Chapter 82 — "I'll Knock Him to His Knees and Hand Him to You. Shall We Make Him a Court Jester?"
Tyrion didn't see Podrick again until noon the next day, at the City Watch barracks.
At the gate, a blood-soaked head had been mounted on the tip of a spear. Tyrion frowned at the sight. Dark shadows ringed his eyes—clearly, the night before had not been a pleasant one for him.
Podrick, who had just returned to the barracks himself, came out to greet him and led him inside, into the office that now belonged to him.
"So," Tyrion said, "you're telling me that all the threads now point to our Master of Coin?"
Podrick stroked his freshly shaven chin and nodded inwardly.
Tyrion's conclusion didn't surprise him in the slightest. In fact, this was exactly how Podrick had intended things to unfold—using Varys's hand to give the situation a decisive shove forward.
Podrick never pretended to be a gentleman.
If someone tried to screw him over, hitting back was only natural.
After dealing with Cersei yesterday, he had already realized someone was deliberately setting him up.
And in that situation, Podrick felt he could've guessed the culprit even with his big toe.
If it wasn't the eunuch Varys, then it could only be Littlefinger.
Varys hadn't been present at yesterday's council meeting. That didn't completely clear him, of course—but someone capable of pulling off such a smooth little maneuver at that precise moment?
Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, was far more suspicious.
The man had been busy flattering Cersei at the time. Slipping a grain of sand into someone else's eyes would've cost him no more than a single sentence.
Besides—even if the accusation turned out to be wrong, Podrick hardly cared.
In his view, whether it was Varys or Littlefinger, blindfold yourself, pick one at random, and kill him—either way, you'd be doing the realm a favor.
Podrick turned back to Tyrion.
"So, my lord, what are your plans?"
"This isn't the first time he's tripped you up. Back at the Crossroads Inn, when Catelyn Tully seized you out of nowhere—that had his fingerprints all over it too, didn't it?"
"Now that we've got solid grounds," Podrick continued firmly, "I can take men and arrest him immediately—bring him to you for judgment."
Having sorted his thoughts, Podrick wasted no time fanning the flames. His tone was righteous and indignant—he sounded more aggrieved than Tyrion himself, the actual victim.
Watching Podrick's enthusiasm, Tyrion had to admit—he wanted nothing more than to have Littlefinger dragged in and finally made to understand that Tyrion Lannister was not some soft fruit to be squeezed at will.
With the evidence he already had in hand, Tyrion was absolutely certain he could accuse Littlefinger of plotting murder—and hang the Master of Coin's head on a spear atop the city walls for all to see.
Unfortunately, he couldn't do that yet.
Manufacturing a justification to dispose of Janos Slynt had already been pushing the limit. If Littlefinger were dealt with as well, Cersei would lose her mind entirely.
And more importantly—King's Landing still needed the bastard.
As Master of Coin, after years of operating unchecked, Littlefinger had locked down control of the treasury so thoroughly that his influence spread throughout King's Landing and even across the Seven Kingdoms.
Removing someone like Janos Slynt was inconsequential.
Removing Littlefinger required far more thought.
So when Podrick made his suggestion, Tyrion fell silent for a long half-minute before finally shaking his head.
"No, Pod," he said quietly. "We can't touch him… not yet."
Bitterness crept into the dwarf's voice, along with a trace of resentment.
"Believe me, I'd love nothing more than to send you—or Bronn—to kill him. But I can't."
"Janos Slynt was just a blustering rat. But if there's anyone in this world who truly arms himself with gold, it's Petyr Baelish."
"My brother's famous armor is nothing more than gilded steel."
Podrick, however, looked unconvinced.
"Do you know," he said calmly, "the gods gave us different talents, different births, even different bodies? They favor one shining son while despising another dwarf son—like some cruel father."
"But even so, the gods granted us one supreme equality."
"In this world, everyone only has one life. And when a man is killed—he dies."
"So I don't believe that wealth or gilded steel alone lets someone sleep peacefully at night. And I think that truth still carries a certain… deterrent value—even for our Master of Coin."
There was something almost arrogant in Podrick's tone, as if the heroes of the world were few, and all others barely worth acknowledging.
Tyrion realized—perhaps for the first time—that the "servant" his father had forced upon him as an insult was truly this kind of person.
Intelligent. Steady. Brave. Loyal.
Nothing like a boy his age should be.
Still—youthful success was youth all the same.
"Ten years ago," Tyrion said slowly, "Lord Jon Arryn placed Petyr Baelish in some minor customs post—essentially a sinecure."
"Instead, Baelish outperformed every other tax official by triple their revenue."
"And since King Robert spent money like a drunken sailor, a man who could grind two gold dragons into three quickly became indispensable."
"Within three years of arriving at court, Littlefinger became Master of Coin and earned a seat on the Small Council."
"Compared to the chaos of his predecessors, royal income increased tenfold…"
"…though royal debt rose just as spectacularly. In short—Petyr Baelish is a master illusionist."
Seeing Podrick so eager to help him, so determined to seek justice on his behalf, Tyrion found his anger easing.
His tone softened. His voice slowed.
"So," Podrick asked, leaning back in his chair, eyelids drooping, lips pursed, "what are you saying, my lord?"
A faint smile touched Tyrion's lips.
"I'm saying," he replied, "that the place I've prepared for him… isn't the Wall."
"Oh?" Podrick's eyes widened with sudden interest.
In the stories, Littlefinger always survived—always lurking in the shadows, stirring chaos unnoticed.
With Podrick's presence, perhaps things could unfold differently.
Sensing the shift, Tyrion straightened—then quickly raised a hand when Podrick's killing intent flared again.
"Listen to me," he said firmly. "Right now, none of us can touch him."
"He's clever. The crown's debt is a wildfire waiting to explode—and he's the only one who can keep it from igniting."
"That," Tyrion finished quietly, "is his armor."
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