Chapter 135: At Arm's Length, One Man Against a Nation
Outside the walls, Renly's army pressed forward like a boundless black tide.
Randyll Tarly—who had been encamped since the previous night on the grounds of the former fish market—now personally led his troops to the front of the Mud Gate.
High atop the walls, Tyrion Lannister stood motionless, gazing down at the Lord of Horn Hill below.
Randyll Tarly lifted his head as well.
Their eyes met in midair.
Across the Blackwater, Renly Baratheon's crowned stag banner still snapped violently in the wind. Yet since the siege began, Tyrion had not once seen Renly himself.
Perhaps he feels ashamed?
The thought was petty, and Tyrion knew it at once.
Renly Baratheon did not know shame—certainly not before victory. Once King's Landing fell, everything here would belong to him: the city, the Iron Throne, even the right to history itself.
So what was the point of meeting now?
Sending Catelyn Tully—the envoy of the King in the North—to negotiate had already made Renly's stance clear.
There had never been anything to negotiate.
Randyll Tarly clearly felt the same.
After locking eyes with Tyrion, he raised his arm—and brought it down.
The signal flags snapped.
The horns sounded.
War began again.
---
"Bronn," Tyrion said quietly from the wall, gesturing with two fingers while watching Renly's forces advance. "Podrick was right. We can't hold this."
Bronn's expression tightened. He glanced sideways but said nothing.
Tyrion didn't wait for a response.
"I'll stay here and command—for now. Keep morale steady. But we both know this won't last. This battle will be decided quickly, and it won't be in our favor."
"So listen carefully."
"Go find Timett and Chella. Gather all the Vale clansmen—every last one. Prepare to move immediately."
"Split the force. Have Shagga take half of them to the Red Keep. I want my sister and Joffrey removed—now. You go with them."
"Exit through the Iron Gate. Take the Rosby Road. Don't stop. Head for Lord Gyles Rosby's castle. I'll catch up later."
"And tell Shagga this: I don't care what Cersei says or threatens. If he has to kill the Kingsguard to do it, so be it. He must get them out."
"If anyone else wants to flee, they may go with you."
This was the final plan.
The worst one.
Tyrion knew it. Bronn did too.
That the Imp was willing to stay behind—while sending them away first—clearly surprised the mercenary.
But when Bronn met Tyrion's gaze, he only smiled faintly, said nothing, and turned to go.
Tyrion remained where he stood.
He noticed the sidelong looks from nearby soldiers but ignored them, his face calm and unreadable.
Then he began issuing orders—just as he always had.
Only this time, compared to the sharp discipline of the night before, the commands felt… stiff.
---
Below the walls, Podrick pushed through ranks of soldiers trembling with fear, his long-handled warhammer dragging lightly at his side.
He stopped before the crude barrier he had ordered built at dawn.
Broken stone. Scrap timber. Sandbags.
A wall in name only.
Everyone present knew the truth: it would not hold.
Podrick studied it, listened to the ragged breathing around him, then turned.
Inside the golden helm, he grinned.
"When this wall falls," he said calmly, "you are free to surrender."
"But while it still stands—any man who retreats, or spreads panic…"
"Will be executed."
Beneath the gleaming gilded steel, his eyes were cold.
They locked onto the City Watch soldiers before him.
The men exchanged uneasy glances.
Finally, one soldier near the front stepped forward after looking around twice.
"Y-you… Ser… Ser Podrick Payne…"
"You… you're not our commander anymore…"
"We… we have no reason to follow your orders."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Tyrion Lannister did not lower his voice when he revoked Podrick's position as Commander of the City Watch.
In the midst of battle, the Hand of the King stripping a general of command was enough to send a shudder through the gold cloaks.
One man told another. Ten became a hundred.
In barely a few minutes, every gold cloak near the gate knew the truth:
The terrifyingly powerful youth was no longer their superior.
The soldier who had spoken earlier—his voice trembling but insistent—was still trying to "reason."
Podrick turned his head to look at him.
"Yes," he said calmly. "You're right. That's why I'm not ordering you."
"You may consider this… a suggestion."
"You're no longer our commander!" someone shouted back. "You have no right to give us suggestions!"
With the first voice raised, bolder ones followed.
Another man stepped forward—louder, more confident. Others murmured their agreement. It looked, disturbingly, like popular support.
Podrick turned to face the man shouting at him.
"But have you considered this?" he asked quietly.
"Even if I'm no longer your commander—you are still gold cloaks."
"Or have you already decided to abandon your honor? To defect to the enemy?"
"Perhaps you're even hoping to offer them my head as a token of loyalty?"
From within the helmet came a cold, grinding voice, echoing through the gate tunnel Tyrion had burned hollow the night before.
"So what if we have?!" the man snarled.
Once the mask was torn away, there was no reason to pretend anymore.
Grinning viciously, the gold cloak raised his spear and advanced on Podrick.
No one was surprised.
And clearly, he wasn't alone.
Seven or eight more men stepped out behind him.
Ironically, the stammering soldier who had first spoken now stared at his comrades in disbelief.
Podrick didn't move.
"If the city had already fallen," he said evenly,
"or if the king had fled and abandoned you—then surrendering would be understandable."
"But before that moment," he continued,
"you are still the City Watch."
"You draw Joffrey's pay. You eat the Iron Throne's food."
"If you betray now—you are traitors."
He raised his warhammer in one hand and looked at the men advancing on him, spears and swords leveled.
"And traitors," Podrick finished calmly,
"deserve no mercy."
---
Outside the gate, Randyll Tarly's order sent Renly's troops surging forward again.
This time, breaking through felt easy.
Compared to the storm of arrows the night before, today's advance was almost pleasant.
Soldiers rushed beneath the gate tunnel with shields raised—then paused, exchanging confused glances.
They lowered their shields.
Only a few arrows had struck, sticking weakly into the wood.
Someone laughed.
Then—
From behind the heap of rubble masquerading as a wall came the sound of shouting.
Steel rang.
Screams followed—high, wet, sudden.
And beneath them all, the dull, sickening thud of heavy impacts.
---
Inside the gate tunnel, the traitorous gold cloaks struck.
Seven or eight men rushed Podrick at once, spears thrusting, swords hacking wildly.
These weren't enemies.
They were backstabbing comrades.
Podrick showed no hesitation.
Five of them wielded spears.
With a single half-step backward and a twist of his body, Podrick swept his left arm out—
Four spears were trapped against his waist in an iron grip.
The fifth spear struck his breastplate.
Steel rang. Sparks flew.
The spear slid harmlessly off the curved plate, leaving only a shallow dent.
The man who had thrust it had put everything into the blow.
Too much.
When the spear slipped, he stumbled forward uncontrollably.
Podrick lifted his foot and kicked.
Crack.
The man's leg folded sideways.
He flew into the air and smashed face-first into the ash-covered ground.
White dust exploded upward.
Podrick didn't spare him a glance.
Using the recoil, he tightened his grip on the spears and stepped back again—
Avoiding three wildly swinging swords—
And yanked.
With his Steel Body, the four remaining spearmen lost balance at once, dragged forward like sacks of grain.
To Podrick, they moved in slow motion.
He released the spears.
Both hands seized the shaft of his long-handled warhammer.
He turned.
Once.
To the watching soldiers, there was only a blur—
And then bone and flesh rained down.
Four gold cloaks vanished in an instant.
Helmets were useless.
Skulls burst like water skins.
Four headless bodies staggered forward, twitched, and collapsed.
Before the three swordsmen could even finish turning pale—
Podrick struck again.
The warhammer fell like a judge's gavel.
Crack.
The man whose leg had been broken finally opened his mouth to scream—
And his head exploded.
Silence.
Podrick released the hammer, rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and clenched his fists.
In the gate tunnel, the faint sound of settling bones echoed softly.
Like gravestones clicking together.