Chapter 24 – Refusal
Podrick Payne had thought they would be leaving this wretched place by morning.
He was wrong.
The trunks were packed, the mules were harnessed, and even the mountain clans had gathered their weapons, ready to depart.
But before the column could move, Tyrion Lannister summoned him and said simply—
"Come with me."
That was how Podrick found himself standing before Lord Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and, to hear the smallfolk tell it, the richest and most dangerous man in all the Seven Kingdoms.
---
It was Podrick's first time seeing the Old Lion up close.
Tywin was tall and lean, broad of shoulder and still straight-backed despite his years.
He wore a red-and-gold velvet doublet embroidered with lions,
and sat rigid at the head of the long oaken table like a judge passing sentence.
He was past fifty, but there was nothing soft or fading about him.
His presence filled the hall—
a cold, controlled strength,
like a lion who never needed to roar to remind the world he ruled it.
His scalp gleamed beneath the firelight—completely bald—
though a thick golden beard framed his hard jaw.
Those pale green eyes streaked with gold studied the boy before him,
not unkindly, but with the steady dissection of a man accustomed to finding weakness.
---
"My lord," Podrick said, his tone measured and formal,
bowing just as he'd been taught.
He could feel the weight of those eyes on him.
And yet, behind his composed face,
his thoughts wandered absurdly.
What would he look like with hair?
Would he resemble Ser Kevan, sitting there beside him, softer of gaze, kinder of face?
The meeting took place in the common hall of the Crossroads Inn,
where Tywin had made his temporary command post.
Aside from Tywin and Kevan, several of his principal bannermen were present:
Ser Gregor Clegane, towering even when seated;
Ser Addam Marbrand, red-haired and sharp-eyed;
and Lord Leo Lefford of the Golden Tooth, the master of supplies.
It was not a large gathering,
but each man there carried weight—
men of blood, coin, or terror.
Tyrion brought Podrick forward,
then helped himself to a chair and a cup of wine,
as if this were any other supper rather than an audience before the most feared lord in Westeros.
The others' eyes turned to the boy—
the thin squire with the brown hair and the quiet hands.
Even Tyrion found himself studying him anew.
The lad looked taller somehow, firmer in the shoulders.
Gods, Tyrion thought, is it just me, or has the boy grown again?
---
The silence stretched.
Podrick did not fidget.
He merely stood where he was,
his gaze wandering briefly to Ser Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain was enormous even seated—
a wall of iron and flesh.
Podrick's hand itched toward his sword,
though he had no intention of drawing it.
He only wondered—idly, almost academically—
how strong would I have to be to kill something like that?
Tywin noticed the boy's calm—or his nerve—and one golden brow lifted ever so slightly.
"Podrick Payne," the Lord of Casterly Rock said at last.
His voice was smooth and even,
but it filled the hall as surely as the crackle of the fire.
"Yes, my lord," Podrick answered, bowing his head.
Tywin regarded him for a long moment,
then continued.
"I've heard of your performance on the battlefield," he said.
"You killed four men, captured a knight… and saved my son's life."
The statement was neither praise nor question—
merely fact, spoken with the same tone Tywin might use to assess the cost of armor or the yield of a mine.
All eyes shifted back to Podrick.
He felt the weight of the room pressing down on him—
the silent scrutiny of men who had commanded thousands,
and the shadow of the lion who commanded them all.
"Father," Tyrion said lightly,
"though it pains me to admit it—
the boy saved my life. Twice."
His tone carried that familiar edge of mockery,
but no one at the table took the bait.
"Yes, Lord Tywin," Podrick answered truthfully.
"But the knight I captured died on the road.
His leg had gone bad from the wound.
I couldn't bring him with us,
so I… cut his throat,
and took his armor as ransom instead."
There was a faint pause.
Tywin merely lifted his gaze,
regarding the boy in silence.
At the far end of the table, Ser Gregor Clegane's mouth twitched—
a terrible thing that might have been a smile.
Ser Addam Marbrand, on the other hand,
looked the boy over with something like approval,
and gave a single nod.
"You'll be compensated for your loss," Addam said.
"And your courage will not go unrewarded."
Tywin inclined his head in faint agreement.
"Tell me, then," he said, voice calm as cold steel,
"what is it you want?
I could knight you this very moment—
grant you lands, a keep, a title.
No man here would say it was undeserved."
He didn't dress his words in ceremony or warmth.
For Tywin Lannister, this was how generosity sounded—
measured, practical, without illusion.
The Lord of Casterly Rock had never been one to forget a debt,
and Podrick Payne had earned one,
however small.
A Lannister always paid his debts.
---
The boy hesitated.
He glanced, almost instinctively, toward Tyrion,
who sat with a cup of wine in hand, watching with an amused tilt of his brow.
Podrick had expected something like this—
some formal recognition for the battle at the Green Fork—
but not here, not in front of Tywin Lannister himself.
A knighthood.
And lands?
The words sounded unreal.
Tyrion caught the boy's look and gave him a subtle nod,
half encouragement, half mischief.
He was enjoying this.
Of course he was.
A public display of gratitude made even the Old Lion seem mortal for a heartbeat.
"I'm honored, my lord," Podrick said at last, his voice steady,
"to be considered worthy of knighthood.
But… I'm only twelve."
It was not refusal at first—
merely fact, spoken with disarming honesty.
But the implication was clear enough.
Tyrion frowned.
"You know," he said, swirling his cup,
"there's precedent for this sort of thing.
Daemon Blackfyre was knighted at twelve,
by his father, King Aegon the Fourth.
So don't let age make you shy, my boy."
He said it flippantly,
but when the other lords turned to look at him,
Tyrion only shrugged,
his eyes never leaving his father's face.
Tywin's expression didn't change,
but the silence grew heavier by the heartbeat.
Podrick's brows knit together.
He wasn't sure how to answer.
Becoming a knight sounded glorious enough—
but he wasn't ready.
Not in this world.
Not yet.
He had plans—quiet, practical ones.
Staying with Tyrion had seemed the safest course.
Serving the dwarf kept him close to the game,
but out of the blood and chaos that devoured lesser men.
No battles, no sleepless marches,
no dying nameless in a ditch somewhere in the Riverlands.
Under Tyrion, he could learn.
He could survive.
And in this strange, dangerous world
he barely understood,
survival was worth more than any lord's promise.
At last, Podrick raised his head.
"Lord Tywin," he said,
"I'm not ready. Not yet.
Perhaps when I come of age.
Until then, I would rather remain at Lord Tyrion's side—
to learn from him, if he'll have me."
The hall fell silent.
For a moment, no one seemed to breathe.
Even Ser Kevan blinked in surprise.
Ser Addam's brows rose a fraction.
Ser Gregor, impossibly, stopped smiling.
Tyrion stared at the boy, mouth half-open.
Of all the things he had expected, refusal was not one of them.
He had spent the previous night maneuvering this very moment—
had argued, flatteringly, cleverly,
until his father had agreed to grant the boy a title,
if only to be rid of the conversation.
And now the little fool had said no.
No to lands, no to knighthood, no to the favor of Tywin Lannister himself.
For a heartbeat, Tyrion wanted to throttle him.
Then, strangely, the feeling passed.
What replaced it was something warmer.
The boy had chosen him.
A dwarf, a disappointment, a joke of a Lannister.
And yet, Podrick Payne—barely twelve years old—
had stood before lions and refused a crown
to serve at his side.
Tyrion's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles.
For once, he was speechless—
and oddly, he didn't mind.