Chapter 90 — A Reward?
After Podrick's final words fell, silence settled between them.
Not the awkward kind.
Not the polite kind.
But the kind that stretched like a cold blade across the air—
so long it felt like it might never break.
On horseback, Tyrion stared ahead for what felt like an eternity.
Ten full minutes passed.
Only then did he finally exhale, letting out a tired sigh.
"So you think…" Tyrion said slowly, "that the Baratheon brothers will tear into each other first?"
"Brothers at each other's throats?"
Podrick merely shrugged. His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, calm and unbothered, his expression as blank as still water.
"Stannis claims he's the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Pod said evenly. "He denies Joffrey's legitimacy. Calls him a bastard. A bastard boy."
"Renly's argument isn't much different."
"And since both of them want the throne… and both are already slinging accusations at each other…"
Podrick's voice stayed casual, as if he were discussing the weather.
"I think they'll have to settle it between themselves before anything else."
"At the very least—Stannis will."
He paused briefly, then added, like the final nail in the logic:
"Won't he?"
Tyrion snorted, still unconvinced—though his tone betrayed him.
"You're that certain? That's only a guess."
Podrick nodded mildly, as if Tyrion had just complimented him.
"Which is why I did it."
"A convenient push. Barely an inconvenience."
"No need for them to thank me."
Tyrion's face twitched.
"I'm guessing Renly wants you dead now."
"If he's capable of it," Pod replied without turning his head, "he's welcome to try."
---
At that moment, Tyrion suddenly regretted ever meeting him.
He truly couldn't understand how his dear father—Lord Tywin Lannister—had managed, from the endless sea of people in Westeros, to handpick this particular little monster and send him to Tyrion as a personal insult.
A monster disguised as a boy.
A boy disguised as a servant.
A servant who fought like a demon and thought like a knife.
---
Tyrion's mind drifted, unbidden, to Podrick's kinsman.
Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice.
Was he also selected for being this… eloquent?
Was that why Aerys II had ripped out his tongue?
Then Tyrion remembered.
No—Payne had lost his tongue because someone whispered that he'd said:
"Lord Tywin is the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
Ah.
So it wasn't eloquence.
It was speaking the wrong truth in front of the wrong madman.
And now Tyrion couldn't help but wonder—
If Stannis became king…
Or Renly…
Would they take Podrick's hands?
Or would they simply take his head?
---
Tyrion stared at that shameless face, that infuriating composure.
But the truly infuriating part—
was that Podrick was right.
This boy wasn't reckless.
He was bold because he understood something perfectly:
Neither Tyrion Lannister nor Tywin Lannister would allow things to spiral into a position where Renly or Stannis could freely reach into King's Landing and pluck Pod's head like fruit.
He wasn't fearless.
He was calculating.
---
And now that it was done—
Tyrion could do nothing but accept the reality.
He rolled his eyes so hard it nearly counted as prayer, then spoke in a weary, poisoned voice.
"Fine."
"You bastard."
"If you didn't have the name Payne, I'd swear you were one of the Cleganes' hunting dogs."
"But they'll never grow a brain like yours."
"That… is not up for debate."
Then Tyrion's mouth curled into a bitter half-smile, the kind that usually meant trouble for someone.
"So…"
"I'll admit it. You're right."
"And I truly wish I could reward you for it."
Podrick only smiled.
A small smile.
The kind that said: I'm not falling for that.
Because Podrick didn't believe, not for a second, that Tyrion had failed to consider these possibilities.
No.
If Tyrion hadn't thought of it before, he would've thought of it the moment he heard what Pod did.
And if he hadn't already prepared a response…
he was already drafting it in his head.
That irritating little dwarf was clearly only putting on airs—testing him, poking at him, and at the same time making his stance unmistakably clear.
Podrick didn't believe for a second that Tyrion couldn't see it.
What Podrick had done, at this stage, was the sort of "good deed" that was easy to justify both upwards and downwards—to the crown above, and to the people below.
It also relieved pressure that had been building inside the court… and inside the city.
Sure enough, there were no wrong nicknames—only wrong names.
The Imp really was the Imp.
So when Tyrion started sniping at him again, Podrick simply clasped his fists together with a grin, all smiles and sunshine.
"Her Grace and His Majesty will gladly help you solve that little problem, my lord."
Tyrion ground his teeth, his words dripping poison.
"I pray to the gods she sends you to keep Varys company. He could use a friend."
Unfortunately, Podrick was immune to venom. His smile only widened.
"I'm guessing Her Grace won't be willing to let me go so easily… so what reward did you have in mind, my lord?"
"Yes. You're right," Tyrion snapped. "Before I left, she gave the order herself. My dear sister is summoning you to the Red Keep. Now move your ass, you bastard."
Podrick gave another cheerful bow, unbothered.
"Aye aye, my lord. Guaranteed mission completion."
But then, as if it suddenly occurred to him, he added smoothly:
"Before I go, though—if I were you, I'd seize this chance to climb somewhere high. Make sure everyone can see you."
"And while you're at it, say a few words to the smallfolk."
"You know how it is. They can't read, and they don't understand politics… but they sure know how to spit filth."
"Lately they've been spreading plenty of stories about you, my lord. None of them particularly flattering."
"And another thing— I split half the loot among the men I brought out. They'll sell their shares at the markets for other goods. As for the rest…"
Podrick's grin sharpened.
"…I'm sure you'll know how to use it."
After helping the dwarf one more time, Pod turned his horse and peeled away from the column, cutting through the alleys toward the Red Keep.
---
Last time, his meeting with Cersei had happened under the wrong circumstances.
But this time…
This time she'd seen what he was worth.
And Podrick finally had the leverage to bargain.
Besides—Tyrion's worries weren't going to come true.
The understanding and trust between him and the Imp was still there.
---
When Podrick rode back into the Red Keep and handed his horse off to the stablehands, he didn't go straight to Maegor's Holdfast.
Instead, he sought out the steward who had clearly been waiting for him.
"I need to bathe and change before I go before Her Grace," Pod said calmly. "I'd rather not commit some offense in front of the court."
Some time later…
Podrick's hair—now long enough to brush his shoulders—was half-dry, half-damp, swept casually back.
The stubble he'd grown during the campaign was shaved clean.
And this time, he wasn't wearing armor and cloak like a marching warlord.
Instead, he wore a sky-blue silk robe, cinched at the waist by a gilded belt.
Over one shoulder, a half-cloak of matching silk was pinned with a golden brooch carved into the shape of a roaring lion—its eyes set with rubies.
A gust rolled through the colonnade, fluttering the cloak dramatically behind him.
A bright, youthful, masculine silhouette—clean and sharp as a blade.
He made his way through the halls without being stopped once.
And even at the door to the queen regent's chambers—half closed, half ajar—he didn't see a single Kingsguard posted on duty, as there usually would be.
That small detail made Podrick's lips curl.
He understood immediately.
---
He strode inside, then casually shut the door behind him.
Inside the room, Cersei Lannister sat with her back to him.
Her golden hair was pinned up—yet deliberately so, leaving nearly half of it undone, loose and cascading over her shoulders.
She held a cup of wine and leaned languidly against the windowsill, half-perched there, gazing out toward Blackwater Bay below.
Beneath her silk dress, one long pale leg was casually revealed, elegant and shameless.
The sea wind slipped in through the round window, lifting strands of her hair like playful fingers.
The sound of the closing door seemed to mean nothing to her.
She simply raised her cup again, wetting her crimson lips with another slow sip.
---
Podrick stood where he was, silently appreciating the sight.
Cersei didn't speak.
As if the view outside were too captivating to pull her attention away.
A soft, intimate tension filled the space between them—one seated, one standing.
It drifted through the room like perfume.
Hormones in the air.
A slow, sweet scent.
Podrick's mouth curved faintly. He walked forward until he stood directly behind her.
Only then did Cersei finally turn her head, unhurried—
And in the instant her eyes recognized who it was—
A powerful arm snapped around her waist.
She vanished from the window in a blur.
Falling—
—and dragged into the bed.
At the same time, a shadow crashed down over her.
--