Chapter 62: The Smell of Blood
"You pass."
"Ser Jacelyn Bywater—on behalf of King Joffrey, and the Hand of the King, Lord Tyrion Lannister, I thank you for your loyalty to the realm."
As Podrick spoke, he rose with a smile and reached out to clap Jacelyn on the shoulder, his tone warm with praise.
That the captain of the Mud Gate had chosen the sensible course did not surprise Podrick in the slightest. No matter how much a man valued honor or prided himself on courage, he was still human. He could still feel hunger. He still needed to eat.
And he needed to know when to bow his head.
More importantly, Jacelyn Bywater came from a minor branch of House Bywater, a man of low standing who had once lacked even the means to purchase knighthood. Everything he possessed now had been bought with battlefield merit—and the loss of his right hand.
That alone proved he was no fool.
Those who understand the times are the ones who rise. In the original course of events, Jacelyn Bywater had always been a clever man. Once elevated, he immediately understood where he stood—and whose orders truly mattered.
That was why, upon taking office, he had without hesitation personally escorted his former superior, Janos Slynt, onto the ship bound for the Wall.
And just as casually, he had thrown Allar Deem into the sea.
The man who had murdered Barra and her mother died quietly—without ceremony, without consequence.
Tyrion Lannister:
"If he were to be swept overboard before reaching Eastwatch, I doubt anyone would object."
Jacelyn Bywater:
"Yes, my lord. I hear storms have been frequent on the northern seas of late."
Recalling those half-remembered scenes, Podrick shook his head faintly.
His gaze drifted to the two corpses on the ground—the former captains of the King's Gate and the Gate of the Gods, sacrificed as warnings.
A ripple stirred in his chest.
In this cursed world, human lives were worth very little—especially to the ruling class.
And now, borrowing Tyrion's authority, Podrick had barely brushed against that threshold himself.
He had no roots. No reputation. No foundation.
If he wanted to act, then extreme measures were the only tools available to him.
He sighed inwardly.
A smile still rested on his face, but his eyes were cold as ice.
Turning back to the still-nervous Jacelyn Bywater, Podrick said evenly:
"Go, Ser Bywater. We have much work ahead of us—and no more time for idleness."
"What needed to be said has been said. My promises still stand."
"But what must be done is far from finished."
"So I hope you'll prepare yourself—mentally—for what comes next."
The smell of blood lingered in the air.
Podrick's voice was calm, almost gentle—like a spring breeze—yet it made Jacelyn's shoulders twitch all the same. He hurriedly bowed his head.
"Yes, my lord. I will prepare myself in advance."
Watching Jacelyn's retreating figure, the golden cloak snapping sharply at his shoulders, Podrick finally let out a slow breath. Only then did he raise his hand and pass the bloodstained greatsword to someone beside him.
"Please have the blade cleaned," he said evenly. "And arrange for the bodies to be dealt with. The heads, however, are still useful—leave one at each of the city's two barracks."
"…Yes, my lord."
A slightly trembling voice answered. Humfrey Waters hurriedly accepted the sword, hands careful, reverent.
Podrick nodded, paused for a moment, then turned to leave.
But just as he reached the doorway, he glanced back at Humfrey Waters, who stood rigidly in place. At some point, specks of blood had splashed across his face and clothing, dark and uneven.
"Oh—one more thing," Podrick added casually. "You're the captain of the Dragon Gate. You'll have plenty to handle on your own, so you don't need to follow me everywhere. Just send a few capable, sharp men when needed."
"Yes, my lord."
With that, Podrick retrieved his helmet, adjusted the cloak on his shoulders, and stepped outside. He mounted his horse and rode toward the Red Keep.
Along the way, the same complex, unreadable gazes lingered on him. Podrick ignored them all, riding straight toward his destination.
It wasn't long before he returned to the Hand's Tower within the Red Keep. After asking a Lannister redcloak on duty where Tyrion was, he learned the Hand was working in his study and made his way upstairs.
Just as he reached the door, a familiar voice drifted out from within.
"Look at that—an eunuch asking to meet me in a brothel. The joke practically tells itself."
Tyrion's voice carried something between mockery and weariness, even as he delivered the punchline.
Bronn's voice followed immediately, thick with curious amusement.
"Do eunuchs grow that thing back, then? Or does he use something else?"
As the mercenary spoke, several strange sounds followed—like someone slapping water with their hand.
At that moment, Podrick reached the doorway and saw Bronn standing there with his mouth open, tongue extended and rolling exaggeratedly back and forth—the source of the odd noises.
Podrick's expression turned decidedly odd.
"Bronn, you know how to do that too?" he asked dryly. "Is that something you usually do before a meal, or after?"
He then turned his attention to Tyrion.
"And what did you mean about a eunuch inviting you to a brothel, my lord? Don't tell me Varys is planning another little performance."
Standing at the door, Podrick knocked lightly to announce himself before continuing the banter. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked into the study and—clearly at home—poured himself a glass of red wine.
Then another.
He drained both in quick succession before letting out a long, satisfied sigh.
Since arriving in King's Landing, Podrick had scarcely had time to drink plain water at all. And in a city that reminded him uncomfortably of a less hygienic version of modern India, he had no desire to gamble on what that water might have passed through before reaching his cup.
Not that it truly mattered—his current physique could shrug off most illnesses without issue. Still, wine was far preferable. Alcohol barely affected him now anyway, so why not?
Neither man seemed surprised by Podrick's arrival.
Tyrion held a slip of paper in his hand, freshly drawn from the parchment he'd been reviewing.
Bronn, meanwhile, pulled his tongue back in, then suddenly sniffed along the path Podrick had taken.
"…Blood," he said slowly. "You killed someone."