Chapter 129 — Negotiations!
Fear often wounds more deeply than any blade.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—war rarely erupts so easily.
It wasn't only a matter of noble pride. Once fighting truly began, the cost would far exceed lives alone, and no one at the table could pretend otherwise.
So even though Renly Baratheon had already completed the encirclement of King's Landing, negotiations were still inevitable.
Whether those talks were truly about mutual interest was debatable.
But anything gained at a negotiating table would cost far more to seize on the battlefield—and once swords were drawn, there would be no bargaining at all.
That, plainly, was not something Podrick's position alone could handle.
Thus, in the final calm before the storm, both sides—inside and outside the city—fell into a strange, unspoken accord, waiting for the right figures to step forward.
The guards Podrick had sent to summon the Hand returned quickly.
They didn't need to go to the Red Keep at all.
Tyrion Lannister, the King's Hand, had already crossed the city with an escort of no fewer than a hundred men and arrived atop the King's Gate walls himself.
"How bad is it?" Tyrion asked, breathless.
His short legs were cramping, his breath uneven, but he didn't bother hiding it.
He had received the news while still in the Red Keep: King's Landing was surrounded.
And before that—before the banners rose and the drums sounded—they'd been deaf and blind.
By the time they realized what Renly was doing, it was already too late.
"Fully mobilized," Podrick replied, glancing down at him. "You should see it for yourself."
Without waiting for ceremony, Podrick grabbed Tyrion and lifted him up onto a raised table prepared for just that purpose.
Tyrion yelped in surprise, nearly shouting.
Even Bronn instinctively reached for his sword.
But a moment later Tyrion steadied himself, standing securely, and fell silent as he looked out over the walls.
Podrick flicked a glance at Bronn and smiled faintly.
Bronn coughed awkwardly and lifted both hands, signaling it was just reflex.
Podrick didn't dwell on it. He turned back toward the city's edge.
Beyond the walls, Renly's army stretched endlessly.
Cavalry units thundered back and forth, many bearing standards—clearly acting as messengers.
Only a small number remained stationary, positioned to the flanks and rear, not yet advancing.
At the front were masses of infantry.
Armor and clothing clashed in a chaos of colors; spears and swords gleamed coldly beneath the heavy clouds.
Siege towers and engines were still being assembled—but at this pace, they would be ready within half a day.
And yet—
Along the Blackwater's banks, there were no camps, no cooking fires, no settled encampments.
Only pressure.
Only killing intent.
"I'd wager that before attacking, Renly will want to say a few words," Tyrion muttered.
"Something along the lines of 'surrender now and here's how merciful I'll be.'"
"I imagine some of those terms won't cost us our heads—just our freedom. Black cloaks, sent to freeze our asses off on the Wall."
"That would suit Lord Mormont just fine. Last time I saw him, he looked ready to chain me there."
"But luckily for me, he isn't Catelyn Stark."
"Even as a true northerner, he has more restraint—and more honor."
The bitterness in Tyrion's voice hadn't faded with time.
Podrick chuckled softly.
"The Stark lady you can't forget is probably in Renly's camp right now. If you have anything you'd like to say to her, don't miss your chance."
"Or," he added lightly, "you could be bolder. A woman who's just lost her husband might appreciate comfort."
Tyrion's mouth twitched.
He turned and glared at Podrick.
"Whatever I might want to say to Lady Stark," he said dryly,
"none of it includes that."
"So what's your plan?" Podrick asked, his tone sobering.
"The Queen Regent and His Grace won't come see this for themselves?"
"My dear sister and my nephew are terrified," Tyrion replied.
"From the Red Keep's heights, you can see Renly's army like an endless sea."
"Frankly, even I had to force myself to come."
He exhaled.
"I'm about one heartbeat away from wetting myself."
Podrick's question made the dwarf's face twist with bitterness. Tyrion couldn't help but shake his head.
"My sister has barricaded herself in a room with Joffrey and the younger children," he said. "The Kingsguard are posted thick outside the door. Unfortunately, the red-cloaked city watch have all been pulled away—otherwise we might at least have had a few more hands."
"If we had a hundred times as many," he added dryly, "this would be easy."
Podrick was left momentarily speechless.
Speechless about what, exactly, was hard to say—probably everything.
He smacked his lips and looked north.
"If Lord Tywin still remembers he has a dwarf for a son," Podrick said, "maybe he can bring us a miracle."
"Harrenhal is three to five days away at a forced march. If fighting breaks out, we just need to hold for those three to five days."
When Podrick finished, he turned back to Tyrion, a trace of hope hidden in his eyes.
Unfortunately, no matter how earnestly Podrick looked at him, Tyrion ignored it completely.
"Even if my father still remembers I exist," Tyrion replied coldly,
"what good would it do? Do you think Robb Stark is an idiot?"
"Take a guess where he is right now."
The cruelty of the words burst a child's fragile hope.
Podrick clicked his tongue. "So what—you're saying we can only rely on ourselves?"
The disdain in his voice was practically overflowing.
Tyrion pretended not to hear it.
"All we can do," he said flatly, "is pray the gods decide to work a miracle."
Podrick paused, then nodded with a crooked smile.
"In that case, you can kneel and pray to me right now."
"You look more like a fertility idol."
"…Where the hell did you learn that phrase?"
"From you. When you're insulting people."
Podrick cut himself off abruptly. "Enough. Looks like our envoy's here."
The exchange had lifted Tyrion's spirits a little.
As they spoke, a three-man cavalry detachment rode straight out from the opposing ranks.
What caught the eye immediately was the banner carried by the rear rider—
A direwolf on white.
"…Her?" Tyrion blurted out.
Catelyn Stark, riding to the gate below, could not hear Tyrion's exclamation from the wall.
But she could see him clearly.
Reining in her horse before the gate, she loosened her grip on the reins—her hands aching from tension—and called upward.
"Tyrion Lannister, my lord. Since our parting in the Vale, may we speak face to face?"
Both Podrick and Tyrion were slightly taken aback that Renly's envoy was Catelyn Stark herself.
They exchanged a glance and immediately understood one another.
At moments like this, talking was always better than fighting.
Even though both sides knew the war was now inevitable—
What if?
Tyrion leaned out over the wall.
"Wait."
A short while later, the King's Gate creaked open just wide enough for a single horse to pass.
Podrick raised the Lannister lion banner high and rode out first, halting a short distance from the gate.
The crimson field with its golden roaring lion fluttered above his spear.
Bronn followed close behind—Tyrion's captain of guards—still dressed in light leather with bits of plate, a green cloak at his shoulder, chainmail beneath.
The last to emerge, as always, was the important one.
Tyrion rode out slowly, unhurried, as though on a casual stroll.
He passed Podrick and Bronn without stopping.
Only when both had fallen in behind him did Tyrion rein in his horse before Catelyn Stark.
She looked older, he thought. Time—and grief—had not been kind.
"Lady Catelyn," Tyrion said softly, "I never imagined we would meet again like this. I've imagined many futures—none of them this."
"Fate delights in tormenting the wretched… I am sorry for your husband."
The sarcasm he'd prepared vanished. None of it seemed appropriate now.
Catelyn's eyes flickered with emotion.
By now, she understood Tyrion had never been the one who tried to murder her son.
The gods themselves had judged him innocent.
And after all that had happened… blame had lost its clarity.
She had already paid too high a price.
"Thank you, Lord Tyrion," she said quietly.
"And… I apologize for what I did to you in the Vale. That was not my intention."
Her apology was sincere.
Tyrion did not accept it.
"My goodwill toward you," he said coolly, "began and ended with Ned Stark."
"I will not forgive what you did—but we are not here for old wounds."
"So tell me. What terms has Renly offered?"
The bluntness froze the rest of her words—questions about her daughters—on her tongue.
Catelyn drew a steadying breath.
"Renly demands Queen Cersei's unconditional surrender," she said.
"She must confess that her three children are not Robert's, but born of incest with her brother Jaime."
"She must acknowledge Joffrey's reign as illegitimate, accept punishment, and order the city to open its gates at once."
Simple.
Brutal.
If Cersei admitted even that alone, everything would be destroyed.
Tyrion smiled faintly.
"You see, my lady? There is nothing to discuss."
"He knows it. So do we."
"He didn't even bother to come himself."
"You may return and tell your king we will be ready."
Tyrion turned his horse.
Then Catelyn spoke again.
"Renly Baratheon is not my king," she said evenly.
"My son Robb Stark is."
That stopped him.
"Oh?" Tyrion turned back, amused.
"So you serve two kings now? Which one do you obey—your son?"
"Yes," Catelyn answered calmly. "I am his envoy. I was sent to Renly."
Tyrion laughed softly—relief washing through him.
"I understand. Thank you for telling me."
He bowed slightly from the saddle, then turned away once more.
Behind him, Catelyn hesitated—then called out.
"Lord Tyrion—my daughters. Sansa and Arya. Are they safe?"
Tyrion paused.
"Sansa is King Joffrey's queen. She receives the treatment befitting her station."
"And Arya, as her sister, receives the same."
With that, he rode back toward the gate.
There was a city to prepare for siege. Walls to man. Lives to gamble.
That was all he had left.
Bronn glanced back at Catelyn with a crooked smile before following.
Podrick lingered last.
He studied her bandaged hands for a moment, then spoke.
"Good day, Lady Catelyn. I am Podrick Payne—Commander of the City Watch."
He smiled faintly, raised the Lannister banner once more, and turned back inside the city.
Catelyn remained still.
Only when she tightened her grip on the reins did pain flare through her palm—and realization strike.
That boy.
The dagger at his waist.
She finally remembered where she had seen it before.