Chapter 37 — The One Who Opens the Door
"True power?"
Podrick let out a quiet laugh as he looked at the dwarf who had asked the question.
Tyrion said nothing.
His mismatched eyes—one black, one green—fixed sharply on the boy.
Podrick took a breath.
"True power is complicated," he began, "but if you really want to boil it down, it's quite simple."
"In simple terms, power… is the strength of belief."
"On the surface, it looks like it flows from the top down. Kings rule. Gods decree. Authority descends."
"But in truth, I think it's the opposite."
"Because power actually rises from the bottom up. Whoever holds the backing of the many—they hold power."
"A true King can give you faith, give you rank, give you wealth."
"But the moment the King loses his support… well."
He shrugged lightly.
"Royal authority only reaches ten paces. Beyond that—it's nothing."
"Ser Jaime Lannister proved that well enough the day he killed the Mad King."
Pod leaned forward slightly, his tone calm.
"And if you want the complicated version: power is a combination of things."
"It's the sum of force, labor, and material wealth…
and the sum of morality, law, faith, culture, and social order."
"It is production… and the relationships that govern it."
"Whoever can use the latter to maintain the former—stable, efficient, continuous—they are the ones who truly wield power."
He paused.
"So the real answer to the riddle is this—"
Podrick tapped the table with one finger.
"Power belongs to the person who can open the door to that room."
When he finished, Podrick rose to his feet, bowed lightly to Tyrion and the others, and smiled.
"My lord, it's late. You must be tired. I'll leave you to your rest."
He offered Tyrion a playful, almost knowing look, then turned and walked out.
Bronn glanced around, smirked, shrugged at Tyrion, and stood as well.
He whistled for the ten or so warriors nearby, motioning for them to follow.
They needed to get back to the Red Keep.
Tyrion would be safe for the night—he had the Black Ears here, and Shagga's clan besides.
Soon the small tavern quieted again, save for the crackle of the hearth.
Shae leaned into Tyrion's shoulder, watching Podrick's silhouette fade out the door.
"What did he choose?" she asked softly.
Tyrion let out a bitter little laugh.
"He chose nothing," he said. "Because he refuses to let anyone else choose his fate for him."
"Or rather… he chose himself."
Truth be told, Tyrion had not fully understood what his young squire was trying to convey.
But he did understand one crucial point—Podrick Payne would never allow himself to be confined by someone else's rules, nor allow anyone to choose his fate for him.
Whether that was a blessing or a curse, Tyrion could not say.
A rational madman, he thought with a bitter smile.
"Come," he said at last. "We should get some rest."
They stepped out of the Broken Anvil Inn. Finding his horse, Podrick lifted his gaze to the sky without thinking.
The comet tore across the heavens—blood-red, blazing, streaked with fire and sunset's dying light.
Blood and fire.
A dragon soaring through the void.
A sword cleaving the seasons apart.
Earlier today, he'd heard a new rumor: a white raven had flown from the Citadel.
Summer was over.
Winter was coming.
Omens piled upon omens, fear spreading like rot.
The red comet carved a turning point into this world of ice and fire.
Pod swung onto his horse. Bronn and the others mounted behind him.
"What were you going on about back there, anyway?" Bronn asked, curiosity edging into his voice. "I didn't understand half a word."
Pod waved it off. "Just an honest piece of reasoning. A sellsword can choose whomever he wants. The real question is how to stay alive. Just like us, right now."
Seeing the boy unwilling to explain further, Bronn let it go. He had no interest in riddles.
Pod changed the subject.
"We're short on men. The city is crawling with all sorts now. I imagine Lord Tyrion will soon ask you to find more. Any thoughts?"
"Thoughts?" Bronn snorted. "As long as there's coin, every problem has a solution."
"That's true," Pod admitted, clicking his tongue, "but the situation isn't hopeful. More refugees pour into the city every day. No merchant ships have docked in Blackwater Bay for half a year. The west and south roads are blocked. The Riverlands burn—"
But Bronn cut him off instantly.
"Talk about that with Tyrion, Podrick my lord."
"He's the Hand. Well… the acting Hand."
"Tch."
Silence settled over them like a wet cloak.
Only the sound of hooves on stone echoed down the comet-lit streets.
Then, just as they passed a narrow alley, a strange series of noises caught Podrick's ear.
He pulled sharply on the reins.
Peering into the shadows, he spotted several men dragging a struggling woman deeper into the dark. She whimpered and begged, rewarded only with boots and fists.
"How delightful," Pod muttered, a faint smile curling his lips.
He swung down from his horse, hand resting on the hilt at his waist, and stepped into the alley.
Bronn and the mountain clansmen halted as well, startled—then followed.
"Apologies for interrupting your evening entertainment," Pod said pleasantly. "But I'm curious about something. Would one of you be so kind as to explain—just what exactly are you doing?"
The red comet's light filtered through cracks between the roofs, casting a bloody glow over his head, turning his face into an unreadable shadow.
The five men froze mid-act and turned toward the voice.
There stood a boy—half-grown, barely out of childhood—watching them from a few paces away.
"Where'd this little bastard crawl from?" one man spat. "Get lost before I cut out your heart and drink it, boy!"
The alley stank of sweat, rot, and cheap wine.
Pod smiled.
"My, my… Why can't we have a civil conversation? For all I know, you poor fellows might even have some tragic hardships to explain."
He tilted his head.
"Bronn, do you know how rapists are usually dealt with?"
"I'm not the Hand, how should I know? Throw them in a dungeon?"
A chorus of heavy footsteps filled the alley.
Ten-plus shadows flowed in behind Bronn—Stone Crows, armed and grinning.
One clansman barked a laugh.
"I say we cut off their cocks and shove 'em in their mouths!"
"Is that a Stone Crow punishment?" Bronn asked dryly.
"Nah," the clansman replied. "Why bother with fancy punishments? We usually just kill 'em."
The five would-be rapists collapsed into quivering heaps, terror blanching their faces.
Pod considered it.
"Hmm… then let's go with your idea. Cut off their manhoods and hang them around their necks."
"To the loud one—tear his mouth apart."
"Then nail their wrists to the wall. Leave them for the gold cloaks to collect in the morning."
He paused, then added with a polite smile:
"Oh—and do remember to tell the gold cloaks this:
the Queen's brother, the King's uncle, and current acting Hand of the King is our lord."
"If you have any objections… feel free to bring them up tomorrow."