Chapter 67 — Lord Payne, the Queen Regent Summons You
"I've been wondering the same thing, Your Grace.
That eight-legged spider spins his web of secrets day and night. My lords, I do not trust that man."
Just as Podrick was wondering why Cersei was staring at him with such a peculiar expression, Grand Maester Pycelle spoke up with great solemnity.
The sudden interjection snapped Podrick's attention away.
…So this was how these so-called great lords conducted their meetings—openly attacking their colleagues?
Podrick hadn't expected their methods of undermining fellow council members to be so blunt and unadorned.
The remark sounded odd not only to Podrick, but also to Tyrion, who had already traded blows with Littlefinger several times—without gaining any advantage and, if anything, having come off worse.
To Tyrion, this was simply a waste of time.
"Grand Maester," Tyrion said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet,
"he often speaks quite highly of you."
Then he added,
"So, my lords, if you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to."
Leaving in the middle of things—and even offering praise for Varys—immediately aroused Cersei's suspicion.
"Where are you going?" she demanded. "Something to do with the king?"
"That's none of your concern."
Tyrion had no desire to deal with his foolish, short-tempered sister.
Unfortunately, the more he brushed her off, the more suspicious she became.
"No. I need to know."
The queen regent pressed hard, clearly determined not to let him leave without an answer.
Tyrion sighed inwardly, then relented.
"Why not let me surprise you?"
"I'm preparing a gift for Joffrey," he continued lightly.
"…a little chain."
The art of language could be very simple when used well.
Cersei took the bait, her suspicion shifting direction at once.
"What would he want with a chain? He has more gold and silver necklaces than he could ever wear. Don't tell me you're deluding yourself into thinking this will win his affection?"
The question nearly made Tyrion laugh—but he was a professional.
"Oh, my dear sister, why would I need to do that?"
"Joffrey's heart belongs to me, just as mine belongs to him. And this chain—one day, I'm certain he'll treasure it deeply."
With that, Tyrion smiled, bowed slightly to Cersei, and swaggered out of the chamber.
"My lords—and our noble, beautiful Queen Regent—the affairs of the City Watch are equally pressing. Please excuse me as well."
Seeing Tyrion leave, Podrick had no intention of staying behind to watch the old foxes play their games. He quickly rose, apologized, and followed after him.
He moved so fast it almost looked like he was afraid of being left behind—hurrying ahead to open the door for Tyrion himself.
Outside the council chamber, Bronn was waiting.
As captain of the guard, his primary duty was to keep the dwarf alive.
Seeing Podrick come out with them didn't surprise Tyrion in the slightest. He waved Bronn over.
"Come on. Back to the Hand's Tower."
Bronn nodded and added something that had happened during the meeting.
"The steward sent word. The smiths are all waiting in the receiving hall, ready for your arrival."
That kind of polished phrasing was very much not something one expected from a sellsword.
Tyrion shot him a sideways glance, hearing the mockery in it.
"Awaiting my august presence?"
"Bronn, I like that. You're starting to sound like a court official. What's next—kneeling to receive an edict?"
"Draft one, dwarf."
The blunt reply was exactly like Bronn—and Tyrion liked it.
In fact, he was almost looking forward to what came next.
But just as they crossed the inner yard, a familiar, overly warm voice drifted down from the top of the spiral stairs.
Tyrion's heart sank. Any good mood vanished instantly.
He didn't dare look up.
He knew Lady Tanda Stokeworth's voice far too well.
So he pretended not to hear it—and walked faster.
As they walked, Tyrion issued instructions with barely contained impatience.
"Have the litter prepared. Once this is done, I'm leaving the city."
Walking at Tyrion's side, Podrick could easily see the dwarf's barely disguised eagerness at the mention of Shae—and the reason for it: Lady Stokeworth's call from behind.
Podrick glanced back quietly.
An elderly woman with white hair stood on the spiral staircase, her face heavy with sorrow and concern as she watched the three of them depart.
Lady Tanda Stokeworth—an old woman whose exact age was hard to guess, her face deeply lined, back stooped, and body bent with age.
She was the head of House Stokeworth and the Lady of Stokeworth Castle, currently residing in the Red Keep.
Podrick didn't know exactly which noble house she had been born into, but he knew she came from the Crownlands.
She was also the aunt of Lord Gyles Rosby's second wife—making her kin to the Lord of Rosby.
And Podrick knew exactly what the old lady wanted.
Lady Tanda had been seeking every opportunity to dine with Tyrion lately. In truth, she was trying to marry off her second daughter, Lollys Stokeworth, to the dwarf before her eyes.
Which was precisely why Tyrion had been avoiding her.
After all, her second daughter was famously meek and dull, grossly overweight, widely mocked as "Simple Lollys"—and already thirty-three years old.
"I hear Lady Tanda thinks you're the ideal husband for Lollys, Lord Tyrion," Podrick asked eagerly once they were out of her sight. "What do you think?"
Tyrion's mouth twitched. He stopped walking, lifted his chin.
"I'm looking at it standing, I'm looking at it while hiding, and I'm looking at it with both eyes, Pod. When did you become so nosy?"
"Oh? Could it be that you fancy the lady's second daughter?" Tyrion grinned.
"Say the word—I'd be more than happy to play matchmaker for you. As you said yourself, a gentleman doesn't steal another man's love."
"Fuck off, dwarf."
Podrick had picked up Bronn's greeting—and added a raised middle finger for good measure.
"I already told you," Tyrion shot back cheerfully. "That's Shae's job."
Laughing, he turned and continued toward the Hand's Tower, quickening his pace.
Watching his back—wrapped in a dark crimson cloak edged in gold—Podrick sighed softly.
"Then you'd better be careful you don't end up destroyed by that woman one day. You're already hopelessly in love with her."
Tyrion had barely finished enjoying his small victory when Podrick's words landed.
He stopped again.
Just as he was about to reply, his expression suddenly sharpened.
He stared past Podrick's shoulder.
A young man was hurrying toward them—running, breathless.
If Tyrion wasn't mistaken, it was the Queen Regent's steward… formerly King Robert's squire.
And also his cousin.
Lancel Lannister.
Lancel jogged up, panting.
Podrick noticed Tyrion's reaction at once and turned as well.
The three of them all assumed Lancel was about to speak to Tyrion—
—but instead, the newly knighted young man looked straight at Podrick.
"Lord Podrick Payne," Lancel said, trying to catch his breath,
"Her Grace the Queen Regent summons you."
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