Chapter 7 – Collecting Debts
"Pod, come with me."
"Yes, my lord."
Podrick had been helping the servant and the groom set up Tyrion's tent when a voice sounded behind him.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, turned, and saw the dwarf watching him with a small smile.
Podrick asked no questions. He simply lowered his sleeves, stepped away, and fell in behind Tyrion Lannister, matching his pace as they wound their way through the bustling Lannister camp.
Lord Tywin's host had taken the Kingsroad north.
Even with a well-paved road, a massive army could only advance so far in a day.
By evening, they had stopped to make camp directly beside the road — merchants and travelers scattering in fear long before the army drew near.
As the two moved through the encampment, a deep, booming laugh rolled across the campfires — loud enough to shake the air.
The voice was familiar.
Podrick looked toward the sound and saw Shagga, son of Dolf, of the Stone Crows — the very same wild clansman who had threatened to cut off his manhood and roast it for goats.
It seemed the mountain clans had chosen this corner of the camp for the night, right beside Tyrion's tent.
"Half-man Tyrion!" a voice bellowed. "Come sit by our fire later. Eat with us! We hunted two wild boars!"
This time it was Conn, son of Coratt, not Shagga. He stood with one boot planted on a bloody boar carcass, an iron-headed axe gripped in his hand.
As he spoke, he brought the axe down in a brutal arc — the boar's skull split with a wet crunch, brain and bone spilling across the dirt.
"I see that, Conn son of Coratt," Tyrion replied smoothly, smiling as though nothing were amiss. He eyed the blood-soaked boar without flinching. "Thank you. When it's roasted, just save me a rib."
Let's just hope they remember the salt, he added silently.
That beast looks old… at this rate, by the time I reach forty I may have no teeth left to enjoy proper food.
Naturally, that part he did not say aloud.
Podrick followed quietly, observing the interaction. Tyrion handled the savages with an ease and familiarity that came from days of survival among them.
Campfires ignited across the clearing.
Each tribe burned their own:
The Black Ears would not share with the Stone Crows,
the Stone Crows would not share with the Moon Brothers,
and no tribe shared with the Burned Men.
The four clans had pitched their fires forming a loose ring — with Tyrion's tent positioned neatly at the center.
Whether by design or accident, he was surrounded.
Podrick watched, quietly taking notes in his mind.
To his surprise, his memory felt… sharp.
Names he had only heard once stuck in his head.
Faces, alliances, grudges — all mapped themselves out with clarity.
It was as if his mind refused to forget anything that might matter.
But once they stepped beyond the clans' perimeter, it was like crossing an invisible boundary.
Outside, no one looked at them twice.
No one greeted them, no one cared.
The bustling camp continued around them — two thousand tents and more than twenty thousand soldiers sworn to House Lannister —
none of whom had anything to do with Tyrion Lannister.
He was a Lannister… and yet, here in his father's army, he stood alone.
Tyrion kept a faint smile as he walked on. "I didn't know squires had gotten so talented these days. Pod—who taught you that?"
Podrick had been staring at the camp, sorting thoughts in his head, when Tyrion suddenly spoke. He snapped back to attention, realized what was being asked, and answered simply.
"I thought it would make you more comfortable, my lord. We've at least a month of travel ahead, and then the war."
Tyrion nodded, and the smile on his face softened.
"Lucky for me, I won't be tormented like that for the next month. I like your gift."
"Come with me. I'm going to demand some supplies from Lord Lefford. That miser nearly made a fuss last time when I asked for a single tent."
The little man turned, beckoning his squire to follow. Podrick didn't press for details; he simply fell in step behind Tyrion as they wound through the camp. They didn't go far before arriving at their destination: a baggage train where officers and quartermasters fussed over wagons and crates.
Tyrion strode up, calling in his loud, familiar voice, "Lord Leo Lefford! Good afternoon — how fares the road?"
The target of his voice, a portly man with a gold-toothed smile — Lord Leo Lefford of the Golden Tooth — spun around, bewildered. His eyes swept the crowd and found only a brown-haired, blue-eyed boy staring at him curiously.
"By the gods… have I lost my mind?" Lord Lefford muttered. Then, frowning, he fixed his gaze on Podrick. "You? Are you calling me? I thought your name was… Peter Payne?"
"My lord," Podrick said quickly, "my master sent me. And my name is Podrick Payne."
Podrick almost laughed, but training kept it in check. He pointed at Tyrion — the small man standing a step behind him. Only then did Lord Lefford take in the dwarf, scowling and taking a step back as if to avoid his presence.
"Little demon," Lefford scoffed, "what do you want of me?"
Tyrion bristled. He hated the nickname as much as the next man, but he hated being slighted more.
"I may be a dwarf, but I don't relish being mocked. If I were Jaime's height, I'd duel you for that insult," he snapped, eyes flashing.
Lefford only laughed, unbothered.
"Then eat more, or I'll find you a wet nurse. Now, what do you want, Tyrion? I don't recall owing you anything."
At that, Tyrion's face flushed—part anger, part dismay—then folded back into composure. He drew a breath, then spoke plainly.
"My father promised supplies for my command: tents and weapons for my men. I'm here to collect what was pledged. Don't try to stall me."
Lefford's nostrils flared. His answer came with a sneer.
"Bloody hell—those savages? They don't deserve fine gear. Let them rot. I won't hand over good arms to barbarians."
Tyrion's voice went cool and quiet, but the power behind it made the wagons and men around them fall strangely still.
"That is Lord Tywin's order, not a question," he said. Then, with a flash of the wry smile that could turn a statement into an iron thing, he added: "If you balk, I'll see to it your mouth is fed a wet nurse's milk—perhaps you'll learn to like it."
Lefford's face reddened. He opened his mouth to retort, but the air around Tyrion felt heavy with the weight of Lord Tywin's will. In this army, the orders of Tywin Lannister were not lightly contradicted.
Podrick watched, every tiny detail filing away in his mind — names, grudges, alliances — and realized how useful even petty disputes could be. A squire's life might be small, but in a camp this large, information was currency. And Tyrion, for all his mockery and misfortune, knew how to spend it.