Chapter 137 — You Are Not Renly Baratheon
"Podrick Payne, my lord Renly Baratheon."
Podrick released one hand from his warhammer, placed it over his chest, and inclined his head slightly in a restrained bow toward the man who had named himself Renly Baratheon.
In truth, the moment this figure stepped forward, Podrick had already known who he was supposed to be.
The manner of his entrance, the commanding posture, and—most of all—the standard behind him, the crowned black stag of House Baratheon, left no room for doubt.
And yet, even facing a Renly who—unlike in the original course of events—stood on the brink of ascending the Iron Throne, Podrick showed no excess deference.
He lowered his head only a fraction.
"That's Podrick Payne?"
"You're the Imp's man? The one who dared attack Stonehelm?"
A murmur burst out from the nobles behind "Renly," surprise spilling into open shock. None of them had expected that the man they'd used as a pretext to march on King's Landing would turn out to be such a terrifying figure.
"Yes," Podrick replied calmly, his gaze sliding toward them from beneath his helmet. "That was me."
Their astonishment was understandable. His name, his age—none of it was a secret.
It was just that, until now, most of them hadn't taken him seriously.
That composure, standing drenched in blood amid corpses, struck the man in the green armor as genuinely surprising.
Especially that calm.
Renly raised a hand, silencing the murmurs behind him.
"Ser Payne, you surprise me," he said.
"After Stonehelm, I received letters describing your strength. None of us believed them."
"And now," Renly continued, "you've opened our eyes."
"This is nothing to boast about, my lord," Podrick answered evenly.
"You and I stand on opposite sides. This is a battlefield. This is war."
Renly understood.
He paused, then glanced back at the nobles behind him—an odd gesture.
Podrick noted it.
Then Renly turned back.
"You are correct. This is war. Those who fell by your hand died with honor."
"I do not blame you for that."
As he spoke, the man in ornate green armor stepped forward, carefully placing his feet between the bodies, until he stood less than a step away from Podrick.
Close.
Too close.
An intentional invasion of space.
"Ser Payne," Renly said softly, "you call me 'my lord.' Allow me to correct you."
"You may call me Your Grace—King Renly Baratheon."
He was tall. Broad-shouldered. The golden antlers on his helm amplified his presence, and at this distance, his downward gaze carried undeniable pressure.
Podrick did not flinch.
"Unfortunately," he replied lightly, "I don't have a king. Calling you 'my lord' was already courtesy enough."
There was a trace of amusement in his voice now.
The nobles heard it.
So did Renly.
"Outrageous—!"
Renly raised his hand again.
"Enough."
"He has the right to say it," Renly continued. "Ser Payne was knighted only recently by Cersei Lannister. No anointing oils, no sept, no oath sworn to any lord."
That wasn't what the nobles wanted to hear.
One of them stepped forward, finger stabbing toward Podrick.
"He's Cersei's hound! The Imp's blade! A butcher for House Lannister!"
Podrick turned his helmet toward the man, studying him with mild curiosity.
He didn't know the face—but he recognized the sigil: black field, silver caltrops.
Fossoway of Cider Hall.
Ah. That explained it.
"You're right," Podrick said cheerfully, giving him a thumbs-up.
"Lord Fossoway."
"I'll kill you!" Fossoway roared, drawing his sword.
"Oh?" Podrick smiled. "A duel?"
"My hammer hasn't dulled."
"Enough!" Renly stepped between them, forcefully halting the exchange.
"Lord Fossoway, restrain yourself. Think of the larger picture."
Grinding his teeth, Fossoway sheathed his blade.
"I still demand punishment for Podrick Payne, Your Grace."
Renly nodded, accepting the retreat, then turned back to Podrick.
"Ser Payne, Tyrion Lannister and Cersei have abandoned you."
"You are a brave and powerful knight—worthy of respect."
"You say you kneel to no one. Very well. I will offer you an opportunity."
"Kneel to me."
"I give you my word: no retribution. No punishment."
The field fell silent.
Even prepared as they were, no one expected such a direct offer.
Fossoway looked ready to burst.
Podrick, however, laughed.
A deep, muffled sound from inside the bloodstained helm.
"But if I cut off your head right now," he said lightly,
"I could get everything you just promised anyway. Stannis would hand it over without hesitation."
Then he shook his head.
The laughter vanished.
Cold returned.
"But that's pointless," Podrick continued.
"Because you're not Renly Baratheon."
Silence—of a very different kind.
The man in the antlered helm remained quiet for several seconds.
"Why do you think so?" he finally asked.
"Lord Fossoway accuses me of disrespecting a king—yet he does the same," Podrick said.
"Loras Tyrell, said to be inseparable from Renly, isn't here."
"And frankly," Podrick added with a grin, "that armor doesn't quite fit you."
He reached up and removed his own helmet.
Blood-streaked face. Eyes filled with mockery.
The man opposite him hesitated—then reached for his own helm.
His hand stopped halfway.
"Leave," Podrick said flatly.
"Coward."
That was too much.
Garlan Tyrell tore off the antlered helm, revealing long brown hair, a matching beard, and resolute golden eyes.
"I am Garlan Tyrell," he said.
"I am not King Renly."
"But my offer stands."
"Serve Renly Baratheon, and you will gain far more than you ever could under the Lannisters."
"Our king needs knights like you—he is generous, wise, and just."
Garlan's gaze was earnest.
Podrick looked past him, at the mass of soldiers he alone had held at bay.
Then back to Garlan.
"You embody what a knight should be," Podrick said.
"Honest. Upright. Better than most in the Seven Kingdoms."
"But I don't need a king."
"So you have two choices."
"Leave."
"Or draw your sword."
Before Garlan could respond, Fossoway drew again.
And others followed.
Garlan's instincts screamed danger.
"Don't—!"
Too late.
Steel flashed.
And faster than the blade—
a black blur struck forward.
Clang—crash!
SPLURT!
The sharp scream of metal snapping apart rang out, followed instantly by a dull, meaty impact.
With a wet pfft, a spray of brain matter mixed with blood splattered across his face.
But battle does not end because one man dies.
That black figure surged forward like a gale, sweeping into the knot of clashing steel.
Blood flew with screams.
Brains and broken skulls shared the same sky.
The helmetless figure—short of stature, warhammer clenched in his hands—was like a god of slaughter descended to earth. Knights and nobles who had trained their entire lives in formal combat were, without exception, cut down in a single exchange.
In the blink of an eye—
a tiger among sheep,
a dragon roaring through the heavens.
Crack—bang—smash—
A storm of steel and gore tore through the gate tunnel.
By the time Garlan snapped back to his senses, the men inside the gate were either dead—or fleeing in terror.
Worse still, he alone had been left behind.
Trapped.
Blocked by Podrick Payne.
As the last of the survivors fled, and silence slowly reclaimed the Mud Gate's tunnel, Podrick finally turned back.
His gaze settled on the man wearing Renly Baratheon's ornate armor.
Those eyes were cold.
Emotionless.
Facing that stare, Garlan Tyrell's hand trembled despite himself.
After two seconds of hesitation, he drew his sword with a sharp shing.
He could feel fear.
He could feel dread.
But he would not retreat.
Seeing that Garlan Tyrell—still daring to raise a blade against him—Podrick found it… interesting.
He casually dropped the warhammer, its shaft already bent and warped from the sheer number of skulls it had crushed, and began walking toward Garlan.
Garlan hadn't expected that.
After a brief stunned pause, he gritted his teeth and threw his sword aside as well.
"This is a fair duel!" he shouted.
"Only weapon against weapon is fair!"
Podrick's expression didn't change.
He stepped in.
Before Garlan could fully react—
BOOM.
A single punch slammed into Garlan's abdomen.
The forest-green breastplate caved inward, a clear fist-shaped dent blooming in the metal.
Garlan folded instantly, like a shrimp, eyes rolling back as his mind went completely blank.
Clear saliva tinged faintly green dribbled uncontrollably from the corner of his mouth, his body sliding limply down Podrick's arm.
But before he could collapse—
a powerful hand caught him.
A head leaned close to his ear.
Something was whispered—too softly to hear.
Then the grip released.
Garlan Tyrell dropped into the pile of corpses.
King's Landing had fallen.
After the nobles sent to negotiate were slaughtered, Randyll Tarly abandoned all restraint and ordered his troops to force their way in.
Soldiers flooded the city—front and rear alike—until even the streets that should have been safe were choked with steel and banners as far as the eye could see.
"Mind if I borrow this?"
Surrounded on all sides, Podrick chuckled and bent down to pick up the sword Garlan had discarded.
Then his eyes flicked to the corner.
There, lying forgotten, was the helmet with the massive golden antlers.
"That belongs to me too."
He took the sword.
He donned the helm.
Only then did Podrick straighten up again.
Facing the soldiers sealing him inside the gate tunnel, he rolled his neck once—slowly.
This time, his expression turned serious.
He raised a hand.
The golden cloak, soaked through with blood, slid from his shoulder and fell to the ground.