The King of Winters

Chapter 71

Garlan Tyrell woke up in darkness to the blare of trumpets. His squire was already stirring up in his bed, clutching for any arms to be had.

Hastily, he sat up and threw back the blanket. The horns called through the dawn, wild and urgent, a cry that said hurry hurry hurry. He heard shouts, the clatter of spears, the whicker of horses, though nothing yet that spoke to him of fighting. "The watch guard's trumpets," he told his squire in general. "Run out, Josh. Get the Lords for battle assembly. Lord Hoster has finally found the time to fight us."

His squire looked at him with wide white eyes. After a moment though the boy ran out of the tent putting on his tunic and boots.

Groaning, Garlan lurched to his feet and pushed his way to the basin and splashed the water over his face. Wisps of pale fog drifted through the morning light, long white fingers off the river. Outside men and horses blundered through the chill of dawn; saddles were being cinched, wagons loaded, fires extinguished. The trumpets blew again: hurry hurry hurry. Knights vaulted onto snorting coursers while men-at-arms buckled their sword belts as they ran.

When his squire came back, the boy was panting heavily. "Did you tell the lords?" he asked. The boy nodded hastily. Garlan gave him a smile and a light pat on his shoulder. "Good lad. Now get my armor," he said, "and be quick about it." Ser Tanton Fossoway was the first one to come trotting out of the mists, already armored and ahorse, shield in hand. His shield bore the red apple of House Fossoway of Cider Hall, and his yellow cloak was fastened with gold and garnets in the shape of an apple. "Do you know what's happened?" Garlan asked him.

"Lord Hoster stole a march on us," Ser Tanton said. "He crept down by the Red Fork in the night, and now his host is less than a mile north of here, forming up in battle array."

Hurry, the trumpets called, hurry hurry hurry.

"Get Edgerran and Arys. Parmen Crane and the others as well. See that the our knights are ready to form."  He ducked back inside his tent. He rummaged through his chests and took out his padded green doublet with the rose of Tyrell stitched upon the front. Garlan pulled on his leather breeches boots as well.

By the time he was dressed, his squire had laid out his armor. A fine suit of heavy plate, expertly crafted and gilded gold as the golden rose of Highgarden. His greatcloak was sewn from green samite and was held in place by a matched pair of roses made of soft yellow gold nestled in a bed of delicate green jade leaves. His green cloak sported the twin roses as well. The green enameled lobstered greaves and gauntlets and bracers went on next, all ornate with gold vines filled with thorns and roses. The buckles and fastenings were all gilded as well.

Josh made a quick job with the buckles and clasps. "Get my sword and ready yourself as well," Garlan told his squire. The boy ran away to collect his sword.

He lowered his greathelm down over his head, and Josh fastened it to his gorget. Garlan buckled on his belt, heavy with the weight of longsword and dirk. By then his groom had brought up his mount, a formidable brown courser armored as heavily as he was and draped with a white cloth patterned with roses. Garlan leapt onto the horse with a certain ease. Josh handed him up his shield, a massive slab of heavy oakwood painted green with a pair of golden roses. Garlan swung up the shield in his saddle.

"Get your things and go meet Lord Buckler," Garlan told his squire. "He is to command the reserves." He unsheathed the sword, wheeled his horse about, and trotted off. Better the boy stay in the rear, Garlan thought. Should the battle turn sour for them he would have a greater chance of living in the rear than he had at the front lines. More chance for survival but less chance for glory as every young men aspired to win. No singers sang songs of men guarding the rear or defending the baggage train despite those actions were as important as those actions of a man who fights in the vanguard. A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant.