Chapter 31 – Measured Courage
Tyrion fixed Littlefinger with a stare so sharp it nearly betrayed the fury simmering beneath his calm.
Only nearly. Even now, he knew better than to let the mask slip.
"If you wanted to frighten me, Lord Baelish," Tyrion said lightly,
"why not claim there were four?"
Littlefinger arched his brows.
"Four? Don't tell me you mean the two Hands before Lord Arryn also met unfortunate ends in that tower?"
He gave a soft sigh, wearing confusion and mild embarrassment like a silk cloak.
"I fear I was much too young to pay attention in those days."
He looked down at Tyrion—petite, well-tailored bewilderment written across his charming face.
Perfectly crafted. Perfectly false.
Tyrion felt a cold snort rise in his chest.
But his smile returned, bright and polite, as he folded his hands and began counting them off one by one.
"Allow me to refresh your memory, my lord," he said pleasantly.
"If I recall the chronicles correctly—and I do—the last Hand of King Aerys died when King's Landing fell.
I doubt he even had time to unpack in the Hand's Tower, as his tenure lasted… oh, about fourteen days."
"And the Hand before him?"
"Burned alive."
"As for the two before that," Tyrion continued, "both were stripped of titles and lands, sent into exile, and died penniless on foreign soil.
Though perhaps they considered themselves fortunate, given what befell their successors."
He leaned back slightly, mismatched eyes glittering.
"So, unless the histories lied, my father is the only Hand in recent memory to leave King's Landing with all his parts attached."
Littlefinger's smile froze—not enough to notice at a glance, but enough for Tyrion to savor.
He could offer no rebuttal. Not here. Not on this topic.
"How delightful," Baelish murmured at last.
"The more I hear, the safer the black cells begin to sound."
Perhaps you'll end up there sooner than you think, Tyrion mused.
Not that he said as much aloud.
"I've heard there's only a hair's breadth between courage and stupidity," he said, shrugging.
"So no matter what curse haunts the Hand's Tower, I shall hope this small body of mine slips through its grasp."
Janos Slynt barked a laugh—a loud, graceless thing.
Littlefinger's mouth twitched upward.
Grand Maester Pycelle nodded solemnly, stroking his vast white beard, before the three of them filed out.
At the doorway stood Podrick Payne—one foot inside, one foot out, blocking the door with calculated innocence.
He didn't move as the lords brushed past him.
His face was as calm as ever, but his eyes—quiet, observant—followed each man who exited the hall.
Measuring them.
Weighing them.
Remembering.
Varys glided out the moment he finished speaking, leaving not a trace of reluctance behind.
As he passed Podrick, the eunuch even offered him a courteous smile and a subtle nod before disappearing down the hall.
The moment the last of the councillors had left, Pod let go of the doorframe and eased the heavy door shut.
"I thought you meant to keep it open," Bronn murmured beside him, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Podrick shook his head lightly. He cast a brief look toward Ser Mandon Moore—still staring with those lifeless pale-grey eyes, blank as a corpse's.
"The Queen and Lord Tyrion wouldn't appreciate eavesdroppers," Pod said calmly. "And the councillors are gone.
No point keeping it open."
Bronn said nothing further. He didn't know—couldn't know—that Podrick had understood exactly what was happening inside.
But the boy also understood that some secrets weren't meant for every ear. He had held the door earlier only to ensure Tyrion entered this little game of power as the stronger party—and to keep him safer.
A show of force.
Just enough.
Never too much.
Moments later, the council chamber door swung open from within.
Tyrion emerged red-cheeked, a clear five-fingered welt visible across his face.
He gave Ser Mandon a pointed, accusing look as he passed, then strode down the vaulted corridor without slowing.
As they walked, Podrick spoke suddenly:
"My lord… just now, I heard you mention Lord Eddard Stark."
Tyrion paused mid-step.
"Why, Pod? Something about that trouble you?"
The weeks together had taught Tyrion much about his new squire. Twelve years old, yet none of a boy's carefree spirit.
He carried himself like someone far older—too observant, too thoughtful, too sharp for comfort.
Every now and then, the boy said something that genuinely startled him—insights so clean, so precise, they sliced straight through the haze of politics.
Just like the night after they'd left the war camp, when Podrick had urged him to slow their march south—to gather more men before approaching King's Landing.
"War everywhere, refugees everywhere," the boy had said.
"More men means fewer surprises."
At the time, Tyrion had brushed it off as simple caution.
Now he wasn't so sure.
"It's nothing," Podrick said. "I was merely curious. In this game of thrones… where do you think Lord Eddard lost?"
Pod never hesitated to reveal the sharpness of his mind when he and Tyrion were alone.
Tyrion had grown used to it.
"Lost?" Tyrion let out a short laugh.
"Ha… well."
But the humor soured quickly into a sigh.
"Podrick—go see that our men have beds and food. Tell them they're to be quartered at the barracks beneath the Tower of the Hand.
But make sure the Stone Crows and the Moon Brothers aren't lodged together—and the Burned Men need separate quarters entirely.
I trust you can handle that."
Pod nodded. "Of course, my lord. I know them well."
"And you?" Bronn asked lazily. "Where're you off to?"
"I'm going to check on Shae," Tyrion replied. "I won't rest easy until I do."
Bronn snorted.
"Need an escort? I hear the streets are lively today."
Before Tyrion could answer, Podrick stepped in front of him and gently pressed a hand to his shoulder, leaning close.
"No, my lord. I strongly advise you wait."
His voice dropped to a whisper only Tyrion and Bronn could hear.
"At least until our men return with their reports.
And if you must go beyond the Red Keep… find a proper reason.
If you wish to keep your secrets from certain eyes, then you should be more cautious—far more cautious."
Tyrion froze.
Then slowly turned his mismatched gaze onto the boy, his expression oddly stricken.
"…Very well," he said quietly.
"I'll be patient. More patient than I'd like."
He let out a weak laugh.
"Seven hells, Podrick. I don't know where you learned any of this, but you're unsettling—do you know that?
You're cautious enough to make a maester blush… and yet on the battlefield you're mad as a bloody Dornish spear."
Podrick didn't smile.
"If one must survive, my lord… one must be both."
His voice was steady, calm, utterly certain.
"That is prudent courage."