Chapter 14 – If I Recall Correctly… At Dawn, We March Into Battle
As a squire, Podrick was entitled to share a tent—however small—with Tyrion.
But his pleasant sleep was abruptly broken by a rhythmic thump… thump… thump…
He blinked groggily. The tent was dim, lit only by a half-burned candle casting shaky light across the canvas.
The sound grew louder.
Podrick turned toward it, squinting.
In the flickering glow, the dwarf was on the ground doing push-ups—face tense, body trembling, sweat dripping.
Using the final quiet hours before war to train his body.
Perhaps even he knew… this might be his last night alive.
Today… tomorrow… or the next day, his corpse might be the one hauled off by the corpse-collectors.
Outside, the waters of the Green Fork roared against the bank—dark, relentless, like a drumbeat of doom.
Seven hells.
The sight hit Podrick like a slap.
He instinctively averted his gaze—and only then noticed a thin linen dress lying on his foot.
Very familiar.
The dress the girl from earlier had been wearing.
Oh.
Oh.
So that's how it is?
There was no sleeping after that.
Podrick carefully rolled out of his blankets and tiptoed toward the tent flap—trying not to interrupt the… "festivities" inside.
"Her enjoyment is definitely fake—but I'll admit, she fakes it well!"
"Seven bloody—!" Podrick muttered under his breath, tugging his trousers into place to give himself some dignity. Then he looked up at the night sky.
Stars glimmered. Half-hidden moon veiled in drifting clouds, glowing like a silver coin in mist.
A silver plate… a silver platter…
Why do you hang above the roof?
A fragment of a song from his past life drifted in his head.
He exhaled a long breath, clearing his thoughts, and turned toward the back of the tent.
Bronn sat cross-legged beneath a chestnut tree near the horses, sharpening his sword.
He noticed Podrick watching and grinned—far too knowingly.
Podrick would swear eight out of ten parts of that grin were pure mockery.
"Evening ruined, Bronn. A certain someone disturbed my dreams—too busy enjoying himself," Podrick said as he walked past and relieved himself against a tree.
Bronn's grin widened. "You didn't expect anything different, did you?"
"Apologies, I've got other things on my mind tonight."
Podrick shook off the last drops, shrugged, and added,
"Though it's fine—gives me time to prepare what I need."
Bronn raised a brow as the boy ducked back into the tent.
Inside came a clatter of metal—armor shifting, weapons knocking together—before Podrick emerged again, now clearly bulkier than when he went in.
"Oi! Seven damn hells, Pod—what are you doing!?"
"Just collecting what I need, my lord. Please, continue. But you may want to save your energy and get some proper sleep," Podrick answered politely—only to be chased out by flying boots and a chorus of giggles like silver bells.
Podrick hurried back to Bronn with the gear he had prepared the evening before.
He dropped it at Bronn's feet.
The sellsword stared at the pile:
a spear, an iron sword, chainmail, breastplate, helmet—everything needed to go to war.
Bronn blinked once.
"I'll admit the imp was right… What in the Seven are you planning?"
Bronn paused mid-stroke in sharpening his blade, eyeing Tyrion's little squire with growing puzzlement.
Podrick didn't answer right away. He first loosened the bundle of gear, then neatly laid each piece out in a row.
"If I'm not mistaken, the only reason we're camped here is because the Stark host is just a day's march from us."
Podrick turned, slipped into his padded leather armor, but didn't touch the rest yet. He simply sat down beside Bronn.
The sellsword's eyes narrowed.
A beat later, realization struck him.
His wolfish gaze sharpened.
"What are you implying?" Bronn's voice dropped, low and edged.
"If I were Robb Stark, I'd strike tonight," Podrick said, buckling his armor and choosing only two weapons—a spear and an iron sword—which he set across his knees. "Hit the Lannister army while we're exhausted and unprepared."
Silence hung for several seconds—thick, heavy.
Podrick took the opportunity to mimic Bronn, drawing the sword from its scabbard and producing a whetstone from somewhere. He began to sharpen the blade with slow, steady strokes.
The rasp of stone on steel was both calming and nerve-racking.
"You know," Bronn drawled at last, curling his lip into a half-grin, "the first time we met, I thought you'd wandered into the wrong place. I half-expected to see you sitting in on Lord Tywin's war council."
"What about you?" Podrick countered softly, eyes on his blade. "You look tense. I can see it, Bronn."
"You should be as relaxed as you were earlier today—loose and natural. I may have never killed anyone… or stepped onto a battlefield…"
He paused, eyes lifting toward the night sky.
"But I imagine slitting a man's throat can't be harder than holding a blade to yours."
The moon, the moon…
A silver spoon…
The moonlight shines, so clear, so bright…
Fragments of a childhood lullaby—one from another world—drifted through his mind.
Unfortunately for Podrick, Bronn heard the faint tremor in his voice.
The sellsword barked a laugh.
"You're about to piss yourself."
"Sadly, no," Podrick said stiffly. "I already pissed beside you a moment ago. Next time, I'll make sure to aim for your mouth."
A flimsy comeback—barely better than the one he muttered while hitching his trousers earlier.
At some point, the lovers in the tent had gone quiet.
A moment later, Tyrion—naked as the day he was born—stumbled out and walked straight to the same spot Podrick had used earlier.
"Where'd you find her?" he asked mid-relief.
For some reason, Bronn felt like he'd seen this exact scene before.
"Snatched her from a knight. He wasn't eager to give her up. Your name helped… as did the dagger at his throat."
"Wonderful," Tyrion muttered sourly, face scrunched as he finished. "I said 'find me a whore,' not 'find me an enemy.'"
"All the pretty ones were taken. If you want the toothless hag, I can bring her back. There's also one with pustules covering her nose—want her instead?"
"If my father heard you say that, he'd charge you with insolence and send you to break rocks in the mines."
Tyrion shook off the last drops, limped over, and dropped down beside them—only then noticing Podrick's padded armor and the array of weapons and gear neatly laid out.
"What in the Seven Hells are you doing? Training at this hour?"
Podrick had finished sharpening and was now oiling the metal to keep it from rusting.
"I'm preparing, my lord."
He met Tyrion's eyes.
"If I recall correctly… at first light, we march onto the battlefield."