Chapter 29 – My Lord Is Speaking to You
Later...
As they walked through the Red Keep, Podrick's eyes wandered constantly,
studying the ancient palace that had stood for over a hundred years.
He took in every corridor, every gilded arch and torch-lit passage,
his gaze darting from tapestries to guards, from shadows to doors.
They turned a corner into a quiet hallway.
For once, they were alone.
Podrick hesitated, then spoke.
"My lord," he said carefully,
"do you really think the Queen will let you sit beside her —
telling her what to do, giving orders, waving that piece of parchment around like a sword?"
"Even if it bears your father's seal?"
The question made Tyrion's short legs pause for half a step.
Then, without missing a beat, he resumed his slow, steady pace.
"Pod," the dwarf said mildly,
"you're far sharper than I first took you for."
"And since you're so clever — tell me this.
If even my father's letter, signed by the Hand of the King himself,
carries no weight in this castle… what do you imagine that means for us?"
Podrick's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.
"Then you should've brought Shagga and Timett," he said quietly.
"They're faster with blades than words."
Tyrion gave a soft, soundless laugh,
the corners of his mouth twitching before he quickly smothered the smile.
He didn't answer, and the three men walked on in silence.
Bronn, who'd been listening the whole time,
snorted under his breath and fell a few steps back,
his expression half amused, half disdainful.
---
They continued through the echoing hall until they reached a heavy oak door bound with black iron.
A knight stood before it — tall, still, and cold as a marble tomb.
The snow-white cloak of the Kingsguard hung motionless from his shoulders.
Ser Mandon Moore looked like a corpse that had been wrapped in linen and taught to stand upright.
"The Queen commands that she is not to be disturbed,"
he said flatly, his voice as lifeless as his eyes.
"No one enters while the council is in session."
He recognized Tyrion, of course.
Everyone in the Red Keep did — the Queen's misshapen little brother.
Tyrion drew a folded parchment from his sleeve and held it up,
the wax seal of House Lannister glinting in the torchlight.
"A small matter only, ser.
This is a letter from my father, Lord Tywin Lannister —
Hand of the King and Warden of the West."
Ser Mandon didn't even glance at it.
"The Queen does not wish to be disturbed,"
he repeated, slow and deliberate, as though he were talking to an idiot.
Tyrion remembered what Jaime had once told him:
of all the white knights in the Kingsguard,
Ser Mandon Moore was the most dangerous.
Because he had no face — no expression, no warmth, no hint of thought.
No one ever knew what lay behind those pale eyes.
Tyrion studied him now,
searching for even the faintest flicker of emotion —
and finding none.
His fingers brushed the parchment,
and for a moment he considered the wisdom of simply drawing steel.
He was fairly certain that between Bronn and Podrick,
Ser Mandon would not last long.
But killing one of Joffrey's Kingsguard on his first day in King's Landing…
perhaps not the most diplomatic way to begin a new office.
The dwarf narrowed his mismatched eyes,
then forced a pleasant smile.
"Ser Mandon," Tyrion said lightly,
"I wonder if you've had the pleasure of meeting my companions."
He gestured toward Bronn.
"This is Bronn.
You might recall a certain Ser Vardis Egen — captain of Jon Arryn's guards?"
Ser Mandon's eyes flickered — the barest hint of recognition.
"I know the name."
"Good," said Tyrion with a satisfied nod.
Before the white knight could speak further, Bronn's grin slid into place.
"Well," he said softly, "the man you knew is dead."
The air went taut.
Tyrion's finger then shifted toward the boy standing beside him — tall for his age,
blue-eyed, calm as still water.
"And this," Tyrion said, "is Podrick Payne,
cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice.
A young hero of the Green Fork —
four men slain, one knight captured,
and the small matter of saving my life twice."
"My father, Lord Tywin, intended to knight him for it —
but instead, he chose to accompany me to King's Landing."
"He serves as my squire."
Podrick didn't say a word.
He merely let his clear blue eyes rest on Ser Mandon's throat for a moment,
then looked up, smiling politely.
It was a courteous smile —
but the kind that carried the faint suggestion of a blade hidden behind it.
Ser Mandon said nothing.
He simply stared, blank and unblinking, as though none of it mattered.
"In any case," Tyrion continued pleasantly,
"I've come to see my dear sister —
and deliver this letter.
Surely, ser, you'll be so kind as to open the door?"
Nothing.
Not a twitch, not a breath.
The knight might as well have been carved from the wall itself.
Then came a soft click.
Podrick had stepped forward.
His thumb rested on the sword's crossguard,
the steel whispering as it slid the slightest inch from its scabbard.
He smiled —
a calm, courteous smile,
his tone light and almost gentle.
"Ser Mandon," he said.
"My lord is speaking to you."
Tyrion blinked, taken aback for only a heartbeat.
He hadn't expected the boy to move — let alone threaten a Kingsguard.
But he didn't stop him either.
Instead, he glanced sideways at Bronn,
who met his gaze with a wolfish smirk.
The sellsword's hand was already resting lazily on his dagger.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow,
and Bronn gave the faintest shrug,
as if to say, Your move, my lord.
But just as the standoff hung heavy in the air,
the white knight before them suddenly shifted aside.
"You may enter," Ser Mandon Moore said flatly.
"But they stay."
Tyrion's lips curved into a knowing smirk.
Without a word, he pushed open the great oak door and strode inside —
not like a dwarf, but like a man ten feet tall.
---
Through the half-open door, Podrick caught a glimpse of the council chamber within.
A long oaken table stretched down the center of the hall,
and around it sat five members of the Small Council —
each cloaked in power, wealth, or secrets.
At the head of the table sat a woman of striking beauty:
golden curls, emerald eyes, pale flawless skin —
the very image of House Lannister's pride.
So that's her… the Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister, Podrick thought.
But his gaze did not linger on her.
Instead, his eyes drifted over the other figures:
a bald, round-bellied man with soft hands and watchful eyes — Varys, no doubt; and beside him, a short, slender man with dark hair streaked in silver and a small pointed beard — Petyr Baelish, smiling faintly as ever.
Pod smirked under his breath.
He had heard enough whispers on the road to recognize those faces, even if he had never met them.
Rather than close the door, he simply stepped sideways —
one foot inside, one out —
wedging himself perfectly in the doorway
so that no one could shut him out or in.
He kept smiling,
his eyes never leaving Ser Mandon Moore's impassive face.
Bronn, standing just behind him,
winced slightly, baring his teeth in what might've been a grin — or a grimace.
Still, the sellsword shifted position,
angling himself in a loose half-circle with Podrick,
far enough to draw steel, close enough to strike.
---
Inside, the sudden burst of light from the open doors
had drawn every gaze in the council chamber toward them.
The murmuring voices fell silent.
Quills stilled. Scrolls were forgotten.
Then, slicing through the silence,
came a voice — smooth and cold,
half disbelief, half disgust.
"You?"
Queen Cersei Lannister stared at the small figure before her,
her emerald eyes wide with surprise — and contempt.
Tyrion bowed his head slightly,
his smile sharp enough to cut.
"At last," he said lightly,
"I see where dear Joffrey learned his manners."
"My sweet sister."
He let his mismatched gaze wander deliberately across the chamber,
as if he owned the place —
his eyes tracing the sculpted Valyrian sphinxes
that flanked the doors behind him,
their wings outstretched in silent mockery of the queen's wrath.
When he looked back to her,
his confidence was unshakable.
He knew exactly how to face Cersei Lannister.
She could smell weakness the way a hound smelled fear.
---
"What are you doing here?"
Cersei's voice was calm, cold, and colorless —
the kind of voice that could cut glass.
She studied him like one might study something foul
that had crawled into the Red Keep uninvited.
Tyrion met her stare with casual indifference.
He strolled forward, his limp hardly noticeable,
and came to rest beside the council table.
With an easy motion,
he placed a tightly rolled parchment in the center of the table,
between himself and his sister.
"Delivering a letter," he said pleasantly.
"From our loving father."
His smile never wavered.
Confidence radiated from him — or perhaps defiance.
Cersei's gaze locked on his,
green meeting mismatched green and black,
until, at last, she looked down.
Her fingers twitched once,
but she did not reach for the letter.
Then, from beside her,
a soft hand — powdered, perfumed, and perfectly manicured —
slid into view.
The hand picked up the scroll,
turning it lazily between its fingers,
examining the red wax seal of the lion.