A Note on the Battle of the Blackwater: In canon, we see this battle from the POV of Davos, Sansa, and Tyrion. Thus far, Sansa's actions have not affected Stannis or his plans- Joffrey being dead changes nothing regarding the succession. Since retelling canon chapters unchanged is rather silly, I'm not including a Davos POV. Sansa isn't in King's Landing to provide a POV from within Maegor's, so that leaves us with the entire Battle of the Blackwater from Tyrion's POV. I hope you guys enjoy it.

Trigger warning: descriptions of battle injuries; canon-typical level of gore/detail.

Early September, 299 AC

Cersei was a vision of innocence as she waved farewell to Tyrion and his men. Her hair was loose and lovely, her smile sweet, her gown a snowy white that put Ser Mandon's ghostly armor to shame. The queen waved with her good arm, the broken arm and its plaster cast well hidden within her dagged sleeves. Ever since their dinner she had been smooth as honey. It made him nervous.

For a moment Tyrion imagined short, dark locks in place of golden curls, impudent black eyes instead of glimmering green. He would feel far better with Shae to bid him farewell, but of course that was impossible. Varys had slipped her into his bechamber last night by way of a hidden passage. If she feared the battle to come, she hid it beneath a sly glance. Tyrion took her thrice before he was finished, claiming every inch of her slender body.

Afterwards Shae curled up like a cat, sated and smiling. Though her smile dimmed when he refused to give her any of the jewels he kept for her in his rooms. No matter how well she had earned them, giving her the jewels felt too much like signing his own death warrant. Not that he planned to risk his neck beyond overseeing the battle. Sorties were for tall, gallant men like Ser Balon Swann and eager striplings like cousin Lancel, not dwarfs who struggled to swing a battle-axe.

At least he knew Shae would be safe. Much as she hated it, Cersei was obliged to host all the highborn women of the city inside Maegor's, including Lady Tanda and her daughter Lollys, and of course Shae must accompany her mistress. The ladies would sup as though nothing was amiss, as though their husbands, brothers, and sons were not dying outside the city. Cersei would likely be the calmest woman present. There was no risk of Jaime dying in this battle, and everyone else was disposable so long as Tommen remained safe. She had seemed oddly certain that Stannis would never capture the king nor his mother.

Tyrion wished he could share her confidence as he led his red stallion through the gates, the singing from the castle sept growing faint. The sept had been crammed full of people since the first enemy sails were sighted. Elderly nobles and knights' children, washerwomen and grooms, falconers and bedmaids; in short, everyone in the keep not needed to fight the battle or serve Cersei and her guests.

It was the same at the Great Sept of Baelor on Visenya's Hill. Tommen had been at the Great Sept since morning, leading the people in prayer, his new crown gleaming on his golden curls. The boy had a strong sweet voice, and his septa had made him practice all the hymns until he knew them by heart.

Not that singing would do them any good. The Seven hadn't helped Renly defeat Stannis and his red god, no more than they had defended Jaime from Robb Stark's old gods. Although at least prayer to the old gods was quiet. Cersei mentioned that Sansa Stark had practically lived in the godswood after her father's arrest, her eyes closed in silent prayer. True, her father still lost his head, but the daughter had escaped.

Perhaps I should have visited the godswood, Tyrion thought as he rode down the cobbled streets, his men trailing behind him. Tyrion needed all the help he could get. Stannis had arrived days ago, his host swollen by Renly's leavings. Scouts reported near twenty thousand knights, light horse, and freeriders were camped on the south bank of the river, and Stannis's fleet was even more impressive.

By all rights, the city should yield. They could not withstand a siege; the city had been starving for months. Stannis was no Tywin Lannister. During the Greyjoy Rebellion he'd hanged his own men for theft and rape. Doubtless his men had orders not to molest the smallfolk so they would welcome Stannis as their rightful king. And why shouldn't they? Their miserable lives would remain mostly the same under Stannis as they did under Tommen- well, except for the whores. Stannis might still be foolish enough to try banning the brothels.

It was his own miserable life that Tyrion was concerned with. Somehow he doubted that Stannis would ransom the Lannisters back to their father. No, there would be heads on spikes, three of them at minimum. Cersei for adultery and incest, Tommen for being born of incest, and Tyrion for- well, Stannis would surely think of a reason.

And what did Tyrion have to prevent this gruesome end? There were no ravens from Lord Tywin or Uncle Kevan, no word as to whether Jaime had escaped. The defense of the city fell to him alone, and all he had were his wits, a few ships, mountain men, goldcloaks, sellswords, and wildfire.

There had been no need for wildfire yet, but the air tasted of ashes all the same. Stannis had lit the kingswood afire trying to smoke out Tyrion's mountain men. They were doubtless having a merry time of it, harassing the baggage train and slaughtering the scouts. He wondered if Shagga had found any goats, or if he was feeding the scouts' manhoods to the fires instead. His clansmen had torched all the grass that might have fed Stannis's horses.

Soon, the wildfire must come soon. They had reached the ramparts and Tyrion dismounted, handing his reins over to Podrick. He waddled up the steps, Ser Mandon at his heels, and a goldcloak boosted Tyrion onto a merlon so he could see the river below.

Stannis's ships had entered the Blackwater, their sails proud as they made their way up the river. Bronn had his orders; the chain should be rising from the water, the steel links covered in mud. The fools had sent no scout ahead, no little ship that might notice the freshly built winching towers. The fleet would burn, burn like the red god Stannis had turned to.

"Come on," Tyrion hissed as the three great trebuchets flung boulders at the ships. Two of Stannis's ships rammed into a Lannister warship, flinging men from her decks as though they were ants. One of the ships backed its oars, and the Lannister ship fell to pieces as the river rushed into its hull. Sailors were flailing in the water, trying to grab something, anything to keep them afloat, while their companions in armor sank to the bottom of the river, never to rise again.

A flash of green caught Tyrion's eye as flames rose from a ship. Whose ship it was, Tyrion could not say, for the writhing emerald dragons consumed it too quickly. Men were screaming, but that was only the first taste. Stannis's men were swarming over the decks of Lannister ships. The brave fools likely thought they were winning. But the fleet was drawing nearer to the hulks he'd stuffed with Aerys' rotten fruits, the oarmen bearing them unknowing to their doom.

And doom was coming swiftly. In the middle of the river Tyrion saw a ship with its rigging afire, yellow tongues flickering as she bore down on one of the hulks. The hulk swung in the current, and the iron ram caught her square on. The ship burst, spilling her poison into the river. One of the ships had realized something was amiss, cutting her grappling lines and backing away-

BOOM!

Tyrion clapped a hand over his eyes as the bright green flames half-blinded him. Beside him Ser Mandon Moore swore under his breath. The goldcloaks were cheering, forgetting their own men were on the river too. Tommen's ships burned as easily as Stannis's, wildfire leaping from deck to deck. And the screams, so many screams. Burning wraiths that had once been men flung themselves into the water, but wildfire could not be quenched.

Yet a few ships had escaped the inferno. Some Myrish galleys were rowing frantically to the south bank unscathed, and at least eight ships had landed beneath the city walls. Another thirty or forty galleys were well clear of the blaze. Frowning, Tyrion scanned the horizon. Another man might be daunted by the hellfire below, but not Stannis. He'd be bringing his men across soon enough, wildfire bedamned.

"My lord, hurry!" The runner threw himself to one knee, his chest heaving from dashing up the steps. "They've landed men on the tourney grounds, hundreds! They're bringing a ram up to the King's Gate!"

Tyrion hated being right. Cursing, he descended the steps. Podrick Payne helped him onto his horse and away he galloped, Ser Mandon and Pod close behind. It seemed only a moment before they reached the King's Gate, greeted by the echoing crash of a battering ram.

There were sellswords and gold cloaks all about, enough to form a strong column; why were they not defending the gate? Helpless with fury, Tyrion looked around. They had gone out before; he could tell from the wounded lying on the ground.

"Form up," Tyrion shouted as the ram thundered against the shuddering gate. "Who's in command here?"

A goldcloak with blood dripping down his cheek shrugged. Whoever commanded here, he's dead or deserted, the Others take him. Sellswords and goldcloaks were not knights; they would not sally forth without a commander. Ser Balon Swann was down by the riverfront; so was Lancel. The Hound was with Cersei, damn her, and Ser Addam was with Tommen.

Tyrion glanced at Ser Mandon Moore. The light of the flames danced across his white enameled armor, turning it ghostly green. The knight met Tyrion's gaze, his eyes cold and dead, and Tyrion suddenly remembered that it was Ser Mandon who had pulled him off Cersei during the riot.

"Form up!" Tyrion shouted again, unsheathing his axe and waving it, praying he didn't lose his balance. I must have lost my wits, what am I doing?

A dozen men staggered to their horses, out of habit, most like, but the rest of them stared up at him, confused.

"Form up, damn you," Tyrion shouted. "If I'm half a man, what does that make all of you?"

He waved his axe again, the muscles in his arm screaming. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pod rein up behind him, a sword in his hand and a stubborn look on his face. What was the boy thinking?

"Come on," Podrick shouted over the crash of the ram.

The men stared at dwarf and squire. Slowly, one by one, they began to mount up. He could hardly order Pod to go back now. With a grim smile Tyrion turned his horse about and trotted toward the sally port.

Tommen's standard streamed from Ser Mandon's lance as the wedge of horsemen charged towards the King's Gate. A knight called the alarm, men dropping the ram as the horses thundered at them, desperately grabbing for their weapons. Perhaps if they had more time they might have been able to withstand the sally, but the horses were on them too quickly.

Then, the slaughter began. Tyrion lopped a man's head in half with his axe. Ser Mandon impaled a man on his lance, blood staining the golden lion. Pod slashed down at the men at arms, screaming Halfman! with every slash. The air rang with the clang of steel and the whinnies of horses. Men afoot were no match for mounted men, and the batttering ram lay abandoned in the mud as its wielders fled.

Through the slit in his helm Tyrion could see the river was burning, great plumes of flame swirling and twisting in the air. Along the riverfront men were fighting as the invaders swarmed ashore from the burning ships.

"To the Mud Gate!" Tyrion commanded.

"The Mud Gate!" Ser Mandon shouted, and off they rode, Pod still screaming Halfman! With ragged voices the men took up the cry, all fear forgotten. Was this what battle was like for Jaime? Tyrion had never felt so alive. Men were staggering out of the river, half-drowned, half-burned. Didn't they know they were supposed to be dead? Well, that could be fixed easily enough.

With a giddy yell Tyrion swung his axe at an archer, the blade catching him in the throat. Time seemed to blur and slow as he whirled, his well-trained destrier trampling men under his hooves. Ser Mandon followed, wielding his sword as easily as if it were a toy, lopping off arms and heads alike. Tyrion had lost some of his sellswords and goldcloaks, but there were enough left for this miserable lot. A few men decided to take their chances in the river, flinging down their weapons and chainmail as they ran.

"My lord!" Someone shouted in his ear. Tyrion turned to see Ser Balon Swann, his pale armor splashed with blood, his mace held high as he pointed. "My lord, look!"

Tyrion looked. A line of galleys bridged the river, held together by grappling lines and webs of fallen rigging. A few were caught on each other's rams, water pouring in as they floundered. And on the decks, dozens, maybe hundreds of men were streaming across the river, clambering down onto the pier. How long would the bridge last? The fools didn't seem to know or care; the battle fever was on them. If enough of them made it across before the bridge collapsed...

"To the river!" Tyrion yelled, holding up his axe as his destrier reared. Halfman, Halfman! the men shouted, following.

The horses pounded down the long stone quay, Ser Mandon on his left, Ser Balon on his right. Pod, where's Pod? The squire had disappeared; Tyrion hoped he was among the throng riding behind them, but he didn't have time to look.

The men who dared to cross the bridge of ships were braver than those who had staggered ashore, and harder to kill. A knight nearly took Tyrion's head off with his greatsword, but he aimed too high, unused to such a short target. Ser Balon

killed him before he could try again.

Again and again Tyrion swung his axe, aiming at men without helms, without armor, always going for the head and shoulders which were easiest for him to reach. As the blood spattered his face he laughed. I am no dwarf, I am death. Ser Mandon and Ser Balon shadowed him, wielding their blades with a dancer's grace, so beautiful that Tyrion stared for a moment before a hand grabbing at his reins reminded him where he was. He slashed at the hand and the man let go, clutching the maimed hand to his chest as he fell.

The men were packed so tightly that the stone quay disappeared beneath the crush. The red stallion charged through them like a knife through butter, on and on, until Tyrion realized too late that they had reached the end of the quay as the stallion leaped onto the bridge of ships.

Time blurred and slowed and sped up again. The horse was dead, but Tyrion must go on. His plate armor protected him from slashes and stabs but he could still feel each blow the armor turned aside as he killed his way across the ships.

He didn't see the blow that brought him to his knees, but he felt his skull ache from the impact. For a moment he lay stunned. Up, up, he told himself. Tyrion staggered to his feet, his ears ringing, stones plummeting about him. One moment a goldcloak was there, not twenty feet away, and the next he was gone, turned to bloody pulp by a boulder that crashed through him and the deck. They're trying to break the bridge, Tyrion realized, his blood running cold. He had to get out of here, before his own men killed him.

The water was up to his waist as he sloshed across the listing deck. If he fell in the river, he was done. He stripped off his gauntlets, his vambraces, his helm, but he could not remove the breastplate, not without help. Tyrion gritted his teeth as he clung to a bit of fallen rigging, using it to pull himself up the deck. His arms were weak, and the ropes chafed against his naked hands. Yet still he pulled, dragging himself up inch by painful inch. Then the rope caught on the rings of his chainmail sleeve. With a great yank Tyrion tore himself free, shoving the chainmail sleeves up to his elbows. Finally he reached the rail. The next ship was within his reach-

The galleys groaned as they ripped apart, black water gushing between his ship and the next. Tyrion clutched the rail with all the strength he had left as the river churned beneath him. He must get off the ship, he must. Already his face was covered in sweat from the heat as scattered tongues of wildfire lapped away at the deck, and if the wildfire did not take her the river would. As the ships pitched together again a white shadow appeared at the rail.

"LORD TYRION! TAKE MY HAND!"

Tyrion had never been so happy to see Ser Mandon Moore. Tyrion was leaning forward when he heard something snap, as if the sound of Cersei's arm breaking had been multiplied by a thousand. Cersei. The realization made him reel backward, the blade whistling as it slashed past his face, just missing the tip of his nose.

The ships rolled, and for a blessed moment Tyrion was out of Ser Mandon's reach. His cold dead eyes stared as the knight waited for the river to bring his prey back within range.

There was nowhere to go. Tyrion could not let go of the rail. Even if he managed to roll down the slanted deck without landing in a plume of wildfire, he'd drown when the ship sank. The galley lurched again, back toward the waiting specter in the pale armor. Ser Mandon leaned forward, his sword flashing in the firelight, and Tyrion closed his eyes as he let go-

A man shouted. Something large splashed into the water. Tyrion scrabbled to grab hold of something, anything to keep him from the water, his eyes still clenched tight shut as if that would save him- and one flailing hand landed in a patch of wildfire.

His eyes flew open as he screamed. He had never known such agony as the green flames dancing upon his fingers. Abruptly, the pain stopped. Distantly Tyrion watched the flames. They were almost dainty as they gnawed at his flesh, taking delicate bites until the tissues beneath the skin shone pink and red. He'd never seen finger bones before. Curious, he tried flexing his fingers, but there were no tendons left to move them, nothing but flames and ash.

Still the wildfire hungered. It crept up his forearm slowly, devouring first the sleeve of his linen gambeson, then the skin below. Someone was screaming, a high, terrible wail. Dimly beneath the screams he heard another voice yelling, not a man this time, but a boy-

"My lord! My lord!"

Somehow Tyrion looked away from the charred ruin that had been his hand. Ser Mandon had vanished, and in his place stood Pod. His little face was smeared with ash and blood, his eyes wide and white with terror. Run, save yourself. As if he had heard him, the boy turned and ran.

The wildfire had almost reached his elbow, Tyrion noted dispassionately. He wished whoever was screaming would die faster; the pain was bad enough without the awful noise tearing at his ears. With a crash and a splash the ship lurched. That was good. Maybe the screamer would drown and be put out of his misery.

Suddenly there was a blur of motion, a body flying through the air. Tyrion blinked. Pod? What was Pod doing here? And why was he raising his sword?