Chapter 84 — Contest for the Realm?
"Whoosh—!"
From the depths of the forest, an arrow suddenly burst forth, streaking straight toward a great antlered stag that had been lowering its head among the bushes, chewing lazily on leaves.
The sharp twang of the bowstring snapping back exploded through the trees. Though the stag had been fully engrossed in feeding, its ears—forever spinning like windmills—caught the sound instantly.
In the blink of an eye, without even understanding what had happened, the stag's muscles tensed. Its hooves slammed into the ground as it bolted forward without lifting its head, fleeing blindly from the unseen danger.
But just as its hooves struck the damp, yielding earth, the arrow—already tearing through the air—ripped past shredded green leaves and slammed into its side, piercing straight through its chest before burying itself at an angle in a nearby tree trunk.
The fletching quivered, humming faintly.
Struck by the arrow, the stag felt only a sudden, inexplicable stab of pain. Terror surged through it. Knowing nothing, understanding nothing, it could only run.
Yet with its heart and lungs already pierced through, how could it notice that with every frantic stride, blood was pouring freely from the gaping wound in its chest?
After only a few steps, suffocation and weakness flooded its body. Its legs gave way, and it collapsed helplessly behind a cedar tree.
Blood sprayed wildly along its path, painting a crooked, glaring red line across the forest floor.
The stag lay behind the tree, struggling to breathe, its throat rattling with wet, rasping sounds—more breath leaving than entering.
"Bring it back," Podrick said calmly.
"Hand it to the butcher and tell him to drain the blood immediately, then remove the organs."
"Keep the deer's blood, the head, and the antlers for me. I've got a friend who needs them. The head especially—salt it properly. Don't damage it."
Standing dozens of paces away, Podrick lowered his bow after a single shot. Watching the stag stagger off in a spray of blood, he casually issued instructions to the men beside him, leaving them to deal with the aftermath.
There wasn't much he needed to concern himself with—and cleaning up after the hunt certainly wasn't one of those things.
In fact, he didn't even need to explain himself.
If not for the fact that the Little Imp and Bronn clearly needed these "treasures," Podrick wouldn't have bothered opening his mouth at all.
After all, every time those two saw him, they would—intentionally or not—steer the conversation back to the same topic. And no matter what he said, they never believed him.
Since words clearly weren't enough, Podrick decided it was time to provide something tangible.
Otherwise, he'd have to keep finding ways to shut them up.
After all, he couldn't exactly deal with Tyrion and the others the same way he did with Alayaya and her girls—by stuffing their mouths with that.
And besides, this was the world of ice and fire. There were no little blue pills from his previous life here. Sure, there were similar things, but Podrick had no idea where to find them.
So these small "trinkets" he was about to acquire would probably still be of some use—at least enough to help Tyrion Lannister and that bastard of a sellsword, Bronn.
"Oh, and don't forget," Podrick added casually,
"once the blood has coagulated, save it. Tonight, cut it into chunks and toss it into the soup—just blanch it briefly."
He slung his bow aside, hooked it onto the saddle, turned his horse around, and headed back toward camp.
He had been away from King's Landing for about a week now.
This trip had several purposes: avoiding unnecessary trouble, cooling down the city a little, and—just as importantly—training troops.
He had brought out more than three hundred men this time, all carefully selected.
The composition of the force was mixed. There were veterans with seven or eight years of service, fresh recruits who had only just enlisted, sons of merchants, and even second sons or collateral relatives of minor noble houses.
Training wasn't the main goal.
If he truly wanted to drill soldiers, there were plenty of places inside the city better suited for it than this wilderness. There was no reason to come all this way just for that.
So why had Podrick brought them out here anyway?
The answer was obvious.
If you wanted to survive in the cesspool that was King's Landing, you needed capable confidants—especially when it came to controlling the City Watch.
After his conversation with Tyrion, Podrick had simply gone with the flow and brought them out.
As he rode leisurely into camp, a chorus of "Lord Payne!" greeted him without pause.
Perfect timing.
Several cooks were directing a dozen servants as they prepared food. Game meat roasted over clustered campfires, fat sizzling and crackling, the air thick with mouthwatering aromas.
A stable boy hurried over from the corner, awkwardly copying the others' manner of address as he called out "Lord Payne" and took Podrick's horse away.
Podrick watched his retreating back and paused, momentarily lost in thought.
Not long ago—just a few months back—he had been that stable boy.
Back then, when he'd tried to take Tyrion's horse, Shagga had caused a huge scene. That incident had even ended with Tywin Lannister's military council being stormed, and one unlucky Lannister guard captain getting kicked away like a helpless chick.
And now?
Barely three or four months later, he had somehow become a "lord" himself.
The quiet, timid boy—who stammered when he spoke and barely dared lift his head—was long gone.
The face was still the same, but now he was taller, stronger, more confident, and far more dangerous.
If someone who knew him before stood in front of him now, they probably wouldn't recognize much of the old Podrick at all.
Of course, the body was no longer inhabited by that brown-haired, blue-eyed boy who feared people and stared at their feet to hide his embarrassment.
Thinking this, Podrick chuckled softly, shook his head, and walked back to his tent.
As soon as he sat down, attendants stepped forward to remove his cloak and take his weapons for maintenance.
A steward approached.
"Lord Payne, the cook has marinated a pheasant. It's just come off the fire—would you like to eat now?"
"Yes," Podrick replied.
"Bring me a jug of wine too. The rest, handle as you see fit."
The steward turned to leave, but Podrick stopped him again.
"Bring the maps as well. We'll be moving tomorrow."
"Understood, my lord."
Calling it coincidence was generous—there was no doubt the pheasant had been set aside especially for him.
He didn't wait long.
A bowl of squirrel-and-hazelnut stew, several slices of toasted bread, a roasted chicken, and a skin of red wine were soon brought in.
He dunked the rock-hard bread—still stiff despite being toasted—into the hot soup, tore off a chicken leg, and unfolded the map.
As the soft sounds of chewing filled the tent, Podrick's finger slid slowly across the parchment, finally coming to rest on a single location.
Tumbleton, also known as Rattletown—the seat of House Footly in the Reach.
It lay southwest of King's Landing, roughly fifty to sixty leagues away, near the northeastern edge of the Reach.
The source of the Mander River lay nearby.