The crash of the battering ram shook the entire town hall. Davon Lannister sucked in a deep breath, tasting blood and smoke in the air.
"Steady," he growled.
Behind him, crossbowmen cranked their strings tight. Davon dropped his shield low, locking it against his shoulder and angled body to form a solid triangle. Torchlight flickered wildly outside the doorway, turning the shadows into a writhing mess.
"Loose!"
The bolts hissed like angry whispers. The first man through the door took three shafts square in the chest, staggered, and dropped. Two more followed him down before they could even raise their weapons. But the enemy kept coming—too many, too fast. The fourth and fifth men stepped over the corpses, long halberds and mace-heads filling the narrow corridor.
A war axe whistled toward the left side of the shield wall. Davon didn't look. His eyes stayed locked on the spearman lunging straight at him. He slammed his shield forward, metal screeching as the spearpoint skidded off. In the same motion he stepped in and drove his longsword up under the man's chin. Hot blood sprayed across his gauntlet as he yanked the blade free.
Pain exploded in his left shoulder—a mace glanced off the pauldron and sent fire down his arm. Davon spun with the impact, dropped his weight, and slashed across the attacker's knee. Bone cracked. The man screamed. Another sword came straight for Davon's head. He arched backward like a bow, sword hilt high to guard his neck. The enemy blade scraped sparks down his breastplate. The second the man overextended, Davon snapped forward and rammed his sword deep into the armpit seam. Warm blood soaked his hand.
The shield wall broke.
A huge two-handed sword smashed a young knight to the ground. Davon didn't think—he swung his shield like a battering ram and smashed it into the attacker's visor. The man reeled. Davon followed with three quick cuts, severing an arm at the elbow.
"Fill the gap!" he roared.
The young knight scrambled up, teeth bared, shoving his shield back into line. It didn't matter. More enemies poured through. The corridor turned into a screaming meat grinder—parries, shoves, steel ringing, men grunting and dying. A halberd hooked around from a bad angle and smashed Davon's left pauldron again. White pain blinded him. He dropped to one knee, let the force roll off, then lunged forward and buried his sword in the man's gut.
"Fall back! Upstairs!" His voice was raw.
The knights fought and retreated, crossbowmen reloading at the stair turn with sharp mechanical clicks. Davon dragged a wounded squire with a spear through his thigh, leaving a thick red smear on the steps. Fresh reserves slammed the gap shut. For a moment the enemy pulled back. The fight paused.
Davon dropped into a corner, grabbed a whetstone, and started honing his notched blade. Kevan Lannister was already talking—same speech he'd given a dozen times.
"Lord Tywin never makes mistakes," Kevan said. "Every move is calculated. Holding here buys the entire Westerlands time. Lannisters don't break. We will win."
Bullshit.
Davon pressed his throbbing shoulder and felt three deep lines crease his forehead. His aunt was Joanna Lannister—Tywin's wife. That made his father both Tywin's cousin and brother-in-law. Davon himself was Tywin's nephew and nephew-in-law. Sitting in this doomed city listening to Kevan repeat the same lines made the old rumors crawl back into his head.
He'd seen Joffrey once, years ago at the Lannisport tourney when Jaime and the Big Bear had broken nine lances and called it a draw. The boy had been small then, but he already had his mother's face. Too much like her. And if the whispers were true… that kid was both Jaime's nephew and his son.
Fuck.
Kevan kept droning. "When the relief arrives we'll crush the traitors between us. Lord Tywin has everything in hand. All we have to do is hold."
Davon kept sharpening. His uncle—his father's cousin, whatever—turned into a complete zealot the second Tywin's name came up. Tywin sat safe in Casterly Rock while they bled in Lannisport. Everyone knew the city couldn't hold. Tywin knew it too.
"Lord Tywin said we make a proper fight of it," Kevan had told the family quietly. "Make Renly pay enough that nobody calls us cowards. A dignified surrender is allowed… when the time comes."
Lannisters reduced to talking about surrender. Tywin had sent raven after raven begging for help. The answers were always the same: "Hold a little longer. Reinforcements are coming." A month of fighting and not one extra man had shown up. A few thousand Vale knights were supposedly marching from the Bloody Gate, but Renly had the Goldroad sealed tight. By the time they arrived the turnips would be rotten.
No relief was coming.
Davon held the blade up to the light. The edge was clean again. He nodded once and slid it back into the scabbard.
Kevan finally finished talking and sat down beside him.
"How's the shoulder?"
"Fine," Davon lied. It hurt like hell.
Kevan nodded. "Tywin and the king have a plan. We won't lose."
Davon stayed silent, listening to the distant horns and the faint clash of steel outside. He didn't answer.
"They're coming again!" the sentry shouted from the window.
Davon surged to his feet.
Fuck the plan. Fuck the king.
Time to kill some more.
---
Highgarden. North bank of the Mander.
Joffrey chewed on a strip of dried meat and stared across the river at the fighting. He sneezed, wiped his nose, and held out his palm.
Rain.