Chapter 36 – What Is Power
Varys's departure left the room swallowed in silence.
Only then did Chella—finally realizing the visitor had not been friend but threat—give a low, disgruntled snort.
Shae, meanwhile, furrowed her brows and earnestly pondered the riddle the eunuch had left behind.
"The rich man lives, doesn't he?" she asked.
No one answered.
Tyrion sipped his wine, thoughtful.
After a long while, he shook his head.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps not. It depends entirely on the sellsword."
He moved as though to rise, but at that moment Podrick—who had been quiet all this time—spoke up.
"Then, my lord," Pod asked softly, "whom do you think the sellsword would obey? Who lives, and who dies?"
He glanced around the table.
"Why don't we all speak plainly?"
Tyrion was exhausted—he'd barely rested a moment all day, then had been threatened by a eunuch before he could even settle in. Worse yet, he knew exactly what game Varys was playing with that riddle.
Still… something in Pod's tone gave him pause.
Tyrion looked at him.
"It's a foolish question with no answer, Podrick."
"Yes, my lord," Pod said calmly, "but the question isn't truly about who survives. It's about understanding power—and the nature of power."
He spread his hands.
Tyrion blinked.
He hadn't considered it from that angle.
After a moment, he slowly sat back down.
"Very well," he said, faint amusement returning to his voice. "What do you all think?"
A curious symposium was born around the rough wooden table, under the blazing red glow of the comet outside.
"The king lives," Bronn said at once. There wasn't a shred of hesitation.
Tyrion turned to him, genuinely surprised.
Of all people, he had expected Bronn to answer as Shae did—to choose the rich man.
"You surprise me," Tyrion admitted. "I thought you'd say the wealthy one. You like gold, do you not?"
For a sellsword who lived by coin, Bronn's answer was strangely… farsighted.
Bronn grinned lazily.
"If the rich man lives," he said, "then once that door opens, neither the sellsword nor the rich man will live very long. But a king… that's different."
The logic wasn't complicated.
Bronn simply saw further than most.
From another table, Chella leaned in, eager to contribute.
"If I were the sellsword," she boomed, "none of them would live! I'd cut off every ear and wear them as trophies! Hahaha!"
Her wild laughter echoed through the hall.
Pod began clapping. "Wow. Rivers of blood!"
His applause drew all eyes toward him—including Tyrion's.
"Well then, Pod," Tyrion asked, lips quirking, "you started us on this path. Who do you think survives?"
Pod's smile was calm and almost polite.
"This question is profound, my lord," he said. "But if you want my honest answer… none of them would survive."
"None?" Shae blinked, baffled. "Why? And why would the sellsword die if he did nothing?"
"Because," Pod explained gently, "the sellsword threatens all three simply by existing. But once he leaves that room, he's the weakest of them."
He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.
"It's simple. In that moment, the sellsword appears to hold all the power—after all, he holds the sword, and the sword means force, life, and death."
As Podrick spoke, he dipped a finger into his cup.
With the wine he drew a rough triangle onto the wooden table, then traced a circle in the center.
Only then did he conclude:
"The sword is choice. Whoever it chooses—that is power."
Bronn couldn't help interjecting.
"So doesn't that mean," he asked, "that whoever the sellsword chooses… lives?"
Podrick turned his eyes toward him.
"But if the king lives, the sellsword has upheld royal authority.
Yet the moment they leave that room, who's to say the king won't punish him for his insolence—and have him killed anyway?"
"And if the monk lives, then the sellsword has upheld divine authority and faith.
But the same logic follows—once outside, the sellsword may be condemned as a murderer of the faithful."
"As for the wealthy man—on the surface he seems the safest choice.
The sellsword takes his gold, sides with wealth, and outside the room the rich man must keep the secret to save his own skin."
Pod paused, then smiled lightly.
"But who keeps secrets best?"
"The dead."
His finger tapped the table.
"And if the sellsword follows Chella's choice—kills all three—then he'll die the moment he steps outside as well."
"No matter the choice," Podrick concluded, his tone calm and unhurried, "none of the four emerge as winners."
He sat on the rough wooden bench as though lecturing in a quiet study rather than in a noisy tavern filled with killers.
Bronn and Shae stared, stunned.
It was clear they had never approached the question from such an angle.
Tyrion stroked the stubble on his chin, eyes dark with contemplation.
Podrick continued:
"Power is simply power.
It exists only where people collectively believe it exists.
So the sellsword obeys the one he believes will hold the greatest power after the choice is made."
"The sellsword has no crown, no wealth, and no blessing from the gods.
But he has the sword—the immediate power to grant life or death."
"Without him, the king, the monk, and the rich man are merely three lambs awaiting slaughter.
Whoever convinces the sellsword that they truly are the king, the monk, or the rich man—that person becomes the most powerful."
Pod lifted his finger from the table.
"But if true power resides in the sword… why do we accept that the king's authority is supreme?"
"That is the heart of the riddle."
He leaned back slightly, his voice steady.
"Perhaps—if you're the Master of Whisperers—you believe the one who feeds information to the sellsword is the true power.
After all, power is not illusion, nor inertia, nor shadow.
Power is need."
"Imagine a magnate whom no one is willing to work for—does he still have power?
Or a priest whose sermons no one believes—does he still wield divine authority?
A lord whom no one bothers to flatter—does he still command respect?"
"Merchants offer coin.
Priests offer faith.
Kings offer station.
The one you obey depends entirely on what you desire."
"And answering the riddle merely reveals which form of power you yourself are willing to submit to."
"Just like Shae, Bronn… and even Chella. Each of you chose differently."
Podrick actually let out a small laugh.
"Power lives in the mind.
If you believe in it, it exists.
If you do not—it doesn't."
When he finished, the whole room fell silent—even Chella stared, wide-eyed.
Tyrion lifted his head slowly.
In his gaze was something like awe mixed with unease—this boy, so young, and yet grasping the nature of rule, authority, and danger with frightening clarity.
"Then tell me, Pod," Tyrion asked quietly, "what do you think true power is?"