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Lannisport was smaller than King's Landing or Oldtown but bigger than Gulltown or White Harbor—the third-largest city in Westeros. Right now it was surrounded on three sides.
Renly stood tall in the clearest spot, two knights flanking him. On his left was a woman built like a mountain, only a shade smaller than the Hound. Brienne of Tarth had earned her place as honor guard by beating half his knights, Loras included. Renly had met her years ago on a Stormlands tour when she was still a gangly girl. Old Selwyn had sent her to Storm's End after that. "She'd die for me," Renly had told Loras once. "The rest chase land or glory. And ugly isn't her fault." She loved him. Everyone saw it. Renly planned to use it.
On his right sat Loras Tyrell, silver armor gleaming under green silk, eyes fixed on the walls with that hungry look Renly knew too well. The boy had been fostered at Storm's End young and had stayed close ever since. Renly pulled his gaze back to the field. Ten thousand men focused on the south gate—five thousand of them his best, Storm's End and Highgarden elites. Five thousand more feinted at the east gate under Beric Dondarrion. The north gate held the real weight: Randyll Tarly with the Reach lords, Tullys, Peakes, Florents, both Fossoways. Paxter Redwyne's fleet circled the harbor, ready to land.
Renly gave the order. His camp was tight, ditches already filled, western resistance wiped out. A thousand Stormland longbows rose as one. The low hum of strings became a black cloud. Arrows slammed the battlements. Lannisport's crossbowmen answered, but they were outnumbered and outranged. Men dropped screaming. Siege towers rolled forward on groaning wheels while soldiers chanted and pushed. The top bridge crashed down. Heavy infantry poured across, shields up, swords swinging.
Steel rang. Men died fast—guts spilling, arms hacked off, bodies shoved screaming off the walls. Blood ran down the stone in dark streams. The ram smashed the south gate. Knights charged into the gap and met a fresh line of crossbowmen. Bolts sparked off plate; the first rank fell. "Shield wall!" Infantry locked tight, oak and iron absorbing the rain. The enemy crossbowmen melted into alleys.
Caltrops appeared underfoot—four-pointed iron stars, one point always up. Westerlands iron and Iron Islands trade had given Tywin every dirty trick. Soldiers cursed, limping, but kept moving. Street fighting turned ugly. Rocks rained from rooftops. Spearmen burst from cellars to hamstring horses. Arrows flew from windows. A young soldier rounded a corner and took three spears through the belly. He tried to scream and only bubbled blood.
Renly's men fought with real hate. Their homes were burning. "Torch it," Renly ordered. Flames raced up dry timber. Smoke boiled skyward. Shouts rose from the north gate—Randyll's attack. Paxter's men hit the docks. Renly gripped his warhammer, still unused, and waited for the lion's port to fall.