Chapter 48 — The Friendship of Smoked Ham
The dungeons of the Red Keep were divided into four levels.
The highest floor held tall, narrow windows and housed ordinary criminals.
The second floor contained small single cells reserved for nobles and high-value prisoners, where the torches in the corridor could still shine through the bars.
The third level, known only as the Black Cells, was smaller still, sealed with solid wooden doors that allowed no light inside — meant for the truly wicked and the truly dangerous.
And the lowest level — the fourth — was the torture chambers.
People said that if one insisted on entering the fourth floor, it was better not to bring light — because there were things down there no one should ever have to see.
As for Podrick Payne, he of course stayed on the second floor — lying comfortably on a hay-padded bed, with the remains of a roast chicken next to him and half a jug of red wine within arm's reach.
After what happened that afternoon, Pod was not foolish enough to just sit still.
He had killed seven men, maimed one, and frightened Janos Slynt so badly the man soiled himself on the spot — and the moment the room froze, Pod immediately called for Chataya to stabilize the situation and sent someone to notify Tyrion at once.
He also dispatched men to summon the group of mercenaries he had hired earlier on King's Road — the ones waiting just outside the Red Keep.
The Gold Cloaks numbered two to three thousand — without extra muscle, the situation could have spiraled out of control.
Fortunately, Pod reacted fast — and Tyrion reacted faster. The Hand rushed out with his people immediately to extract Pod himself.
By the time the Gold Cloaks and Cersei understood what had happened, the matter was already over.
Escorted personally by Tyrion, with Yara, Shagga, and Timett flanking him all the way into the Red Keep's dungeon — and with guards posted afterward — Cersei had no chance to pull any tricks.
Pod's safety had never truly been in question.
The moment Janos Slynt raised his hand against him, the verdict on the entire affair was already sealed.
Pod and Tyrion talked at length on the way, and after that, Pod had no reason to worry anymore.
He ate his fill, drank his wine, and even took a nap to recover from the day's exertion — and once he had slept off his exhaustion, Tyrion returned with men to retrieve him.
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"How are you feeling?"
Walking back toward the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion looked exhausted — but still held his head high as he asked.
Pod rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness of his muscles, and lifted his head toward the dark sky. Judging by the faint light on the horizon, dawn was a mere hour or two away.
"I'm excellent, my lord. Better than ever."
He lowered his gaze with a smile — and he wasn't lying.
Tyrion stared at him — at how utterly unbothered he appeared — then pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in helpless fatigue.
Pod, seeing him fall silent, reached over and patted him lightly on the shoulder.
"And you, my lord?"
"Did everything unfold the way you expected?"
"What exactly do you want me to say?"
"That it turned out to be good news," Pod replied, still smiling.
"I should have left you at Harrenhal."
"But staying at your side is the best choice."
"…"
Tyrion fell silent.
The group continued wordlessly until the iron-topped tower of the Hand came into view — the steep arched roof jutting upward like a sword stabbing into the night sky.
"Why do you say that?"
After sending the exhausted clansmen back to rest, Tyrion climbed the tower stairs with Bronn and Pod in tow. His voice suddenly broke the silence.
Bronn yawned loudly and didn't answer; clearly Tyrion wasn't asking him.
"Because you're here to serve justice."
"If you had left me at Harrenhal, I would have known only bloodshed."
"For a boy, the desire to be a hero is always stronger than the desire to become a dragon."
"You're the hero, my lord."
Pod held the torch, the hot grease cracking in the flames.
The dim yellow light stretched their shadows along the stairwell walls — sometimes merging, sometimes separating.
"Pff—"
Bronn snorted with laughter, unable to hold it in.
Then he gave up completely and burst out in loud, mocking howls.
Tyrion's face flushed red, then white — fortunately the dim lighting concealed it, and his short stature made it impossible for anyone to see his expression from behind.
His stumbling steps, however, betrayed him.
"And what kind of hero would I be?"
Tyrion's voice cracked with bitterness — the night did not cloak his shame.
"You saved that mother and child. They're alive only because of you. To them, that makes you the hero."
Pod's voice was calm — as if stating what he'd eaten for breakfast.
Bronn didn't know when he stopped laughing, but he did. He glanced at Tyrion, then Pod, then stared forward again — silent, lips curling in a soundless, feral grin.
Tyrion halted mid-step.
Then resumed climbing.
"You saved them, Pod. From beginning to end — it was you."
"And today, more than a dozen innocent children died in King's Landing. To them — am I still a hero? Pfft… who would care?"
His words turned icy, self-mocking.
"Barra cares. Her mother cares. And if Lord Eddard Stark or King Robert Baratheon were still alive — they would care."
Pod answered softly, smiling — voice gentle as moonlight.
Tyrion stopped again.
He wanted to turn and look at his squire.
But for some reason — he couldn't.
Bronn also paused, glancing at Pod before scratching at his beard thoughtfully, eyes sharp and unreadable.
With neither of them speaking, Pod abruptly shifted the mood.
Holding the torch, he pointed down the corridor toward his chamber.
"I remember leaving my smoked ham in my room. And you should still have wine, my lord?"
"A good beginning deserves a little celebration."
Pod's words made Tyrion and Bronn exchange a quick glance.
They both knew exactly what that smoked ham symbolized.
"I've got a fine bottle left," Tyrion said, the corner of his mouth tugging up despite himself.
But when he and Bronn returned to the Hand's solar — uncorking a bottle of Arbor Red and waiting for Pod to bring the ham —
The boy who slew seven Gold Cloaks, maimed one, scared one unconscious, and terrified three beyond reason, walked into the room holding something entirely unexpected:
A familiar coin pouch.
Tyrion froze — he recognized it instantly.
It was the pouch he had used earlier today to pay for Pod's visit to the brothel.
"What are you…?"
The dwarf stared wide-eyed at his squire.
Pod spread his hands.
"They wouldn't take the money, my lord."