dake!" Tyrion shouted. "Why did you try to decapitate him?!"
Dake sat up in the mud, spitting dirty water, looking genuinely offended by the accusation. "I did not aim for his head, my Lord! I threw it firmly so the crab would not drop the Egg! It is not my fault his head intercepted the pass!"
"It is a pass, not a siege weapon!" Tyrion yelled. "Someone wake Lyle up before he drowns in the puddle!"
Gregar hauled himself off Dake, shaking his head to clear the stars. He reached down, grabbed Lyle by the collar of his tunic, and hauled the unconscious man out of the muck, slapping his face lightly until Lyle sputtered and opened his eyes.
"Momma was right," Lyle mumbled dizzily, staring cross-eyed at the grey sky. "Crabs shouldn't try to fly."
Tyrion let out a long, heavy breath. He climbed down from the block and walked over to the fence, taking the bottle of Northern Fire back from his brother.
"As you can see," Tyrion said dryly, "the physical conditioning is flawless. The tactical finesse... requires translation."
---
Far to the south, in the lush, sun-drenched paradise of Highgarden, the air was thick with the scent of blooming roses and ripe peaches.
Lady Olenna Tyrell sat in her private solar, a room of polished pale stone and airy, arched windows. She was not admiring the gardens. She was holding a small, tightly rolled strip of parchment that a trusted handler had just delivered.
She read the ciphered words carefully, her sharp eyes narrowing as her brilliant mind pieced together the puzzle.
The Blackfish marches Riverland infantry into the bogs at dawn...
Prince Doran summons fleet-footed spearmen from the deep dunes...
The Imp floods the tilting yards of the Rock to practice the 'Shield Wall'...
Olenna frowned, lowering the parchment.
"What in the Seven Hells is a 'Shield Wall'?" she murmured to the empty room.
She knew military terms. She knew sieges and cavalry charges. But why were the greatest commanders in Westeros suddenly obsessed with marching men into mud and sand? What secret war was being prepared that the Reach had not been invited to?
The heavy oak door to her solar swung open.
Lord Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, strode into the room. He was holding a silver platter entirely laden with small, lemon-glazed cakes, his cheeks already dusted with powdered sugar.
"Good morning, Mother!" Mace announced cheerfully, reaching for another cake. "The bakers have finally mastered that Northern recipe. The lemon drizzle is extraordinary."
Olenna glared at her son. Her patience for his gluttony was extraordinarily low this morning.
"Put the cake down, you blooming idiot, and listen to me," Olenna snapped, waving the parchment at him.
Mace paused, his hand hovering over the platter, recognizing the tone that usually preceded a verbal flaying. He carefully set the silver tray on a side table and brushed his hands on his tunic. "Is there a problem, Mother? Has Stannis Baratheon complained about our grain shipments again?"
"The problem, Mace, is that the entire realm is arming for a conflict, and you are entirely focused on baked goods," Olenna said sharply. She slapped the parchment onto her desk. "My spies report that Tywin Lannister, Doran Martell, and Hoster Tully are actively training specialized teams of men. They are preparing for something called the 'Shield Wall' and the 'Charge'. What are these things? Are they new siege engines?"
Mace blinked, his brow furrowing as he chewed on the words.
"The Shield Wall?" Mace asked, his face suddenly lighting up with recognition. "Oh! You mean the mud brawls!"
Olenna stared at him, her eyes turning into twin chips of ice. "The mud brawls?"
"Yes, Mother," Mace smiled, oblivious to the danger. "I saw them when I traveled to Sea Dragon Point for Lord Benjen's wedding! It is a Northern diversion. Men lock their arms together in the dirt and attempt to shove each other backward across a line. And the Charge involves running about with a heavy leather ball. King Robert absolutely loved it. He spent half the feast boasting that he would host a grand tourney of these games in King's Landing, commanding every kingdom to compete."
Olenna Tyrell sat perfectly still.
Her mind, far sharper than any sword, immediately processed the information. She saw past the 'mud brawl'. She saw men locking arms without weapons. She saw endurance training. She saw a King obsessed with a game that was, in reality, a brilliant, disguised infantry drill invented by Eddard Stark.
And she realized, with a sickening drop in her stomach, that the Reach was completely unprepared.
"King Robert announced a realm-wide contest of all the kingdoms," Olenna said, her voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper. "And you did not think to mention this to me?"
Mace shifted uncomfortably, finally realizing his error. "Well, Mother, it was just a game. And the feast was so magnificent! The stuffed breads, the roasted roots..."
"You absolute, unfathomable fool," Olenna hissed, standing up from her chair.
Mace took a step back. "Mother, I—"
"You watched the King declare a contest across the entire realm, a contest that the Lannisters, the Tullys, and the Martells have been preparing for over the last year, and you said nothing because you were too distracted by a STUFFED BREAD?!" Olenna shrieked, her voice echoing through the solar.
"It was a very good bread, Mother!" Mace offered weakly, cowering slightly.
"It is an infantry drill, Mace!" Olenna roared, striking the desk with her cane. "Stark has tricked the realm into hardening their foot soldiers, and because of your monumental stupidity, the Reach—the largest army in Westeros—is going to march into the capital and be humiliated in the dirt by a dwarf and a crannogman!"
Mace swallowed hard, his face turning pale. "I... I did not realize..."
"You never realize!" Olenna snapped, pointing her cane directly at his chest. "You will go down to the barracks this instant! You will find the largest, strongest, most unyielding men in the Vanguard of Highgarden! You will summon Lord Tarly and tell him to march them into the deepest mud pit you can find, and you will not let them out until they can push a mountain!"
"Y-yes, Mother," Mace stammered, backing toward the door.
"Go!" Olenna demanded. "And if the Reach is bested in this tournament because you were too busy chewing, I will personally see you fed to the hogs!"
Mace Tyrell didn't utter another word. He turned on his heel, abandoned his platter of lemon cakes, and fled the solar as fast as his legs could carry him, scrambling down the corridors to find his master-at-arms.
Olenna stood alone in the quiet room, her chest heaving slightly. She looked out the window toward the North.
Eddard Stark, Olenna thought, a mixture of profound irritation and reluctant respect settling over her. You quiet, clever wolf. You are making us all dance to your tune.