Chapter 34 – A Misunderstanding
"What in the seven hells is that supposed to mean?"
Tyrion frowned at Podrick, who—as always—had said something no one else could possibly understand.
Pod gave an embarrassed smile.
"Nothing, my lord. Just… as long as no one raises their right hand at a forty-five-degree angle, we'll be fine."
Tyrion blinked.
"…Right. Anyway—no grain is coming into the city now?"
"Almost none," he muttered, tossing the pigeon bones aside and tearing another piece of bread.
"Vylarr told me that ever since war broke out in the Riverlands—then again in the Reach with Renly's revolt—both western and southern roads are essentially cut off."
"And as for the bay beneath King's Landing? Forget that entirely."
The Reach and the Riverlands—two of the Seven Kingdoms' great breadbaskets—now severed.
The implications hung heavy over the hall.
Podrick said nothing.
He knew the story, knew how things would unfold, yet seeing it happen with his own eyes was another thing entirely.
Words on a page could only hint at tragedy.
Living inside it was something else—raw, brutal, impossible to soften.
"Fortunately," Tyrion went on, chewing through the tough bread as if biting someone's throat, "my darling sister seems to understand she can't sit idle."
"Unfortunately, she is far more insane than I expected."
He tipped back his bowl, gulping mushroom soup straight from the rim, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and tore off another hunk of bread.
"Do you know what she's done, Pod? She's hired a thousand craftsmen to build defenses—masons thickening the walls, carpenters building scorpions and trebuchets, fletchers making arrows, blacksmiths forging swords—"
He slammed the bread down.
"—and then she ordered the Alchemists' Guild to deliver ten thousand jars of wildfire."
"Wildfire!"
"Seven bloody gods—ten thousand jars could burn King's Landing to ash!"
He bit into his bread as if killing someone with his teeth.
"And naturally, she doesn't have the coin to pay for any of it."
"Robert died leaving the crown neck-deep in debt—everyone knows that. Do you think the alchemists will donate their precious little green hellfire out of charity?"
"Gods know what hole Littlefinger plans to crawl into for the gold. I hear he's already started taxing every refugee entering the city."
"What is that—buying a ticket for an early trip to hell?"
"Still…" Tyrion scoffed, "…I must admit, it works."
Once he began venting, the dwarf couldn't stop.
His frustrations spilled out like wine from an overturned jug.
Pod handed him a mug of ale at the perfect moment.
Tyrion drained it in one pull.
Still unsatisfied, he grabbed the whole jug and poured himself another.
Pod no longer felt like telling dark jokes to lighten the mood.
"It seems, my lord," he said softly, "that what you need to deal with extends far beyond playing games with courtiers."
"Fear of war. Hunger. Desperation."
"People will become beasts."
Pod's words had barely left his lips when Tyrion slammed the empty drinking horn onto the table.
"Enough. I have to get Shae settled. I can't leave her out there!"
He staggered to his feet—
—but at that exact moment, a servant hurried up.
"My lord," he said nervously, "someone asked me to give you this."
He held out a small folded scrap of parchment.
Tyrion and Pod exchanged a look—equal parts confusion and unease—and turned their attention to the mysterious note.
On instinct alone, Tyrion took the slip of paper and unfolded it.
Outside the window, the sky was already deep and dark.
The red comet burned across the heavens—bleeding light over King's Landing, staining the night with a single, vivid color.
Yet at such an hour, a small Lannister-led company burst out of the Red Keep.
At their head rode a dwarf whose hair, under the blood-red glow, looked as though it had been dusted with dried rust—burning red, almost luminous.
And that dwarf, bouncing furiously on horseback, was cursing at the sky as if the heavens themselves had offended him.
"May the Others drag him off!"
Tyrion spat the words between ragged breaths as he urged his horse forward.
Behind him, Podrick followed with a look of pure misery.
He had severely underestimated how quickly things might unravel.
His plan—carefully made, meticulously timed—had bought them only half a day.
Barely that.
The Broken Anvil Inn hung directly beneath the watchful view of the city wall—too close to the God's Gate for comfort.
And the man who'd delivered the note was no stranger at all, but one of the Black Ears—Tyrion's own hill tribesmen.
He'd led them straight here without hesitation.
As they entered the courtyard, a boy rushed forward to take the reins.
Before they even reached the door, laughter spilled into the night—loud, bright, unmistakable.
Inside the common room, Tyrion immediately recognized Chella's rasping cackle and Shae's silver-bell giggles.
Shae sat by the hearth, sipping wine at a rough wooden table.
Around her lounged the three Black Ear warriors he'd assigned to guard her.
And beside them, with his back turned, sat a plump man whose silhouette Tyrion recognized at once.
Tyrion froze.
His eyes narrowed.
At the sound of footsteps—or perhaps at the way Shae reflexively called Tyrion's name—the man rose swiftly to greet him.
"My dear lord," he said, voice dripping honey, "I feared I might have to wait until morning. How relieved I am to see you."
The eunuch's powdered face smiled warmly, with just the right amount of apology—such a perfect performance one might almost believe he truly regretted having been kept waiting.
Tyrion ignored Shae's attempt to stand and greet him.
He raised a hand to silence her, never taking his eyes off Varys.
"Lord Varys," he said coldly.
"I can't say I expected you to summon me to such a place.
And at such an hour.
It certainly makes me… curious."
His tone said he was anything but curious.
The laughter in the inn died instantly.
Chella and the Black Ears stiffened, instincts sharpened like drawn blades.
Weapons were already in their hands.
Varys blanched and immediately lifted both palms in surrender.
"Peace, my good sirs! Peace!" he squeaked.
"As I was just telling these fine gentlemen—I am merely a friend of Lord Tyrion!"
He quickly turned toward Tyrion, raising his voice.
"My lord, I simply wished to meet your charming young lady—and perhaps await your return.
But when you did not return, I grew concerned.
So I… took the liberty of sending for you."
He bowed slightly.
"So, please, ask your men to lower their blades.
I mean no harm, I assure you.
If I have caused offense, I beg your forgiveness."
With the pretense shattered, Tyrion no longer bothered to hide behind polite masks.
He did not order his tribesmen to stand down.
Instead, he regarded Varys from head to toe, expression unreadable.
"Is that so, Lord Varys?
A misunderstanding?"
His voice was soft. Too soft.
"Then perhaps you can tell me something."
Tyrion stepped closer, the warmth of the hearth casting his face into stark, flickering shadows.
"How, exactly, did you know she was here?"
His eyes flicked toward Shae.
"How did you know who she was?"
"And more importantly—what made you so very certain that I would come to her?"
---