Chapter 158: I Didn't Fight This War to Win a Throne for Robert II
Stannis Baratheon—a man stern and humorless, taciturn and rigid, driven by a well-known sense of justice, yet utterly incapable of compromise.
Stubborn. Unforgiving. Cold.
Tyrion Lannister recalled his brief dealings with him during his time in King's Landing.
"Everyone knows how unapproachable Stannis is. No one wants a man like that as a friend—let alone as king," the dwarf muttered.
"A fair assessment," Tywin Lannister nodded. "And now that he's killed his own brother, even fewer would ever kneel to him."
"We must seize this opportunity—quickly."
Tywin Lannister was ruthless, calculating, and unmatched when it came to grasping opportunity.
Even in the bleakest of situations, he could carve out a path to survival.
Tyrion clicked his tongue softly.
"So, that means our likely allies are the Westerlands and Dorne… As for the Vale, perhaps they'll show some stance—but at the very least, they won't become outright enemies."
"And then there's Dragonstone, Storm's End… and Robb Stark's northern host."
With the pieces falling into place, Tyrion quickly organized the situation in his mind.
But Tywin murmured again:
"Not all."
"Who else?" Tyrion raised a brow.
Tywin's cold gaze fell on him once more.
For no reason at all, Tyrion felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"The Iron Islands. After you finish your business in the Vale, you will go there immediately."
Another deal?
But… with them?
Tyrion's brows twisted deeply, unease rising in his chest.
"…And who is it this time?" he asked cautiously. "Tommen?"
Tywin's lips moved slightly, his voice calm and flat:
"No. You."
"Balon Greyjoy has a daughter. You will become her husband."
Of course.
The moment he heard that name, Tyrion's heart leapt to his throat.
The ruthless Lord of Casterly Rock spared no one—not even his own son.
Why would Tyrion ever expect otherwise?
He laughed—bitterly.
"I imagine he'd throw me into the sea the moment we met, as an offering to his god."
"A dwarf… and worse, a Lannister dwarf. Don't you think that's nothing but an insult to him?"
He spoke plainly, exposing Tywin's intent.
After all, the whole realm knew that Balon Greyjoy's rebellion had ended in failure.
His eldest son, Rodrik, and second son, Maron, had died in the war.
His third son, Theon Greyjoy, had been taken by Eddard Stark as a hostage.
Since then, Balon had withdrawn to the Iron Islands, silent and brooding.
Yet in the face of Tyrion's accusation, Tywin merely snorted.
"If he does that," he said coldly, "then all the better."
Tyrion heard the undisguised mockery in his father's tone.
His jaw tightened. A flush rose to his face as he stood abruptly.
"If you want me dead, you need only say the word. There are plenty who would gladly do it for you."
"No need to go through all this trouble—using others as your blade."
Fury burned through him.
Tyrion rose from his seat, no longer willing to remain another moment.
Turning sharply, he strode toward the door.
There had never been a moment he hated this place more—
Because in it stood a man named Tywin Lannister…
A father who showed nothing but undisguised contempt for his own son.
Yet in the face of Tyrion Lannister's defiance, Tywin Lannister merely watched his limping retreating figure.
He flipped his hand over and tapped the desk—thud, thud.
The sound echoed like a warning more than an explanation.
"You lose a war… and then think you can walk away as if none of it concerns you?"
"Cersei, her three children, and the Iron Throne—all lost under your watch. This is your punishment."
"So long as you walk out that door…"
"You are nothing but a dwarf."
"No longer a Lannister."
Tyrion froze mid-step.
"House Lannister has no need for those who shirk responsibility."
That calm, almost gentle voice struck like thunder in his ears.
"You're sending me to die!"
Tyrion ground the words out between clenched teeth.
For once, even Tywin showed a flicker of emotion.
The lion roared back.
"Jaime is suffering the same threat—because of you!"
A father's words—yet sharper than any blade.
They plunged straight into Tyrion's heart.
He couldn't breathe.
And the knife didn't stop there—it twisted, tearing deeper into what little remained.
"You killed your mother. Now you would doom your brother and your sister as well."
"Do you think I need a son like that?"
"If I could trade you for him, I would do so without hesitation."
"Unfortunately, Robb Stark won't give me that chance."
Tyrion stood there in silence.
Fists clenched.
Body trembling.
Tywin did not care.
"Robert Baratheon killed his sons. Even his youngest became Eddard Stark's hostage—dressed up as a 'ward.'"
"If Balon Greyjoy wishes to vent his anger by killing you, I would gladly allow it."
"In the end, I don't care what you become—whether a corpse to appease him, or a somewhat useful hostage."
"Your best option… is to become Asha Greyjoy's husband."
"Perhaps she'll enjoy keeping a dwarf at her side."
Winter had not yet come—
But Tyrion's heart had already frozen.
"Do you know why you've achieved so much… yet are loved by no one, Father?"
"Your enemies call you humorless, narrow-minded, cold, arrogant… cruel."
"Your bannermen respect you, follow you in peace and war… yet none truly befriend you."
Tywin remained unmoved.
"A lion does not concern himself with the opinion of sheep."
"I have never cared what others think."
"Every tool has its purpose. Every task requires the proper tool."
"You have no choice, Tyrion."
"..."
Tyrion said nothing.
He closed his eyes, pain etched into every line of his face.
"I want the Ironborn to attack the North," Tywin continued coldly.
"No matter how you do it—use that clever mind of yours, that silver tongue."
"Buy us time. Tie down Robb Stark. Prevent him from marching west."
"Ser Stafford Lannister is already raising a new army at Lannisport. He won't need long."
And then—
Tyrion laughed.
A low, sharp sound.
He turned back, standing in the shadows, staring at the man seated beyond the candlelight.
"And what if Balon Greyjoy wants nothing from you…"
"And instead chooses to ally with Robb Stark?"
"To strike at Casterly Rock—or Lannisport?"
"As I recall, his ward is practically brothers with your 'Young Wolf.'"
"And I hear Robb has already sent him to Pyke to persuade his father."
"You're placing me on the scales…"
"But I'm not heavy enough."
Tyrion lifted the parchment still in his hand, giving it a slight shake.
"So perhaps… you'd best wait until I succeed in winning you that bride surrounded by suitors."
This time, he didn't hesitate.
He turned—and left.
The door closed.
Tywin remained seated at his desk, staring into the flickering candlelight.
The expensive wax burned with a faint, refined fragrance—meant to sharpen focus.
After a long silence, his voice finally broke the stillness.
"I did not wage this war… to win a crown for Robert II."
From the Gods Eye to Lannisport, the simplest path was not a straight line through the mountains.
To the north lay the River Road.
To the south, the Gold Road.
Both far easier routes.
But though the war had begun shifting south after the fall of King's Landing…
The Riverlands were still steeped in chaos.
So Podrick Payne and his companions chose the Gold Road instead.
Safer. Simpler.
Along the way, there were far fewer stragglers than before.
And as they moved west, farms and fields became more common.
The farther they traveled, the more the war seemed to fade—
As if that hellish land they had crossed days ago had only been a dream.
---
As for Jalabhar Xho—
His mood had completely turned around.
Once disappointed that Podrick refused to stay with Robb Stark…
Now, hearing they would head toward his homeland—
He was practically glowing.
His dark face split into a wide grin, sycophantic as a dog begging for scraps.
Because now—
He truly believed he might return home.
Strength aside—
After that rainy night of fighting together, he already knew exactly what kind of man Podrick was.
But more importantly—
It was Podrick's connections.
With both the Lannisters… and the Starks.
No matter who claimed the Iron Throne—
Podrick Payne would hold influence.
Power.
A place.
Jalabhar knew—
He had made the right gamble.
And now, there was no one more loyal than him.
"Payne—Lord Payne!"
He grabbed a waterskin and hurried over.
"Where is your family's land? Will you return home before leaving?"
Podrick, resting against a tree with eyes half-closed, was interrupted.
He frowned slightly—but couldn't bring himself to snap.
That eager grin was too ridiculous.
"I don't know."
He answered without hesitation, taking the water and sipping lightly.
And he truly didn't.
Though born a noble—
House Payne was nothing more than a minor house.
And he, a distant branch, had gained nothing from it.
Except once—
When Kevan Lannister saved him from the gallows.
Beyond that?
Nothing.
The original Podrick might have known his family's lands.
But the current one?
Didn't even care.
After all—
He had already beheaded the head of House Payne…
And gifted it to Sansa Stark.
And the Stark family's Valyrian steel greatsword—
Ice—
Was now in his possession.
Robb Stark had even offered:
Return the sword—and he would grant land, unconditionally.
Enough land to found a house.
Even a kingdom.
Podrick refused.
Without hesitation.
What use was land to him?
He had no base. No plans to settle.
If he wanted territory—
He'd take it himself.
And even if he accepted—
How would he manage it?
Winter was coming.
Besides—
The sword was rightfully his.
Taken from the royal executioner who had killed Eddard Stark.
And on top of that—
He had returned Robb's sisters.
So Robb had no grounds to demand it back.
In the end—
The Valyrian steel greatsword Ice…
Had, in all but name—
Become a Payne heirloom.