Chapter 83: Ambition
When a tree grows taller than the forest, the wind will break it;
when a mound rises above the bank, the current will scour it;
when a man stands above others, the crowd will turn against him.
"And it's not as simple as collecting taxes and locking them away in the treasury," Tyrion continued, his expression growing cautious.
As he spoke, he reached into his robes, drew out a gold dragon, and placed it on the table before Podrick.
"He uses the king's promises as collateral to roll over debts, then puts the crown's funds to work."
"He buys wagons, shops, ships—even houses. When harvests are plentiful, he buys grain cheaply; when famine comes, he sells bread at a premium."
"He purchases wool from the North, linen from the South, lace from Lys—sometimes hoarding it, sometimes circulating it, sometimes dyeing it before reselling."
"And it doesn't stop at buying low and selling high. He lends money—then collects both principal and interest. As Master of Coin, no one dares default on his loans. And on Silk Street, I doubt there are many brothels left that don't carry his shares."
"In his hands, gold dragons seem to reproduce on their own. No one doesn't like him."
Tyrion spread his hands and paused, giving Podrick time to absorb it all.
Podrick rolled the gold dragon between his fingers, his thumb tracing the stamped sigils, and fell silent.
In a world with limited productivity and slow information flow, to operate on such a scale—to keep an entire kingdom's economy turning—there was no denying it.
Littlefinger was a financial prodigy.
Couple that with his uncanny talent for manipulation and a patience deep enough to endure years in the shadows, and it was no surprise Tyrion had never truly gained the upper hand over him in the original course of events—often finding himself maneuvered instead.
And who among those who crossed paths with him hadn't been deceived?
Eddard Stark had lost his head because of it.
Catelyn Tully's impulsive choices had dragged her entire house into ruin.
Listening to Tyrion lay out Littlefinger's "achievements," Podrick shed the last traces of underestimation he'd harbored.
Yet rising alongside that respect was something else—
a sharpening, unmistakable killing intent.
Podrick narrowed his eyes, interlaced his fingers, and enclosed the gold dragon in his grasp.
A faint smile tugged at his lips as he looked at Tyrion.
"But that alone wouldn't make you this wary, my lord," he said evenly.
"I'm guessing Littlefinger didn't stop there."
Tyrion showed no surprise at Podrick's swift insight.
Instead of answering, he leaned back into his chair, propped his chin on one hand, and returned the question.
"If you were him—after doing all that—what would you do next?"
"The same thing I'm doing now."
Podrick answered without hesitation, lifting his chin toward the barracks around them.
"If I were him, I'd be cultivating my own people throughout the process."
"The royal treasurers, crown accountants, surveyors—positions that matter. The heads of the three mints would all be mine."
"And beyond that: harbor masters, shipping overseers, tax farmers, customs officials, wool agents, toll collectors, wine brokers—every last one under my absolute control."
"Don't underestimate these people just because they seem insignificant. In the marketplace, many of them outperform noble administrators by sheer competence alone."
"They may be of humble birth—merchants' sons, minor nobles, even foreigners—but unified, they form a force capable of standing toe-to-toe with the powers above them."
"After all," Podrick concluded calmly,
"a market doesn't just have buyers—it has sellers too."
Drawing on the knowledge and perspective of his previous life, Podrick found it wasn't difficult to recognize these problems.
Yet as he gradually placed himself into Littlefinger's position—thinking from that angle, reasoning as that man would—realization struck him like a chill.
As he spoke, Podrick's voice unconsciously grew softer, while the weight in his chest deepened. His estimation of Littlefinger rose sharply, tinged now with genuine caution.
Some people who appeared insignificant were anything but.
And yet, just as Podrick had broken the matter down to such an unsettling level—so detailed it made one's skin crawl—Tyrion still shook his head slightly.
"You're right, Podrick. That is exactly what we're doing right now."
"But…"
He paused.
"…those things still aren't the real threat."
Anything that comes after "but" is always dangerous.
Podrick instinctively straightened his posture.
Only now did he truly appreciate the depth of wisdom possessed by the dwarf before him—men who had sat in high office for years, whose influence flowed silently like water, yet who could shape clouds and storms all the same.
There was still much he had to learn.
This world had its hopeless fools—but it also had men of frightening intelligence.
They might be constrained by their era, their outlook limited in certain ways compared to a reincarnator like him.
But they were far from stupid.
In fact, some were terrifyingly sharp.
Putting himself in Littlefinger's shoes, Podrick knew with certainty—he could never have accomplished what that man had. At best, he might understand what was being done, but never fully grasp how or why.
Of course, with his cheat-like advantages, Podrick could afford to act boldly—recklessly even—like some Ice-and-Fire-era anomaly who "didn't eat beef."
But that was never a sustainable path.
Society was not something one person could build alone.
Recognizing the intent behind Tyrion's careful guidance, Podrick quickly adjusted his attitude.
Tyrion, clearly pleased, lifted a finger and gently wagged it.
"No teacher dislikes a student who understands at once and can infer the rest," the dwarf seemed to say.
"So everything you just described," Tyrion continued, "is still only the surface."
He might not be able to teach Podrick swordplay or mounted combat—but there were other lessons he could offer.
"After all, if you can see this, why wouldn't others?"
"And yet no one questions those appointments. Why would they?"
"Littlefinger threatens no one. He's clever, always smiling, agreeable—everyone's friend."
"Whenever the king or the Hand needs money, he provides it."
"He's lowborn—barely above a landed knight—so he draws no attention."
"He has no vassals, no great household, no ancient fortress, no illustrious lineage, and no marriage alliance worth boasting about."
"And that," Tyrion said quietly,
"is precisely why he survives.
And precisely why he's dangerous."
So even if he were a traitor… would I dare touch him? Tyrion wondered.
To his own surprise, he wasn't certain—especially with war raging on all fronts.
Podrick didn't know Tyrion's private thoughts, but he understood the real lesson Tyrion had come here to teach him.
Three words:
Hide your edge.
Realization made Podrick pause—then smile.
"These are the words you truly wanted to tell me today, weren't they?" he asked, looking at Tyrion.
"The heads you left on spears outside the barracks were… excessive. And what happened at Maegor's Holdfast yesterday—" Tyrion continued plainly, "—that was a warning."
Seeing Podrick's understanding, Tyrion no longer bothered to veil his intent.
Podrick nodded easily, accepting it without resistance.
"I understand, Lord Tyrion. Perhaps after recruiting another batch of soldiers, I'll take them outside the city for training—see if I can ease some of your burden."
"Don't go too far," Tyrion said as he rose.
"If you head south… actually, never mind. Just stay around the Kingswood."
With that, Tyrion prepared to leave.
Podrick walked him to the door.
But just as they reached the threshold, Tyrion recalled something Varys had said the night before. His steps slowed.
Turning back, he looked at Podrick.
Sunlight flooded in from outside, casting the dwarf into shadow, his expression unreadable.
"Podrick," Tyrion asked quietly,
"what is your ambition?"
Podrick thought for a moment, then smiled.
"To ride a dragon, soar through the skies, and see a wider, stranger world."
He handed the gold coin back into Tyrion's palm.
"A dragonrider?"
Tyrion chuckled softly.
"Heh…"