Chapter 103 — When Chrysanthemums Bloom Like Sunflowers, We'll Have Our Proof
Late at night, in a small chamber at the top of the Hand's Tower, Podrick and Tyrion sat facing one another alone.
Unlike the vast throne room of the Red Keep, this was a narrow hall with a high domed ceiling, lined with long tables and benches enough to seat two hundred men.
Yet in the cavernous space, only the two of them remained.
Candles burned steadily, thin threads of black smoke curling upward before vanishing into the air.
"Well then, Podrick — what exactly is going on?" Tyrion asked.
Perched in his high-backed chair — raised with several cushions — he skillfully carved apart a roasted squab on his plate.
"Exactly what you saw, my lord."
Podrick swallowed the last of his meat pie, shrugged, and reached for the wine jug, topping up Tyrion's cup as he spoke.
Tyrion glanced at the rippling surface of the wine and let out a quiet sigh before lifting the goblet.
Podrick raised his own. Their crystal cups met lightly in the air.
"Podrick… you shouldn't have been so reckless. And you definitely shouldn't be entangling yourself with Cersei…"
After a long swallow, Tyrion seemed to loosen, wiping wine from his beard stubble with a weary sigh.
"My lord, are you worried about losing Littlefinger — or worried that losing him puts us in a worse position?" Podrick asked calmly, ignoring the part about Cersei.
"Both."
Tyrion chewed on the dry, fragrant breast meat of the squab. It was roasted tough, and it squeaked faintly between his teeth.
Good drinking food.
Tyrion took another sip of wine before setting the goblet down, his dark eyes fixed on Podrick.
"But I'm more worried about you. You're clever — and sometimes that's exactly the problem. Clever enough to outsmart yourself. Do you understand what I mean?"
"And another thing — why would Cersei move against Littlefinger? Aren't those two practically inseparable right now? He's been feeding my dear sister advice, smearing Stannis' poor, long-suffering wife with filth, using that even more pitiable daughter of his as an excuse."
"In another setting, I'd throw this wine in their faces. After I'd had enough to drink, of course. But in the end… I can't, can I?"
His tone was heavy, layered.
"Well, you could throw it now, my lord," Podrick quipped lightly. "Pity you've already emptied the cup."
He refilled Tyrion's wine before continuing more seriously.
"All right, my lord. I didn't lie. There may have been… a small misunderstanding. But I swear — only a small one."
"Small?" Tyrion snorted. "Your definition of 'small' includes storming into the Hand's Tower, arresting a member of the small council, kicking in the door to my private chamber, and beating the kingdom's Master of Coin half to death?"
"Oh — and his teeth. They're still resting quite nicely on my prized Myrish carpet."
"So tell me, Podrick — what gave you the courage, and the audacity, to accuse a royal councilor of crimes you can't possibly prove?"
The words came like crossbow bolts.
Podrick could only spread his hands with a helpless smile.
"Her Grace the Queen Regent. Your beloved sister, Lord Tyrion."
Someone had to carry the blame. Cersei could bear it.
Unfortunately, Tyrion saw straight through him.
"Well, thank you for reminding me I possess a breathtakingly beautiful sister. I'm touched you thought to mention her."
The sarcasm bared teeth.
Podrick raised both hands in surrender, muttering quickly.
"But I promise you — the Queen Regent didn't give a wrong order, and I didn't hold back."
"If anything here disrupts your plans, my lord… then I'm afraid you'll just have to think of a better one."
Tyrion knew he wasn't drunk — which made the chill that crept up his spine worse.
"What happened?" he asked sharply. "And don't tell me this nonsense about 'disturbing the peace of the capital.'"
Podrick sighed.
"Of course not. That was just an excuse. Though Littlefinger did have a hand in it. The business with Barra and her mother too — he stirred that pot."
"Of course, I didn't hear that from him."
"What I'm saying is… Littlefinger and Lady Lysa Arryn are the real murderers of Jon Arryn."
He said it lightly. Casually. Smiling.
Tyrion froze.
Podrick, patient, returned to his dinner as if discussing the weather. Oil shone on his lips as he ate, satisfied.
Silence stretched long, until an autumn wind carrying the smell of the sea slipped through the window. Tyrion shivered back to himself.
"You… damn you, Podrick — do you even know what you're saying?"
But as memories stirred, doubt crept in.
Once spoken aloud, the pieces began to connect:
Catelyn Stark's certainty in arresting him.
Lysa Arryn's treatment of him in the Vale.
Young Robert's shrieking demand to see him fly.
Littlefinger's subtle reactions during their dealings.
His reluctance — until the bait of Harrenhal.
And the dagger. The dagger that had nearly killed Bran Stark.
That dagger now hung at Podrick's waist.
"You… are you certain? Do you have proof?"
Tyrion's voice trembled despite himself.
Podrick only smiled.
"When chrysanthemums grow into sunflowers… we'll have our proof."