Chapter 456: Beating the Clock

The choir's hymns came to an end, and the nobles within the Sept rose to their feet.

Tyrion Lannister scanned the crowd for Roose Bolton once more, only to be surrounded by a swarm of mourners.

Lady Anya Waynwood kissed his cheek. The portly heir of White Harbor gave him a fishy-smelling embrace. A Frey began shamelessly flattering the Lannisters, while the fire mage Hallyne promised spectacular fireworks over King's Landing when Tywin Lannister's remains were sent west to Casterly Rock.

Tyrion doubted the fireworks would ever come to pass. King's Landing was encircled by Caesar's army, and Tywin's remains leaving the city was far from guaranteed.

None of it mattered right now.

As Tyrion tried to shake off the buzzing crowd of sycophants, his search for Roose Bolton proved fruitless. The Dreadfort lord had not shown up to the memorial for the late Hand of the King.

Does he suspect something? Tyrion wondered, taken aback by Bolton's apparent caution.

At that moment, Varys approached, speaking in a low voice.

"I've found the Stark sisters. We're only waiting on your arrangements."

Tyrion rolled his eyes.

"Don't bother. Roose Bolton didn't even show up."

"Didn't come?" Varys frowned and scanned the room. Confirming Bolton's absence, he muttered, "Could the news have leaked? No, that's impossible…"

Tyrion's expression turned contemplative.

"Maybe Bolton's defiance was all an act. He might be the first to recognize the changing tide."

Varys blinked, a spark of understanding in his eyes.

Just then, a knight strode into the Sept, stopping before King Tommen.

"Your Grace, Lord Roose Bolton has opened the western gates and surrendered his forces to Caesar."

The announcement was like a thunderclap in the Sept. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Young King Tommen appeared more bewildered than frightened, turning instinctively to his mother. But Cersei's face was pale, her body trembling so violently she could barely remain upright.

"Mother…"

"Traitor!" Cersei hissed through clenched teeth, but beyond that, she seemed at a loss.

The noise around her surged like a relentless tide, drowning her fragile composure. She felt adrift, helpless amidst the chaos. Instinctively, she sought the anchor that had always steadied House Lannister—her father. But Tywin was dead.

The lion's pride had fallen.

"Lord Bolton acted decisively," Varys observed with a sigh. "Now you're left without a gift for Caesar. Instead, Bolton has delivered King's Landing itself as his offering."

Tyrion chuckled lightly, appearing unfazed.

"Bolton may be quick, but Caesar isn't a child. This gift might not earn him the rewards he seeks."

Without another word, Tyrion pushed through the chattering nobles and approached Tommen.

"Your Grace," he said loudly, "it's time to end this war. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I… I don't want to fight anymore," Tommen stammered, shrinking into himself.

"Good. Then let us go together to greet the Storm King outside the city."

"You're not taking my son anywhere!" Cersei suddenly grabbed Tommen's hand.

"He's not just your son—he belongs to the Seven Kingdoms," Tyrion retorted, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "Of course, as the Queen Regent, you're welcome to join us in meeting the Storm King."

You're a traitor too, Cersei seethed silently, hatred burning in her heart. But under Tyrion's piercing stare, she dared not defy him outright.

"Fine," she said tersely, masking her anger. Inside, she vowed to remember this humiliation.

Tyrion smirked, satisfied, and took his nephew's hand.

"Come along," he said, leading Tommen toward the exit.

The nobles parted like water before them.

At the doors of the Sept, Tyrion turned back and called out:

"Who else wishes to join us in greeting the Storm King?"

A brief silence followed before the nobles began voicing their assent.

"I'll come with you!"

"I am honored to follow Your Grace's lead!"

"Ah, I've long admired the Storm King. Naturally, I must meet him!"

By now, everyone understood that Caesar's ascension to power was inevitable.

There was no room for bargaining or resistance. Any further struggle would only make them appear foolish.

Whatever their true feelings, the nobles had no choice but to follow the procession out of the Great Sept and head westward.

---

In the camp outside the city, Samwell was sharing lunch with Lord Randyll Tarly when the news of Roose Bolton's surrender reached them.

"So Bolton moved even faster than Tyrion Lannister," Samwell mused.

"Bolton is dangerous," Randyll commented.

Samwell nodded silently, well aware of the Dreadfort lord's reputation.

"But now that he's surrendered, we can't act against him," Randyll said, setting down his knife and fork. Wiping his mouth, he rose to his feet. "I'll go ensure the army is ready in case of treachery."

Samwell doubted Bolton could muster any last-minute tricks at this stage, but he didn't object to his father's caution.

"All right," he said with a nod. Then he turned to the messenger. "If Lord Bolton is sincere in his surrender, have him come to meet me personally."

"Yes, Your Grace," the messenger replied before departing.

Samwell had barely resumed his meal when a middle-aged man entered the camp, escorted by guards.

The man wore a simple gray padded coat adorned with the sigil of House Bolton—a flayed man on a pale pink field. His pale, milky eyes gave him an unsettling gaze.

"It's an honor to meet you, Your Grace," the man said softly, his tone measured and calm. "I am Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North."

This was Samwell's first time meeting the infamous lord in person, though he had long heard tales of him.

It has to be said that if Samwell had not known this man's true identity for a long time, he would probably have thought that Roose Bolton was a gentle, old-fashioned gentleman.

"Take a seat, Lord Bolton," Samwell said, gesturing to the table. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"Not yet."

"Then join me."

"I'd be honored," Bolton replied, seating himself at the table.

A servant brought out a freshly roasted rack of lamb and poured him a glass of brandy.

As Samwell sliced into his own lamb, he asked casually:

"Tell me, Lord Bolton, why did you choose to surrender?"

Bolton chewed thoughtfully on a piece of lamb before answering in his soft, deliberate voice:

"Your Grace, though I am a simple man, even I can see that House Lannister is finished. This war is lost, and I have never been one to fight a battle doomed to failure."

(End of Chapter)