Chapter 138 — I'll Take You Home
Blood dripped down along black armor, golden antlers, and the blade of a sword.
Each step left behind a smeared crimson footprint.
Podrick finally came to a halt atop Aegon's High Hill, where the Red Keep stood. When he looked back, there were no pursuers left—no one still dared to chase him.
After negotiations and recruitment through Garlan Tyrell had failed, Randyll Tarly had acted without hesitation, ordering Podrick to be trapped and executed inside the Mud Gate's tunnel as a warning to all.
That tactic might have worked on almost anyone.
Even on someone like Gregor Clegane.
Unfortunately for them, it wasn't nearly enough for Podrick.
Hundreds of soldiers packed the gate tunnel, weapons pointed inward from every direction.
And yet—even with numbers like that—they could do nothing to him.
Only a handful of men could attack Podrick at any one moment, while for Podrick, it didn't matter where his sword swung—death followed regardless.
In the end, the killing piled so high that he had to step on corpses just to keep fighting.
The narrow tunnel, meant to constrain the enemy, became a prison for the soldiers themselves.
They couldn't win.
They couldn't flee.
Death was the only release.
The man before them no longer felt human.
He was a demon.
A warrior-aspect of the Seven as recorded in scripture.
The Stranger himself, harvesting lives.
By the time the fighting reached its end, even Randyll Tarly understood that Podrick Payne was not a foe numbers could overcome.
In all his experience—indeed, in all of recorded history—he had never heard of a human with such power.
Not Barristan the Bold.
Not Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning.
To find anything comparable, one would have to go back to the age of dragonriders.
And yet—even dragons and their riders could die.
So Tarly changed tactics.
Arrows rained endlessly into the tunnel.
Oil jars and smoke bombs were hurled inside, fire meant to suffocate and burn Podrick alive.
It was, admittedly, a clever solution.
And Podrick was not foolish enough to test it for long.
After several savage breakouts—swinging the borrowed sword like a storm and carving a blazing red path through the enemy—he escaped the encirclement.
Tarly tried to pursue.
But if they couldn't kill him in a trap, a chase through the city's twisting streets was even worse.
A few sudden ambushes were enough.
Once soldiers truly understood that their lives belonged to themselves, not to banners or orders, fear took over.
No one wanted to die.
By the time Podrick realized no one was following him anymore, he discovered—almost absentmindedly—that he had returned to the Red Keep.
He stopped.
Looked up.
The castle, built entirely of pale red stone, loomed above him.
Massive parapets.
Thick encircling walls.
Jagged battlements and crenellations.
Bronze gates and iron portcullises marked its visible entrances.
Inside rose seven great drum towers with iron caps:
Maegor's Holdfast.
The Hand's Tower.
The Maidenvault.
The White Sword Tower…
Podrick knew every one of them by name.
Since coming to this world, the Red Keep had become the place he knew best.
But now—
He was leaving.
Perhaps forever.
Perhaps not.
With a quiet sense of finality, Podrick shook the blood from his blade and turned to go—
When noise erupted near the iron portcullis leading out of the Red Keep.
Loud.
Chaotic.
"I'm not leaving! Damn you, savages! Take your filthy hands off me—I am the king! The KING!"
"Dog! I order you to cut off his hand! Now!"
"Let me go! I am the Queen Regent! My father will punish you—I'll have your heads! And the dwarf—damn that little demon's head too!"
"No… no… I don't want to go… Mother… Mother!"
The noise was unbearable.
Like fishwives screaming in the Mud Gate market.
Children crying.
Hysterical authority.
Forced bravado barely hiding terror.
And among it all—
Cersei's shrill, unrestrained shriek stood out clearly.
"They haven't left yet?"
Podrick froze.
He had intended to delay things, to buy Tyrion and the others time to escape.
But he never imagined that the people who should have fled first were still here—after King's Landing had already fallen.
If he hadn't stumbled upon them by chance…
He could already picture it:
Joffrey screaming that he was king.
Cersei insisting she was still queen.
Their children clinging and crying.
All of them—captured by Randyll Tarly.
"…Well," Podrick muttered, stroking the faint stubble on his chin,
"this might not actually be a bad thing."
"In fact… it might turn out rather fortunate."
After all, the man who had taken King's Landing wasn't Renly Baratheon himself.
Renly hadn't even come.
Instead, he'd sent Garlan Tyrell to impersonate him.
That explained a lot.
Including why the besieging army had almost no cavalry—only infantry.
If nothing had changed from the original course of events, then Renly Baratheon had likely taken all his horsemen and marched at full speed toward Storm's End, where Stannis Baratheon awaited.
And if Renly truly chose to leave his supposedly secure throne behind—
Then he would never sit upon it.
Podrick's thoughts drifted.
If Renly died at Storm's End—
Killed by his brother Stannis—
And Randyll Tarly now held Cersei and her children as prisoners…
What then?
Would the southern lords kneel before their captives?
Or would they grit their teeth, swallow something that tasted suspiciously like chocolate-flavored shit, hand King's Landing—and Joffrey—to Stannis, and beg forgiveness?
Either way—
It would be fascinating.
"And besides," Podrick mused quietly,
"Renly might not even die this time."
"Who knows?"
Podrick stroked his chin, finding himself unexpectedly fascinated by how this story might finally end.
With that thought, he turned, ready to leave.
But at that moment, a sharp, piercing voice suddenly rang out from the group being dragged along by dozens of wildlings.
"Is that you, Ser Podrick Payne?!"
The girl's sudden cry cut through the chaos like a blade.
The fleeing procession faltered.
And Podrick stopped.
He turned his head.
Just beyond the gates of the Red Keep, a girl with thick auburn hair was clutching the hem of her dress, wide blue eyes fixed on him. She looked fragile, almost pitiful, standing there amid the disorder.
"Sansa Stark?"
The one who had called out to him was indeed Sansa Stark.
The sole remaining hostage of House Stark still in Lannister hands.
She stared at the shadowed figure in the alley as if he were the only solid thing left in the world.
For Sansa, this had been a terrible day.
The night before, she had barely fallen asleep—anxious, restless—when white-cloaked Kingsguard burst into her chamber, kicking the door open without explanation. Rough hands dragged her from her bed.
Had she not still been considered the future queen, they might not even have allowed her a proper gown—she could easily have been hauled away in her nightclothes, humiliation be damned.
Instead, she was pulled from warmth into cold stone corridors and taken straight to the Throne Room.
The hall was packed with nobles—faces she recognized and many she didn't.
Queen Regent Cersei sat beneath the Iron Throne, Joffrey beside her. Tommen and Myrcella were there as well.
All of Cersei's children were gathered close.
The Iron Throne itself stood empty.
Kingsguard formed a rigid line, separating the royal family from the mass of panicked courtiers and their families—who scurried and whispered like rats trapped in a sinking ship.
Sansa's arrival drew little attention.
No one cared much for the queen's former "toy" now. Even the pretense of courtesy had been abandoned.
Only a few noticed her at all.
Sandor Clegane was one of them.
He stood there in his white cloak over black armor, as monstrous and scarred as ever. When he saw Sansa, he flicked a glance her way—then stared back into nothingness, silent and unmoving.
Joffrey noticed her too.
And promptly ignored her.
Not even a glance. Just a cold snort before he turned away.
So Sansa stood there, wrapping herself in practiced courtesy like armor, listening carefully, piecing together what little she could.
It didn't take long.
Every whisper carried the same name.
Renly Baratheon was at the gates of King's Landing.
Tyrion Lannister and Podrick Payne were defending the city.
Beyond that, no one knew anything.
They were animals in a cage, waiting to learn whether they would be slaughtered or spared.
Then came dawn.
And with it—uninvited guests bearing disastrous news.
The city had fallen.
The war was lost.
They had come to take the queen and the king away.
Silence followed—only for a heartbeat.
Then the Throne Room exploded into chaos.
It took Shagga cleaving several men in half with his enormous steel axe before the room learned what quiet meant.
Cersei, drunk beyond reason after a night of wine, snapped.
She screamed about lies and treason, hurled curses until her voice broke—then collapsed into hysterical sobbing, face smeared with tears and snot alike.
The noise alone was enough to give Shagga a headache.
If not for Tyrion's orders, he would have walked out immediately.
Instead, he solved the problem the way he always did.
With violence.
The Kingsguard drew their swords—white cloaks bristling at the insult of wildling hands touching royalty.
That mistake cost lives.
By the time three Stone Crow warriors lay dead, only three Kingsguard remained—Sandor among them.
The rest had learned humility.
Sandor did nothing.
He only watched.
Just as he did now, when Joffrey screamed for him to cut off the hand of the wildling dragging him—despite having been slapped twice already.
From the moment she was dragged from her bed, Sansa had said nothing.
Even when the wildlings came for her, she submitted in silence.
But now—
Her cry shattered that silence.
"Ser Podrick Payne!"
Podrick turned fully.
The bloodstained golden antlers of his helmet caught the sunlight, gleaming.
Sansa saw him clearly now.
Her blue eyes shone.
"Is it really you?!"
Hearing her voice, Podrick remembered moonlight—and a soft kiss pressed against his lips.
"It's me," he answered quietly.
Sansa smiled.
Tears streamed down her face.
"Take me away!"
"Alright."
She cried out again.
He answered with a nod.
And with that, Podrick stepped toward the group that should have left the city long ago.
As he drew closer, tension rippled through them.
Sandor's hand fell to his sword.
Ser Arys Oakheart moved instinctively in front of the king.
But the man in black armor—wearing the Baratheon antlered helm, blood dripping from every step—ignored them all.
He stopped only before the girl who had called his name.
And he held out a blood-soaked hand.
Sansa Stark did not hesitate.
She placed her hand in his.
"I'll take you home."
"…Mm."
She nodded.