Chapter 69 — Your Grace… Is This a Threat?
"What—I'm the intruder?"
"Oh… well then. Never mind."
Watching the scene before him, Podrick—who had just been thinking this doesn't look friendly—suddenly realized that he himself was, in fact, the one who had arrived uninvited.
A flicker of awkwardness crossed his mind. He quickly reined it in, stepped slightly to the side, extended one hand in a polite gesture, and bowed shallowly.
"May I ask why the Queen Regent has summoned me?"
Cersei, of course, had no idea what Podrick was thinking. Seeing how promptly he showed proper deference, the corner of her lips curved almost imperceptibly—only to be smoothed away a heartbeat later, replaced by icy composure.
"Why?" she repeated coldly. With a soft scoff, she straightened from the cushions.
"Podrick Payne—do you know your crime?"
As she rose, her pale, polished toes shifted against the floor, long white legs drawing back beneath her. The movement only accentuated their elegant lines.
Her gaze was perfectly measured: three parts contempt, three parts arrogance, three parts authority—and just one part mockery—fixed squarely on the young man before her.
As if stung by that look, Podrick's shoulders twitched. His eyes slid away from her legs at once. He lowered his gaze, his expression turning solemn and formal.
"I am dull-witted," he said evenly.
"I do not know what crime Your Grace refers to."
His tone never wavered.
Still, after speaking, he cleared his throat softly, his Adam's apple shifting as he swallowed.
What is this woman playing at?
What does this mean?
Is this really how she's testing me?
What official could withstand a test like this?
"What crime?"
Cersei had noticed his wandering gaze earlier. She snorted inwardly, but chose not to call him out—yet.
Instead, she lifted her smooth chin slightly, looking down at him as though from on high.
Sunlight poured in through the window, catching in her golden hair and lending her an almost holy glow. A breeze stirred the strands, her gold-and-green gown rippling softly.
The embroidered fabric rose and fell like mountain peaks beneath snow.
Podrick swallowed again, an inexplicable pressure settling on his chest.
I shouldn't have worn armor today, he thought irritably.
The finely forged steel was rigid and uncomfortable, and worse, impossible to adjust. He shifted subtly, hunching just enough to ease the strain.
An old saying drifted through his mind:
When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes back.
Cersei saw his discomfort clearly. It pleased her. A faint smile touched her lips.
Then she spoke again.
"You incited chaos in the palace—"
She paused, corrected herself smoothly.
"—in the barracks. You seized power, slaughtered your opponents at will. And within the city, the common people suffer as you abuse authority, slandering and executing them without restraint."
"Your crimes are beyond counting," she concluded with another cold snort.
"And you still dare ask me what crime?"
With that, she drew a folded sheet of parchment from her sleeve and flicked it casually toward him.
The paper fluttered to the floor at Podrick's feet.
He glanced down, then back up at her—then down again.
Unless he had suddenly gone blind, the parchment was blank. Not a single word marked its surface.
Realization dawned.
Podrick lifted his head once more, this time meeting her gaze openly.
"When one is determined to accuse," he said calmly,
"words will never be lacking."
"Your Grace, everything I have done stands clear before my conscience—before the law, and before royal authority."
Three pregnancies had left scarcely a mark upon her. Years in the court, power worn like a second skin, had only refined her presence further. Slim of figure, pale of skin, with golden curls and emerald eyes—Cersei Lannister still deserved the title of the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
But Podrick kept his eyes lowered, posture straight, righteousness carried in his voice.
"Clear before the law and royal authority?"
The phrase struck her as absurd.
Cersei laughed—softly at first—then rose fully from the cushions.
She moved like a willow in the wind, graceful and radiant.
Sunlight streamed across her gown, threads of gold and green shimmering as though she herself were glowing—standing upon the moral high ground.
Barefoot, she stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until she stood directly before him.
Cersei narrowed her eyes, intending to loom over the boy—
Only to realize, with a faint tightening of her expression, that he stood nearly half a head taller than she did.
So she took half a step back, then reached out and lifted Podrick's chin with her fingers, her voice cold once more.
"I see that you have not acted in accordance with law or royal authority at all," she said.
"On the contrary—you have trampled them underfoot."
"You obstructed law enforcement in public. You killed at will. You and the Imp framed Lord Janos Slynt and forced him from office. You butchered more than a hundred loyal Gold Cloaks."
"And most importantly," her voice sharpened,
"whose orders were you following when you did all this?"
"King Joffrey's?"
"Or the Imp's?"
"Tell me, Podrick—who do you truly serve?"
"Do you realize that any single one of these crimes would be enough for me to condemn you?"
"I could send you to the Wall."
"I could hang you from the gallows."
"Or I could cut off your head and mount it on a spear above the city gate as a warning to all."
Her words cut like midwinter wind—cold steel pressed to the throat.
But Podrick did not feel the chill. Instead, he smiled.
There was no killing intent in her eyes.
Cersei had no intention of ending him—at least, not yet.
And what she did intend, Podrick now understood clearly.
"Your Grace," he said calmly,
"perhaps you are unaware—but when your father, Lord Tywin Lannister, was fighting in the Riverlands and the North, I nearly died."
"He personally ordered me hanged."
"It was Ser Kevan Lannister who spared me, for no reason other than the fact that I shared a stolen slab of ham."
"I do not deny that at the time, he had every right to kill me."
"But now, Your Grace, everything I have done has been in loyal service to crown and realm—yet you still wish to condemn me."
"By what law?"
"And by what authority?"
For the first time, Cersei hesitated.
She had not expected the boy—already in her grasp—to be so earnest.
So naïve.
So… pure.
She studied him for a moment, then suddenly laughed.
Letting go of his chin, she stepped back several paces.
"Seize him," the Queen Regent said lightly.
At her command, the red-cloaked guards—who until now had stood like statues—moved.
Their actions were swift and practiced.
Two men clamped down on Podrick's arms.
Another yanked his cloak and locked an arm around his neck.
The fourth drew his sword and laid the blade across Podrick's shoulder.
Podrick did not resist.
Even the gilded helmet he carried remained steady in his hand.
His gaze flicked briefly to the four guards restraining him—
then returned to Cersei, who stood before him, smiling.
"Your Grace," Podrick asked evenly,
"is this a threat?"
His expression was calm—almost innocent—his tone carrying genuine, foolish curiosity.
Seeing his lack of reaction only made Cersei smile wider.
"No," she said sweetly.
"This is not a threat."
"I am simply showing you what power is."
Her voice was warm, intimate—like a lover's whisper.
She lifted her chin, triumphant.
"With a single word from me, they will cut your throat."
"Power," she said softly,
"is force."
Podrick raised an eyebrow.
"Your words remind me of a certain eunuch," he said.
"He once posed a riddle—a very interesting one."
"A riddle that has a different answer in every person's heart."
The sword was at his neck, yet the boy remained unnervingly composed.
Cersei's smile faltered.
"What riddle?" she demanded.
Podrick did not answer.
Instead, he spoke of something else entirely.
"At the crossroads inn," he said,
"when your father nearly had me hanged—and when Ser Kevan spared me—I learned something, Your Grace."
"And what was that?"
Cersei narrowed her eyes, unease creeping in.
Seeing the change in her expression, Podrick smiled.
He raised two fingers and gently pinched the blade resting against his throat.
"I learned the value of life," he said softly.
"And what I ought to live for—and how."
"You are correct," he continued.
"Power is force."
"But in my eyes," his voice sharpened,
"force only becomes true power when it belongs to oneself."
"As for that riddle… and the power you speak of—"
He paused.
"They may lie ten paces apart."
"Or a thousand miles away."