Chapter 53 — Trust
"Milord… do you trust him?"
Varys's mincing silhouette disappeared beyond the stairwell.
Podrick stood before the arched window, lifting the curtain with two fingers, eyes following the eunuch's retreating back as he asked Tyrion quietly.
"Trust?"
Tyrion laughed — not happily, but like someone who had just heard a spectacularly absurd joke.
"If that fellow were a woman working in a brothel, I might trust him when paying," Tyrion said dryly.
"But only in the very moment he's on his knees in front of me with his mouth on my cock. Because it's only then—only then—that I might be just dumb enough to believe a spymaster made of nothing but secrets."
It was crude, but funny, and Podrick couldn't hold back a snort.
Unfortunately, his imagination also began painting vivid imagery he really didn't need.
He turned away from the window and looked Tyrion up and down. Then, checking the dwarf's height and giving up on sparing his feelings, he answered honestly:
"Milord, even if Varys did kneel, he'd barely reach your tongue.
If anything, it'd have to be you standing and… sampling his. Except—too bad. Eunuchs don't have one."
[Trash Talk Proficiency +3]
Tyrion froze mid-breath, staring wide-eyed at his squire as though the boy had just punched the gods.
"…Go fuck yourself, Pod," Tyrion said, with the sincerity of a man offering praise.
Podrick refused to wonder whether "fuck" was meant as a noun or a verb.
He simply smiled politely.
"Oh, that's Alayaya, Mary, and Dancy's line of work, milord."
Tyrion broke.
"FUCK!"
"Actually, Madame Chataya said I should visit more. They don't charge me."
"…I'm considering docking your nonexistent wages."
"That's the sad part of this conversation, milord. You don't pay me at all."
"I've never realized how sweet-tongued my squire is."
"That's why I chose to follow you instead of becoming a knight, milord."
"You sure it's not because you're broke?"
"Chataya and the girls don't charge me."
"…I hate you."
[Trash Talk Proficiency +7]
The poor dwarf was emotionally crit-hit.
If he could throw Podrick out the damn tower window, he absolutely would — shame about physics.
He inhaled, calmed himself, and reminded his wounded pride not to duel a teenager in verbal fencing.
"Pour me a drink."
Tyrion slammed his hand on the desk.
"Yes, milord."
Podrick respectfully refilled his goblet.
But Tyrion tapped the empty chair opposite him.
"Pour yourself one too. Sit. We need to talk."
Podrick's grin faded. He fetched a clean cup, poured, and sat.
Tyrion didn't drink.
He didn't speak.
He just stared at the untouched wine, thumb running absent-mindedly along the goblet's stem.
Podrick didn't rush him — simply sipped the Dornish vintage silently. It was rare wine. Worth savoring.
Only after a long exhale did Tyrion finally speak.
"Podrick… would you be interested in becoming a gold cloak?"
The dwarf lifted his gaze. Serious.
No hint of humor remained.
Podrick tilted his head, considered the idea for a few seconds, then shook it.
"It's not suitable. And I have no interest."
A clean, firm rejection.
Tyrion sighed — almost disappointed, but not surprised.
"Fair enough. Even if I sent you, getting those bastards to obey you would be a joke."
Podrick only traced a finger across his throat.
"A few missing heads and suddenly everyone listens."
"One's misfortunes are simply proof of inadequate ability," he added matter-of-factly.
"Like meeting the girl you most want to protect… only when you're too weak to protect her."
He paused — then added with a straight face:
"Eunuchs excluded, of course."
Tyrion choked on his wine.
Podrick's sudden piece of shameless philosophy made Tyrion laugh aloud.
He thought on it for a moment — really tasted the meaning buried inside — and then nodded slowly, like something had finally clicked.
"You're right. Varys wasn't wrong after all. And I need more than one ally.
Clearly, Pod, you are the most suitable person — not someone who just trails after me and insults me for sport."
He leaned back, voice turning edged.
"Think about it: the Red Keep is packed with Cersei's creatures. Your cousin, Ser Ilyn Payne, jumps at Joffrey's every whim."
"Varys, Littlefinger, Pycelle — gods know whose side they're really on. For all we know, they had a hand in striking off Eddard Stark's head and now walk around dripping with piety and loyalty."
"And if one morning you find my body cold and stiff, I doubt I'd be surprised."
Tyrion's fingers drummed feverishly on the desk — excitement, anger, paranoia blending together.
He knocked back his wine in one long swallow, fury flickering across his face.
Podrick hadn't expected the dwarf to decide so quickly.
He hadn't been pretending modesty — he genuinely didn't think wearing the mantle of Commander of the City Watch was a good thing.
In times like these, taking the seat meant carrying its consequences on your back.
"You're serious about this?" Podrick frowned.
Tyrion waved the concern aside, as though the answer were obvious.
"Of course. Who could possibly be more suitable?"
"In loyalty and in ability, you could fill that post — easily."
"But I'm no knight. I'm twelve. The world isn't half as wise as you are."
"No confidence?" Tyrion raised a brow.
Podrick clicked his tongue softly — as if this was the easiest problem imaginable.
"I heard that during Janos Slynt's tenure, he was known for taking bribes and selling ranks. Half the officers in the Gold Cloaks had to secretly pay him out of their own salaries."
"I imagine they would be quite pleased to see a new commander. And I doubt they'd care much who he is."
The light in Tyrion's eyes brightened — sharp, victorious.
He lifted both hands, palms up, shoulders rising in an of course gesture.
"You see? Already solved. Varys really wasn't wrong."
"If it's you, I can finally stop looking over my shoulder. You're the only person I can trust."
He reached for the wine himself this time, not waiting for a squire.
Tyrion poured Podrick a full glass of Dornish summer red — with his own hand.
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