Chapter 63: Presumably, Eddard Stark Once Thought the Same
The mercenary's remark made the dwarf—who had not paid much attention at first—freeze for a moment. Tyrion frowned and looked over as well.
"Who did you kill?"
"And why?"
Tyrion couldn't help asking.
After all, Podrick had only just asked him for a certain degree of "extraordinary authority." And in the blink of an eye, this kid was already acting like unused power was wasted power.
How could Tyrion not be nervous?
The dwarf and the mercenary spoke almost in unison, their tone certain, leaving no room for doubt.
Seeing the two of them scrutinizing him like magistrates, Podrick raised an eyebrow.
"Why are you both so sure I killed someone?"
He spread his hands casually. After all, his newly forged greatsword was still back at the barracks—he was only carrying a dagger now.
And he was quite certain there was no lingering killing intent about him.
The mercenary, however, regarded this as a stupid question and pointed disdainfully at Podrick's boots.
"Because the stench of blood on you is so thick it's like you bathed in a woman's monthly visitor."
"And the blood on the soles of your boots has already clotted and turned black. From the looks of it, you must've been standing in a pool of blood."
"So tell us—how many did you kill to end up like this? And here's hoping the poor little dwarf can pull your trousers up and wipe your arse clean for you."
Only then did Podrick realize the issue. He lowered his head and looked at his boots.
Sure enough, the edges of the soles were still stained with darkened, oxidized blood.
With no room left to argue, Podrick chose honesty.
"All right. I did kill someone. But I guarantee the two of them deserved it. No trouble at all."
"They not only disobeyed military orders, they tried to rebel—just because I caught them skimming money."
"And that's not all. I also suspect they were planted agents from elsewhere in the Gold Cloaks. Otherwise, their reaction wouldn't have been so extreme."
"So I had no choice but to act."
"After all, I can't pretend to be blind when someone's hand is stretched that far into my affairs—and when they're openly provoking me at the same time."
"That wouldn't just be slapping my face."
"That would be slapping your face, Lord Tyrion."
"So our dear captains of the King's Gate and the Gate of the Gods lost their heads."
"Oh—personally. I cut them off myself."
Podrick smiled cheerfully as he described something horrifying. He dragged over a chair, sat down, and calmly recounted everything that had happened at the barracks that day, step by step.
Tyrion and Bronn exchanged a glance, both of them quietly exhaling in relief.
At least Podrick hadn't gone off murdering people indiscriminately just because someone had his back.
If that had been the case, then whatever talk there was of repaying favors would have truly gone straight to hell.
Realizing this, Tyrion seized on the single word Podrick had let slip earlier.
"You're saying those two were planted in the Gold Cloaks by someone else?"
The dwarf's expression turned grave. Compared to killing for some mundane reason, this explanation struck much closer to the bone.
"Who else could it be?" Podrick shrugged lightly. "In political struggles, killing is the worst possible solution—but when you can't solve the problem, solving the person who creates the problem is often the most effective method."
"I don't have the time to spar with whoever's behind them, nor do I have the interest. That's your job. So I sent them on their way instead."
"And frankly, their timing couldn't have been better. The Gold Cloaks now belong entirely to you, my lord. I came here specifically to report that good news."
Podrick spoke with calm confidence, as though he were discussing something as trivial as breakfast.
Someone as sharp as Tyrion immediately sensed the implication behind that composure.
"Then who do you think they belonged to?" he asked.
"Littlefinger, obviously. Who else?"
Podrick tilted his head, casually picking at his ear with his pinky, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Littlefinger?"
Tyrion looked genuinely startled—clearly, he hadn't considered that angle.
"Why him? Do you have proof?"
The implications made Tyrion's teeth ache; he spoke before fully thinking it through.
"Of course—though not just for money," Podrick said, brushing imaginary dust from his fingers.
"But money is absolutely the primary reason, Lord Tyrion."
"I'd wager Lord Baelish knew perfectly well about Slynt's corruption—and made sure the Crown profited from it just as much as Janos did."
"Of course, that's only part of it."
"As for proof?" Podrick shrugged again. "I don't see any reason to leave proof behind. What good would that do?"
"We could deal with Janos Slynt cleanly, and dispose of a few insignificant people. But, Lord Tyrion, I don't believe we can afford to eliminate Petyr Baelish right now."
"Killing him would create far too many problems—problems we simply don't have the ability to fill."
"So, in order to preserve your friendship with Lord Baelish, I had no choice but to sacrifice my two 'trusted captains.'"
"Oh—right. I left their heads in each of the two barracks. One apiece. That should have some effect."
The explanation was clear—too clear. And the clearer it was, the worse Tyrion's headache became.
He dropped the note he'd been holding, threaded his fingers into his hair, and scratched hard.
After a long silence, the dwarf finally spoke, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
"I genuinely don't know whether making you commander of the City Watch was the right decision. I'm starting to regret it. I suspect that damned eunuch Varys foresaw all of this!"
He cursed as he complained, his gaze drifting back to the note on the table.
It was Varys's invitation.
A eunuch inviting him to meet privately in a brothel—no matter how he looked at it, something was deeply wrong.
The more Tyrion thought about it, the more irritable he became.
"Damn it… damn it!"
"What exactly are these people trying to do?!"
Seeing his frustration, Podrick didn't bother trying to comfort him.
He rose leisurely from his chair, walked over to the desk, and picked up the note.
"You're worried?" he asked after a moment, glancing between the parchment and Tyrion.
"Worried?"
Tyrion snorted, not sure who he was mocking.
"We control the City Watch now. We have a hundred and fifty savage mountain clansmen, plus the mercenaries we picked up on the road—and more that Bronn keeps recruiting. By any reasonable measure, we're perfectly safe, aren't we?"
He raised his head and looked at Podrick and Bronn, mockery plain in his eyes.
Podrick met his gaze—and laughed.
"I can guarantee you this," he said lightly.
"Eddard Stark probably thought the exact same thing."
"Yes," Tyrion echoed softly.
"Eddard Stark probably thought the exact same thing."