Chapter 49 — Sit Down, Podrick!
"What do you mean they wouldn't take the money?"
Tyrion stared at the coin pouch Pod had placed on his desk, baffled, lifting his head slowly to look at him.
Bronn leaned closer as well, then tilted his head.
"Maybe they were trying to show gratitude?"
"So… you're saying they refused payment because they wanted to repay you for saving them?"
Tyrion considered it. It sounded plausible.
But after a moment he shook his head.
With his decades of experience in brothels, he knew one truth beyond all doubt:
A working girl refusing coin was impossible.
And more importantly—
"No. It doesn't make sense. Cersei and the Gold Cloaks were trying to kill Bala and her mother — not Chataya. She had nothing to do with it."
"And have you ever seen a whore refuse gold? They were delighted when I handed it to them."
Tyrion was utterly convinced something didn't add up.
Bronn, however, wasn't.
"No matter the reason, the boy solved a problem for her."
"And don't forget — you sent Bala and her mother to Storm's End under guard. Maybe Chataya just wants to repay the favor. You're the Hand of the King now. Sucking up to you isn't exactly bad business."
Just as the two began debating the meaning behind the coin pouch, Pod calmly placed the smoked ham onto the low table beside them before turning around and speaking:
"She gave me the money after we finished. That was before Janos Slynt arrived."
Quiet voice. Calm tone.
But the implication was brutal.
Both the dwarf and the sellsword froze — realization hitting hard.
The coin had nothing to do with Slynt.
Which meant—
Three dark brown eyes and one bright green one swiveled toward Pod.
"What did you say?" Tyrion demanded.
"I didn't say anything," Pod replied.
"What did you do?" Bronn asked.
"I did a lot," Pod answered.
"... Seven hells."
The sellsword and the dwarf inhaled sharply at the same time, trading looks of absolute horror and disbelief.
"Did they look… satisfied?" Tyrion muttered, full of grudging resentment.
Pod looked up at the ceiling, thinking — then nodded firmly.
"Yes, my lord. They looked very satisfied. I mean… all of them."
"They only pretend to be satisfied. It's part of the job," Bronn countered immediately.
"They didn't take any money."
The vinegar still clung to Bronn's tone when Tyrion slammed the coin pouch down on the desk, cutting him off with brutal logic.
"So what are you saying? The girls liked him so much they were willing to work for free?"
Tyrion didn't even give himself time to breathe before turning toward his squire.
"Is that what happened, Podrick?"
Pod said nothing…
but he nodded.
Slowly.
Tyrion slapped both palms onto the desk.
"Sit down, Podrick!"
Immediately — the acting Hand of the King stood up and stepped aside to offer his chair.
Bronn grabbed Pod by the shoulders and shoved him into the seat like an honored noble.
Chaos followed.
The Hand fetched the wine.
The sellsword fetched the cups.
Podrick Payne, mortal slayer of Gold Cloaks and unexpected god of brothels, was handed a cup like royalty.
Bronn crammed the cup into Pod's hand.
Tyrion filled it to the brim in one aggressive pour.
"Listen carefully, Podrick. We want details. Every detail. You leave nothing out."
The clarity — and desperation — of intellectual pursuit radiated from both dwarf and sellsword alike.
Whatever exhaustion they had from staying up all night evaporated instantly.
…
…
(And Pod began to talk.)
---
"Haah— … tch."
"I've spent years hearing rumors that Littlefinger performs miracles — that whenever the Crown needs money, he only has to rub his fingers together, blow once, and suddenly mountains of gold appear."
Tyrion sat slumped in his study, yawning as he rubbed sleep from the corner of his eyes, lazily flipping through a ledger.
As soon as he finished speaking, a syrupy voice thick with perfume drifted from his side.
"My lord, it seems you didn't rest very well?"
Varys watched him with gentle concern — though his eyes gleamed with curiosity.
Tyrion's hand froze mid-turn of a page.
For a brief moment, shock flickered across his face — a vivid memory replaying behind his eyes.
He swallowed, shook his head hard, forcing the images away.
"Just taking time to get used to a new mattress. It reminds me a bit too much of the Hands who slept there before me. Nothing worth noting, Lord Varys."
He waved it off with an awkward chuckle — a clear sign he did not want to elaborate.
Varys seemed unsure whether to believe him, but let it go with a polite smile.
"Well then, Lord Tyrion, it would be best if you adapt quickly… or perhaps spend more time outside the chambers."
Tyrion shot him a sidelong glance, having caught the implication.
But before he could respond, Varys abruptly — and rather slyly — leapt back to Tyrion's earlier words.
"As far as I know, Lord Petyr Baelish does not perform magic."
Tyrion snorted.
"Of course not. Because all of his money is borrowed."
He let out a slow breath.
"And we cannot repay it. That is the problem. As far as I know, the Iron Throne owes my father several million gold dragons."
"I very much doubt Tywin Lannister will forgive the debt simply because his grandson sits the throne."
"My father is not sentimental. The most basic rule of borrowing is: I lend you money, and after the agreed period expires, you return it — with interest."
"But what if the debtor doesn't want to pay?" said a voice suddenly behind them.
The room fell silent.
Both Varys and Tyrion turned.
Podrick stood in the doorway holding a tray — grapes, walnuts, and a jug of wine balanced neatly on top.
He froze under the attention, then smiled apologetically.
"I'm sorry, my lords. I didn't mean to interrupt. I only overheard Lord Tyrion and became curious."
He stepped forward, set the tray down between them, and poured half a glass of wine for each.
Throughout the motion, Varys watched Pod the way a scholar watches a newly discovered riddle — bright-eyed, smiling faintly, impossible to read.
Being stared at like that by a eunuch sent a shiver up Pod's spine; he finished his task quickly and stepped well out of Varys's shadow.
"In principle," Tyrion continued, raising his glass and clinking it lightly in Varys's direction before sipping, "if you borrow money, you must repay it."
"But," Pod asked softly, "what if he simply refuses?"