Chapter 76 — Just in Time
The people of King's Landing had their share of strange customs and sayings. Things like: You're already here, it's the new year, the kid's still young, it's for your own good, it's not easy, but the kid's getting older, and people die.
Podrick didn't know how many more there were, but since he'd come all this way, shouldn't he poke around a bit?
Besides, the eunuch was still busy having his "appointment" with Tyrion. Pod had already dropped a complication in Varys' lap: unless the Spider gave a satisfying explanation regarding Barra and her mother, Tyrion would never again place blind trust in him.
For a man with that many secrets stuffed beneath his robes—whatever kind of man he truly was—being shut out of Tyrion's confidence was something Varys could not afford.
A clever cook can do nothing without ingredients; if Varys wanted to accomplish anything in King's Landing, this was a hurdle he could not sidestep.
Otherwise, in this city, it would be Varys himself who became isolated—and isolation in King's Landing often ends with a quiet, unmarked grave in some forgotten corner.
And if, by misfortune, Varys wasn't above ground with Tyrion but down here, wandering the tunnels waiting to bump into Podrick?
Well—that would be even easier to handle.
Running into someone isn't scary.
What's scary is being the weaker one in the collision.
In the light of day, Podrick would have had to think twice about killing the Spider—there would be consequences, inquiries, loose ends to tie up.
But down here? If Varys turned to ash, no one would ever know where or how he died.
A perfect crime scene.
And Podrick would have been quite happy to let the eunuch rest here forever.
Not that Pod truly wanted Varys dead.
He had no motive, and more importantly, there were still many things the Spider was useful for.
So Pod picked a gate where the dust wasn't piled too thick.
He grasped the iron lock with one hand—
squeezed, twisted—
CR-UNCH.
The metal groaned like a dying beast before snapping apart.
Sparks briefly danced in the dim firelight.
Podrick pushed the gate open, raised his torch, and withdrew the candle he'd tucked against his chest.
He scratched a small, discreet mark into the corner of the stone wall—a sign subtle enough that no one would notice unless they searched for it deliberately.
In these pitch-dark tunnels, noticing a trace of candle-wax was like trying to scale the heavens.
As for whether Varys might discover someone had breached this place?
Pod didn't waste a heartbeat on the question.
Once this tunnel belonged to House Varys.
But the moment Podrick Payne found it—
it belonged to House Pod.
---
Outside, in the streets of King's Landing:
Bronn rode at the head of a group of mounted Black Ears, escorting a curtained sedan chair at the center of the formation.
Inside the litter, Tyrion lifted the curtain just enough to peer out.
In the last rays of the dying sun, he looked upon his city in silence.
But the moment his gaze met the eyes of the common folk—
eyes full of accusation
of resentment
of desperation—
he let the curtain fall again, shutting the world out.
He had done everything he could to feed this starving city.
He had reassigned hundreds of craftsmen—
siege engineers, catapult builders, crossbow smiths—
and ordered them to construct fishing boats instead.
Yet hunger was a beast that never stopped swallowing.
And the people had no one else to blame except the man in the red cloak.
He had already followed Podrick's advice:
the KingsWood was thrown open to any hunter brave enough to cross the Blackwater and bring back game;
Podrick himself had dispatched several squads of Goldcloaks west, south, and across the Crownlands to gather food;
and—less officially—small detachments had "accidentally" wandered into the fringes of the Riverlands,
hoping to scavenge supplies while giving the troops a taste of real marching.
As for the merchantman Thousand-Colored Bird mentioned earlier,
it was, at least in theory, a welcome sight—
one of the few ships able to slip across the sea during this famine,
a tenuous hope for a starving capital.
Since Stannis Baratheon's open declaration of rebellion,
every ship sailing the Blackwater Bay had fallen under threat from Dragonstone.
Any vessel seen from its shores was seized,
all goods impounded,
traffic to King's Landing strangled,
every cargo inspected,
every letter scrutinized.
So although ships arriving now were never without complications,
one could no longer afford to turn them away out of principle.
Tyrion understood that well enough.
Behind the silk curtain of the litter, he rubbed his temples and thought in silence.
The problem with the Thousand-Colored Bird wasn't the ship itself—
opportunists have always fed on war,
and few fortunes are easier to make than war profits.
It only became sensitive because it involved Barra and her mother.
This morning's council had devolved into rage.
Cersei, blinded by fury and sweetened by Littlefinger's poisonous whispers,
had missed the true message of Stannis' letter.
Without evidence, every accusation meant nothing;
what mattered was Stannis' claim—
he named himself king.
If Renly ever learned his brother's intentions,
what then?
There wasn't room for two Baratheons on the Iron Throne.
Stannis had already sent the sons of his Onion Knight
north and south to scatter copies of his manifesto—
even across the Narrow Sea into Essos,
to lend his claim legitimacy before foreign eyes.
Ha.
Who would care for a king without a crown?
So would Stannis truly consort with the Free Cities—
as the Thousand-Colored Bird implied?
"No," Tyrion murmured to himself.
"The great powers of Essos are greedy, not stupid—
they won't entangle themselves just yet."
"But the Iron Bank…?"
King's Landing owed enough to sink the realm twice over.
Who would pay the interest if the throne changed hands?
And Podrick's warning lingered:
Littlefinger. Varys.
Both had motive, both had reach—
but were either really pulling the strings this time?
Or had someone among them already pledged to Stannis?
One question followed another,
yet not a single thread led to certainty.
Everything was conjecture,
and conjecture was enough to kill a Hand of the King.
Tyrion had no desire to share the fate of his predecessors.
If his head was ever dipped in tar and nailed over the Red Keep's gates,
it would make a pathetic decoration.
And if Stannis ever gained the throne?
He would absolutely make an example of him.
But because Stannis would—
did he already have sympathizers hidden in court?
Surely, Tyrion thought,
men like Varys and Littlefinger are too clever to back a losing horse this early…
So where, exactly, was the rot?
Who was the true enemy?
The more he thought, the heavier his skull felt.
Absentmindedly, he lifted the curtain a finger's width to glance outside.
The air smelled terrible—
but compared to recent days,
almost tolerable.
Bronn rode ahead,
the Black Ears flanking the litter with necklaces of severed ears swaying at their throats.
Their route led far beyond the Rhaenys' Hill,
but traffic jammed every street;
it took nearly an hour before the litter finally lurched to a stop.
Night had swallowed the sky.
Yet lanterns burned bright along Silk Street.
At some point during the journey, Tyrion had drifted into an exhausted sleep.
With the sudden stillness, he startled awake.
Bronn lifted him out of the litter.
Tyrion steadied himself, rubbed sleep from his mismatched eyes,
and looked up at a familiar two-story facade.
A gilded spherical lantern of deep red glass hung at the doorway,
casting a crimson glow across the street—
a beacon announcing the entrance to Chataya's brothel.
Compared with that night when the place had been reserved solely for Podrick,
the brothel was bustling—
laughter, voices, footsteps, shadows moving behind gauzed windows.
Even in a starving city, Silk Street thrived.
People might cut their own rations short—
but few men starved their second appetites.
Tyrion knew that truth better than most.
He stepped inside with practiced familiarity.
A tall dark-skinned woman in flowing silk, skin polished like ebony,
stood waiting to welcome him.
Chataya's establishment was expensive,
yet always full of patrons.
Watching the room—
watching money change hands, wine pour,
desires met in silk and perfume—
Tyrion felt a quiet satisfaction pull at the corner of his mouth.
Perhaps he had arrived at just the right moment.