Chapter 154 – A Farewell Counsel
By the lakeside, after Podrick had left, Robb Stark remained where he stood.
After a long silence, he let out a quiet sigh, then turned toward the cluster of trees where Podrick had glanced moments before.
"I'm sorry, Sansa… I didn't expect him to refuse…"
His voice carried both apology and disbelief.
After all, who could have imagined that anyone would reject everything a king could offer?
Land, power—even his own sister… a true princess of an ancient lineage, with blood as noble as any in the Seven Kingdoms.
And yet—
He had been refused.
There was embarrassment in his tone too—both for failing his sister, and for the realization that even such overwhelming generosity could still fall short.
Truthfully, from the moment he decided he must keep Podrick by his side, he had been utterly confident.
He had never considered failure.
---
From behind the trees, Sansa Stark stepped out slowly, wiping the tears from her eyes.
Tonight's feast had been held in honor of her and Arya's return.
And yet—the guest of honor had not attended.
By all rights, that was a grave breach of etiquette.
But she had chosen to remain here, waiting.
Unlike her sister, Arya Stark, who had already thrown herself into the feast—running about wildly with the little girl called "Weasel," even wearing a Stark soldier's helmet to hide her now completely shaved head.
Arya had been scrubbed clean earlier—half an hour in a hot herbal bath just to rid herself of fleas—before being dressed in clean clothes and dragged off to the celebration.
Sansa, meanwhile, had changed out of the clothes she had worn since King's Landing.
Her new dress was simple, but it only made her seem all the more graceful, almost ethereal.
---
Seeing the awkwardness on her brother's face, Sansa gently wiped away her tears and smiled.
"No… this isn't your fault, Robb."
"Didn't he leave a promise?"
"I'll wait for him… and prove that my love is real."
---
Her quiet determination lingered in the night air.
Robb said nothing more.
Only his sigh drifted away with the wind.
---
Not far away, the feast was still in full swing.
In one corner, Gendry sat stiffly among the crowd, looking completely out of place.
His expression was tense, his hands unsure where to rest, as he tried to deal with the constant barrage of questions from nobles, knights, and squires alike.
In stark contrast—
Jalabhar Xho was thriving.
Draped once more in his brightly colored feathered cloak, the Summer Islander grinned widely, moving through the feast with ease—like a flamboyant rooster in his element.
---
Gendry glanced at him, then down at his own cup.
It had already been emptied and refilled several times.
Everyone around him—every single one—was someone far above his station.
Even the squires bore noble surnames, each name carrying weight and history.
And yet now—
These same people had surrounded him.
Not out of respect for him.
But because of one name:
Podrick Payne.
They pressed him from all sides, eager to hear stories.
Stories of the knight.
---
But what could he possibly tell them?
He was just a blacksmith's apprentice.
Nothing more.
It's not like every story has a blacksmith who gets the chance to turn his fate around.
Just as Gendry was about to be completely overwhelmed, Arya Stark appeared—dressed in a distinctly Northern outfit, dragging the little girl "Weasel" along with her.
Without hesitation, she grabbed Gendry by the arm and yanked him out of the crowd of squires, pulling him toward the far edge of the feast—where the makeshift roasting fires and kitchen stalls were set up.
"Bull," Arya said impatiently before he could even ask what she was doing, "I think we should give Weasel a proper name. 'Weasel' isn't something a girl should be called."
---
Gendry, already a few cups deep and slightly unsteady on his feet, blinked and looked down at the little girl they had fought so hard to save.
The nickname had been given by "Greenhands" Lommy. To him, it had never seemed like a problem.
After all, names mattered to nobles.
But for people like them?
Names were just labels—cheap and meaningless.
Still, even in his tipsy state, Gendry wasn't completely foolish.
Especially when Arya was glaring at him with puffed cheeks.
"My… my lady," he said, trying to imitate the refined tone he had heard from squires earlier, "you're right. So… what exactly is troubling you?"
"If you call me that again just to mess with me," Arya snapped, "I'll have someone replace your wine with horse piss!"
The little princess of Winterfell shouted angrily, her words as crude as ever.
Only this time, there was no Septa Mordane around to scold her and report to her father.
Gendry, still dizzy from drink, didn't notice the flash of sadness behind her anger.
He just scratched his head in confusion.
"My lady, I do know manners," he insisted stubbornly.
"Whenever proper girls came to the shop with their fathers, my master made me kneel on one knee. I wasn't allowed to speak unless they addressed me first—and I had to call them 'my lady.'"
"Then just call me 'lady,' you idiot!"
Arya punched his chest in frustration.
At the same time, Gendry stumbled—his foot catching on itself—and fell flat onto the ground with a thud.
Barely managing to keep his wine from spilling, he looked up and shot back:
"What kind of noble lady are you supposed to be?!"
"This kind!"
Arya grinned and kicked him lightly in the side.
"Even if you're Podrick Payne's squire now, you're still my friend."
"Now stop changing the subject—we need a name! I can't wait any longer!"
Seeing her smile again, Gendry felt oddly relieved.
He laughed too.
"You could call her… Arry," he said. "Since you're Arya Stark again, you can give that name to her. She needs one anyway."
That had been the name Yoren gave her.
Arya froze for a moment… then slowly smiled again.
"Alright. Then Arry it is."
___
"Milord… Lord Payne…"
"Spit it out."
"Are we really just… leaving like this?"
"What, you'll miss them?"
"I just thought—"
"That's what you thought. I don't care what you think—I care what I think."
"If you regret it, you can go back to Robb Stark. For my sake, he'll take you in."
"No, that's not what I meant…!"
This conversation took place on the road south, after leaving the shores of the Gods Eye.
A small party of three rode onward.
Podrick sat atop his horse, half-asleep, swaying slightly as he let the animal carry him toward an unknown destination.
Beside him, Jalabhar Xho—his dark skin gleaming against his bright feathered cloak—paced anxiously, circling him as if trying to talk sense into him.
Behind them, Gendry followed, still not fully sober, eyes hazy as he rode along.
From blacksmith's apprentice…
To the squire of a rising knight.
The sudden leap in status still felt unreal to him.
Yesterday, when Podrick introduced him as his squire, Gendry hadn't thought much of it.
He assumed it was just casual talk.
But this morning—
When Jalabhar dragged him out of bed to pack for his "future lord"—
Only then did it sink in.
Something had truly changed.
It all felt… like a dream.
Like that conversation between Podrick and the Young Wolf before they left.
After a night's rest, Podrick had made up his mind.
At dawn, he summoned a guard and asked to see Robb.
Robb came immediately.
Still half-dressed, one foot bare, cloak thrown hastily over his shoulders.
Seeing him like that, Podrick couldn't help but twitch at the corner of his mouth.
As Robb quickly slipped on his boot, he looked at Podrick with barely contained excitement.
"Well? Podrick—have you changed your mind?"
Podrick forced an awkward smile.
"Sorry… Robb—Your Grace. I haven't."
Robb froze mid-motion.
"…Then why did you ask to see me?"
"I came to say goodbye."
"Now?"
"Now."
Silence filled the tent.
Robb let out a small, bitter laugh.
"…Where will you go? The war isn't over yet—"
"I'm leaving Westeros."
"…What?"
Robb turned sharply, staring at him.
"Leaving… Westeros?"
"Yes."
The conversation stalled again.
But Podrick pressed on.
"I asked to see you… because before I leave, I want to give you some advice."
"If you're willing to hear it."
Robb straightened unconsciously.
"…I'm listening."
Podrick glanced around the tent once—then spoke plainly.
"Arya and Sansa are back."
"So… what will you do about Jaime Lannister?"
The directness of the question made Robb frown.
After a moment, he replied:
"If you want him… I'll hand him over to you myself."
Podrick blinked—then smiled faintly.
"No. You misunderstand."
"I'm not asking for your prize."
"You, more than anyone, should understand what Jaime Lannister is worth in your hands."
He paused slightly, then added:
"I only want to ask…"
"Have you truly considered… peace?"
The silence this time was heavier.
"…What are you suggesting?" Robb asked slowly. "That I give up?"
Podrick shook his head.
"Just a reminder."
"Whether you destroy the Lannisters… or take the Iron Throne…"
"It doesn't matter to someone who's leaving Westeros."
"I don't care about any of that."
The tension eased slightly.
But not completely.
Robb fell silent.
Because he knew—
Podrick was right.
With his sisters safe, and Jaime in his grasp…
With the Lannisters weakened, their supply lines cut…
With King's Landing fallen, and Cersei Lannister captured…
With Tywin Lannister forced into retreat…
And perhaps even the death of Renly Baratheon confirmed…
Everything pointed to one conclusion:
Victory.
The Iron Throne—
Once belonging to House Targaryen—
Felt within reach.
And yet—
The man who could change everything…
Sat right in front of him.
A boy—
Not even thirteen years old.