Chapter 41 – Chataya's Garden of Secrets
"Alright, here we are — the finest little piece of heaven in all of King's Landing."
Tyrion reined in his horse and pointed proudly at the building ahead.
"The place is run by Chataya — tall, ebony skin, from the Summer Isles. Her girls cost a fortune… and worth every copper. Trust me."
Then he twisted in the saddle, eyeing Podrick up and down with undisguised envy.
"And speaking of fortunes — did you drink dragon's milk while I wasn't looking? How in the Seven Hells are you growing this fast?!"
Podrick ignored the complaint — mostly because Tyrion sounded like someone sniffing lemons rather than wine.
The three of them dismounted before a two–story brothel — stone on the first floor, timber framing the second, and a round tower rising from one corner like a watchful sentinel.
The windows were set with leaded glass; the door hung beneath a gold–plated lantern decorated with deep red panes.
Silk Street.
No one needed to say what that meant.
Pod tilted his head at the lantern, then answered absentmindedly:
"I want dragon's milk. But the Targaryens let their last dragon die a century ago. Maybe the damned thing died because it didn't get any."
Tyrion blinked — not the answer he was expecting.
Pod, meanwhile, turned back to him with a puzzled expression.
"But… you already have Shae. So why come here? Looking for a new companion?"
It was a fair question.
Tyrion wore his love — and his recklessness — openly.
He had smuggled Shae across half the Seven Kingdoms, defied the will of Lord Tywin Lannister, and risked his own life just to keep the girl close.
So why Silk Street?
Had he already found a secure place for Shae?
Had he come to this brothel for another woman?
Pod didn't understand.
But when he asked, Tyrion and Bronn exchanged a look — a long, meaningful look — then identical crooked smiles spread across their faces.
The kind that meant they knew something Podrick did not.
The kind that meant trouble.
Or brilliance.
Or both.
"Today, you're the star here, dear Pod. Tonight, you are the king."
A few servant boys rushed out of the brothel — one fetched a stool to help Tyrion down from his horse, while the remaining two led the horses of Podrick and Bronn away.
"I'm the king…?"
Podrick stared blankly at Tyrion and Bronn's wicked grins.
Nothing about this felt right.
He had to say something before this situation really got away from him.
"Lord Tyrion… if I'm not mistaken, I'm still a few months away from turning thirteen. If you're looking for… a reason, Bronn is clearly a much more suitable choice. Especially in a place like… this."
Then Pod added even more honestly — perhaps too honestly:
"And for the record, everything down there is still as smooth and spotless as white jade. I don't have the same… lush forest you two have been tending all your lives."
He genuinely didn't understand how he ended up being the excuse.
What enormous burden was he expected to carry at his age?
He woke up early like always, trained until noon to squeeze out some experience for his mysterious level system — archery was decent now, and he had even begun practicing throwing knives hoping they might be useful someday.
Then Tyrion suddenly appeared out of nowhere, grabbed him, grabbed Bronn, and dragged him out of the Red Keep without a single explanation…
…straight to the most infamous district in King's Landing.
Silk Street.
Running along the backside of Rhaenys's Hill — beneath the old dragonpit where the Targaryens once kept dragons.
When Pod's protest ended, Tyrion and Bronn looked at each other again — and burst out laughing.
"I became a man at thirteen," Tyrion declared proudly.
"I killed a man before twelve — and became a man even earlier," Bronn added.
Podrick's mouth twitched.
This… this was not something to brag about.
But today — apparently — it was.
"Come now," Tyrion laughed and slapped Pod on the back. "I've been too busy to take care of this matter earlier. Time to fix that."
He herded Pod toward the brothel entrance, still talking.
"King Robert adored this place. Half the blue-blooded fools of the capital have been here. A place of refined taste!"
Pod wasn't stupid — the truth finally hit him.
The two bastards had dragged him here to make him a man.
Suddenly his legs felt like borrowed crutches… or bags filled with molten lead. His eyes darted everywhere, terrified of looking at the wrong thing — which, in a brothel, was everything.
Two lifetimes lived — and yet setting foot in a place like this made him feel like a maiden on her wedding day.
Actually… he was basically a maiden.
The doors opened — and Pod was struck by a wave of sweet, foreign perfume.
No stench of the city — only spice and heat.
The mosaic floor at the entrance depicted two women entwined in a lover's embrace.
A carved Myrish screen separated the foyer from the hall beyond — adorned with vines, flowers, and dreamlike maidens.
Past the screen, lounge niches full of cushions sat beneath colored glass windows that painted the air in shards of light.
A flute played somewhere nearby — an old man seated cross-legged with his eyes closed, playing like he had practiced in paradise.
Up a set of stairs, through another hall lined with many closed doors, up yet another staircase — they reached a single door, guarded by a tall, black-skinned woman with sensual curves and sandalwood-brown eyes.
Chataya.
Tyrion's face lit up like a torch. He opened his arms.
"Dearest Chataya — I've brought you a guest."
"I'd much rather you brought me business every night," she replied warmly, kneeling slightly to embrace him. Then she looked past him — at the stiff, frozen boy behind him.
"And of course… I never object to fresh young gentlemen."
Pod swallowed — loudly — and managed a mortified little wave.
"H-hello…"
Chataya's eyes gleamed with delight.
She stepped past Tyrion and slid gracefully to Pod's side, bending to whisper at his ear.
"If you say that to my girls, sweetheart… they'll be very pleased."
Her breath brushed the side of his neck — molten and dangerous.
Pod's muscles locked so tight he might as well have been carved from stone.
Move, damn you — MOVE!
He screamed at himself internally — yet all he could do aloud was stammer:
"I-I… is that so…?"
"Mmm. Chataya never lies, little lord."
She giggled softly, took his hand, and gently pulled him forward — pushing open the door to her secret garden.
And that was how Podrick Payne — mortified, trembling, and absolutely unprepared — crossed the threshold.
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