Chapter 71: It's Nothing—Just a Small Misunderstanding.
Soft, languid sounds drifted through the air.
Broken, trembling cadences followed.
When he had arrived, the sun stood high at noon—
yet now, outside the window, light slid across the walls in fleeting reflections, the day already tilting toward dusk.
Lying on the canopied bed, staring up at the painted reliefs on the ceiling, Podrick found himself wondering—
what, exactly, was the meaning of life?
In this life, he walked as if on thin ice.
If he ever reached the far shore, what kind of scenery would await him?
And beyond the sea… what lay there?
But stretched out on this lavish bed, Podrick ultimately found no answer.
He exhaled softly, letting all thought dissolve, emptying his mind until it reached something like the calm detachment of a sage.
It was only after some time passed that a muffled hum near his ear pulled him back to himself.
Podrick lowered his gaze instinctively.
Cersei lay sprawled across his chest, lips moving faintly, murmuring in unconscious fragments.
The Queen Regent's golden hair was no longer full and immaculate—it clung damply to her skin, tangled and disordered.
She seemed lost in a dream. Her eyes were half-closed, tears caught at the corners, trembling lightly on long lashes as her pupils drifted beneath them.
Beautiful.
Brilliant.
Like a golden sprite fallen among shattered wings of green and gold.
"The lake shines brighter in fair weather;
the mountains blur even lovelier in rain."
Podrick reached out and gently brushed her hair back behind her ear, allowing himself a clearer view of the thorned rose.
The white ravens of the Citadel had announced the changing of the seasons. Autumn had arrived quietly, and the air had already begun to shift.
At some point, fine rain had spread across the sky, dampening half the horizon.
An autumn drizzle lingered on, beads of water still clinging to the eaves.
Breathing in the heavy scent of the air—something between hawthorn blossoms and chestnut flowers—Podrick exhaled deeply and carefully rolled the Queen onto her side.
Rising from the bed, he glanced out the window before turning back to look at her.
Cersei lay collapsed amid the downy covers, her body slack and abandoned, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. Golden hair spilled down with it, cascading like a waterfall.
The woman he had broken apart, kneaded, and finally dissolved into spring water now lay utterly spent.
Podrick smiled faintly, nodded in quiet satisfaction, and bent to gather his clothes from the floor, dressing himself piece by piece.
At last, he fastened the golden cloak back onto his shoulders with its brooch.
Leaning down, he murmured softly by her ear:
"Your Majesty, affairs of state await. I'll be leaving now."
"If you require further… service, you may summon me at any time."
Whether the Queen heard him or not, Podrick couldn't say. He received only a few vague, sleepy murmurs in response.
He straightened and surveyed the chamber.
Aside from Cersei—still unconscious from his persuasion—the four Lannister guards lay where they had fallen, scattered around the room, all still senseless.
He opened the door, picked up the dented golden helmet from the corridor floor, and drew a short sword from the belt of the equally unconscious Ser Meryn Trant.
Only then did he depart.
His golden cloak snapped sharply behind him as he walked, each step carrying a faint wind.
Leaving Maegor's Holdfast, Podrick noticed that the surrounding corridors were strangely empty.
Just as the thought struck him, he spotted Tyrion across the inner courtyard, beyond a dry moat lined with iron spikes. His expression was… complicated.
When Cersei had summoned him, it had been just past noon.
Now, with the sun hanging low at the horizon, night was clearly approaching.
"So," Podrick called out lightly,
"were you worried I'd fallen into the moat and died somewhere in the gutter—so you waited here for me?"
Podrick greeted Tyrion first, then nodded politely to the goldcloak standing beside him.
"Good afternoon, Captain Vylarr. Have you eaten yet?"
As the Queen Regent's guard captain, Vylarr wore a lion-crested helm and a dark crimson cloak. He looked imposing enough—but his expression was one of unmistakable discomfort.
He had stopped Tyrion outside Maegor's Holdfast, after all. Yet it was obvious he hadn't forgotten that he was, at heart, a Lannister man—loyal to Casterly Rock, not personally to Cersei or Joffrey.
The atmosphere between them wasn't sharp or hostile. If anything, it carried a shared, heavy resignation.
Around the courtyard stood only Bronn, Shagga, and Timett—no other clansmen in sight. Vylarr alone barred the way, more as a gesture than a real obstacle.
The moment he saw Podrick, relief washed over him.
"And… good afternoon to you as well, Lord Podrick Payne," he said quickly, then turned to Tyrion and bowed.
"Lord Tyrion, if you'll excuse me."
He fled back into Maegor's Holdfast as though hounds were on his heels. Moments later, the drawbridge over the moat rose again.
Only then did Podrick turn back to Tyrion, shrugging casually. He raised an eyebrow at Bronn and the others, a sly grin passing between them—no words needed.
Tyrion sighed heavily and looked up at him through drooping lids.
"What did my sister summon you for?"
"And why did it take so long?"
"She wanted me," Podrick replied.
"…And you gave it to her?"
"She insisted."
"And when she insists, you just give?"
"Well… yes?" Podrick lifted his chin, sincerity written all over his face.
"I figured it wasn't doing me any good anyway. If she wanted it, why not?"
Tyrion took a deep breath.
He stood up.
Thought about it.
Sat back down again.
Then fixed Podrick with a long, searching stare.
"…Fine. What exactly did you do?"
"Quite a bit. Does putting the Queen Regent on top count?"
Tyrion grimaced, rubbing his temples.
"All right, Podrick . We both know you were forced—"
"I wasn't."
"…You weren't?" Tyrion clenched his fist, forced himself to breathe again.
"Damn it. Whatever happened, I don't care about the details. You know what I mean."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"Robert Baratheon is dead. If his grieving widow suddenly turns up pregnant—belly swelling and all—that's a problem."
"I don't want another nephew. Understood?"
He looked less like the Hand of the King now and more like an anxious eunuch—or a father terrified his kid had wandered into something dangerous and didn't know what it meant.
Podrick spread his hands.
"It's fine. Her Majesty really likes the taste of clotted cream. When I fed it to her, she swallowed eagerly."
"…What cream?"
"Clotted Cream."
"…What in the seven hells is that?" Tyrion finally snapped. climbing onto the stone bench he'd been sitting on so he could glare down at Podrick .
"Enough. I don't want details. Do you understand me?"
"Then tell me what actually happened. When Captain Vylarr checked, all he found was Ser Meryn Trant unconscious outside the door—with a massive lump on his head—and your crushed helmet lying on the floor."
"He said the noise inside was so bad he didn't even dare open the door. You see the problem?"
Podrick nodded calmly.
"Of course. I understand perfectly."
He smiled faintly.
"It was just a small misunderstanding. And you can relax—I've already persuaded Her Majesty."
As he spoke, Podrick raised his hand, forming a circle with thumb and forefinger—leaving just the tiniest gap between them.
Tyrion's temple throbbed.
"This is already a problem!"
"So I fixed the problem at its source," Podrick replied mildly.