Chapter 97 — What Gratitude?
"We'll leave it at that for now," Tyrion said at last, after turning the matter over in his mind a dozen different ways. "Let's see how Pod handles it on his end."
There was nothing else to be done—at least not yet.
Bronn shrugged. "Fine… Oh, right. Almost forgot. There's also a brother of the Night's Watch here. The steward says he brought a jar. With a rotten hand inside."
Tyrion swallowed reflexively. The weariness on his face deepened, as though even his exhaustion was exhausted.
"How surprising," he muttered, voice dry as dust, "that no one's eaten it yet."
Then he sighed.
"I suppose I should see him. It wouldn't happen to be Yoren, would it?"
Tyrion still remembered that wandering crow. They'd ridden south together from the Wall to King's Landing once, talking the whole way—pleasant enough that Tyrion could almost call him half a friend.
Of course, the dwarf would never be persuaded to don black himself. He hadn't enjoyed life nearly enough yet, and he wasn't mad.
But fate had been uncooperative. Halfway down the road he'd been seized by Catelyn Stark and dragged into the Vale, where she meant to have him tried for attempting to murder Bran Stark.
As for Yoren—he wasn't the sort required to freeze his bones on the Wall year-round. He served as a recruiter for the Watch, roaming the Seven Kingdoms in search of fresh bodies for Castle Black. Unlike most of his sworn brothers, he was allowed the small mercy of southern sunlight.
They said he'd worn the black for thirty years, though no one truly knew who he'd been before it.
For three decades he'd walked the kingsroad, gathering men for the Watch.
And in all those years, only three of his recruits had died along the way.
For a moment Tyrion's mood actually lifted—at the thought of seeing a familiar face again.
But Bronn shook his head.
"No. Not him. It's a knight. Name's Thorne."
Thorne?
Tyrion's brows arched.
"Ser Alliser Thorne?"
Suddenly Tyrion remembered—of all the black brothers he'd met at the Wall, Thorne had been the one he'd disliked most.
The man was cruel, poisonous-tongued, and drowning in his own arrogance. He delighted in bullying anyone weaker than himself—especially when he could hide behind rank and authority.
The dwarf changed his mind on the spot.
"On second thought, I don't particularly feel like seeing Ser Alliser right now," Tyrion said. "So do me a favor—find him a tiny room. The kind where the blanket hasn't been washed in a year. Let that hand rot a little more."
Compared to that Riverlands lord who'd walked all the way to King's Landing to swear fealty to King Joffrey, this so-called knight had not a shred of dignity.
One man got new boots.
The other got a new blanket—mildewed, flea-ridden, and stinking.
Truly, they all enjoyed such wonderful lives.
Bronn snorted with laughter, then turned and wandered off.
---
Tyrion kept struggling upward, limping his way through the spiral stairs, crossing the yard with his twisted legs aching from every step—
When suddenly he heard it.
The iron portcullis was rising.
He turned instinctively, and saw his sister—Queen Regent Cersei—riding out with an entire escort.
"Your Grace," Tyrion greeted smoothly, dipping into a courteous bow. "You're radiant this morning."
And for once, he wasn't exaggerating.
Cersei wore a golden crown, a cloak of ermine, and the unmistakable glow of triumph. She looked vibrant—almost dazzling.
But behind her came a mounted column of guards, far too many for a casual outing.
Ser Boros Blount rode at her back, clad in white scale armor as ever, brow knotted in permanent irritation.
Ser Balon Swann had his bow slung across a silver-trimmed saddle.
And there were more—Ser Meryn Trant, and fifty soldiers besides.
This was no stroll.
Then Tyrion remembered what Bronn had said earlier.
"Sister," he asked curiously, "where exactly are you going with this?"
Cersei's green eyes slid toward him like cold glass.
"I'm inspecting the new scorpions and wildfire throwers at the city gates," she said. "I wouldn't want anyone thinking I'm like you—blind and indifferent to the city's defenses."
Her tone was disdainful, yet even contempt could not dull her beauty.
Then she continued, voice crisp with satisfaction:
"Ser Podrick Payne has won us a great victory. Renly Baratheon is furious. I've received reports—Renly has marched out from Highgarden, and he's bringing heavy forces north along the Roseroad."
That part wasn't news.
Varys had told Tyrion a full day earlier—long before Pod returned to King's Landing.
Naturally, Tyrion would not ruin such a convenient misunderstanding.
But just as he opened his mouth to respond, something else hit him—
A word.
Ser.
"Wait." Tyrion blinked. "When did Podrick become a knight?"
He stared at his sister, one eye wide, the other wider still.
If his memory wasn't failing him—and it wasn't—Pod had still been a squire yesterday.
And not just any squire.
His squire.
Gods—
For a moment Tyrion didn't even know what to say.
Because he certainly couldn't ask whether Pod had been promoted in Cersei's bed.
Cersei, meanwhile, looked like she'd just eaten honeyed fruit sorbet on the hottest day of summer.
"Ser Podrick Payne has defended the realm, served the crown, and shown unquestionable loyalty," she said smugly. "Why shouldn't he be elevated?"
Then she tilted her chin, lips curling.
"As for someone else… hah."
Cersei, as always, knew how to dodge a question with effortless precision.
Tyrion had asked when Pod became a knight.
She answered why.
Not because she had to.
Because she wanted to flaunt it.
And Tyrion—still frozen in disbelief—could only stand there and take it.
But Cersei had no intention of wasting any more time on him.
"I don't have time for this," she said sharply. "By the next full moon, Renly Baratheon may already be here."
With that, she turned her horse and rode off, her escort thundering after her—without sparing her dwarf brother so much as a backward glance.
Because today, she was the one who felt like the victor.
---
Tyrion watched her go, worry creeping into his eyes.
Until now, Renly had marched leisurely—feasting in different castles each night, parading like a prince on tour.
At every crossroads he would even hold court and "govern," gathering more lords beneath his banner.
But Pod's sudden strike had clearly rattled him.
And the reports were consistent:
Renly was accelerating.
Still…
Pod had insisted otherwise—confident to the point of arrogance.
Tyrion fell silent, then muttered under his breath:
"Heh… and I actually believed that boy's delusions."
"No. Cersei's doing the right thing."
"Renly has Storm's End and Highgarden behind him. Every Tyrell bannerman stands with him… save the Redwynes, and only because their ugly twin sons are still in Cersei's hands."
Tyrion exhaled slowly.
"Then I'll have to move faster too."
Then, softer—almost bitterly amused:
"Some repayment of gratitude…"
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