Chapter 99: There's Rarely Any Truth in This World
"What a clean move…"
With a single swing, Josh's head had been severed.
Podrick narrowed his eyes, staring at the three corpses on the ground and the blood that slowly merged into one spreading pool. He didn't bother wiping the blade—he simply let the remaining blood drip from the edge in steady drops, murmuring to himself.
Truthfully, Josh didn't even need to scramble for excuses.
The moment the word "gambling den" left his mouth, Podrick had already locked onto the real target.
As for all the rest—septon… debt… coercion…
Podrick didn't believe a single syllable.
And more importantly—
He didn't need to.
He didn't need proof.
He didn't need logic.
He didn't even need the real truth.
He only needed two things:
A target… and a reason.
These three bodies were not only the "price" of the riot—
They were his reason.
Podrick lifted his chin slightly and spoke without emotion:
"Hang them at the entrance of the baker's shop. Take a squad."
"And make sure the people understand this:"
"The gold cloaks will protect them."
As Podrick finished laying down the final outcome for the riot, the door curtain suddenly snapped aside—
A messenger rushed in, nearly tripping over himself.
"Lord Payne! Her Grace the Queen Regent has arrived!"
---
At the same time—
Lord Petyr sat by a window.
He wore a plum-colored velvet coat, a yellow satin cloak, and fine gloves. One hand rested lightly on his knee, his posture elegant and languid—as if the world's collapse outside was nothing more than mild weather.
He smiled lazily and said, almost conversationally:
"The king is currently doing battle with rabbits using a crossbow."
"Come and have a look."
"At present… the rabbits appear to be winning."
The Master of Coin's voice remained calm—so calm it was as if he'd merely described today's soup.
One could only imagine what notice Joffrey would take of such a remark.
---
When Tyrion returned to his study in the Tower of the Hand…
This was exactly what he saw.
Exactly what he heard.
Bronn had already mentioned it on the way—so clearly this absurd little spectacle had become something of an event.
Tyrion had to stand on tiptoe just to see properly through the window.
Outside, in the yard below, a rabbit lay dead.
Another lay nearby with a bolt lodged in its body—its long ears twitching weakly, the animal clearly on the edge of death.
And scattered around them like the aftermath of a storm were countless bolts—
stuck crookedly in the hard-packed dirt, messy and wild—
like straw blown apart across a field.
Bronn said the rabbits were full of holes.
But Tyrion, squinting harder, couldn't help thinking—
Are those holes… actually in the rabbits?
Or in the king's dignity?
He turned slightly, eyes sharp.
"I heard those rabbits were a gift," he said slowly, voice edged with meaning.
"Something Lord Varys found… to entertain His Grace?"
The dwarf's doubts had only just begun to stir when Joffrey's shout rang out from the courtyard again.
"Loose!"
The moment the king gave the command, the huntsman released the rabbit he'd been holding.
The creature hit the ground and bolted instantly.
Joffrey yanked the trigger of his crossbow—only to miss by a full two feet.
The rabbit stopped mid-sprint, rose up on its hind legs, and twitched its nose at the king in what could only be described as mockery.
Joffrey cursed furiously as he cranked the string back again, but before he could even load another bolt, the rabbit had vanished into the yard.
"Another one!"
The huntsman smoothly reached into the cage again and pulled out a brown rabbit.
Unfortunately, this time the king was so eager to fire that—out of pure accidental mercy—he spared the rabbit's life once more.
He nearly put a bolt through Ser Preston Greenfield's groin instead.
Only after the entertainment had run its course did Littlefinger finally turn back from the window.
"Do you enjoy rabbit preserved in jars?"
"I'm thinking of investing in pottery," Petyr Baelish said with utter seriousness. "Soon the castle will be flooded with rabbits. Then we'll be eating rabbit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
He always delivered nonsense like that with a straight face.
Tyrion lowered himself off his tiptoes. His calves had started threatening rebellion; he was grateful he relaxed fast enough to avoid a cramp.
As for the Master of Coin's dry mockery, the dwarf only spread his hands.
"Still better than eating rats. Speaking of which—would you like something to drink first, Lord Petyr?"
Tyrion had seen with his own eyes how men cooked rats and swallowed them down.
A shameful skill.
One he would never learn.
And never wanted to.
"No, thank you."
Littlefinger lifted a gloved hand politely, then immediately let his usual razor-thin smile slide back into place.
"There's an old saying: 'Drink with a dwarf when drunk, take the black when sober.' I already look sickly as it is. If I wore black, it would simply be too obvious."
So you're not ignorant after all, Tyrion thought. And you're not as unbothered as you pretend.
But you needn't fear.
Because what I've prepared for you isn't the Wall.
Seeing at least a shred of self-awareness in him, Tyrion turned away and sank into a tall chair stacked high with cushions.
"You look especially refined today, my lord."
It was a convenient compliment—Littlefinger's outfit truly did suit his station—so Tyrion tossed it out like bait.
But it didn't please Baelish at all.
His smile didn't change.
"Oh, hearing that breaks my heart," he said. "I work so hard to look refined every day."
"Oh? So this is a new outfit."
"Yes," Baelish replied smoothly. "Your eye is sharp."
"Plum and yellow," Tyrion said. "House colors?"
He suddenly remembered the breakfast he'd had at the Grand Maester's earlier that morning. Instinctively, he brushed at his sleeve and adjusted his cuff.
"No," Baelish said lightly. "Wearing the same colors every day grows tiresome. One ought to change things up now and then… don't you agree?"
Tyrion froze.
Then his gaze slid downward—straight to the dagger at Baelish's hip.
"And that blade of yours is quite beautiful too."
"Is it?"
This time, something mischievous flickered in Petyr's eyes.
He drew the dagger and examined it with deliberate casualness, as if he were seeing it for the first time in his life.
"Valyrian steel," he said, voice mild. "Dragonbone hilt. A pity the design is so… ordinary."
Then, raising his brows, he looked at Tyrion and—without warning—offered the dagger handle-first.
"If you like it… I'll give it to you."
"Give it to me?"
Tyrion looked at the dagger for a long moment, then lifted his eyes to Baelish's face, studying him carefully—as if weighing whether this was a joke or a trap.
"No," he said at last. "That wouldn't be wise. You should keep it."
Tyrion knew it.
Baelish knew it too.
And Baelish knew Tyrion knew it—
and was utterly confident Tyrion could not touch him.
Just then, a shout broke the strange silence between them.
"Ha! His Grace has killed one!"
Baelish was still seated by the window. He didn't even turn fully—just tilted his head slightly and immediately saw what happened below, narrating the scene as if he were commenting on the weather.
"One imagines it must have been a particularly slow rabbit."
Tyrion wasn't sure whether he meant the rabbit… or the king.
But he had no interest in chasing rabbit jokes any further.
"So, my lord… I've heard you were fostered at Riverrun as a boy," Tyrion said, voice carefully casual. "That means you were close with House Tully, yes?"
"You could say that," Baelish replied easily. "Especially with the girls."
"How close?"
"I took both their maidenheads," Baelish said, utterly unbothered. "Close enough for you?"
A lie told without blinking.
Tyrion was certain of it—too smooth, too perfect, the kind of lie that could pass for truth because it wore truth's face like a mask.
So then…
Who lied first?
Baelish?
Or Catelyn Stark?
The maidenhead story.
The dagger.
The accusation.
What if all of it was false?
The longer Tyrion lived, the more he realized:
Nothing was ever simple.
And truth… was rarer than gold.
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