Chapter 124 — Please Allow Me to Go
"Here it is," Podrick said lightly.
"The truth of what happened back then."
"Of course, it's only one side of the story—but add this to it, and the whole picture becomes clear."
It was still Tyrion's solar.
Podrick extended his hand, offering a thick bundle of parchment covered in dense writing.
Tyrion, who had been bent over his desk reviewing Varys's secret reports, looked up with faint confusion.
"And what exactly am I looking at?"
He had not expected Podrick's "urgent matter" to amount to a stack of papers.
That was usually the eunuch's style—everything written, everything recorded, so no meaning could be lost in transit.
Podrick, unaware of Tyrion's private grumbling, maintained his easy smile. He set the parchments down, then turned casually to pour himself a cup of wine, as if this were his own study.
"One statement from Grand Maester Pycelle," he said.
"One from the Master of Coin—Littlefinger."
"They tell the same few stories, from different angles. I found that rather interesting—especially where Jon Arryn is concerned."
Tyrion's expression hardened.
He closed Varys's report, folded it neatly, and only then reached for Podrick's parchments.
As he read, his pace slowed.
His brow drew tighter and tighter, the air in the room growing damp and oppressive, like a storm gathering just beyond the walls.
A storm about to break.
Podrick drained half his wine in one gulp, listening to the soft rustle of turning pages. He wandered to the round window and gazed outside.
Dark clouds stretched across the horizon in a single heavy band, piled thick and low like a rising tide.
"Looks like rain," Podrick remarked.
"Then close the window," Tyrion said absently, fingers still gripping the pages, the other hand massaging his temples.
"If even one document in this room gets wet, I'll have a headache for days."
Podrick shut the carved wooden shutters, sealing out the damp wind. The glass panes were warped and uneven; the world beyond bent strangely through them.
"Well?" Podrick asked, returning with his wine and planting himself on the edge of Tyrion's desk.
"What do you think, my lord?"
Tyrion didn't even comment on the audacity.
He released his brow, looked up slowly, and met Podrick's gaze.
"Whatever I think," he said flatly,
"It won't bring the dead back to life."
"That's a White Walker trick," Podrick chuckled.
"And I don't think they're in the market for dwarf recruits just yet."
Tyrion sighed, unsurprised by the nonsense.
"If I were a White Walker," he replied coolly, "I'd choose you as my wight."
Podrick shrugged.
"If it's a female White Walker, I might consider it. Could bring her by for you to inspect?"
Tyrion stared at him.
"…Seven hells," he muttered. "Enough. Why bring me this?"
"To ease your burdens," Podrick said cheerfully.
"This is not how one eases burdens."
"But what if," Podrick continued, unfazed,
"you used it?"
He tapped the parchment.
"I mean the Vale. The lords still loyal to House Arryn."
"If you show them this—"
"—and give them the name of the murderer as well—"
"You'd gain their gratitude."
Tyrion went still.
Understanding dawned slowly. His fingers began tapping the desk, once… twice… in careful rhythm.
"Pour me a drink," he said.
"If memory serves, my father sent you to me as a servant."
"I recall it was meant as an insult," Podrick shot back, already rising—but he poured the wine anyway and handed it over.
Tyrion took it, drained several deep gulps, and exhaled in satisfaction.
"So," he said, eyes half-closed,
"He misjudged you."
"And he misjudged me."
"Stop," Podrick said flatly.
"I'm not listening to some tragic 'OTP against the world' nonsense."
"'OTP'?" Tyrion blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Podrick just smiled—small, quiet, unreadable.
Hearing yet another strange word tumble out of Podrick's mouth, Tyrion still couldn't quite get used to it.
At times, he genuinely had no idea what went on inside the boy's head. His thoughts leapt too quickly, skipping steps Tyrion couldn't even see.
"It's a kind of water bird," Podrick said with a look of open disdain.
"Sort of like stupid ducks. In any case, I don't want to hear about them right now."
Tyrion accepted that without protest.
"Then tell me—why do you think this will help us?" he asked seriously.
"Just because the person who truly killed Jon Arryn was the woman who shared his bed every night?"
"I don't know," Podrick admitted without hesitation.
"And I'm not ashamed of that."
Then he continued calmly,
"But I do know this: if you throw a stone into a clear pool, the water will turn muddy."
"And once the water is muddy, opportunity appears."
Tyrion frowned.
"And what if they all turn to Stannis—or Renly Baratheon instead?"
"Turning the Vale, which is still 'neutral,' into our enemy doesn't strike me as wise."
"After Jon Arryn died, those lords hated the Lannisters with a passion. When I was a guest in the Eyrie, I nearly got to demonstrate what flying looks like—without wings."
"That must've been quite a show," Podrick said with a crooked smile.
"I'm considering having Bronn—or Shagga—tear out your tongue."
The threat carried no real weight. Podrick calmly brought the wine jug over.
Before pouring, he raised one finger and wagged it slowly.
"Shagga prefers feeding goats with men's manhoods. As for Bronn, I imagine he'd find something far more creative."
"So you truly believe," Podrick continued lightly,
"that once the Vale lords learn who murdered their liege, they'll simply ignore it?"
Tyrion didn't answer directly. Instead, he pointed to the pale-yellow sheets lying beside Podrick's hip.
"What was the first thing you said when you came in?"
Podrick blinked.
"'This is the truth of what happened back then'?"
"No," Tyrion said, waving him off.
"The first half of the next sentence."
"'Of course, this is only one side of the story, but—'"
"Stop," Tyrion cut in.
"You hear yourself? Only one side of the story."
"And you expect to fracture the Vale with a few sheets of parchment?"
"Podrick, I don't share your optimism. No one there is a fool."
Podrick tilted his head. Tyrion wasn't wrong.
No one could predict what the Vale lords would actually do—even if they believed every word.
Unable to find a counterargument, Podrick simply gathered the papers and shoved them into Tyrion's arms.
"That part's your problem," he said.
"Maybe have Ser Ilyn Payne cut off Littlefinger's head, box it up, and send it as a gift to the Vale."
He decided then and there to pass the responsibility along.
He was just the messenger.
National politics could remain Tyrion's headache.
Tyrion rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
"If what Littlefinger wrote is true, Lysa Arryn would lose her mind," he said.
"Though she was already unbalanced."
"I think the Vale lords might remove her head as well," Podrick replied.
"Just to avoid further trouble."
Tyrion snorted.
"No. You're wrong."
"If I were them, I'd compete for her favor instead of caring about some 'irrelevant' letter."
"Who's to say how many of them were ever loyal to House Arryn—rather than greedy for the wealth and prestige of a widow and her son?"
"No one truly cares about the truth," Tyrion continued quietly.
"They care about the truth they want."
"The truly honorable ones?"
"They're already dead—heads on spikes."
"That," he finished, "is the price of honor."
The words struck harder than Podrick expected.
His smugness drained away. He swirled the wine in his cup, then muttered darkly,
"Your world is filthier than I imagined. Take this away—I need to wash my eyes."
"You still have much to learn, Ser Podrick Payne," Tyrion said, smiling.
"That sounded like an insult," Podrick muttered.
"I can't prove it, but it felt like one."
He hopped off the desk and headed for the door.
"I'll go find more men for the Night's Watch. At least that feeds mouths and saves lives."
Just as he reached the threshold, Tyrion called out again.
"Wait, Podrick."
"Yes, my lord Hand?"
"There's one more matter," Tyrion said evenly.
"One only you can handle."
He gathered the parchments and set them aside.
Podrick turned back, suspicious.
"If you want me to climb to the heavens and steal the moon, decline in advance."
"This is simpler," Tyrion replied.
"It concerns dismissing my sister's guard."
Podrick frowned.
"You've already decided that. What can I do?"
"Cersei will never allow me to send away the hundred men my father assigned her," Tyrion said.
"But there's one way she will."
"And I want you to do it."
"You want me to… persuade her?"
"Yes," Tyrion said seriously.
"Tell her it's essential to my plan to rescue Jaime."
"With a hundred men?" Podrick asked bluntly.
"No," Tyrion shook his head.
"Bronn found four—thief, poisoner, actor, assassin."
"I intend to send them openly into Riverrun. Disguised as guards."
"They'll wear crimson cloaks, lion helms, escorting Ned Stark's bones."
Now Podrick understood.
Not force—deception.
Still… four men among a hundred?
Four men against Robb Stark's host?
He didn't interrupt.
"And that," Tyrion concluded,
"is why you must explain it to my sister—preferably in bed."
"For her beloved brother, she'll agree."
Podrick exhaled slowly.
"And if the four fail?" he asked quietly.
"And the hundred die with them?"
Tyrion fell silent.
After a long pause, he sighed.
"I've considered it."
"If they succeed, wonderful. If they fail… Jaime's situation can hardly worsen."
"This is an attempt."
Podrick studied him closely.
"Is that truly all you want?"
"To try?"
"I've prepared what I can," Tyrion replied, eyes lowered.
"If fate allows, I'll see my brother again."
Podrick saw no certainty there—only calculation.
His hand drifted to the dragonbone-hilt dagger at his waist.
He remembered the girl beneath the moonlit weirwood.
The promise he'd made.
The kiss she'd left as a down payment.
Then he looked back at Tyrion.
"Then, Lord Tyrion," he said quietly,
"please allow me to go as well."
…
(Special thanks to AnthonyAAR)