Chapter 119: Who Would've Thought I, Podrick Payne, Might One Day Marry a Princess
Podrick's promise, however, was clearly not enough for the dwarf.
Tyrion merely paused for a moment before waving his hand.
"This matter can be discussed later. It's still too early to say much."
"That said, you're right about one thing—peace is indeed our objective. I'll have Cleos return to Robb Stark as quickly as possible with my counterproposal, to ease tensions if nothing else."
"But only that much."
Podrick caught the unspoken implication in Tyrion's words.
"So you have a better plan?" he asked, glancing at the letter clenched in Tyrion's hand. "Something in the letter, perhaps?"
"Of course," Tyrion replied, the corners of his mouth lifting. "And I don't blame you, Podrick. You've only seen one battle, and Cleos's account frightened you."
"Often enough, blind compromise only leaves us with nothing."
"And you heard Cleos yourself—he doesn't believe Robb Stark will yield easily. The one who truly wants peace is Lady Catelyn, not the boy."
"I believe that once Cleos gets close enough, he'll see a side of that little wolf none of us have seen."
"As for Lady Catelyn—she is a mother first and foremost. A woman who dared to come to King's Landing alone after one son nearly died from a fall and another survived an assassination attempt. What do you think she truly wants, if not her daughters?"
"Do you really believe that if we agree to Robb Stark's demands, the peace you're hoping for will arrive?"
"Because at that point, the Young Wolf would have nothing left to fear."
Tyrion's words left Podrick silent.
He had to admit—there was logic in them.
Or perhaps… he really was being naïve, still carrying traces of the gentleness fostered by a previous life lived in an age of peace.
Podrick pressed his lips together and said nothing, sinking into thought.
Seeing this, Tyrion felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. He had never misjudged the boy.
No matter how cunning, ruthless, or composed Podrick appeared to the outside world, that core of youthful kindness was still there.
And that—that—was why Tyrion trusted Podrick, even as his trust in men like Bronn slowly eroded.
Standing on tiptoe, Tyrion patted Podrick on the arm.
"Don't be discouraged. Your thinking isn't wrong. If my father and Robb Stark could truly shake hands now, House Lannister would indeed emerge the greatest victor."
"But that outcome was never likely."
Tyrion's attempt at comfort drew a faint, wry smile from Podrick as he turned slightly.
"Because even if Robb Stark agreed, the lords who only recently bent the knee to him would never allow it…"
"They've sacrificed too much for House Stark's honor. For Robb to accept peace now would be like plunging a knife into their backs."
"And House Frey—his staunchest supporter—would become a laughingstock, followed swiftly by the reckoning that laughter invites."
"If mother and son truly chose that path," Podrick continued calmly, "Robb Stark might well die in some 'accident' one day."
"And the lords would simply choose a new King in the North."
Now fully grasping that war was not a game, nor a matter of sentiment—but naked interest—Podrick finished the thought Tyrion had left unsaid.
The battlefield, after all, was never kind to those who mistook mercy for strategy.
Tyrion hadn't thought quite that far ahead—but Podrick's words struck a nerve.
Perhaps from the moment Eddard Stark's head rolled from his shoulders, this war had already become one without compromise.
A war that could end only when one side was utterly destroyed.
And as Tyrion fully grasped this truth, the look he gave Podrick grew darker—almost fearful.
Twelve years old, he thought. And already this terrifying…
Was it truly possible for someone to be born with such instinctive understanding?
And it wasn't just that uncanny clarity of thought—Podrick also possessed a physical talent that might well rank among the greatest the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen.
Perfect.
Terrifying.
Then, suddenly, Tyrion's eyes lit up.
"Podrick—what do you think of Myrcella?"
"Huh?"
Still slightly dejected and in the midst of self-reflection, Podrick froze, momentarily dumbfounded.
"Myrcella the princess?" he asked instinctively. "She's… very pretty. Smart. Uh… she's nice. Why?"
A sly, almost lecherous smile crept across Tyrion's face.
"What if I married her to you?"
"You're about the right age for each other, aren't you?"
"Because I've realized you're absolutely right—Myrcella shouldn't be treated like a commodity, nor sold off like a sack of oats."
"Dorne could guarantee her safety, yes—but she'd never be happy in such a marriage. Just like my sister with that dead fool Robert."
"And Joffrey, as king, should act like one. The Martells' heir is a woman—a mature woman. She'd make a far more appealing queen, one Joffrey would dote on."
That was enough to snap Podrick fully awake.
He closed his hanging jaw, snorted, and curled his lip.
"Well then—thank you kindly for the honor. Who would've thought Podrick Payne might one day marry a princess."
Tyrion heard the disdain clearly, but merely smiled and said nothing, rising on his toes to pat Podrick's arm again.
"Back to business. Since true peace may be unattainable, that doesn't mean this situation is entirely bad for us."
"For example?" Podrick asked, now genuinely attentive.
"In my view," Tyrion said, "Robb Stark has handed us an opportunity."
Standing on the stone steps of the battlements, his nearly white-blond hair whipped wildly by the wind, Tyrion spoke with growing confidence. Below them, the shouts of drilling recruits echoed through the square.
"An opportunity?" Podrick tilted his head.
"A golden one."
Tyrion smiled broadly and raised the map and letter in his hand.
"This allows us to keep that boy waiting in Riverrun, dreaming of peace he believes is within reach."
"I'll propose terms—just generous enough to keep hope alive."
"And then my dear cousin Cleos can wear out his Frey backside shuttling back and forth, buying us precious time."
"If that's not a golden opportunity, what is?"
Podrick looked thoughtful. "So the letter wasn't just a plea for peace—there was a gift."
"The gift isn't in the letter," Tyrion said lightly. "It's on the map."
"It tells me my uncle Ser Stafford is gathering arms and training new troops at Casterly Rock—doing exactly what you're doing here."
"When he's ready, he'll strike in tandem with my father, crushing the Tullys and the Starks between them."
"Victory will still be ours."
It was a beautiful plan—if everything went smoothly.
"If only Robert's brothers were so cooperative," Podrick muttered, jerking his chin southward. "At most, ten days before Renly Baratheon's army is at our gates."
"Yes," Tyrion sighed. "And I wonder—if I bundled you up and tossed you outside the walls as an apology gift to King Renly, would he turn around and crawl back down the Rose Road?"
"I'd wager my sister's chastity that the noble King Renly would do just that."
"I should charge you with fraud for saying that."
"I thought you'd charge me with insulting the Queen Regent."
"Why? Because you're telling the truth?"
"…Fair."
They exchanged a few weary jokes, laughed briefly—and then fell silent again.
"What truly keeps me awake at night," Tyrion said at last, rubbing his brow, "is the thought of Stannis's fleet sailing into Blackwater Bay."
Podrick shrugged. "The wildfire you got in exchange for Shae will stop him. Give him a crushing defeat. I'm sure the gods will favor you."
"Fuck you."
"That's Mary's line of work."
Lies don't wound—truth does.
Podrick's retort struck home, leaving Tyrion momentarily deflated.
[Skill: Trash Talk Proficiency +12]
[Trash Talk: Lv.4 (2/1000)]
"Bastard!"
"Damn you, Podrick!"
The curses sounded almost petulant. In the end, Tyrion could only grit his teeth and look toward Bronn, who was signaling for Ser Jacelyn Bywater to return.
"You did right calling him," Tyrion said. "Cleos Frey is now in your care—see that all his needs are met."
Ser Jacelyn sensed the odd tension but wisely didn't pry.
"And his escort?"
"Feed them, clothe them, and have a maester tend their wounds," Tyrion said sharply. "But not one of them sets foot inside the city. Understood?"
His mismatched eyes bored into Jacelyn—King's Landing's state could not be allowed to reach Robb Stark.
"Perfectly, my lord."
Soldiers understood tone.
As they prepared to return to the Red Keep, Podrick made an excuse to stay behind.
He intended to hunt the eunuch himself.
Varys wouldn't abandon decades of work so easily—not with victory so close at hand.
Shae's abduction had purpose.
And the secrets Varys held, the forces he could still command, were… unsettling.
Podrick planned to change his appearance, change his approach—and search again for the spider who loved to hide.
---
Meanwhile, Tyrion chose not to ride.
He was exhausted—body, mind, and spirit.
His lover taken.
Fooled by a diversion.
Peace overtures from the Riverlands.
Once inside the litter, he drew the curtains and leaned back, letting the rhythmic sway lull him toward sleep—
Until shouting broke through the haze.
Annoyed, he peeked through the curtain.
They were passing Cobbler's Square. A crowd had gathered beneath leather awnings, listening to a so-called prophet rant.
Undyed wool, rope for a belt—just another beggar.
The man climbed onto a crate and screamed:
"DEPRAVITY!"
"BROTHER AND SISTER COUPLING IN THE KING'S BED!"
"INCEST SPAWN DANCING TO THE TUNE OF A TWISTED LITTLE DEMON!"
"WE GROW FAT, FILTHY, CORRUPT!"
"EVEN THE HIGH SEPTON HAS FORGOTTEN THE GODS!"
"WORMS RULE THE CASTLE!"
"GOLD IS ALL THAT MATTERS!"
"THE WHORING KING MET DIVINE PUNISHMENT—GUTTED BY A BOAR!"
"SEE THE SIGN! THE GODS DEMAND PURIFICATION!"
"BATHE IN RIGHTEOUS FIRE!"
"OR BURN!"
"BURN!"
Tch, Tyrion thought grimly.
Quite the stage he's built.