More than three quarters of the knights were there, massed together like a great steel fist. Sir Addam Marbrand had the command. Tyrion saw his banner unfurl as his standardbearer shook it out; a burning tree, orange and smoke. Behind him flew Sir Flement's purple unicorn, the brindled boar of Crakehall, the bantam rooster of Swyft, and more.
His lord father took his place on the hill where he had slept. Around him, the reserve assembled; a huge force, half mounted and half foot, five thousand strong. Lord Tywin almost always chose to command the reserve; he would take the high ground and watch the battle unfold below him, committing his forces when and where they were needed most.
Even from afar, his lord father was resplendent. Tywin Lannister's battle armor put his son Jaime's gilded suit to shame. His greatcloak was sewn from countless layers of cloth-of-gold, so heavy that it barely stirred even when he charged, so large that its drape covered most of his stallion's hindquarters when he took the saddle. No ordinary clasp would suffice for such a weight, so the greatcloak was held in place by a matched pair of miniature lionesses crouching on his shoulders, as if poised to spring.