Chapter 128 – Renly Besieges King's Landing
Bang!
"Varys," Tyrion snarled, slamming his palm down onto the long table,
"I distinctly remember that this is not what your information said."
Once again, they were in the Imp's solar.
Tyrion Lannister stood rigid behind the table, eyes glacial as he stared at the trembling eunuch before him.
Bringing up the rear were Bronn and Timett.
Bronn lounged as though he were merely passing time, using the tip of his dagger to scrape dirt from beneath his fingernails, a crooked, dangerous smile tugging at his lips.
Timett, by contrast, was far more straightforward. He openly sized Varys up from head to toe, as if deciding where best to start carving.
Three pairs of murderous eyes.
Varys was genuinely terrified.
Since the moment he had taken Shae away—only to secretly return her through the tunnels and present her to Tyrion as a "gift" to purchase trust—he had not left the Hand's Tower for a single day.
Wherever he went, a clansman followed.
Watched him.
Ensured he could not leave the tower even by a step.
So when something felt wrong outside the city walls, Tyrion had Varys dragged in immediately.
One wrong word now, and the dagger idly cleaning fingernails might very well end up buried in his chest.
Because the information Varys had provided had been clear:
Renly Baratheon was marching to relieve Storm's End.
The Baratheon brothers had turned on one another.
War between them was imminent.
Tyrion had even passed this intelligence to Cersei at once.
It had been proclaimed openly in council.
Everyone had believed it.
And now—
Renly Baratheon's army stood outside King's Landing.
A slap across Tyrion's face, delivered with iron gauntlets.
In the space of a single night, Renly's forces had completely encircled the capital.
Yes, the city had noticed troop movements the night before—but under cover of darkness, with no preparation and nowhere near enough men, the City Watch had not dared to ride out.
Varys stood shaking.
His hands, usually tucked neatly into his sleeves, now hung awkwardly at his sides. His face was deathly pale, beads of sweat rolling down his cheeks. He looked more frantic than the man accusing him.
"My lord," he babbled, voice trembling,
"my little birds truly told me exactly that."
"They reported that upon learning his brother Stannis was besieging Storm's End, Renly immediately declared—on the spot—that he would march to its relief."
"He gave the order himself, openly, at a feast!"
"You cannot imagine the pressure he was under. The lords of the Reach nearly begged him on their knees to strike King's Landing first. Even Lady Catelyn Stark urged him to do the same."
"But Renly refused."
"He chose instead to face Stannis's challenge—and issued his marching orders at once."
Varys spoke so quickly his words nearly tripped over one another, his expression painfully sincere, tinged with helpless grievance.
Tyrion understood what he was saying.
But understanding was not belief.
A thin, dangerous smile crept across the Imp's face as he narrowed his eyes.
"So," Tyrion said softly,
"you're telling me… you were deceived?"
"On my life," Varys replied hoarsely.
"On everything I am, my lord."
The room fell silent.
And in that silence, the knife scraping under Bronn's fingernail sounded very, very loud.
Tyrion snorted coldly again.
"Very well," he said. "Then tell me—what do we do now?"
His finger came down hard on the tabletop with a dull, heavy thud.
It didn't sound like wood being struck.
It sounded like it landed directly on Varys's heart.
The eunuch shuddered, swallowed twice in panic, his throat dry.
"My lord… the City Watch can still hold the walls for now. Given the current situation, we can endure for a while longer. So…"
He hesitated, then forced the words out.
"…we urgently need your father."
It was the only solution Varys could think of.
The only remaining move on the board.
In short: summon Tywin Lannister to save the capital.
Tyrion understood perfectly—and laughed without humor.
"Rely on my father?" he sneered. "He's still in Harrenhal. Even if he marches as hard as last time, what chance does he have against Renly's host?"
"Twenty thousand against eighty thousand?"
"Do you truly believe that's an advantage, Lord Varys?"
The Imp stopped tapping the table. His eyes hardened, his voice dropping several degrees as he snapped:
"The enemy is fresh. My father's army would arrive exhausted."
"Renly is waiting for our plea for help."
Spittle sprayed onto Varys's face as Tyrion raged.
The eunuch didn't dare move. Didn't dare wipe it away.
Yet Varys's expression only grew more bitter.
"My lord… I fear you won't even need to write such a letter yourself."
"Last night, Queen Regent Cersei sent multiple ravens to Harrenhal."
"Maester Pycelle's rookery now has fewer than five birds left in its cages. They're… unnervingly quiet."
Varys explained carefully.
Tyrion missed the subtle inconsistency in his words—his thoughts already spiraling.
After a long moment, Tyrion slammed the table again.
"Damn that idiot!"
"An idiot's idiot!"
He exhaled heavily, then looked back up at Varys.
"Lady Catelyn Stark has already thrown in her lot with Renly. I'd wager terms have been agreed upon."
"So if my father dares march out of Harrenhal, Robb Stark will likely strike south from Riverrun without hesitation."
He leaned back, staring blankly at the ceiling.
"In fact… Robb may already be on the move."
A hollow laugh escaped him.
"Let us pray my father isn't foolish enough to take the bait. Otherwise, when Stark banners appear before King's Landing as well…"
"…we won't need to argue strategy anymore."
Seeing Tyrion so despondent, Varys cautiously glanced at the two men behind him, then discreetly dabbed the sweat from his brow before leaning closer.
"My lord… we mustn't forget Dorne."
"Prince Doran Martell has agreed to marry his son Trystane to Princess Myrcella. Dorne is our ally."
Tyrion didn't even look up.
"An ally with an ocean of blood between us?"
"If you were Doran Martell," Tyrion asked flatly,
"would you honor an alliance that's suddenly become irrelevant?"
"But hatred and interest are not the same thing," Varys pressed on.
"If, on top of this, Dorne's heir were made queen to King Joffrey…"
"No matter what Prince Doran feels, Dorne itself would be tempted."
Silence followed.
Long, heavy silence.
Minutes passed.
At last, Tyrion straightened, as if waking from a daze.
"I will consider your proposal seriously, Lord Varys," he said.
"But for now, Timett will escort you to your chambers. I have much to attend to."
Dismissed.
Timett gave a low grunt, his single eye burning into Varys with unmistakable intent.
As he was led away, Varys left one final thought behind:
"My lord… we should also consider the Vale—those lords still loyal to House Arryn."
Then he was gone.
Only once their footsteps faded did Bronn stroll closer.
"So," he said lightly, "what now? Pack our bags and run? I hear nobles love doing that."
Tyrion rubbed his temples, dragged a thick book closer, opened it without reading, and glanced at Bronn.
"Where do you hear this nonsense?"
"Singers," Bronn shrugged.
"For a bowl of soup and a heel of bread, they'll tell you anything."
"Add a few tales about ladies and noble girls, and they might even get a cup of watered-down rye."
"Idiocy," Tyrion muttered—then looked at him sharply.
"If they flee, they lose everything. What good is noble blood then?"
Bronn's smile didn't change.
"Captured, ruined—same difference. Either they lose their pride, or their heads. People like options."
"So," Tyrion said plainly, "you're thinking of leaving."
"Not yet," Bronn replied just as plainly.
"But when it's time, I'll let you know."
"I'll settle all you're owed."
"Very generous, my lord."
"You rarely call me that," Tyrion said.
"While I still am your employer—tell me about Podrick's preparations. And the chain?"
He slumped forward, covering his face with both hands. His voice came out muffled.
"Your squire's people held their ground through the night," Bronn reported.
"Seems the enemy isn't fully ready either."
"As for the chain—just segments for now. Not yet joined. It'll take time."
No one in King's Landing had slept well.
Anyone old enough remembered the last siege.
Only then, it was the Lannisters fighting under Baratheon banners.
Now it was the Baratheons themselves—still under their own name.
Tyrion let out a dry chuckle.
"Even finished, the chain won't stop Renly."
"It's meant for Stannis."
"So in the end… are we truly relying on a single child?"
He stood.
"Enough. Let's see what my sister thinks. I can already picture the comedy."
---
Outside the King's Gate
"What word from the Queen Regent and the Hand?"
Podrick Payne stood in black plate, a golden fleece cloak over his shoulders, a gilded helm tucked under one arm.
Beyond the walls, banners bloomed like a painted sea.
Most of Renly Baratheon's army stood here.
Podrick commanded three thousand men at this gate alone.
Five hundred held each of the others.
Two thousand more waited inside the city as reserve.
The Gold Cloak beside him—helmet crowned with a white plume dyed red and gold—stared blankly at the sight beyond the walls.
It took him a moment to realize he'd been addressed.
"L-Lord… the Queen Regent and the Hand… h-haven't arrived yet, so… there's… no news."
Podrick: "..."
He stared at the stammering messenger, utterly speechless.
Then he spun, scanning the wall—soldiers pale, rigid, terrified.
He raised his voice and roared:
"Find someone who can speak without tripping over their tongue!"
"Send men to the Red Keep—now! Inform the Hand and the Queen!"
"And if possible—bring the Hand here personally!"
Panic thrives on silence.
That shout gave the walls a spine.
Orders flew. Men moved. The city breathed again.
Podrick turned away and shook his head.
He wasn't afraid.
Not really.
With the Life Online system, he had confidence—more than enough.
But these soldiers?
Half-trained. Young. Human.
Fear was natural.
Podrick knew exactly how overpowered he was.
Frankly speaking—he wasn't fully human anymore.
If someone called him a monster wearing human skin… they wouldn't be wrong.
He could be a hero.
A very happy hero.
Or an extremely unhappy one.
But he had no intention of doing that.
Everyone else here was still just… ordinary people.
And fear?
Fear was normal.
Podrick knew that better than anyone.
Because once—long ago—
he had been afraid too.