Chapter 139 — Ice in Hand, Payne Falls
"No—she's mine!"
Joffrey shouted like a powerless fiancé watching his betrothed being taken by some nobody who'd crawled out of nowhere. Even while being dragged away, he screamed at the top of his lungs.
He was the king.
No one took his possessions without permission.
Joffrey's shrill cry startled Sansa like a frightened rabbit. She immediately ducked behind the knight who was about to take her away.
And only then did Podrick seem to notice—
Ah. There was a so-called injured party here.
"She has nothing to do with you anymore, boy," Podrick said calmly.
"What you should be worrying about isn't losing your toy—but whether you might lose your life as well."
It sounded like a threat.
To Podrick, it was simply a statement of fact.
Joffrey, however, didn't see it that way.
His face flushed crimson. Veins bulged at his temples.
"Kill him! Kill him! How dare you threaten me—your king!"
He shrieked and stamped like a tantruming child, spittle flying everywhere.
To Podrick, it sounded less like royal fury and more like a yapping puppy.
He shrugged inside his helmet, his voice buzzing faintly.
"You're not my king, Joffrey. At best, our relationship could be described as—"
His gaze flicked briefly toward Cersei Lannister, already half-collapsed, drunk, broken-hearted, eyes unfocused as the wind threatened to knock her over entirely.
"At best," Podrick continued, "you're the failed stepson of a would-be stepfather."
"And the problem is—I don't feel like recognizing you as my son."
"After all, my relationship with your mother was very simple. Nothing… complicated."
The words hit like a bomb.
The fleeing crowd fell silent.
Eyes darted between the blood-soaked knight and the drunken queen.
The knight named Podrick Payne wasn't just stealing the king's betrothed—
He was openly implying an intimate relationship with the queen mother.
And Cersei?
She was far too drunk to deny anything, muttering incoherent nonsense.
No one could prove Podrick was lying.
Normally, people might relish such scandal.
But now, no one laughed.
Only Joffrey—after a brief moment of stunned processing—exploded.
"Kill him! Kill him now!"
"Dog! I order you—cut out his tongue!"
"And anyone—anyone who takes his head, I'll make them a great lord!"
"Where's Ilyn Payne?! My executioner! Kill him! Put his head on a spike—feed his body to the dogs!"
Sandor Clegane stiffened slightly, instinctively shielding the king.
He frowned at Podrick's blood-drenched figure.
He hesitated.
But someone else did not.
A tall, gaunt man stepped forward.
Hair sparse and long like a woman's, face pitted and hollow, pale eyes sunken and lifeless—
Ser Ilyn Payne.
Once Tywin Lannister's captain of guards.
Tongueless for speaking the truth too loudly.
Now the king's executioner.
And Podrick Payne's cousin.
Ilyn said nothing.
He simply lifted the massive two-handed greatsword from his back.
A Valyrian steel blade—dark as smoke.
Sansa trembled.
"That's… Ice," she whispered urgently.
Podrick glanced back at her—then at the sword.
And smiled.
He had wanted that blade for a long time.
"Ser Ilyn Payne," Podrick said lightly,
"You shouldn't raise a weapon against me."
"See the Hound? He's wiser. He understands the value of life—and fear."
Sandor flinched at being named, irritation flashing across his face. He hadn't drawn his sword—not out of cowardice, but calculation.
Ilyn made a choking, gurgling sound.
And then he attacked.
The greatsword Ice came down in a terrifying arc, fast and merciless, no hesitation for blood or kin.
The roar of steel slicing air had barely sounded—
When—
CLANG!
Podrick caught the blow one-handed.
His borrowed sword—once Renly Baratheon's—blocked Ice.
But the price was immediate.
The blade shattered, caved in nearly a finger's depth.
That sword had carved through dozens of men from Mud Gate to the Red Keep with barely a nick.
And Ice had destroyed it in a single strike.
At point-blank range, Podrick stared at the dark Valyrian edge embedded in the ruined steel.
His eyes gleamed.
[Flowing Motion]
Your speed and reaction transcend mortal limits.
After completing one action, you may immediately perform another, ignoring normal constraints.
Note: Remember to weave attacks properly.
"Hah!"
"Aaah!"
The greatsword was still locked in place.
The broken blade still wedged against Ice.
And then—
Podrick moved.
Then Podrick vanished.
The moment he blocked that strike, his figure flickered—and in the blink of an eye, he was already behind Ilyn Payne.
So fast that only an afterimage lingered in people's vision before he disappeared completely.
That single step was like a blink—like teleportation.
And now, behind Ilyn, Podrick stood in a sword-drawing stance.
Only this time, the weapon in his hand was no longer Renly's shattered blade.
It was the arm-length Valyrian steel dagger he had always worn at his waist—the one with the dragonbone hilt.
Under the sunlight, it looked plain and unadorned.
Only the dark, watery ripples along the blade betrayed its nature.
A bead of blood trembled at the edge of the dagger, quivered twice—
then slid down.
It fell together with Ilyn Payne's head.
And with the head gone, the pressure released—
a crimson fountain erupted from the severed neck.
The head hit the ground.
Silence.
Blood sprayed like rain, drenching the man standing behind the corpse—the one wearing the massive golden antlered helm—layering fresh red over an already blood-soaked figure.
Only after the spray did Ilyn's headless body sway, knees buckling, arms loosening.
Just as it began to fall, Podrick's now-free right hand reached back casually and closed around the hilt of Ice.
The broken sword that had been jammed against the Valyrian steel slid free with a metallic scrape, clattered to the stone floor, and snapped cleanly in two at the shattered edge.
The wet splatter of blood.
The dull thud of a corpse collapsing.
The sharp crack of steel breaking.
Those sounds finally woke the crowd.
Screams erupted.
People stared at the body, the blood, the severed head rolling across the stones—panic spreading in waves.
Podrick, now cloaked in yet another layer of red, slowly lowered his left hand from its draw position.
His gaze shifted—to Sandor Clegane.
The Hound had instinctively half-drawn his sword after Ilyn's death, his hand frozen on the hilt.
Under Podrick's cold stare, Sandor swallowed.
He glanced at Ilyn's corpse—those eyes still wide, confused, furious even in death—
then at Sansa, frozen in place behind Podrick, mouth open, still half-crouched as if hiding.
Finally, Sandor looked squarely at Podrick…
and at the massive greatsword now held level in his hands.
He took a slow breath.
Then he sheathed his sword and stepped back half a pace.
That single act of restraint earned him a polite response.
Podrick inclined his head slightly—a courteous bow.
Then Podrick turned to Joffrey.
The king who had been shrieking moments ago now stood there like a duck whose throat had been cut—mouth wide open, no sound coming out.
The instant Podrick's gaze landed on him, Joffrey's legs gave out.
He collapsed in a puddle of warm liquid spreading down his trousers.
"On account of your mother," Podrick said calmly,
"we'll call this even."
"And remember this—any man who has to shout that he is king… is no true king."
"Oh, and one more thing."
"Take good care of your mother."
"She still owes me thirty-six times."
Leaving that cryptic sentence behind, Podrick rested Ice on his shoulder and turned toward Sansa.
"We should go. I can hear Renly's soldiers already."
Sansa stared at him—at the knight who had slain Ilyn Payne as if swatting a fly, the savior the gods themselves must have sent.
She wasn't afraid.
It all felt unreal—like a dream.
Yet the blood splashed across her cheek was warm.
Real.
She smiled.
"Thank you… but please, give me a moment."
It was the first time Sansa Stark smiled so freely—
no courtly mask, no practiced grace.
Podrick didn't understand—until she tore the hem of her gown without hesitation, ripped off a length of silk, and ran to wrap Ilyn Payne's still-staring head.
Then she jogged back, holding it carefully.
Ah.
That was the "moment."
"You're not afraid?" Podrick asked, genuinely curious.
Sansa just smiled.
"I'm happy. I watched him kill my father. I thought I would never see justice in my lifetime…"
"Good," Podrick said. "Though I recommend finding some lime when you can. I'd rather not have a rotting head ruin my appetite on the road."
"I will."
"Good."
They spoke as if no one else existed.
Then Podrick truly turned away this time, Ice on his shoulder, heading north down Aegon's High Hill.
Sansa followed, struggling to carry the head.
Behind them, Renly's soldiers emerged from the streets—only to halt when they spotted the familiar antlered figure.
When they realized Podrick Payne was truly leaving, grins spread across their faces.
They surged forward—toward the nobles still trapped in King's Landing.
One hostage was enough to buy a lifetime of comfort.
Madness spread.
So did fear.
As soldiers poured in from every direction, the nobles who had failed to flee in time broke down.
Some ran.
Some resisted.
Some dropped to their knees screaming surrender, begging to see Renly Baratheon.
Even Shagga and the Stone Crows froze.
This was supposed to be simple.
Cursing, Shagga abandoned all pretense of escorting Lannisters and bolted, shouting for his people to run.
One Kingsguard followed suit.
The remaining two—Sandor Clegane and Ser Arys Oakheart—locked eyes, then drew their swords.
They stepped in front of Joffrey, Cersei, and her children.
Myrcella burst into tears, clinging to her unconscious mother.
Tommen trembled but stood firm beside her.
And Joffrey—
the king—
Cowered in the corner, sobbing hysterically, screaming for his dog to save him from the wolves closing in.