Chapter 93 — Just Tell Her I Have Urgent Business to Discuss
"Are you asking me?"
Bronn, who had just swallowed down a mouthful of red wine to wet his throat, turned toward the dwarf with a blank, baffled expression—like he was wondering whether the flea-ridden mobs outside had finally shouted Tyrion stupid.
"…Right. That was a stupid question."
Seeing Bronn's look of pity—reserved for idiots and dying men—Tyrion slapped his forehead, annoyed at himself for even asking.
Pod had left precisely because Tyrion sent him.
And now that the little bastard still hadn't shown his face—while Cersei's side of the castle was quiet in a way that simply wasn't her style—Tyrion didn't need a maester to tell him exactly where Pod had gone.
The thought made his teeth grind.
Tch.
Seven hells… damn it.
He waved a hand in irritation.
"Don't just drink by yourself. Pour me a cup too. Anyone watching would think you're the Hand today."
Slumped into his chair, Tyrion glared bitterly at Bronn, as if the mercenary's face were merely a convenient substitute for cursing someone else.
Bronn glanced around the room. No servants in sight.
He drained his own cup in one gulp, didn't even bother rinsing it, then casually filled it again and handed it to Tyrion.
What could he do? The dwarf was paying.
Tyrion took the cup and tipped it back like a man trying to drown his day. Wine thundered down his throat in heavy gulps.
Bronn curled his lip, shrugged, then—without a word—pulled out a fresh clean cup for himself. He refilled it properly and wandered over to sit by the window, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who technically served someone.
Tyrion didn't notice.
After emptying the cup in one go, his throat—raw from shouting and cursing for the last hour or two—finally felt better.
He belched softly.
Then his whole body went slack, like the wine had replaced his bones with mud.
Too lazy to move, he stayed folded into the chair, idly rolling the cup between his fingers. His eyes slid past the mercenary—who offended the room simply by existing—and drifted toward the darkening sky outside the window.
His gaze sharpened, deepened.
Thinking.
Planning.
Regretting.
The room fell into that strange kind of silence again—the kind that felt less like peace and more like something waiting to happen.
At last Tyrion spoke, quietly:
"Bronn… do you think I'm doing the right thing?"
The mercenary was usually comfortable with silence, so Tyrion's sudden question struck him as strange.
As if sensing the faint uncertainty beneath the dwarf's words, Bronn spread his hands and smirked—careless, half-amused, wearing that crooked grin that always seemed to carry something sharp behind it.
A rotten sort of honesty.
"My lord," Bronn said, "a sellsword doesn't care who's right or wrong. At least I don't. I care about coin."
"Right," Tyrion murmured. "And yet… it still has to be done."
Bronn's answer made him pause—then Tyrion gave a small laugh and shook his head.
Strange. Compared to Bronn's easy indifference, it was that boy—Podrick—who understood him better. The boy's age and face did not match his mind. Too steady. Too sharp.
Podrick acted like a blade hidden in cloth: quiet, unobtrusive… and always aimed straight at the heart of the matter.
And now, more than anything, Tyrion was grateful for the unspoken agreement between them.
Podrick had taken it upon himself to occupy Cersei. To keep her busy. To keep her from storming out and tearing down whatever Tyrion built with his bare hands.
It was something even Lord Tywin Lannister had never truly managed.
And Podrick had done it alone.
Tyrion rubbed at his brow, exhausted.
"Keep an eye on him for me," he told Bronn. "Don't let my dear nephew find out about… Podrick and Cersei."
After giving the order, Tyrion somehow felt even more tired.
Some days he thought he was no Hand at all—just a brothel keeper, surviving only because the "girls" under him were competent enough to make up for his headaches.
Was this truly what the Hand of the King did?
Had Eddard Stark felt this way, serving Robert Baratheon?
His thoughts wandered, spiraling outward—until the weight of them pulled him back down.
Bronn, hearing the worry in Tyrion's words, suddenly burst into laughter, as if Tyrion had stumbled right into the punchline of a private joke.
"You mean our little king?"
Tyrion's expression tightened at once. His instincts flared.
"What now?" he demanded. "What has he done?"
Bronn took a sip of wine, grinning like a man reliving something entertaining.
"He's taken a liking to rabbits," he said. "Word is the eunuch brought them in as a gift."
"Doesn't matter where he got them from. The boy's obsessed."
"With a gilded crossbow—jewels and all—he's been shooting the poor things. His aim's still terrible, though. Last I checked, the rabbit looked like it had more holes than fur."
He waved a hand as he spoke, his eyes full of mocking amusement. He clearly found it hilarious.
Tyrion's mouth twitched—almost a smile—before he forced it away. The humor drained from his face.
Bronn didn't notice. He smacked his lips at the wine and continued.
"Oh—and rabbit was on the menu tonight. Let's just hope His Grace only used the crossbow, and didn't get any… other ideas."
"If not, I doubt I'll have much appetite."
He laughed again.
Tyrion's lips curled despite himself—then he snapped back into control at once, glaring.
"You're half-mad, Bronn. Don't joke about the king. That's treason. And Joffrey would never do anything like that."
"That's not something I'd bet my head on," Bronn said lightly, unconcerned. "Men at that age get… inventive. Don't tell me you were a saint."
Tyrion's patience thinned.
He set his wine down hard on the table—more force than necessary.
"House Lannister buys solutions," he said coldly. "Joffrey most of all. And he's king besides."
"Don't let your filthy imagination turn into rumors. Not in my city."
His warning sharpened.
"And don't give him an excuse to have your tongue ripped out. I won't be able to stop those white-cloaked fools of his. They wouldn't listen to me any more than a dog would."
That landed.
Bronn blinked, then lifted both hands in surrender.
"I meant Podrick Payne," he said quickly. "Not the king. No king in that story."
"That's better."
Tyrion belched softly again, defeated by exhaustion more than wine.
His gaze drifted across the desk—toward a stack of blank parchment, a quill, and a glass bottle of ink.
Then he spoke, voice low and firm.
"Tomorrow. Arrange private meetings for me—with three councilors."
"Separate meetings," he added.
"And tell them this: I have urgent business to discuss."