Chapter 25 – What Do You Want?
"Then we'll speak of knighthood again when you come of age."
Lord Tywin Lannister's voice was even, measured.
He regarded the boy for a long moment, eyes glinting like pale gold in the firelight.
Then, after a brief pause, he gave a single nod of assent.
A lesser man might have smiled.
Tywin did not.
---
Tyrion did.
"Father—"
He started, his voice sharp, half protest, half disbelief—
but his father's gaze cut across the table like a drawn blade,
and the words withered in his throat.
"Your squire," Tywin said,
"has more sense than you give him credit for.
More, perhaps, than you yourself possess."
His tone was as cold as a winter river.
"Even if I were to give him land and a title now,
what would he do with them?
Starve behind his own gatehouse?
No. He is right to wait."
He turned his gaze back to Podrick.
"You'll serve under Ser Addam Marbrand until you come of age.
When the time comes, you'll earn your spurs properly."
Then, with the faintest narrowing of his eyes, he added—
"And do not mistake me for some vain, foolish king
who knights children to soothe his pride."
The jab struck like a knife—sharp, deliberate.
No one dared to speak.
Across the table, Ser Addam Marbrand rose at once, armor gleaming red-gold in the firelight.
"My lord," he said, bowing his head,
"I would be honored to take the boy as my squire.
I'll see that he's trained properly—
steel, horse, and discipline.
I'll make a warrior of him worthy of your name."
There was genuine warmth in his voice.
Addam's eyes lingered on Podrick—
a slim, brown-haired boy, scarred from battle yet standing unbowed before lions.
Twelve years old, and already blooded.
A prodigy, if ever there was one.
---
Now it was clear.
Tyrion realized why Addam Marbrand had been summoned to this meeting in the first place.
His father had planned this long before they entered the room.
Every piece was already in motion.
Tywin Lannister's wars were fought not only with swords,
but with sons, knights, and debts.
And now, it seemed, even Tyrion's squire was a pawn to be moved.
"Letting him serve under Ser Addam would be wise,"
said Ser Kevan Lannister from Tywin's right,
his voice calm and dutiful.
"He'll learn more there than anywhere else, Tyrion."
Kevan's words, as always, carried his brother's weight.
He spoke the decision already made.
Tyrion's jaw clenched.
Of course.
His father's generosity always came with a leash.
"He is my squire," Tyrion said flatly.
"By your own command, Father."
The words rang out sharper than he intended.
Tywin turned his head slightly, his expression cooling further.
"He is not like your sellswords and savages," he said,
each syllable clipped with disdain.
"Keeping him at your side would only waste his potential.
A great knight will not rise from your shadow, Tyrion.
You must see that, even if you refuse to admit it."
The room fell still.
Tyrion stared at his father,
and for a moment,
he could almost see himself throwing the wine in Tywin's face—
see it running down that cold, perfect beard like blood.
But he didn't.
He only swallowed hard,
and turned his eyes to Podrick Payne—
the boy who had saved his life,
the only one in this cursed camp who looked at him without pity or fear.
He opened his mouth to speak,
then hesitated,
his tongue betraying him.
For all his wit,
words failed him.
And then he did what Tyrion Lannister almost never did—
he stood his ground in silence.
When he finally spoke,
his voice was low but clear.
"He's still mine, Father.
You sent him to me—your order, not mine.
And I'll not see him thrown to wolves for your convenience."
"The battlefield isn't where he belongs."
He knew full well what would happen if he yielded.
Tywin would keep the boy.
Podrick would be forged into another sword for House Lannister—
one more tool to be used and discarded.
And Tyrion…
Tyrion would lose the only person who looked at him as something more than a monster.
The air between them turned to glass—
brittle and cold.
Father and son,
staring each other down.
Neither blinked.
Finally, Podrick spoke.
He stepped forward, voice steady.
"It's true, my lord," he said to Tywin.
"I am Lord Tyrion's squire.
And I'd rather remain with him—
to serve him,
and to learn what I can."
He paused,
then added quietly—
"That's where I belong."
A murmur rippled faintly through the room.
Tywin's expression didn't change,
but something in his eyes hardened.
Tyrion, for his part, felt something break loose inside him—
a strange, quiet warmth that no amount of wine could summon.
For once,
someone had chosen him.
---
Podrick had no desire to stay here—
nor to be sent off to serve some new master like a stray dog in search of scraps.
Only beside Tyrion Lannister did he feel safe.
In this brutal, deceitful world,
the dwarf was one of the very few men who still treated others as human beings.
To Podrick, Tyrion was not merely a lord.
He was the right kind of man—
sharp of mind, kind beneath the armor of his wit,
and, perhaps, the only person worth following.
As for the rest of them—lords, knights, banners and crowns—
he cared little.
He'd been a man once before, in another world,
and to him, knighthood was nothing more than another title.
Honor didn't put food on the table,
and oaths couldn't be trusted to keep a man alive.
Dozens of eyes turned toward him—
some surprised, some appraising, others faintly amused.
None had expected such courage from the quiet Payne boy.
Then again, this was the lad who had ridden into battle at twelve and lived.
It should not have surprised them.
Podrick met their stares without flinching.
His gaze went straight to Tywin Lannister,
the man who held his life—and future—in a single word.
"My lord," he said, his voice firm but respectful,
"I believe Lord Tyrion possesses a strength greater than any sword arm—wisdom."
A faint stir moved through the room.
"I would learn that strength, my lord," Podrick continued,
"to have not only muscle… but a mind as keen as yours."
The words were simple,
but they fell heavy in the hall.
Even Tyrion blinked, startled.
No one spoke.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth.
For a moment, even Tywin seemed to study the boy—really study him.
Then his golden eyes shifted toward his son.
The silence that followed was thick as oil,
and just as flammable.
When Tywin finally spoke, his voice was unreadable.
"Very well," he said at last.
"If you believe you'll learn more at my son's side,
then stay with him.
Go to King's Landing, and see the court for yourself."
He straightened, his presence filling the room like thunder without sound.
"Your kinsman, Ser Ilyn Payne, serves there as well—
once the captain of Aerys Targaryen's Kingsguard,
now the King's Justice.
You share his name, and perhaps, in time, you'll share his resolve."
"If this is your choice, so be it."
Tywin Lannister rose.
His movements were precise, deliberate—
a man who wasted neither words nor gestures.
He stepped closer to the boy,
his shadow long and gold in the firelight.
"Once," he said quietly,
"you and a sellsword stole salted pork from Lord Lefford's supply train.
You were judged and would have swung for it—
if Ser Kevan hadn't intervened."
Podrick's throat tightened.
"But your service since then has repaid that debt," Tywin went on.
"Your courage has erased your foolishness."
The great lion's eyes held his, unblinking.
"Podrick Payne," he said,
"do not steal again.
If you desire something—earn it.
Take it with your own hands."
There was no warmth in his tone,
but strangely, it did not sound like a rebuke.
It sounded like instruction.
Like the way a man might speak to a cub—
a cub worth sharpening.
Even Tyrion was taken aback.
He could not remember his father ever speaking to him that way.
Not with scorn, not with ice—
but with something that might almost be mistaken for respect.
Just yesterday, Tywin had summoned him to command in King's Landing,
and for the first time in Tyrion's life,
the old man had handed him a cup of wine instead of contempt.
It was as though Tywin Lannister had suddenly remembered
that this son, too, bore his name.
---
Podrick lowered his head,
his pulse quickening.
He couldn't help recalling the gallows outside,
and the corpse of the innkeeper's wife still swaying in the wind.
"Yes, my lord," he said quietly.
"Though… before I ate the pork,
I didn't know it had come from Lord Lefford's stores."
A faint murmur rippled through the room.
Tywin said nothing,
merely nodded once in acknowledgment—
whether of the apology or of the courage to speak it aloud, none could tell.
"The past is settled," Tywin said.
"You've paid your debt and earned your name back in full."
"You saved my son's life twice,
killed four foes,
and captured a northern knight.
For that, you will be recognized."
He fixed the boy with a gaze that was both test and judgment.
"Now tell me," Tywin said softly,
"what is it you want?"