Chapter 32 – Precautions
In truth, several days before they reached King's Landing, Podrick had already urged Tyrion to send riders ahead—
at least a small party to scout the city, learn the basics, and clear the fog before they stepped into it.
Not only to gather useful information.
But, more importantly, to prevent Tyrion's secrets—his weaknesses—from being exposed the moment he set foot inside the capital.
Podrick's reasoning had been sound.
And the more Tyrion considered it, the more he realized there was no need to rush blindly toward the city.
Reaching King's Landing quickly mattered far less than reaching it prepared.
The capital was a smoldering fog of uncertainty, its high tables crowded with powerful figures whose loyalties were impossible to read.
A single misstep could be fatal.
He had no intention of repeating his mistake at the inn at the Crossroads, where Catelyn Tully had plucked him up like a rabbit caught napping.
So Tyrion heeded Podrick's counsel.
Before the dwarf's ragtag army ever reached the city walls, a smaller, quieter group slipped into the flow of refugees streaming toward the capital—
his eyes and ears entering King's Landing ahead of him.
From them came the first clear reports:
After King Robert Baratheon's death and Lord Eddard Stark's arrest for treason,
the Gates of the Gods and every other city gate had been ordered shut—
open only inward, admitting refugees but allowing no one to leave.
Only after Joffrey Baratheon's coronation were the Iron Gate and the King's Gate reopened for travelers to depart.
The rest of King's Landing, however, was chaos—
tens of thousands driven from the Riverlands by war, all of them pouring into the capital believing it safer than the flames behind them.
The city—already impossible to govern at the best of times—had become a stinking pit of overcrowded misery.
As Tyrion's force drew near the walls, they split into two groups.
One, led by Chella, took five warriors of the Black Ears and spirited Shae through the Gates of the Gods, disguised among common travelers.
The other—the official party—entered openly with Tyrion through the Iron Gate.
In the original timeline, Tyrion had ridden straight to the Red Keep, stashing Shae at the Inn of the Kneeling Man in a way that was "hidden" only in name.
And by the time he returned—after striking an uneasy truce with Cersei, after agreeing to impossible compromises—
Varys was already waiting for him.
Waiting in the very room where Tyrion thought himself cleverest.
It had placed him at a disadvantage from the very start.
He recovered, yes—Tyrion always recovered—but it had been a stumble, not a stride.
Podrick never believed Shae could truly be hidden in King's Landing.
Not from spies, not from whispers, not from eyes trained to notice the slightest trace.
From the moment Tyrion made the decision to bring her with him, her discovery was inevitable.
Men leave footprints; birds leave shadows;
every presence leaves its trace.
And there were plenty in the capital ready to follow those traces.
At the very least, Tyrion needed to wait—
to be patient before making any move.
Running off now would only draw unwanted eyes.
"Well then… what do we do now?"
Tyrion exhaled sharply, rubbing at his temples.
"Forget it. I'll handle the troop placements myself."
He had only just abandoned the idea of visiting Shae when Podrick shook his head again.
"In truth, my lord," Podrick said softly,
"you would do better going out into the city…
just not yet.
A little patience will serve you well."
Tyrion stiffened, then looked at him more intently—
and suddenly understood.
"…Ah. Yes. I see your point."
He turned toward Bronn.
"Bronn, you and Podrick handle the arrangements.
I'll have the captain of the City Watch escort me later."
A thin smile tugged at Tyrion's lips.
"And I'll remind him that I, too, am a Lannister—
in case he's forgotten whom he serves.
Father didn't send him here to take orders from Cersei or Joffrey."
---
An hour later, accompanied by a dozen Lannister guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms, Tyrion rode out of the Red Keep.
Passing beneath the portcullis, he slowed, his gaze rising to the row of severed heads mounted along the battlements.
Even tarred, they were blackened and rotting.
"Captain Vylarr," Tyrion said, drawing up hard on the reins,
"have these taken down before tomorrow. Send them to the Silent Sisters for cleaning."
Reuniting heads with bodies would be difficult now—perhaps impossible—
but the rites had to be observed.
Some rules mattered, even in war.
Vylarr hesitated.
"His Grace ordered the traitors to remain on the walls," the captain said carefully.
"Until the last three empty spearpoints are filled."
"Let me guess," Tyrion muttered.
"One for Robb Stark…
and the other two reserved for Lord Stannis and Lord Renly.
Am I right?"
"Yes, my lord."
Tyrion leaned toward him, voice soft but cold.
"Vylarr, my nephew is thirteen.
You, however, are a grown man.
So listen carefully:
by tomorrow, these heads come down.
Otherwise, one of those empty spearpoints will be filled—
and we both know with what."
There was no humor in the threat.
And Vylarr—whose instincts were sharp—believed every word.
"Yes, my lord," he said quickly.
"I'll see to it myself."
"Excellent."
Tyrion nudged his horse into motion, leaving the crimson cloaks scrambling to follow.
As he rode away, Podrick and Bronn turned back toward the looming silhouette of the Tower of the Hand.
---
The Tower was one of the Red Keep's seven massive drum-shaped fortresses, its iron-mottled dome rising like a dark crown above the courtyard.
The grounds around it formed a small walled complex of their own—
practically a castle within the castle.
No wonder Tyrion had chosen it as his residence.
Had he moved into Maegor's Holdfast like a fool…
Podrick suspected he'd be lucky to survive the week.
He dragged his eyes away from the tower, focusing on the castle steward shuffling anxiously beside him.
The man looked exhausted—
as if he'd been trampled by Lannister demands for days.
"Tell me the general layout," Podrick said, his tone calm but firm.
"I'll handle the rest.
I have more experience dealing with… unconventional men than your guards do."
The steward's relief was immediate and almost pitiful.
"Seven bless you, Ser Podrick Payne—truly, your aid is a mercy."
Podrick offered a polite nod.
The grounds around the tower were vast.
Even without inspecting the interior, he could tell the outer buildings alone were more than enough to house Tyrion's guard, the clan warriors, and whatever sworn swords Tyrion trusted.
They could form a ring around the Tower of the Hand—
a defensive camp disguised as orderly barracks.
By the time Podrick finished assigning spaces, dusk had begun to fall.
It was tight, but workable.
He frowned toward the outer walls.
"As for the freeriders and the leftover sellswords…"
Podrick sighed.
"They'll have to be quartered outside the keep.
Best if we arrange it tonight."
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