Chapter 95: I Can't Beat Him
After finishing his errand, completing the meeting, and freeloading a full breakfast from Pycelle, Tyrion left behind one final instruction:
The moment a reply from Dorne arrives, inform me immediately.
Then he turned, patted his own backside as if dusting off trouble, and limped out of the Grand Maester's rookery tower.
By the time he reached the lower courtyard, the sun was already high, and the Red Keep had fully shaken off sleep. Guards paced the battlements. Knights and their squires were out in the yard, drilling with blunted weapons—an endless chorus of dull metal and grunts.
Tyrion's misshapen legs ached fiercely after all those stairs. He pinched the "treasure" hidden in his sleeve, as if that small secret could soothe his foul mood.
At least my dear squire doesn't have the habit of practicing by fighting his lord, Tyrion thought dryly.
Bronn was near the square, sitting by a well. Two pretty serving girls passed by with a wicker basket stuffed with blankets, stepping lightly and chatting under their breath. Tyrion recognized one of them—the same girl he'd seen earlier in Pycelle's dining chamber.
Yet even as they drifted past him, Bronn didn't so much as flick his eyes their way.
Tyrion stared, then frowned.
"With spring like this right in front of you, you ignore two lovely girls and choose instead to watch a flock of geese peck each other with sticks," he said mercilessly. "You really are beyond saving."
Bronn didn't care in the slightest.
"There are a hundred cheap brothels in this city," he said, brushing at the grass on his trousers as he stood. "A few coppers and I can do whatever I like."
Then he tilted his chin toward the training yard.
"But something I learn from those geese might save my life one day."
He pointed.
"See that kid? Blue checked surcoat. Shield with three eyes. Who is he?"
Tyrion followed his gaze. A heartbeat later, the name rose from memory.
"Some hedge knight who calls himself… Tallad, I think," Tyrion said. "Why?"
Bronn casually swept a lock of hair out of his eyes.
"You know, out of that whole bunch, he's the most capable."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
Bronn continued, voice calm—almost lazy.
"But watch closely. His movements have a rhythm. Every attack comes in the same order, using the same set of tricks."
Just as Tyrion was starting to listen in earnest, Bronn suddenly let out a low, ugly chuckle.
"So if I ever end up fighting him," Bronn said, "that habit will get him killed."
Tyrion rubbed his chin. The stubble he'd shaved earlier had already returned, prickly and irritating—like half the court.
"Sounds useful," Tyrion admitted. "But unfortunately, he's sworn himself to Joffrey. So he's not likely to ever cross blades with you."
Tyrion's tone was mild—so mild it was impossible to tell what he truly meant.
The two of them talked as they walked, crossing the courtyard. Bronn deliberately slowed his pace so Tyrion's short legs could keep up.
"What I said was… someday."
At that, the dwarf's mouth curled slightly. His eyes swept over Bronn with amusement.
"Sounds like you've gotten smarter too. Did you learn that from Pod?"
"I don't need to learn anything from him," Bronn replied flatly.
He answered Tyrion's barbed tongue with the simplest weapon of all: blunt honesty.
But Tyrion wouldn't be Tyrion if he were that easy to dismiss.
"And yet I distinctly remember someone, on a certain day, holding a wineskin like a devoted servant—pouring glass after glass for someone else."
"That doesn't count," Bronn said, suddenly speeding up two steps, then twisting sideways to look at Tyrion. "That was cheating. That was talent. Understand?"
He snorted, then added with a sharp edge:
"Besides… someone here seems a lot more anxious than me."
"I was never his equal in the first place," Tyrion said smoothly, without the slightest shame. "As Pod would put it—asking questions isn't disgraceful. It's a good habit."
Tyrion's skin was thicker than castle walls. If you could peel it off and hang it over the gates, it might even stop Renly and Stannis together.
But jokes were jokes.
Once they'd walked out of the training yard's range, Tyrion's tone shifted.
"How many petitions today?"
He'd spent too long dealing with Pycelle and had delayed the day's routine. As Hand of the King, hearing petitions was simply part of the job.
And aside from war and politics, most of them were always the same: petty grievances, sob stories, trivial squabbles.
Bronn sobered as well.
"Mm… thirty-something. Same as always. Either whining or begging."
Then he added, almost casually:
"Oh, right. Your pet came back."
The sudden leap in topic nearly made Tyrion stumble before his brain caught up with who Bronn meant.
He groaned, face twisting as if he'd swallowed vinegar.
"Lady Tanda came?"
"Her people did," Bronn said. "She's inviting you to dinner again. Says she's prepared a huge roasted haunch of venison, and two stuffed geese with mulberry sauce, and—"
"Wait," Tyrion cut in fast, slapping a hand down as if stopping a runaway cart.
"I know where you're going. Her daughter, yes?"
The disgust in his voice was impossible to hide.
From the moment Tyrion arrived at the Red Keep, Lady Tanda Stokeworth had pursued him relentlessly—attacking in waves with eel pie, boar, even rich cream soups like siege weapons.
And her daughter Lollys… was fat, frail, dim as a shuttered lantern. Rumor claimed she was still a virgin at thirty-three.
Tyrion truly couldn't understand how Lady Tanda had decided a dwarf lord was Lollys' perfect match—sent by the gods to complete her.
He rubbed at his temples, feeling his skull throb.
"If her daughter were as slender as Shae—if she were even half as pretty—I wouldn't refuse."
He sighed heavily.
"So send her my regrets. I can't attend."
Then, as though the thought arrived a heartbeat late, he added:
"And don't tell me that venison somehow came from Pod. He's been handing out everything he brought back—didn't even keep a bite for himself."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Tyrion noticed something.
Bronn was staring at him… with a strange expression.
"Didn't he leave you something good?" Bronn asked. "If you're skipping dinner, you could always toss Pod's 'gift' into a stewpot and simmer it."
He paused, then grinned in that nasty way of his.
"And if you prefer it raw, you might be disappointed—by the time you get it in your mouth, it probably won't be as… sturdy as you're imagining."
Tyrion stopped mid-step.
His face turned cold—utterly calm, as if nothing had been said at all—before he resumed walking without looking back.
"Then take it and stuff it into Pod's mouth instead," he said evenly. "Preferably with those two eggs hanging right beside it."
Bronn fell silent for two seconds, lips pressing thin.
Then he said, quietly and very sincerely:
"I can't beat him."
Tyrion lifted an eyebrow.
"I thought you could win against anyone?"
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