Chapter 50 — A Matter of Duty
"If that happens, then no one will ever lend you money again."
Before Tyrion could answer Pod's question, Varys spoke from the side with a soft, almost instructional tone.
Pod considered that, shrugged lightly, and found a small stool in the corner to sit on. He kept quiet after that.
Seeing that Pod had no intention of leaving, Tyrion didn't object.
A squire's job wasn't only to pour wine — learning etiquette, observation, and the flow of noble politics was all part of the education.
Tyrion set down his cup and tapped the open ledger before him.
"Let's stop talking about repayment for now. In any case, I'm not worried about my father. As you just said, the one on the Iron Throne is still his grandson — he may show mercy and extend the deadline."
"What concerns me is the Iron Bank of Braavos. The throne owes them several million gold dragons as well. If we can't repay that debt, the Iron Bank will simply fund our enemies instead."
"They will reclaim what is theirs — by any means."
"Compared to that, the debts owed to the Tyrells, the Tyroshi merchant guilds, and the Faith aren't as serious."
He paused.
"Oh — actually, perhaps they are serious now."
Tyrion let out a humorless laugh, lifted his cup again, and drank deeply.
Varys swirled his own wine, offering one of his signature soft, useless comforts.
"It seems like a difficult problem indeed, but perhaps a solution will appear once we reach the mountain, Lord Tyrion."
Tyrion blinked once, then sighed helplessly.
"You're right. I'm not the Master of Coin. Let Littlefinger lose sleep over it."
He closed the ledger with a tired snap.
"Well then, Lord Varys — I doubt you came here at this hour merely to listen to a dwarf complain. I assume there's something you wished to discuss?"
Varys didn't hesitate.
"Lord Janos Slynt will depart today. Eight others will accompany him. At the docks there is a ship called Summer Dream — it will stop at Gulltown, the Three Sisters, and Skagos, then proceed to Eastwatch. A perfectly fitting vessel for Lord Slynt's journey."
Varys said it casually — as if it were merely a piece of administrative scheduling, nothing more.
Tyrion shot Varys a long, meaningful look — then turned toward Pod in the corner.
"Pod, you'll go with Bronn and the others and personally escort Lord Slynt to his ship. The streets aren't safe lately, the docks are far, and he's earned himself… a great many enemies."
Pod understood exactly what Tyrion meant and nodded.
"Yes, my lord. I'll make sure to have a personal chat with the captain."
Varys offered an exaggerated compliment.
"My dear lord, I envy you. To have a squire so capable."
"So why does it all taste like ash in my mouth?" Tyrion muttered.
"If Pod were a little more ordinary, perhaps I'd sleep better. So then, Lord Varys — you came because you're worried about the City Watch?"
Tyrion ignored the flattery and returned to business.
But the eunuch didn't take the bait.
"That is for you to worry about, my lord. I am only a eunuch — a wretched little collector of whispers."
"Then perhaps my lord could offer some advice?"
"Oh, you give me too much credit. I can barely keep up with all my little birds as it is. I have no strength left to carry another burden."
Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Well then, that is a problem."
Since Varys refused to be lured, Tyrion switched to half-joking distress.
The eunuch merely turned his head — toward Podrick.
"Perhaps you have a rather fine helper already. You simply haven't taken notice."
"You mean Pod?"
"He won't disappoint."
Silence settled over the Hand's study.
In the corner, Pod — who had only been scanning his invisible stat panel and wondering where to distribute his new attribute points — realized abruptly that something had dragged him into the fire.
He closed the panel and blinked between Tyrion and Varys, uncertain which direction danger lay.
After a long moment—
"No. Pod is too young."
"Does my lord truly believe that after yesterday, anyone still cares about his age?"
Tyrion had no answer.
He knew Varys was right.
The more time he spent with Pod, the easier it was to forget he was twelve.
The calm, the intelligence, and now the breathtaking combat ability…
Twelve? Seven hells.
Tyrion rubbed his temples again.
"…Fine. I'll consider it."
"To be honest, some days I genuinely want to ship you to Eastwatch and hand you over to Commander Mormont. He'd be thrilled. But if a storm surge swept you overboard, I suppose I'd be obligated to pretend to mourn you."
Pod, still trying to decipher the eunuch's intentions, learned a new method of being insulted.
"That would only disappoint you, I'm afraid," Varys chuckled. "Storms come and go, waves crash and pass… big fish eat small fish… and yet I continue to swim along just fine. Mmm, excellent wine — Dornish, I presume?"
Pod stepped forward and refilled his cup.
Varys accepted with pleasure — not a hint of shame.
"Oh my, sweet as summer. The grapes sing on my tongue."
Pod saw through him clearly — this smooth-tongued, sharp-eyed, soft-skinned snake was immune to pressure, persuasion, threats, and sentiment alike.
And because Pod saw clearly, Tyrion did too.
He waved his squire closer.
"We haven't thanked Lord Varys for his help yesterday. Your information came just in time."
Tyrion's fast reaction yesterday — and the clean way he crushed Cersei afterward — had not been achieved by him alone.
From the incident to the cover-up to the political play, all in a single night — without Varys, the newly arrived Hand would never have managed it.
Just dealing with the City Watch alone would have been chaos.
Instead, Tyrion won a flawless victory.
It was a staged performance — justice served, villains punished.
And the prize?
Control over the City Watch, the most crucial military force in King's Landing.
That was what Varys's earlier hint truly meant.
"Oh, come now — not worth praise at all," Varys replied sweetly. "It is my duty, after all."
"Then I hope, Lord Varys," Tyrion said slowly, "that whenever you know anything — you tell me everything. No secrets. No omissions."