Chapter 72: Hints and Warnings
"I'm not talking about Cersei," Tyrion snapped.
"I'm talking about Joffrey."
"Listen to me—he cannot hear even a whisper of this. If he does, he'll have your head mounted beside Eddard Stark's, just so our former Lord of Winterfell won't feel lonely!"
Seeing Tyrion both frantic and furious, Podrick felt a faint warmth in his chest and couldn't help smiling.
"You're absolutely right, Lord Tyrion," he said gently.
"Though I should remind you—Lord Stark was also your predecessor as Hand of the King. As for Joffrey, rest assured, I have no intention of telling him any of this personally."
As he spoke, Podrick reached out, lifted the dwarf down from the stone bench he was standing on, and gave him a light pat on the head.
"But there is one thing, Lord Tyrion," Podrick continued, his tone growing serious,
"—one problem you may be overlooking."
At that, he dropped the playful expression entirely and gave Bronn and the others—who were happily spectating—a brief nod.
Tyrion frowned.
"What problem?"
"People."
"…Which people?"
"I don't know yet. Either Varys, or Littlefinger. It can't be your dear sister—at least, not on her own. As far as I know, there aren't many who could know about this."
Podrick's gaze deepened. As he withdrew his hand, he casually wiped it on Tyrion's sleeve—apparently having noticed that the man's hair oil was rich enough to cook with.
"We need to understand why Cersei suddenly summoned me. Up until now, you've been the one standing in front, absorbing the pressure. I do the work, you take the heat—that's our understanding."
"Even today, at the Small Council, I played the blind man and the mute. I left everything to you."
"But look at her behavior," Podrick went on.
"She didn't act like someone in the dark. In fact, if you noticed, during the meeting she looked like she wanted to devour me whole."
"Well, I admit I do have a certain… appeal. Dashing looks, natural charisma—perhaps she was drawn in by my scholarly temperament—"
"Stop."
Even Tyrion wasn't slow enough to miss the implication this time.
His expression tightened as the weight of it sank in.
He didn't believe Cersei had the intelligence to orchestrate something like this deliberately—not that she wouldn't, but that she wouldn't do it in such a blunt, thoughtless way.
At the very least, she would have been subtle.
She would have turned off the lights.
And yet—this had been anything but subtle.
The more Tyrion thought about it, the more wrong it felt. Cersei's actions today were crude, rushed—like she'd overheard something she shouldn't have, panicked, and acted immediately.
As if it were all… a sudden impulse.
And judging by Podrick's explanation, it didn't seem as though Cersei had any particular objections to what he had done at all—rather, she was interested in him, in his capabilities.
Of course, drawing Podrick into her own camp would have been part of the bargain. This was simply the method she chose.
After all, a woman willing to spread her legs possesses one of the finest weapons in the world.
Tyrion was suddenly reminded of a joke he'd once read in some book—he couldn't remember where:
"Between a man's legs lies the devil; between a woman's legs lies hell.
Lock the devil in hell, and we can both ascend to heaven."
"So what you're saying," Tyrion said, rubbing his temples,
"is that someone fed our dear queen a few choice words?"
He paused, then added, "And you're suggesting Littlefinger?"
Tyrion's instincts were sharp—but Podrick shook his head.
"The eunuch can't be ruled out either. We all know where he was, of course, but sometimes an alibi is the best disguise a schemer can wear."
"What I'm saying, my lord, is that you should keep your guard up."
Tyrion nodded silently and sank into thought.
Recently, he and Podrick had worked in near-perfect tandem—one playing the benevolent face, the other the ruthless hand; one acting openly, the other in shadow. Together, they had seized control of King's Landing's military power—and more than a few other levers besides.
That alone was enough to make certain people uneasy.
After all, on the surface, Podrick should have been detested by Cersei. Brutal, reckless, bloody—he was the sort of man she usually treated like a hound: useful, expendable, a sharp blade to be wielded and discarded. Like Sandor or Gregor Clegane.
Why would she care about such a man?
And yet—precisely at this moment, after all their careful maneuvering, she had made an abrupt move, one that seemed designed to drive a wedge between them.
Of course, this was only speculation. It was also possible that Cersei truly had acted on impulse.
Tyrion glanced up at Podrick again.
He wasn't sure what the boy had been eating lately, but his growth had been unsettlingly rapid. His physique had hardened, his features sharpened—and paired with that strange, indefinable presence he carried, Tyrion found himself reluctant to draw easy conclusions.
After all, Tyrion knew his sister well. She had always judged people by appearances.
As a girl, she'd fallen for Rhaegar's looks and bearing. Later, she'd maintained an uncomfortably close relationship with her handsome twin brother. And she had never hidden her loathing for Tyrion himself—ugly, twisted, and misshapen in her eyes.
And to make matters worse…
Podrick was unnaturally gifted in certain areas.
What kind of man visited brothels without paying?
Yet Podrick somehow managed it.
Beyond that, there was something else—an odd charisma, an ease with people. Whether it was Shagga, Bronn, Timett, Chella, the hill tribes, or even hardened sellswords, everyone seemed to get along with him.
Most unsettling of all was that Podrick appeared to possess a natural magnetism.
Especially toward women.
The thought made Tyrion grind his teeth.
Seeing Tyrion's expression swing between contemplation, irritation, and outright frustration, Podrick could only shrug.
"It's just a thought," he said.
"After all, today's Small Council was the first time Cersei and I ever formally met."
And he meant it.
Everything that had happened today was strange enough to warrant caution.
Since arriving in King's Landing, Podrick had deliberately avoided direct contact with people like Cersei, Littlefinger, and Varys—yet today, Cersei had seized upon his one exposed weakness.
Of course, Podrick wasn't the sort to be manipulated without safeguards. He had left himself a way out.
Tyrion heard the implication clearly—and it only deepened his frown.
The war ravaging the Seven Kingdoms was bad enough, but King's Landing alone was a churning vortex of intrigue, exhaustion, and unseen currents.
How many Hands of the King—aside from his father—had ended well?
The position itself seemed cursed.
From the moment he'd taken it, Tyrion had felt as though he were walking on thin ice, predators lurking in every shadow, waiting for the chance to strike.
He didn't know who was friend or foe—or who might turn from one into the other in the blink of an eye.
The thoughts clamored in his head like a room full of arguing voices.
His temples throbbed.
He was tired of thinking.
Right now, all he wanted was Shae. She must have been waiting for him.
"Enough," Tyrion said at last, rubbing his temples and taking a deep breath.
"Let's leave this for now. Walls have ears."
"Come with me."
He waved a hand and turned away, limping slightly, his steps heavy.
"My blacksmith friends have probably been waiting long enough."
Seeing him like this, even Bronn and the others—who'd been quietly enjoying the spectacle—exchanged glances.
Podrick shook his head and said nothing more.
He had already given all the warning he could.
As for what came next?
Well—
If soldiers came, he would meet them with steel.
If floods came, he would build dikes.
That was all there was to it.