Bronn came trotting out of the mists, already armored and ahorse, wearing his battered halfhelm. "Do you know what's happened?" Tyrion asked him.
The Stark boy stole a march on us, Bronn said. "He crept down the kingsroad 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.
See that the clansmen are ready to ride. Tyrion ducked back inside his tent. "Where are my clothes?" he barked at Shae. "There. No, the leather, damn it. Yes. Bring me my boots."
By the time he was dressed, his squire had laid out his armor, such that it was. Tyrion owned a fine suit of heavy plate, expertly crafted to fit his misshapen body. Alas, it was safe at Casterly Rock, and he was not. He had to make do with oddments assembled from Lord Lefford's wagons: mail hauberk and coif, a dead knight's gorget, lobstered greaves and gauntlets and pointed steel boots. Some of it was ornate, some plain; not a bit of it matched, or fit as it should. His breastplate was meant for a bigger man; for his oversize head, they found a huge bucket-shaped greathelm topped with a foot-long triangular spike.
Shae helped Pod with the buckles and clasps. "If I die, weep for me," Tyrion told the whore.
How will you know? You'll be dead.