Chapter 134 — This Is My Stage, Imp
The warning horns announcing the enemy's advance came as no surprise.
Just moments ago, Podrick and Tyrion had been arguing—first about the riot, then about its possible connection to Varys, and finally about what kind of creature that eunuch truly was. When the alarm sounded, both men fell silent at once and exchanged a glance.
Without a word, they moved together to the battlements and looked out.
"They're back…"
"Took them long enough."
The Imp stretched on tiptoe, craning his neck as he muttered the words, his tone bitter. Podrick pressed his palm against the cold stone of the wall and shook his head.
Across the Blackwater, enemy soldiers were boarding skiffs—one after another, like dumplings dropped into boiling water—and rowing across. The docks below the city had already fallen firmly under Renly's control and now served as the main staging ground for his army.
The fish market, equally close to the walls, had become another ideal launch point for the assault.
The distance from these positions to King's Landing's walls was only a few hundred meters—normally a trivial sprint. Yet with the enemy entrenched so close, the defenders atop the walls could do nothing.
At that range, even the finest archer posed no real threat.
And for Renly's forces, the breached Mud Gate was the perfect opening.
Across the river, a golden banner snapped in the wind—its field bright, its black crowned stag unmistakable.
King's Landing bore the same sigil.
Yet now, the two stood at war.
Beneath that crowned stag banner stretched an army that seemed to run all the way to the horizon, countless other standards rising among it—vivid, chaotic, blinding in their variety.
"Looks like nearly every southern lord showed up," Podrick said with a crooked smile, failing to recognize half the sigils even with his inherited memories.
"Don't forget Storm's End's bannermen," Tyrion added helpfully.
"Oh, I won't," Podrick replied. "But… it doesn't look like Renly himself is commanding."
That observation was accurate. The mass advancing toward the walls consisted largely of southern lords and their levies. Renly's own household forces—those sworn directly to Storm's End—were not the main body here.
Among the banners, one stood out sharply: the huntsman of Horn Hill, sigil of House Tarly.
Podrick recognized it immediately.
This was the force that had played him the previous night—feigning withdrawal before attempting a sudden strike on the Mud Gate.
Only the inferno Tyrion unleashed had driven them back empty-handed.
With daylight now clear, Podrick could finally see who he had truly been facing.
"Randyll Tarly," he said.
Tyrion followed his gaze toward the fish market encampment, studying the disciplined ranks, their formation taut and orderly.
"It seems Renly handed command to him," Tyrion said. "A sensible choice."
Podrick paused, thoughts racing.
"Yesterday evening he was at the King's Gate," Podrick said slowly. "He hadn't raised his banner yet, but I spotted him near the rear."
"Which means last night's feint—the retreat, the sudden turn—was his work."
Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill.
A commander famed across Westeros, a man whose victories had earned him a reputation as one of the realm's greatest battlefield minds.
With that in mind, the strangeness of the previous night's attack suddenly made sense—its precision, its decisiveness.
If the evening assault and the sudden nighttime strike were both Tarly's doing, then the plan had been elegant.
Too elegant.
And once Podrick made that connection, his thoughts inevitably circled back to the riot within the city.
If the two events were unrelated, then why had Tarly committed so much force to the King's Gate?
Unless he already knew the Mud Gate would erupt from within.
Unless the riot—clearly premeditated—was part of the same design.
Tarly's strategy now appeared in full:
A heavy, public assault on the King's Gate to draw the defenders' focus.
A deliberate choice to attack at dusk, not dawn.
A "failed" withdrawal to lull the defenders into relief.
Then a sudden pivot toward the true objective, timed to coincide with internal chaos.
A perfect blend of psychological warfare and layered strategy.
It had worked.
It would have taken King's Landing—
if not for Tyrion's madness.
No one had anticipated that the Imp would burn the gate, the enemy, and his own people together.
Otherwise, by sunrise, the city might already have a new master.
Podrick saw it.
Tyrion saw it too.
They looked at each other, sharing the same unspoken conclusion.
Yesterday's riot ran far deeper than either had first believed.
Podrick exhaled slowly, then reached for his warhammer and helm. He slung the heavy weapon over his shoulder and turned halfway toward Tyrion.
"I'll take command at the gate," he said. "But I can't promise we'll hold."
"You know what I'm saying. If Lord Tywin doesn't descend like a god from the sky, our choices narrow to two."
"Surrender… or flee."
The gate was gone. A hastily stacked wall of stone and sandbags—barely two men tall—would not stop tens of thousands for long.
Tyrion understood.
Watching Podrick don his gilded helm and shoulder a burden no boy his age should bear, Tyrion hesitated. His mouth opened—closed—then opened again.
At last, he spoke.
"You owe House Lannister nothing, Podrick. You can walk away."
"I know it offends your sense of honor—but you are still a child."
"I will not let a child bear a burden that isn't his."
He straightened.
"As Hand of the King, I hereby relieve Ser Podrick Payne of his post as Commander of the City Watch."
"On behalf of the realm—and myself—I thank you for your courage."
"But this duty is mine."
Tyrion's voice steadied as he spoke. The fear gave way to something calmer, even resolute. He smiled faintly, stepped forward, and patted Podrick's shoulder.
Then he turned, kicked Bronn—who still sat on the ground, staring with conflicted eyes—and moved to pass them both, heading toward the gate.
A final march.
But Podrick caught him.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder—not large, but immovable, like a tree root gripping stone.
"So what you're saying," Podrick said quietly,
"is that we're no longer master and servant."
"No longer commander and subordinate."
Tyrion couldn't take another step.
Tyrion was surprised, but hearing the utter lack of emotion in Podrick's voice, he still shook his head.
"Yes, Ser Podrick Payne. You have never sworn fealty to King Joffrey, nor have you ever bent the knee to any lord."
"You are free."
"From this moment on, you bear neither duty nor honor to defend a city that was never yours to begin with."
"In the name of the realm—and as the Hand of the King—I thank you for everything you have done."
"You may leave now. With your abilities, Renly's forces outside the other gates will not be able to stop you."
The Imp spoke slowly, deliberately, then reached up to pry Podrick's hand from his shoulder.
It didn't budge.
No matter how much force Tyrion used, Podrick's grip remained, solid as if it had grown out of Tyrion's flesh.
"Courage isn't something only you possess, Imp."
It was the first time Podrick had ever addressed him that way.
And he did so formally.
"So, by your own words—if we are neither master and servant, nor superior and subordinate—then you and I are simply… friends."
"And between friends, it wouldn't be unreasonable for you to owe me a favor, would it?"
As he spoke, Podrick tightened his grip. With one hand, he seized Tyrion by the opening at his gorget and lifted him cleanly off the ground, setting him atop a nearby crate.
Now standing at equal height, the two men locked eyes.
"We both know the truth," Podrick continued. "With daylight, King's Landing no longer belongs to you. Or me. Or Cersei. Or Joffrey."
"Our enemies understand this even better than we do. That's why they're patient."
"But Imp—there is one thing you should understand clearly."
"I am fully capable of leaving this place. You don't need to ask how. Just know that I can."
"However, I am not invincible. I'm human, not a god."
"When the moment comes that I know I can no longer hold, I will leave."
"And the time I buy until then—this will be the final time I can give you."
"When that moment arrives, whether you choose to surrender, or flee with Cersei and Joffrey… will have nothing to do with me."
Podrick's eyes hardened.
"Because from this moment on, this is my performance."
"King's Landing is now my stage."
He smiled at Tyrion.
Then, without waiting for a response, Podrick swung his long-handled warhammer once through the air. The weapon howled as it tore through the wind.
He turned and walked away.
As he passed Bronn—who had just risen to his feet, still stunned—Podrick paused long enough to clap him on the shoulder without breaking stride.
"Until we meet again, Bronn. And thank you—for teaching me when I was weakest."
"I'll never forget that slap."
Bronn shuddered.
He had no idea what Podrick meant by that slap.
Only after the figure in the gleaming golden helm disappeared from sight did Bronn turn blankly toward Tyrion.
"So," the mercenary asked, "what do we do now?"
"I don't know."
Tyrion absently touched the warped edge of his gorget, where Podrick's grip had bent the metal. His eyes were empty.
But he did know what Bronn was really asking.
Surrender… or run.
Tyrion's answer made Bronn's mouth twitch. He glanced at the enemy drawing ever closer beyond the walls—then at the City Watch soldiers staring at them from all sides.
By instinct honed through countless battles, Bronn knew something was wrong.
Those looks felt more dangerous than the enemy outside.
"Then I'd suggest you decide quickly," Bronn said, hand resting on his sword hilt.
---
Podrick strode down the wall walk, posture straight, heading toward the gate that had been burned bone-white by wildfire.
A gleaming golden helm crowned his head.
At his waist hung the Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt—taken from Littlefinger.
Black plate armor encased his body.
A heavy cavalry warhammer rested in his hand.
With every step, the golden cloak at his shoulders snapped and billowed.
Behind the visor, his eyes held relief, killing intent, and a complexity even he could not fully name.
Podrick wasn't entirely sure why he had done so much for Tyrion.
Perhaps it was the bond forged between men on the battlefield.
Perhaps it was the help Tyrion had given him when he was weak.
Or perhaps it was Kevan Lannister's offhand command that had saved his life when the noose was already around his neck.
Even though the order to hang him had come from Tywin Lannister himself.
Even though being forced onto the battlefield while still weak had also been because of the Lannisters.
But debts were not tallied that way.
For Podrick Payne, one thing was one thing.
And now—
Now was the moment to settle every debt he owed House Lannister.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
And that—
was reason enough for him to stand here.