Chapter 23 – When Do We Leave?
"There's a new king in the South."
Podrick knocked once, then stepped inside—
just in time to hear Tyrion Lannister mutter the words,
his arm draped lazily around Shae,
his eyes fixed on the ceiling beams above.
Thanks to the messenger's grim arrival the day before,
there was, at last, no need to march today.
The army had halted at Harrenhal,
where Lord Tywin had decided to make camp
and rethink his entire campaign.
The disaster in the Whispering Wood
had shattered every assumption.
Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer himself—
was now Robb Stark's prisoner.
Eddard Stark had lost his head to King Joffrey's madness,
and in the Reach, Renly Baratheon had married Margaery Tyrell
and declared himself king.
The bright momentum that had once carried the Lannisters forward
had turned overnight into chaos.
Even on the battlefield, the situation had rotted.
Roose Bolton's forces, though bloodied, were still intact,
lingering in the North like wolves scenting weakness.
He had not pursued Tywin's retreat—
perhaps because the man was cautious by nature,
or perhaps because even wolves need to lick their wounds.
But the North was not yet subdued,
and now the Riverlands were lost.
Robb Stark, with the aid of House Frey,
had outfoxed every one of Tywin's calculations—
splitting his forces, breaking the siege of Riverrun,
freeing Edmure Tully,
and capturing Ser Jaime Lannister himself.
A small shift, perhaps, on parchment—
but in war, it was a catastrophe.
With Riverrun liberated and the Tully banners raised again,
Tywin's supply lines from the West were severed,
and his proud host stood stranded and bleeding
in a land suddenly hostile to them.
The River Road now belonged to Robb Stark,
and every stone of it was open to his advance.
---
And farther south, new storms gathered.
Stannis Baratheon, brooding upon his volcanic island,
had yet to move—
but the Dragonstone fleet could not be ignored forever.
The greater threat, however,
was his younger brother Renly,
who now ruled from the lush halls of Highgarden,
backed by House Tyrell—
the Reach's wealth, harvest, and armies.
Together, the Baratheons of Storm's End and the Reach's flowered hosts
could march north and crush what remained of Tywin's strength
between three armies—north, south, and east.
Even so, the old lion still had teeth.
War was more than swords and blood.
There were still the games of diplomacy, of alliances,
and the sharper blades of politics.
As the maesters said:
"The highest art of war is strategy,
the next is diplomacy,
the next is battle,
and the lowest—siege."
If victory could not be won on the field,
then perhaps it could still be claimed at the council table.
After all, the Lannisters still held more cards than most.
But then Joffrey had ruined everything.
With a single stroke of his sword—
or rather, Ser Ilyn Payne's—
he had beheaded Eddard Stark
and paraded the man's head on the walls of King's Landing.
In that moment, every hope of peace,
every bridge that Tywin might have crossed,
was reduced to ash.
Even Tywin's brilliance could not mend
what his grandson's arrogance had burned.
To say he was furious would be an understatement—
but fury could not undo the deed.
The die had been cast.
The realm would bleed for it.
---
Podrick placed the freshly laundered clothes—
still warm from the fires that had dried them overnight—
on a nearby chair,
then turned toward the bed.
Tyrion sat propped against the headboard,
small, sharp-eyed,
his face shadowed by thought and wine.
Shae lay beside him,
her black hair spilling across the sheets,
listening with half a smile.
"This new king you mentioned, my lord—do you mean one of King Robert's brothers?"
Pod poured a cup of wine as he spoke,
then handed it carefully to Tyrion Lannister
before pulling up a stool and sitting down.
His young face was calm, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity.
And Tyrion, who was rarely one to deny an audience,
especially one so earnest,
sighed and took the cup.
The blanket slipped from his chest as he sat up,
revealing a tangle of bare skin and the dark curls of Shae
sprawled beside him in the sheets.
Pod didn't so much as glance in her direction.
His eyes stayed fixed on Tyrion.
The dwarf took a long swallow,
then let out a weary breath.
"I meant farther south," he said.
"Robert Baratheon's youngest brother—Renly—has married Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden
and declared himself king.
Two weeks ago, he was crowned before half the Reach."
"And now," Tyrion added dryly,
"both her father and her brother
have knelt and sworn fealty to him."
"Why?" Pod asked.
There was no judgment in his tone,
no surprise—only quiet curiosity.
"Isn't King Joffrey the rightful heir to the Iron Throne?"
At that, Tyrion's mouth twisted.
He looked as if he might explain—then thought better of it.
"You said it yourself," he muttered.
"That's the Iron Throne we're talking about—
a chair for kings, not children.
Between a boy with a crown and a man with an army,
who do you think they'll follow?"
Pod didn't answer.
He simply looked at Tyrion, expressionless.
"That's… unfortunate," he said at last,
his voice calm, almost cold.
"Aye," Tyrion replied,
"and there's worse yet."
He drained the cup in a single swallow
and slammed it down against the bedside table.
"Joffrey had Lord Eddard Stark's head struck off," he spat,
"then impaled it on a spike above the city gates—
and not just his.
Every Stark in King's Landing who wasn't quick enough to flee
is decorating the walls,
save only his betrothed and her little sister."
His voice cracked, half with anger, half disbelief.
"And my brother Jaime," he added bitterly,
"has been captured in the Whispering Wood
by his future queen's brother—Robb Stark.
"By all the gods,
this bloody inn must be my punishment in the Seven Hells."
He buried his face in his hands.
The words that followed were muffled, shapeless things.
Shae stirred behind him,
her dark hair spilling across his back.
She leaned over and draped herself around him,
one hand slipping beneath the blanket,
the other gently stroking his head
as if soothing a wounded animal.
To anyone else, it might have been an intimate scene.
To Podrick Payne, it was simply strange.
He looked away, expression unchanged,
and after a moment of silence, spoke again.
"It sounds," he said slowly,
"as though the war may soon be over."
Tyrion froze,
lifting his head from his hands to stare at the boy.
Pod met his gaze evenly, unblinking.
Then, before Tyrion could speak,
he rose from his stool.
"So, my lord," he said softly,
"when do we leave?"
"Leave?" Tyrion blinked.
"Where in the Seven Hells would we go?"
Pod smiled faintly.
"If I'm not mistaken," he said,
"you'll go where the real battle can still be won—
to the place where problems are solved, not fought."
The boy's tone was calm, almost knowing.
"Because, if you'll forgive me, my lord…this isn't a war swords can settle anymore."
He turned toward the door,
then added, without looking back:
"Besides, you told me last night to start packing, didn't you?"