Chapter 6 – Northward March
The muscles in Tyrion's legs were still sore — aching and cramping every few steps.
He really didn't want to endure another day of torture in the saddle.
But what choice did he have?
The Stark boy, that little wolf of Winterfell, had already marched his army south.
And his father — Lord Tywin Lannister — was practically gleeful at the news, itching to crush Robb Stark in one decisive battle and secure the Lannister legacy for generations to come.
Tyrion knew the truth.
He wasn't a hero or a strategist.
He was just the excuse.
Still, when he began muttering complaints under his breath, Podrick Payne merely led the horse over to him, calm as ever, and pointed to the saddle.
"Don't worry, my lord," he said evenly. "I've made a few adjustments. The stirrups are shorter, the angle's been corrected — and I even added a little surprise. You should try it."
Tyrion blinked, his brows knitting in confusion.
Podrick stepped forward and patted the saddle proudly.
The leather seat now had an added layer — a thick, lumpy cushion sewn from coarse burlap and stuffed with straw.
"Time was short, so I had to improvise," Podrick explained. "I used local burlap and some dry hay."
He pressed a hand down on the soft padding.
"It should make riding more comfortable, reduce your leg angle, and I've attached extra straps to help keep your posture steady. It's soft enough to ease the strain — but firm enough so you won't slip off."
"I left an opening in the cushion so the straw can be replaced daily — it's breathable, absorbs moisture, and prevents chafing. And when you need to ride into battle, it can be removed in seconds."
For a man from a modern world, it was nothing more than a clever bit of DIY.
Of course, Podrick hadn't done it entirely on his own — he'd enlisted the help of one of Tyrion's servants before dawn to finish it.
Tyrion eyed him suspiciously, glancing from the saddle to the boy.
"I…" he began.
"What are you two still standing around for?"
A familiar, impatient voice interrupted him.
A dark-haired sellsword rode up on a chestnut gelding, irritation written across his face.
"The vanguard's already moving," Bronn called out. "If we don't hurry, we'll miss the best meal when we make camp tonight."
The black-haired man's tone was casual, but his eyes — sharp and predatory — flicked between Tyrion and Podrick like a wolf sizing up prey.
Tyrion sighed dramatically, gesturing toward his squire.
"My squire claims he's made me a gift."
"What kind of gift?" Bronn asked, frowning.
"A saddle."
The sellsword leaned in, gave it a look, and immediately smirked.
"Ah. That explains it. Looks just your size."
Before Tyrion could respond, Bronn swung down from his horse in one smooth motion, grabbed the dwarf under the arms, and hoisted him effortlessly onto the saddle.
The entire maneuver was so quick that Tyrion barely realized what had happened until he was sitting upright, reins in hand.
"There we go," Bronn said, brushing his hands together. "Now, move along. Your wild friends look about ready to start another riot."
He flashed Podrick a grin, clapped him on the shoulder, and vaulted back onto his own horse before trotting off toward the front of the column.
Tyrion sat frozen for a moment, dazed.
Podrick tilted his head, studying him.
"How does it feel, my lord?"
His gaze flicked briefly toward Bronn's retreating back before settling once more on Tyrion.
The dwarf opened his mouth — then paused.
For the first time in weeks, his legs didn't feel like knives were twisting inside them.
The pressure was gone. The pain was gone. The saddle felt soft, warm, and almost… indulgent.
For a second, it reminded him of the brothel beds of King's Landing — and the skilled hands that used to ease his aches there.
"Seven hells…" he muttered, a smile tugging at his lips. "I have to admit, Pod — this is a perfect surprise. I like it very much."
He was about to say more when Podrick quickly interjected.
"Try it for a while first, my lord. If anything feels off, I'll make adjustments later. But it looks like your companions are getting impatient."
Podrick handed him the reins with a polite bow, nodding toward the restless mountain clansmen glaring from the edge of the road.
Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked off, calm and measured.
Tyrion watched him go, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
He glanced at the reins in his hands, then shifted slightly in the saddle, feeling the softness beneath him once again.
His fingers rubbed together absently, and a faint, satisfied grin crossed his face.
"Clever boy," he murmured under his breath.
Tyrion smiled faintly, tugging the reins as he turned the horse around.
The mare snorted and obeyed, trotting in the direction Bronn had gone.
The wild mountain clansmen he had recruited from the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon had many virtues — courage, ferocity, bloodlust — but patience was not one of them.
And Tyrion Lannister, clever as he was, had no intention of testing their tempers.
He'd seen more than one man lose his manhood — and sometimes his life — to a clansman's idea of "entertainment."
Best not to keep them waiting, he thought wryly.
As the host began to move, a flicker of amusement crossed his face.
He chuckled under his breath and rode on.
---
Elsewhere, Podrick— having left Tyrion's side — found the groom he'd spoken with earlier.
The servant who had been assigned to assist Tyrion was already there, loading the last of the dwarf's belongings.
A rickety wagon trailed behind the column, piled high with Lord Tyrion Lannister's travel chests, scrolls, and personal effects.
The groom took the reins up front, urging the horses onward, while Podrick and the other servant squeezed into the back, surrounded by luggage and supplies.
The cart swayed as it rolled north along the Kingsroad, creaking with every rut and stone.
Podrick chatted idly with the two men, asking small questions, learning more about the army, the nobles, and the lands around them — piecing together the world he'd been dropped into.
His mind still held almost none of the original Podrick Payne's memories.
What fragments remained were scattered, faint, and useless — no more than echoes.
And yet, strangely enough, all the knowledge the boy once had was intact.
He could read the banners fluttering in the wind and instantly recognize their sigils — lions, cranes, blackfish, bears.
He could understand the Common Tongue perfectly, both spoken and written.
He knew the etiquette between lords, the proper gestures for greeting knights, and what a squire was expected to do.
Whoever the original Podrick Payne had been, he'd been well educated — polite, disciplined, and dutiful.
Which made sense.
He might have been from a minor branch of House Payne, but they were still nobles of the Westerlands, sworn to House Lannister — and thus entitled to proper training.
The only true difference was that his father, Ser Cedric Payne, had recently died in battle somewhere in the Riverlands.
That, at least, the servants had mentioned.
Podrick leaned back against a trunk, staring up at the pale northern sky.
If I'd been reborn as a commoner, he wondered, what kind of fate would I be facing now?
The wagon rocked gently beneath him, the steady rhythm of hooves and wheels blending with the creak of leather and wood.
He let his head fall back against a bundle of cloth, eyes half-lidded.
Before long, his breathing slowed.
After all, he thought drowsily, I barely slept three hours last night…
Within moments, lulled by the rhythm of the road, Podrick drifted into a rare and peaceful sleep —
the kind only the weary could know,
beneath the endless grey sky of the Northbound road.
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