Their stay in Lannisport dragged on for several more days.
But Podrick and the others weren't idle.
Once the decision to leave had been made, the real problem became how to do it.
The plan needed to strike a careful balance—
not too large, yet not too small.
Most importantly, it had to leave no trace of who was behind it.
That was Podrick's only requirement.
---
As the days passed, more and more news arrived from the south, and with it, more people flooded into the city.
The aftermath of the Battle of King's Landing was far more than a simple defeat. The fall of House Lannister had shaken confidence across the realm, and few believed the Westerlands could recover.
So people began to cut ties.
Especially those who had supported the Lannisters during the war—they were eager to distance themselves before the next king came to power and began settling accounts.
---
It wasn't just merchants.
Anyone who could leave, left.
Craftsmen not bound to noble households, laborers without land, wanderers, opportunists—
all gathered here, hoping to escape.
Within days, Lannisport became a convergence of the entire realm. People from every corner of Westeros filled its streets.
---
But this influx only made things worse for Stafford Lannister.
Enforcing Tywin Lannister's blockade was becoming harder by the day.
Recruitment notices were still posted everywhere, promising generous rewards.
But few were willing to answer the call.
---
After all, anyone with another way to survive would never choose to become a soldier—
not for a cause that already looked doomed.
No matter how tempting the offer.
---
Worse still—
Desertions had begun.
Every night, more men slipped away.
Even maintaining basic training for the new recruits was becoming impossible for Stafford Lannister.
The soldiers who hadn't fled were, for the most part, young farmers drawn from lands under House Lannister's control, or peasants from nearby territories still loyal to them.
But everyone understood the cost of that decision.
It was nothing short of draining the well to quench thirst.
Training a soldier was difficult—but so was cultivating a capable farmer. Every experienced farmer was a lord's most valuable asset. Even the most foolish lord would hesitate before pulling them from the fields.
Yet Stafford Lannister had no choice.
The situation in King's Landing was dire. He needed to raise fresh troops for Tywin Lannister as quickly as possible.
Even if Tywin still commanded the finest, intact forces of the Westerlands—
Reinforcements were no longer optional.
---
At that moment, Stafford sat in his study, clawing at his scalp, desperately trying to figure out where to find more men.
Then—
A sharp knock.
Before he could respond, the door was pushed open.
His captain of the guard rushed in, face tense.
---
"What is it?" Stafford snapped immediately. "Recruitment? Still no progress? Those mercenaries still refusing to serve the Lannisters?"
The barrage of questions caught the man off guard. He froze for a moment, then shook his head, breathing heavily.
"My lord… the taverns by the docks… there's one in particular…"
"A tavern?" Stafford frowned. "At this hour?"
"Yes, my lord. People are gathering—more and more by the minute."
"Merchants, mercenaries… all heading there. It doesn't look like drinking. It looks like… trouble."
---
Even Stafford understood.
His expression hardened.
All thoughts of recruitment vanished.
He slammed his hand on the table and stood up in one motion.
"Call the troops."
"I'll deal with this myself."
"Arrest anyone causing trouble. If they won't serve the Lannisters willingly—then we'll make them."
---
Orders were sent out immediately.
But nearly twenty minutes passed before he managed to assemble fewer than five hundred men.
Still—enough.
More than enough to crush a gathering of civilians.
Mounted at the front, Stafford led his troops out through the castle gates, the sound of armored boots and hooves echoing through the streets.
The morning air was thick with mist.
Beyond the city, waves crashed against the harbor, ships swaying gently in the wind.
The tavern in question wasn't the one Podrick had visited earlier.
This one stood closer to the docks.
And outside it—
A sea of people.
They packed together shoulder to shoulder, all staring toward a raised spot ahead.
There, standing atop a stack of wooden crates, was a young man.
Not particularly tall. Brown hair tied back loosely, with a single lock falling over his forehead. A small patch of beard sat between his nose and lips.
He spoke with force, his voice ringing clear, gestures sharp and deliberate.
Every movement carried rhythm.
Every word struck like a hammer.
The crowd was strangely quiet.
Not calm—but charged.
Excited.
Waiting.
"Have you been to the market?" the man shouted.
"Do you know how much a loaf of bread costs now?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
Instead, he raised his hand—five fingers spread wide.
"This much! This much!"
"And what did that buy us before?"
"A mug of ale, a bowl of stew with meat on the bone, three fresh loaves—and enough left to enjoy ourselves after!"
Silence.
"But now?"
"It's gone!"
His hand clenched, leaving only one finger pointing skyward.
"Because those who were supposed to lead us dragged the Riverlands into war… and lost everything."
He paused deliberately, his brown eyes sweeping across the crowd.
"And what do they do now?"
"They trap us here. Control us. Drain us—to make up for their losses!"
His voice rose.
"So tell me—what is that, if not treason?"
"The Lannisters have betrayed us!"
The words struck like a drumbeat.
For a moment, the crowd hesitated—
Then erupted.
These were people whose livelihoods were tied to Lannisport—people directly hurt by the blockade.
They had no way to resist.
Until now.
And once someone stepped forward—
The merchants were the first to respond.
Their cheers were loudest.
Most eager.
"Their army is broken, so now they want us to fight for them!"
"Their economy collapses, so they use our wealth to fill the gap!"
"War destroys our homes—takes our lives!"
He slammed his fist downward.
"Tell me—who among you wants to be the sacrifice?"
"To be crushed under someone else's ambition?"
His voice was hoarse now, raw with intensity.
"Yes, they are stronger."
"But we have dignity."
"We are not cattle."
"So let them be the sacrifice!"
The energy peaked—
Then suddenly—
Fell.
The crowd went quiet again.
Not inspired this time.
Skeptical.
A burly mercenary with a thick beard stepped forward, his broken teeth showing as he sneered.
"And how exactly do we do that?"
The crowd turned back toward the speaker.
Many already recognized him—a young merchant who had been making connections all over the city in recent days, spreading word of this gathering.
He had promised answers.
Now he had to deliver.
---
The young man didn't flinch.
Slowly, he raised his hand again—this time forming a fist.
"Through unity."
"Like this."
"Only when we stand together can we strike back."
"There are more of us than them—ten times, a hundred times over!"
"Victory will be ours!"
It sounded convincing.
It felt convincing.
But reason and reality were rarely the same.
The crowd fell silent again.
Then—
Laughter.
"Why should we risk it?"
"Who goes first?"
"He just wants us to die for him."
"A clever little bastard."
Doubt spread quickly.
The speech faltered.
But the young man remained steady.
"I know what you're thinking."
"So I'll go first."
"I'll lead the charge."
Before anyone could respond—
The sound of marching boots cut through the air.
A force of Lannister soldiers surged toward the docks.
"That's him!"
Within the ranks, the captain pointed directly at the man atop the crates.
He had been watching him for days.
That peculiar beard was hard to forget.
But Stafford Lannister barely glanced at the speaker.
His attention was on the crowd.
On the mass of people gathered together.
For a brief moment—
He hesitated.
Then his expression hardened.
"Arrest them all."
"Anyone who resists—kill them."
In that instant, temptation won.
To him, this wasn't a riot.
It was opportunity.
A net full of fish.
If he seized them all—labeled them traitors or criminals—
Every problem he faced would disappear.
The wealth was secondary.
Tempting, yes—but not decisive.
What mattered were the people.
The manpower.
The supplies they carried.
With that—
Stafford Lannister smiled.