Chapter 92: I Want a Valyrian Steel Sword, Power, and You, Your Majesty
"Tell me, what do you want?"
Cersei sat up in bed, making no effort to cover her bare body. She tilted her chin upward, her eyes blazing with arrogance as she stared into Podrick's gaze.
"What do I want?"
Podrick rubbed his chin, eyeing the woman's haughty demeanor with a spark of amusement.
Is this what it feels like to be kept by a rich woman?
"Does Your Majesty mean you can give me anything I ask for?" Podrick asked, his tone laced with meaning, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Seeing his eager expression lit a fire in Cersei; her cheeks flushed even brighter. The Regent Queen leaned forward, cupping her young lover's chin in her hand.
"As long as you name it, there's nothing I won't give you."
"Wealth, status—speak up! I can have Little Joffrey knight you himself, grant you hereditary lands and a title to make your family shine for a thousand years on this soil!"
Cersei's offer was irresistible. In one breath, she'd laid out the dreams of 99.9% of men across the Seven Kingdoms. And she wasn't just any rich woman—she was a Lannister, the pinnacle of nobility, Regent Queen to boot.
From the moment Podrick had uttered "that'll cost extra," Cersei had believed in him utterly.
But what she didn't know was that Podrick might chase these things, yet they weren't his ultimate goal. As a modern man at heart, he wouldn't settle for mere scraps.
Of course, he wouldn't show it.
"Really, Your Majesty?"
The boy grinned shamelessly, eyes dripping with greedy desire, as if ready to pledge himself right then and there.
"Naturally—out with it!"
Cersei waved a hand with bold flair. Naked as she was, she radiated the commanding presence of a queen holding court.
"Then I'll say it."
"Go ahead!"
Podrick's eyes sparkled like stars.
Cersei couldn't care less.
Podrick cleared his throat with a discreet cough, sitting up straighter to match her posture.
"I want a sword, power, and you!"
"For the sword, I want the Stark family blade, Ice."
"For power, I want your support—Yours, the Queen Regent's, and King Joffrey's—to make me a true King's Hand."
"And most importantly... I want you, Your Majesty."
The young man sat tall, his voice calm as he dropped this bombshell.
Cersei froze, caught off guard. In her mind, Podrick would demand exactly what she'd promised: status, riches, everything.
But no—his requests were so disarmingly simple.
First, the Stark ancestral sword: Ice, the Valyrian steel greatsword. It was still in the hands of Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice. Ever since Eddard Stark's arrest, he'd claimed it for himself—and used it to behead the Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, right in the sept of Baelor, blood spraying the holy ground.
Even Cersei had to admit Ice's value. But it was a man's weapon; she'd never grasp its deeper meaning. So, the first demand? No issue at all. Podrick had asked, and she 'would' deliver.
The second was even easier. Her wretched brother, the Imp, had exploited a loophole, murdered Janos Slynt, and installed his own man. It had humiliated her, sure, left her fuming—but it was understandable. Besides, Podrick already held a high seat among the Small Council; it was fact now.
"So you want mine and Joffrey's backing. Tired of being my brother's puppet, are you?"
Cersei pieced it together, suddenly enlightened as to his motives.
At the last council meeting, he'd been a mute ornament, butt in the chair but strings pulled by Tyrion.
Podrick blinked, nearly bursting into laughter at how perfectly she'd misinterpreted. But he held it in, widened his eyes to feign utmost sincerity, and nodded vigorously, thumbs up.
"Your Majesty is so wise~!"
"Truly worthy of the Regent Queen~!"
His rainbow of flattery made Cersei beam, eyes crinkling in delight.
But as she lifted her chin smugly, realization hit. She schooled her face into stern lines.
"I can grant your first two demands. But the last? I suggest you forget it."
"I'll never be 'your' woman." Cersei's voice turned icy, her expression proud as a swan arching its neck.
"Don't even think it. Ever."
Dominant Cersei, online and fishing.
Podrick itched to shout it aloud. And best of all, this catfish loved her sweet bait.
The words barely left her lips before he yanked her back into his arms.
He dove in, unleashing a barrage of Infinite Blue Q-skill smooches.
Unprepared for the Tam onslaught, Cersei emerged flushed and limp-limbed.
Seizing the moment, Podrick confessed boldly, gazing at her with soulful depth.
"But I only want you, my Queen. Even like this, I'd give anything!"
Cersei could scarcely speak, reduced to stammering mumbles that passed for consent.
Meanwhile, after cleaning up Podrick's mess in the city—wiping his ass clean—Tyrion dragged his weary self back to the Hand's Tower.
He climbed those cursed stairs again, muttering curses under his breath, then slumped into his chair, rubbing his temples with a groan.
"Look at the mess that little bastard Pod made. I never should've made him Commander of the City Watch... No, I never should've let him off the leash. He's like a dog that won't come when called."
Thanks to Podrick's stunt, Tyrion had played the hero today, using the chaos to soothe the city's boiling tensions.
Still, he was pissed.
The move was reckless—goading Renly at a time like this? Far from smart. One slip, and it was game over. No recovery.
All his careful work as Hand of the King, step by precarious step—what was it for?
Tyrion released his brow and glanced at Bronn, who was pouring
himself another cup of Arbor red, drinking alone.
"Where's that boy Podrick?"
"Why isn't he back yet?"