Chapter 5 – The Saddle
Morning had barely broken.
Along the Kingsroad, a column of soldiers marched steadily northward beneath the pale dawn.
A ray of sunlight pierced the fading mist, scattering gold across the sea of crimson banners. The Lannister camp shimmered like a red-and-gold lake — and now, one of its many streams had begun flowing north.
Just yesterday, while Tyrion Lannister's unruly mountain clans had stirred chaos in the war council, Ser Addam Marbrand's scouts came galloping back with grim news:
The Stark forces were moving south along the Trident.
The banners of the Young Wolf were on the march.
"So, the little wolf finally leaves his den,"
said Lord Tywin Lannister, a faint glimmer of satisfaction in his cold eyes — though his lips never formed a smile.
And with that, he gave his order: march north and meet Robb Stark's host in open battle.
---
In the midst of the camp's clamor, Podrick Payne carried a heavy saddle toward a broad-chested brown warhorse.
He rose on his toes, struggling slightly as he lifted the specially made saddle onto the horse's back.
It wasn't that the saddle was too heavy — his body could handle the weight.
The problem was simply his height.
Compared to the horse's towering frame, the twelve-year-old squire looked almost comically small.
Once the saddle was properly settled, the mare turned her head and nudged him affectionately with her nose.
Podrick chuckled softly, scratching her chin before tightening the leather girth beneath her belly.
That's when a cautious voice spoke beside him.
"My lord, this is our duty. You could've just ordered one of us to do it."
Podrick — or rather, Podrick Payne, heir of a minor Westerlands house sworn to the Lannisters — might've looked small and unassuming, but he was still a noble by blood.
And more importantly, he was now the squire to Tyrion Lannister, the second son of House Lannister itself.
He reached up and gently rubbed the horse's ear, earning a pleased whicker and a twitch of its lips. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a few beans and fed them into her mouth before turning to face the man.
The speaker was a middle-aged groom — one of the handlers Tywin had recently assigned to serve under Tyrion's command.
"Don't worry," Podrick said mildly. "No lord will scold you for this. I just wanted to do it myself."
"After all, I'm Lord Tyrion's squire — and if all goes as planned, I'll be a knight anointed in oil someday. I'd rather not be the kind of knight who can't even saddle his own horse."
The groom blinked, then smiled awkwardly, relief softening his tense features.
"Of course, my lord. But if you ever need assistance, just give the word."
Podrick nodded.
"I will. But for now, get back to your duties. We'll be marching soon."
It was a reasonable excuse — even admirable for a squire to handle his own horse. No one could fault him for that.
The groom bowed and hurried off to his next task — packing up Tyrion Lannister's tents and personal belongings for transport by wagon.
Podrick led his horse along the path back toward the camp, though his eyes weren't on the road.
They were fixed on the faintly glowing system panel only he could see.
A new line had appeared:
[Skill Acquired: Riding Lv.1 (2 / 100)]
The reward for his effort the night before — several hours spent in the stable, wrestling with a smaller mare until both man and beast came to an understanding.
He smiled faintly.
"We're breaking camp to march north," he thought.
"Just like in the original story… which means the Battle of the Green Fork is inevitable."
"But before that, I need to act. I can't just drift along with the current like an extra waiting to die."
After a full day and night of quiet reflection, Podrick had already made his decision.
The story of A Song of Ice and Fire might have once had nothing to do with him —
but that was before.
Now that he was here,
he refused to remain just another nameless squire in someone else's tale.
Reality wasn't a novel.
As a living, breathing person in a brutal world, Podrick knew one thing for certain — if he wanted to survive, he needed strength.
Real, tangible strength.
And that required more than just time.
It demanded courage.
"For now… I'll have to rely on Tyrion Lannister. Staying by his side — that's my only real way forward."
Podrick trudged along the muddy road, boots sinking with every uneven step. His expression remained calm, but his mind churned like a storm.
He shifted his gaze from the skills panel back to his attributes.
"A score of five in any stat should represent an average adult. My strength's definitely increased — I can feel it."
"Before, my numbers were low because my body was still that of a twelve-year-old kid… but now…"
He clenched his fist, feeling the power coursing through his limbs — the new solidity in his muscles, the faint buzz of energy that hadn't been there before.
[Level: Lv6 (73 / 210 EXP)]
[Strength: 6]
He smiled faintly.
Not bad. Progress.
---
"My lord, I've selected a horse for you. With her, your journey north will be a bit easier."
Back at Tyrion's tent, Podrick stood holding the reins of a sleek mare.
Behind them, the Lannister camp was a blur of movement — men shouting, tents coming down, carts creaking as the army broke camp in a tide of red and gold.
Tyrion, bent over a washbasin, spat out a mouthful of water and turned at the sound of his squire's voice.
Compared to the filthy, unkempt dwarf from the day before, this morning's Tyrion looked almost civilized — the faint gleam of Lannister pride returning to his appearance.
"Pod?" he said, blinking in surprise before his gaze dropped to the horse. "I don't recall this being part of a squire's job."
Then, with his usual wry tone:
"And between you and me, the only thing that makes me feel 'comfortable' these days is lying in bed. Preferably with a young, beautiful woman beside me."
"So unless your mare can manage that, do me a favor next time and pick one smaller."
Tyrion spread his hands wide, his face deadly serious — which only made the remark more absurd.
Podrick held back a smile. Tyrion hadn't rejected the offer, and that alone said plenty.
Truth be told, the dwarf appreciated initiative — especially from someone who could think beyond mere obedience.
Tyrion yawned, rubbing at his eyes. He flicked away a bit of sleep grit from the corner and finally gave the horse a proper look.
The moment he saw it, his expression froze. His calves tightened involuntarily.
He didn't want to remember what riding felt like. Not after everything he'd been through.
He still had nightmares of the road east — being captured by Catelyn Tully, dragged through the Vale, surviving the Eyrie's sky cells, and wagering his life in a trial by combat.
And now, just when he'd barely gotten back to what was supposed to be safety, here he was again — about to ride north into another war.
He'd only just managed to take a proper hot bath last night, sleep in a real bed, and eat food that wasn't boiled beans or half-chewed leather straps scraped off a dungeon floor.
And now, duty was calling again.
Tyrion sighed, muttering under his breath:
"Seven bloody hells… does no one in this world have the decency to pity a dwarf?"
---
Podrick said nothing.
He only smiled faintly, adjusting the reins in his hands.
Because if there was one thing he'd already learned about this world — it was that pity never saved anyone.
Not a bastard.
Not a cripple.
Not a broken thing.
And certainly not a dwarf.
---