Chapter 167 — The Lannisport Riot, Departure
At Stafford Lannister's command, the several hundred soldiers he had brought surged forward at once, spilling out toward the docks like a breaking tide.
Only then did the crowd gathered on the harbor square begin to notice the approaching Lannister troops—and the unmistakable hostility in their advance.
Most of the people there had no idea what was about to happen. They had simply heard rumors in markets and taverns and come instinctively. For merchants especially, information was lifeblood. If you couldn't sense opportunity—or danger—before others, you had no business trading at all.
But from the moment the speech began, to the seditious tone of its words, and now the sudden arrival of armed soldiers, realization finally dawned.
And by then, it was too late.
Whether innocent or not, everyone had already been swept into the same tide. There was no room left for regret.
Panic spread instantly. People scattered like headless flies, pushing and shoving in all directions. What had been a loosely ordered gathering collapsed into chaos in the blink of an eye.
---
Because Stafford's order was to arrest, not slaughter, the soldiers did not draw blades. Instead, under their officers' commands, they used clubs, spear shafts, and shields to drive the crowd back, cutting off escape routes and tightening the encirclement.
There were thousands gathered there—three, perhaps four thousand—more than ten times the number of soldiers.
But numbers meant little.
These were common folk, merchants, laborers—how could they stand against even poorly trained troops?
Under the pressure of the advancing formation, some people fled blindly, others bolted in whatever direction seemed open, but more simply froze, trapped in the crush, unable to move even if they knew where to go.
From above, the scene resembled sheep being herded. A small mass of red-and-gold pressed inward, forcing a sprawling, chaotic crowd into ever tighter space.
Inevitably, people began to surge toward the docks. Some, caught in the press, were shoved straight into the water before they could react, vanishing with splashes one after another.
A few tried to resist, but without coordination, their efforts collapsed instantly.
They couldn't run.
They couldn't fight.
What was left?
Amid the chaos, in an unremarkable corner of the crowd, the young man with the small mustache—the one who had been speaking moments ago—had already slipped down from his perch.
He moved through the mass of bodies with unnatural ease. Where others were trapped, he simply pushed forward, and a path opened before him as though the crowd itself yielded.
As he walked, his hands worked at his face. His neatly tied brown hair was loosened and fell messily over his shoulders, and the small mustache was torn off and discarded without a trace.
In a matter of moments, the composed young merchant vanished, replaced by an ordinary street youth.
Only his brown eyes remained unchanged—calm, steady, out of place for his apparent age.
---
Now revealed as Podrick Payne, he moved against the flow, scanning the surroundings. It took only a few glances before he found what he was looking for.
A narrow alley by the docks.
At its entrance stood several burly men, blocking the way. Even in the chaos, no one had managed to push through.
Podrick stepped into the alley.
A familiar bearded mercenary emerged from the shadows, his earlier mockery gone, replaced by a fawning grin.
"My lord… about that…"
He rubbed his hands together, posture bent in ingratiation, though the greed in his eyes was impossible to hide.
Podrick said nothing at first. His gaze swept the alley, then settled on the man. With a flick of his hand, a leather pouch jingling with coin flew through the air.
"Your second payment."
The mercenary caught it instantly, spilling the contents into his palm. Gold gleamed. He weighed it, satisfied, then stuffed it away with care.
When he looked up again, the hunger in his eyes had only grown.
Podrick glanced once toward the chaos outside, then raised three fingers.
"One last job. The best pay yet."
"Simple question—are you in?"
The mercenary's eyes lit up, but he forced a hesitant expression.
"My lord… it's not that I won't, but if I do this, I'll never be able to stay in the Westerlands again. That's the Lannisters we're talking about…"
The performance was smooth—clearly well practiced.
But Podrick had no patience for it.
"Enough."
His voice cut through the act like a blade.
"The Lannisters don't need you. Never have. To them, you're nothing but scavengers."
"The ones who pay you—feed you—are merchants like us."
"And if you think you can play games now, you'll find there's nowhere left in this world to earn a living. Not even across the Narrow Sea."
He stepped closer, voice cold.
"And don't pretend this isn't your chance too."
The threat landed.
The mercenary felt a chill run down his spine. For a brief moment, the young man before him no longer seemed human, but something far more dangerous.
And the truth in those words shattered whatever greed-clouded hesitation remained.
He turned, exchanging looks with the others in the alley—men with dyed hair, hard eyes, and sharpened instincts.
One by one, they nodded.
"My lord… we're in."
"Good," Podrick said calmly. "Don't disappoint us. This is the only chance any of us get."
Without another word, he turned and disappeared back into the crowd.
The bearded mercenary watched him go, throat bobbing unconsciously. Only after he was gone did he straighten, spitting to the side as if to reclaim some dignity.
"Bloody merchants—"
"Shut it," someone snapped.
A thin man with a blue-dyed goatee crouched nearby, idly cleaning his knife.
"I'll signal my men. No time to waste."
Others echoed the sentiment, their eyes lingering on the gold the mercenary had just pocketed.
Faced with their stares, he could only grit his teeth.
This wasn't just a job for the merchants.
It was an opportunity for all of them.
With a sharp motion, he grabbed the metal whistle at his neck and blew.
The piercing sound cut through the chaos of the docks, clear and unmistakable.
Behind the advancing troops, Stafford Lannister watched as his soldiers swept through the crowd, capturing people as easily as snaring chickens.
A satisfied smile spread across his face.
At first, Stafford Lannister didn't react.
When that strange whistle cut through the noise, he merely glanced around in confusion, saw nothing unusual, and lowered his head again. It took him several seconds before the unease caught up with him, and when he finally turned to look properly—
His expression froze.
From the maze of alleys surrounding the docks, men were pouring out—one after another, like ants from a broken nest. Mercenaries. Dozens, then hundreds of them.
They wore mismatched armor—chainmail, leather, bits of plate scavenged from who knew where—colors clashing, styles inconsistent, yet unmistakably real. And in their hands were weapons that no one could mistake for decoration.
Blades. Spears. Clubs.
Tools of killing.
The moment they emerged, they formed into small groups with practiced ease, then surged forward without hesitation, crashing straight into the Lannister soldiers.
They struck with ruthless precision.
Every blow was meant not to kill—but to cripple.
To break.
The soldiers, already entangled with the panicked crowd, stood no chance.
These "troops" had barely been trained—farmers in armor, good enough to beat unarmed civilians into submission, but utterly unprepared for real fighters.
Against seasoned mercenaries, they might as well have been children.
Within minutes, the formation collapsed.
Within half an hour, the several hundred Lannister soldiers had been completely routed—shields dropped, weapons scattered, discipline shattered.
The mercenaries did not slaughter them.
But they did not show mercy either.
When the chaos subsided, the docks were carpeted with broken bodies—arms twisted, legs shattered, men groaning in pain. Equipment lay strewn everywhere, mixed with the red-and-gold of fallen soldiers.
Cries of agony echoed across the harbor.
And in the midst of it all—
Stafford Lannister could do nothing.
Because he himself had already been dragged down, beaten, bound like an animal, and hoisted onto a ship—hung from the mast like a piece of cargo.
The sea breeze swayed him gently.
Bruised, battered, eyes swollen—
But very much alive.
He wanted to speak.
To shout.
To command.
But he couldn't.
Some bastard had stuffed a filthy rag—likely used for scrubbing decks—into his mouth. All that escaped him were muffled, furious groans.
This absurd defeat—
This farce of a collapse—
Left his heart bleeding.
Even if he survived… how was he supposed to explain this to Tywin Lannister?
A meaningless riot.
A failed suppression.
And just like that, everything Tywin had planned was undone.
As despair and rage welled up inside him, almost enough to bring tears to his eyes—
A calm voice sounded nearby.
"How are the preparations?"
"All done, my lord," came the reply.
Following the motion of the ship, Stafford twisted just enough to see.
A young man stood before him—brown hair, brown eyes, composed beyond reason.
Beside him stood an older man, grey-haired, slightly hunched, a faint smile always lingering on his lips.
Qyburn.
It was his voice.
Behind them stood two more figures.
Stafford recognized them instantly.
They were the ones who had dragged him from his horse, beaten him senseless, and tied him up.
One was a young man—tall, powerfully built, black-haired and brown-eyed—who had knocked his captain unconscious in a single blow.
The other—
A dark-skinned man with brown eyes.
He had been the one tying the ropes.
"Everything was moved aboard last night," Qyburn continued smoothly. "Anything we couldn't take has already been converted into coin."
"Mm."
The young man nodded.
At that moment, Stafford began struggling violently, muffled curses bursting from behind the rag in his mouth.
The sound caught Podrick's attention.
He glanced over.
Recognition flickered.
The "merchant" from the speech.
Stafford's eyes widened as realization struck, his muffled shouting growing more frantic.
But Podrick only gave him a brief, indifferent glance before turning away again, as if he were nothing more than background noise.
"Hoist him higher," Podrick said calmly.
"I want every Lannister ship in the harbor to see him clearly."
"With this… leaving Lannisport shouldn't be a problem."
He paused, then added almost casually—
"Oh, and make sure they know who he is."
"Find a couple of sailors with loud voices. Tell the Lannister fleet we won't harm him. As long as they let us leave, we'll release him along the coast."
"They can pick him up afterward."
The wind carried his words across the deck.
And with them—
The last piece of the plan fell into place.