Chapter 155: To Be King
And you still say you're not the Warrior made flesh?
Robb Stark roared inwardly.
Yet on the outside, all he could manage was a helpless smile.
Why was he willing to offer so much—just for Podrick Payne to choose him?
Because aside from that utterly shocking, almost unnatural strength—power no one his age, no human, should possess—there was little else that could explain it.
After all, ever since Randyll Tarly took King's Landing, the tales that spread of the "gate battle" had already proven Podrick's worth beyond doubt.
Legend said that the Seven had once walked the hills of Andalos in mortal form, crowning the "King of the Hills," Hugor, and promising his descendants a great kingdom in the promised land.
And now—
A man who bore the name of the Warrior stood before him.
Whoever gained his support… the implications were obvious.
Even though Robb himself followed the Old Gods, he understood what the Faith of the Seven represented in the south.
Everything surrounding Podrick—
Especially in these chaotic times when the Seven Kingdoms were in turmoil—
Made it impossible not to read deeper meaning into it.
If he could gain Podrick Payne's support…
If he could wield the name of the "Warrior," just as Hugor of the Hills once had—
Then…
Robb could already see it.
The Seven Kingdoms would fall into his grasp.
At that point, he would no longer be merely the King in the North.
He would be—
The true ruler of all Westeros.
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
Protector of the Realm.
And yet—
If the boy before him refused…
If he simply did not wish it—
Then everything could collapse just as easily.
Podrick, of course, had no idea that in just a few seconds, Robb Stark's thoughts had surged and crashed like a storm, filled with both ambition and unease.
Nor did he know that what he had done in King's Landing…
Had already turned him into something far greater in the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms.
Podrick rubbed his chin, trying to recall how the story might still unfold now that he had already altered its course, and continued calmly:
"I heard you sent Theon Greyjoy—Eddard Stark's ward—back to the Iron Islands, hoping he could persuade his father to join you?"
Still reeling from the earlier conversation, Robb Stark froze for a moment before quickly nodding.
Seeing his reaction, Podrick frowned slightly.
"I probably shouldn't say this… but for Sansa's sake, I think I should remind you."
"You should always be wary of the ironborn—wary of House Greyjoy. Those who do not produce will never stand with those who do. Their relationship is one of exploitation and being exploited. They are enemies—fundamentally opposed, irreconcilable."
"Think carefully about who truly shares your interests… who is worth trusting… and who your enemies are."
He didn't soften his tone.
"Do you really believe Balon Greyjoy would set his sights on Lannisport… instead of Winterfell?"
Podrick's bluntness made Robb's brows knit tightly.
"But Theon is my brother. We grew up together—"
He tried to argue, but Podrick cut him off without hesitation.
"Even those with Stark blood aren't guaranteed to be your brothers. Not even those who bear the Stark name. And yet you trust a Greyjoy?"
"You're betting everything… on human nature?"
The words were harsh—too harsh to accept easily. But though Robb fell silent, his expression showed he remained unconvinced.
Seeing that, Podrick didn't press further. He had done what he could.
He stood, leaving one final sentence behind:
"As a king, acting on impulse is unacceptable. Your reason must come before all else. And beyond iron and blood… what matters is whether you possess mercy and wisdom."
"That's all I'll say, Robb. If fate allows, we'll meet again. I just hope next time… it won't be before a grave or a pile of bones."
"And Grey Wind's head… is best left where it belongs—on its shoulders."
With that, he gave Robb—still stunned—a final glance, along with the silent direwolf at his side, then turned and left the tent, calling for his servant and squire to depart.
___
By evening, Jalabhar Xho had exhausted every argument he could think of.
He simply couldn't convince Podrick to return to Robb Stark—that doing so would guarantee a bright future.
After all, with both the Lannisters and Baratheons crippled by mutual destruction, anyone with eyes could see who the likely victor would be.
At this point, nothing seemed capable of stopping Robb Stark from advancing toward the highest seat of power.
Not even Robb himself.
King's Landing had fallen. Joffrey was captured. Tywin Lannister was forced into retreat. The Baratheon brothers had turned on each other, leaving only ruin in their wake. And though Stannis survived, he had lost the hearts of the people.
Across the realm, the once-overlooked young King in the North was now gathering unstoppable momentum.
Jalabhar would stake everything on it—if Podrick chose to support Robb, the boy would be only one step away from claiming the throne.
And Jalabhar himself would reap unimaginable rewards.
Yet at the very moment of certain victory—
The "investment" he had chosen… was walking away.
The frustration gnawed at him like losing a chest of gold.
---
By the end of the day, he was utterly dejected, on the verge of despair. So he simply gave up—closing his eyes like Podrick, letting his horse carry him forward while swallowing his bitterness.
That left only the inexperienced blacksmith's apprentice, Gendry, somehow becoming the leader of their three-man party.
Still learning how to ride properly, Gendry only realized something was wrong when he looked up at the sinking sun.
"Ser… Ser Payne… I think we might be going the wrong way…"
"Hm? What's wrong?"
Podrick, who had been riding with his eyes closed to avoid Jalabhar's constant nagging, opened them lazily—but saw nothing unusual.
Quiet countryside. No ambushes. No beasts. Everything seemed peaceful.
Until Gendry pointed ahead—toward the setting sun.
"I think… we've drifted off the main road. We've been heading west."
Podrick blinked—then suddenly laughed, even clapping his hands in delight.
"Wrong is good—very good! Then let's go to Lannisport. We'll take a ship from there."
Just like that, his next destination was decided.
"Take a ship?" Jalabhar turned, stunned. "My lord… where are we going?"
"To your home."
"…What?!"
"Yes—your home. Your homeland."
"You mean… the Summer Isles?!"
"Exactly. We'll sail from Lannisport all the way there," Podrick said, his voice brimming with excitement.
"Wasn't that why you came to King's Landing in the first place?"
Then, with a grin—
"So I'll start from there. First, I'll become King of the Summer Isles."
"Conquest—just like Aegon I Targaryen! We'll conquer everything we can see—march east!"
His laughter rang wild and free.
Jalabhar stared blankly.
"…But my lord… the Summer Isles are south."
"…Ah?"
Podrick froze.
"…Really?"
Jalabhar nodded silently.
Gendry, listening from the side, understood none of it.
Summer Isles? Conquest? Dragons?
It all sounded like nonsense.
He just slowed his horse, trying to ease his aching legs.
"I don't care!" Podrick suddenly shouted. "We're starting from here, so we are starting from here!"
"What better way is there to understand the world?!"
"And when I've conquered everything—I'll take you to ride dragons!"
His voice startled flocks of birds from the trees.
Dragons?
Jalabhar only saw a boy throwing a tantrum after being corrected.
After all, everyone knew dragons had been gone for over a century. Even House Targaryen had been wiped out years ago.
And just as this boy—destined to change the stagnant world—finally found his direction and declared it aloud…
Far away, in Rosby—
Tywin Lannister arrived with his main army.
Tens of thousands marched like a river of red and gold, flooding into the town.
Within an hour, the peaceful settlement was transformed into a military camp.
Homes were seized. Owners driven out. Resistance met with beatings—or worse.
Fields were stripped bare. Soldiers poured in, harvesting crops before pitching tents.
No one dared complain.
Those who did… now hung from gallows, their bodies swaying in the wind while crows circled hungrily above.
Even the castle of the ailing Lord Gyles Rosby was seized—turned into Tywin's war council chamber.
Inside, Tyrion Lannister walked the corridors with heavy steps.
No matter how heavy, the path always had an end.
Stopping before the study, he glanced at the unfamiliar guards.
New faces… Did Father's old captain die? Or something worse?
He felt a deep unease.
Truthfully… he didn't want to enter.
Perhaps he feared Tywin.
Perhaps he feared what he had lost—King's Landing, Cersei, Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen…
But some things couldn't be avoided.
He raised his hand to knock—
But before he could, the guard opened the door.
"My lord has been expecting you. No need to announce yourself."
Tyrion's hand froze midair. His forced smile turned bitter.
"…Thank you."
He stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the fading sunlight filtering through the window, illuminating part of the desk.
In the shadows beyond, a figure sat, head lowered, writing.
"F… Father."
Tyrion's voice was dry.
The only reply—
Was the scratch of quill on parchment.