Chapter 142 — Renly's Death, and King's Landing Changes Hands Again
Rosby was the seat of House Rosby, located north of King's Landing, within the Crownlands, on the northwestern edge of Blackwater Bay. It also served as a shortcut between the capital and Duskendale.
Yet compared to a true town like Duskendale, Rosby could hardly be called a city. At best, it was a respectable village.
Next to King's Landing, it was little more than an open patch beside the road.
Simple huts made of timber and mud stood scattered across the land. There was a small sept, vegetable gardens, apple orchards, and fields of barley.
Despite its humble appearance, during the war nearly half of the grain feeding King's Landing had been transported from here. This modest village had sustained countless people driven to desperation by the conflict.
With complicated thoughts weighing on him, Tyrion Lannister arrived with what remained of his escort—fewer than a hundred mountain clansmen.
He looked exhausted.
Few people came to greet him. Only a maester named Meva Rivers received him.
Before earning his chain at the Citadel, Meva had been a bastard of Lord Walder Frey. Now he served House Rosby here at Rosby Castle.
"I need to know whether your lord, Lord Gyles Rosby, my dear sister Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, and my nephew King Joffrey have arrived yet," Tyrion asked immediately.
"I sent word ahead before coming. Unless something went wrong, you should have received the message."
The dwarf had barely dismounted—with Bronn helping him down—when he forced himself to stand upright. His legs trembled with cramps from days of riding, but he ignored the pain and questioned the maester urgently.
Meva's hands paused mid-motion.
His expression turned uneasy.
Tyrion noticed it instantly.
A cold knot tightened in his chest.
Ignoring everything else, Tyrion grabbed the maester's sleeve, anxiety plain on his face.
"I can only hope this is not bad news, Maester. Perhaps my message simply never reached you?"
But Tyrion's plea did little to change the man's expression.
Meva's face grew even more troubled.
"I'm sorry, Lord Hand," the maester said carefully. "I did receive your raven. But on the same evening your message arrived… another report came from King's Landing."
Tyrion's already weary face went pale.
The unease in his heart hardened into reality.
His fingers loosened from the maester's sleeve as he staggered backward two steps. Bronn quickly caught him before he fell.
"T-tell me," Tyrion forced out after several deep breaths. "What happened?"
"Nothing… well… not exactly nothing," Meva said with a sigh. "The situation is… complicated."
He hesitated before continuing.
"According to the reports I received, when King's Landing fell, Queen Regent Cersei and King Joffrey failed to escape in time. They were captured by Lord Randyll Tarly."
"Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella were also taken prisoner."
"And… unfortunately… so was my lord, Gyles Rosby, whom I serve."
Tyrion's heart lurched.
"They weren't harmed, were they?"
"As far as we know, no," Meva replied. "Lord Randyll Tarly has treated them with proper respect."
"That's… good… that's good…"
Tyrion fell silent.
Deep down, he was relieved. At least it wasn't the worst possible outcome.
His gaze drifted toward the distance behind him. His brow furrowed deeply, as though his thoughts weighed a thousand pounds.
No one knew what he was thinking.
The others exchanged uncertain looks.
At that moment Timett and Chella, who had just finished handing their horses to the stable boys, approached.
They had overheard most of the conversation from nearby.
"What the hell is Shagga doing?" Timett of the Burned Men muttered irritably.
Chella of the Black Ears snorted.
"Who knows? Maybe he got drunk and fell into some filthy ditch and lost his way."
As the leader of the Stone Crows, failing such a simple task made him a laughingstock in her eyes.
Timett ignored the jab.
After a moment of silence, he simply looked toward Tyrion.
The snide remarks helped Tyrion regain a sliver of composure.
It wasn't the worst news he could have received.
Still, exhaustion and hunger twisted together inside him. Acid burned in his stomach. Days without sleep left his head throbbing painfully.
He had no energy to deal with the mountain clans' strange brand of sympathy.
Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and turned back to the maester.
"Please arrange some food and a roof for the night," Tyrion said wearily.
"And tell me—does Rosby still have ravens? I need to send some letters."
"There are eight ravens remaining," Meva replied. "That should suffice for your needs. Please, follow me."
The maester led Tyrion into Lord Rosby's study a short time later.
"I've already instructed the kitchens to prepare a meal," Meva added politely. "If you require anything else, please let me know."
Then he hurried away.
There were still many things demanding his attention.
Tyrion found a stool in the study.
He didn't care that it lacked the soft cushion he was used to. He simply threw himself onto it, leaned back, closed his eyes, and tilted his head upward.
Rushing all the way to Rosby, Tyrion Lannister had never imagined that the moment he arrived he would receive news dark enough to make the world spin.
In Tyrion's original plan, sending Joffrey and Tommen away from King's Landing—to Rosby or elsewhere—had been the most sensible course.
Cersei, frankly, had only been included as an afterthought.
Of course, in that moment he could never have said such things aloud.
If Joffrey and Tommen had left the capital, Renly Baratheon would have faced a serious dilemma.
Even if King's Landing fell, House Lannister would still possess heirs to the throne—and thus retain a legitimate claim to the Iron Throne.
But now?
"Damn it!"
"Damn it!"
In the empty study, the more Tyrion thought about it, the angrier and more helpless he felt. Finally he burst out in frustrated curses.
Some time later, Bronn, ever the loyal captain of his guard, appeared outside the study carrying a tray of food.
When he pushed the door open, he saw the aftermath of Tyrion's outburst—several books knocked off the desk and scattered across the floor.
"You could burn down this whole Rosby castle," Bronn remarked casually, "and it still wouldn't bring back your dear sister or your royal nephew."
"So instead of worrying about that… why not eat?"
"When I'm hungry, I fill my stomach with food. When I'm lonely, I fill my bed with women."
"That method has never failed me."
The meal was simple: two large pieces of toasted bread, two bowls of thick soup, a plate of fried bacon, several apples, and some green vegetables.
Still, it counted as a respectable lunch.
Stepping around the books Tyrion had knocked aside, Bronn set the food neatly on the desk.
Afterward he gestured casually toward the tray and sat down to eat without the slightest show of deference.
The smell of food helped calm Tyrion somewhat.
He sat down, grabbed a bowl of soup, tore off a piece of bread, dipped it into the steaming broth, and stuffed it into his mouth before it could even cool.
After several hurried bites, he slowed down slightly and caught his breath.
"I'm going to send word to my father again," Tyrion said.
"King's Landing may be lost—but Joffrey and Tommen must be recovered."
"After that… we'll consider our options. War or something else."
Bronn lifted his head from the bowl and looked at him skeptically.
"Didn't you say your father already marched out of Harrenhal?"
"A polite lie," Tyrion replied without looking up.
"No one can predict what my father will do. But if I were him, I would march south to relieve the capital."
"If he still remembers what matters most…"
Even as he said it, there was little confidence in Tyrion's voice.
Bronn heard it immediately.
"So if he really meant to do that," the sellsword said bluntly, "why didn't he come sooner?"
"Why wait until King's Landing was taken before arriving fashionably late?"
"Maybe you don't understand Lord Tywin as well as you think."
Bronn's words struck straight at the heart.
The fragile confidence Tyrion had built shattered instantly. His hand froze midair with the soup bowl.
Bronn, however, showed no intention of stopping.
"In my opinion, you've already lost," he continued calmly.
"In every possible way."
"For all we know, your father might be sitting in Harrenhal right now figuring out how best to surrender."
The sellsword finished his meal and set aside the empty plate.
His dark eyes—still sharp beneath his messy black hair and rough beard—watched Tyrion quietly.
Tyrion hesitated, then slumped back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.
At that moment, Maester Meva burst back into the study.
He was clutching a letter and breathing heavily.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister!" he shouted. "News from Storm's End!"
Tyrion's head snapped up.
---
"Hm?"
"What did you say was written in that letter?!"
At Harrenhal, Lord Tywin Lannister rose abruptly from his seat.
His pale green eyes flecked with gold locked onto his brother Kevan—or more precisely, onto the letter in Kevan's hand.
"The letter came from Storm's End," Kevan said.
"Judging from the tone and wording, it can only have come from Stannis Baratheon himself. No one else would write in such a manner."
Kevan's face still showed shock, though he had at least had time to gather his thoughts.
He handed the letter to Tywin.
Taking it without a word, Tywin lowered his gaze and began reading carefully.
The letter was short.
He read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time—making sure he hadn't missed a single word.
Finally he looked up.
"You're saying Renly Baratheon never marched on King's Landing at all?"
"Instead he turned south and went to Storm's End?"
"And the fall of King's Landing was actually commanded by Randyll Tarly, merely using Renly's name?"
Tywin frowned deeply.
After a moment's thought, he sat down and looked again at Kevan.
Kevan pointed to the letter in Tywin's hand.
"If the message isn't some elaborate prank, then yes—that is exactly what happened."
"If you're uncertain, we can wait another day. More reports will surely arrive to confirm the truth."
Kevan's reasoning did little to ease Tywin's doubts.
He placed the letter on the desk and folded his hands beneath his chin.
Silence filled the study.
Outside, cold wind crept through a cracked window.
After several minutes, Tywin spoke again.
"If Stannis Baratheon truly killed Renly… how did he accomplish it?"
Kevan understood what his brother truly meant.
If the letter was correct, Renly had marched south with all his cavalry—no fewer than ten or twenty thousand mounted men.
Mounted knights.
Meanwhile, Stannis could have gathered barely ten thousand men, even including sellswords and sailors.
Yet somehow Stannis now declared that Renly was dead.
Storm's End had fallen into his hands.
And according to the report—it had happened without battle, without losing a single soldier.
Kevan had no answer.
"I don't know, brother," he admitted. "I'm as puzzled as you are."
Tywin knew it had been a foolish question.
But the answer—and the details—would determine his next move.
He had to understand it.
Once again, Tywin fell silent, staring at the seemingly simple letter lying on the desk—yet one capable of reshaping the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
Kevan sensed the pressure weighing on his brother.
After a moment he asked quietly:
"Our plans have changed."
"Are we still marching for King's Landing?"
The night before, they had received news that King's Landing had fallen.
Tyrion had fled.
Cersei, Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella had all been captured by Randyll Tarly.
The brothers had spent the entire night discussing their response.
By dawn they had reached a decision.
They would march to King's Landing.
First, to submit to Renly Baratheon and secure peace.
Second, to abandon their ambitions and acknowledge Renly's accusations against Joffrey—redeeming Cersei and the royal children in the process.
It had been a bitter compromise.
But politics often demanded such compromises.
In doing so, the Lannisters could end the war at minimal cost.
They could also open negotiations with the Starks and secure the return of Jaime Lannister.
If everything proceeded smoothly, House Lannister would not emerge as the ultimate victor—
—but neither would they truly lose.
And perhaps that modest victory would strengthen their standing across the Seven Kingdoms.
The sweetest fruit—the throne—would belong to Renly.
Much like during Robert's Rebellion.
But the foundation would remain.
And one day the Lannisters would rise again.
Tywin could accept such an outcome.
But now?
Tywin's eyes suddenly burned with renewed intensity.
"Of course we march."
"Gather the army."
"We ride south to King's Landing."
He rose to his feet.
"Because it seems…"
"Our true opportunity has finally arrived."