Chapter 133 — On the Riot: The Eunuch's Operating Logic
Dawn came.
As it always did, the sun rose, warm light piercing the thinning mist and illuminating the land.
The days of relentless rain had finally ended.
By all accounts, it was a fine morning.
But not for King's Landing.
The shadow of war still hung heavy over the city, and no amount of sunlight could pierce that gloom.
The black-and-red iron-bound Mud Gate had already been reduced to ashes in last night's inferno.
The pale stone walls surrounding it had cracked and shed their outer layers, dust drifting down to blanket the corpses strewn below—like white sheets laid over the dead.
The winds off Blackwater Bay blew as they always had, but instead of the usual briny dampness, the air carried a thin veil of ash.
Ash made from blood and flesh.
With the arrival of Podrick's reinforcements—and after the rioters had dispersed and the scattered defenders reassembled—the gap burned open by the Imp's wildfire was hastily filled.
Stone blocks and sandbags were piled through the night, forming a temporary barricade nearly two men high.
The force that had bypassed the King's Gate and rushed to support the Mud Gate, for reasons unknown, never pressed the attack again.
That hesitation bought Podrick and Tyrion precious time.
Strangely enough, Renly Baratheon's army made no further attempt to assault the city. Instead, both sides stared at one another across the stark white scar left by the wildfire, locked in tense silence until morning.
With daylight came clarity.
Only then could one truly grasp the horror of the hell-gate that had swallowed so many lives.
The heat had been so intense that the stone paving in front of the gate—over a hundred meters across—had sunk inward, forming a shallow basin more than a hand's depth deep.
Stone and earth had fused into dark, glassy slag, streaked with chalky white and hazy gray.
The irregular crater stretched all the way to the gate's tunnel, even warping the corner where wall and passage met into a warped arc.
"How many do you think died last night?"
From a quiet corner of the wall, Podrick leaned over the parapet, eyes fixed on the regrouping forces across the river, trying to pick out banners and nobles. He asked the question softly, directing it at Bronn, who was slumped against the battlements with his eyes closed.
Bronn, who had stared death in the face all night without blinking, didn't even bother to open his eyes.
Cradling his sheathed sword, he smacked his lips.
"Only the gods know," he said flatly. "They're the ones the dead report to."
After the green flames died, Bronn had understood something clearly.
That moment—when the wildfire went out—was when King's Landing had been in the greatest danger.
So he stayed tense, ready to bolt the instant things went sideways.
But Renly's army never came.
Even after Podrick arrived with reinforcements, even after the shattered gate had been half-sealed, the enemy remained still.
They had missed their chance.
And if Bronn were in Renly's place, he probably would've done the same.
Seeing that once was enough.
Watching people stacked like firewood and burned alive—seeing it even a single time was enough to haunt a man for life.
Not just the rioters or Renly's soldiers—even their own gold cloaks had been shaken to the core by the fire they themselves had unleashed.
If you were a soldier, and your commander ordered you to charge into that…
Would you obey?
Or refuse?
Or run?
Seen from that angle, Renly's hesitation was understandable.
Last night had been too cruel. Too shocking.
Bronn's words drew Podrick's gaze back to the scorched basin before the Mud Gate.
He hadn't seen the worst of it himself.
By the time he'd realized Renly's feint at the King's Gate and raced back, the green flames were already dying.
No rioters. Barely any fire.
Just aftermath.
"…Tch."
Podrick clicked his tongue, climbed down from the parapet, and turned to Bronn.
"Alright, I admit—it's a sensitive topic."
"So how about we talk about something else?"
Bronn didn't move.
"I just want some peace and quiet," he muttered.
Podrick fixed him with a serious stare.
"You can have all the 'quiet' you want after the war. I'll even help you find it. But right now, you're telling me what you know about those rioters."
No response.
Bronn yawned, turned his head away, and made it clear he had no intention of cooperating.
Just as Podrick considered letting him sleep, heavy footsteps sounded behind them.
"Don't push him," came a familiar voice. "He guarded me all night. Let him rest."
Podrick turned.
Tyrion Lannister was approaching, holding a bowl.
"You're eating porridge too, my lord Hand?" Podrick asked.
The scent of oats and milk was unmistakable.
"The Hand eats when he's hungry," Tyrion replied dryly.
Podrick stepped aside, still talking.
"After last night, I don't think you'll ever shake the nickname 'the Imp.'"
Tyrion snorted.
"As if anyone stopped using it before last night."
He handed the bowl to Bronn.
"That's all there is. Eat it. You can rest a bit longer—Podrick will take over."
Bronn blinked, surprised, then accepted the warm bowl without standing.
"You've got two hands, Lord Hand," Podrick muttered.
"And you've got legs. Who's whose attendant?" Tyrion shot back.
"After today, I'm getting attendants of my own," Podrick grumbled. "I keep forgetting I'm a knight now."
Then, more seriously:
"So. Your guess?"
"Nothing like this was brewing in the city," Podrick continued. "No signs. And then overnight—every demon crawls out at once."
Bronn slurped noisily.
Tyrion rolled his eyes.
"Perhaps I should remind you," he said slowly, "that not long ago, you arrested quite a number of servants of the gods."
Podrick frowned.
"So I followed the gods' will," he said. "I handed them over to Alliser Thorne and sent them to the Wall. I figured there was no better place to test their faith."
Tyrion, dark circles heavy beneath his eyes, shot Podrick a vicious glare.
"Then perhaps," he said, "this is the consequence."
After glaring at him for a moment, the Imp let out a long sigh.
"All right. Even if this is retribution…" he said reluctantly, "…I still don't think it has much to do with them."
"If anything, it's more likely tied to someone else."
He rubbed his stubbled chin, his expression turning serious.
"After all, you arrested those religious fanatics who were openly humiliating Cersei. Without them, the smallfolk wouldn't have had the ability—or the structure—to organize something like this."
This was no longer gallows humor.
What had happened was far too close to disaster. King's Landing—and the Iron Throne itself—had nearly fallen.
If Tyrion had reacted even a moment slower, or shown even the slightest hesitation, he might now be rotting in a cell somewhere… or worse, keeping Ned Stark company in the crypts.
So the moment the situation stabilized, he had people investigate.
"One person?" Podrick caught the keyword immediately.
His brow furrowed as images flashed through his mind—faces, silhouettes, possibilities.
In the end, they all settled on the same figure.
A fat eunuch.
"Don't tell me you suspect Varys planned the riot?" Podrick said slowly.
"But even if he hasn't left King's Landing… he took Shae from you, then orchestrated a near-coup meant to overturn royal authority. Be honest—what would he gain?"
"Your gratitude for finally bathing?"
"Or are you saying the eunuch has already defected to Renly?"
Podrick rubbed his fingers together, eyes narrowing as the pieces aligned. The more he thought about it, the more convincing it became.
Then suddenly his eyes lit up, and he slapped his thigh.
"So you think Renly's next move will be to parade Shae beneath the walls and threaten you into surrender?"
The moment those words left his mouth—
Bronn nearly sprayed oats everywhere.
And Tyrion's face stiffened visibly.
Podrick instantly noticed.
"Don't tell me you're hiding something from me."
"…Cough."
Tyrion turned his head away awkwardly.
"After meeting my cousin that day, I returned to the Tower of the Hand that night and found Shae—who had vanished earlier—lying naked in my bed."
"The only thing covering her was a letter."
"Both the woman and the letter were sent by Varys. He said it was… a gift. An exchange. A chance to earn my trust. To prove he wasn't my enemy."
Under Podrick's near-murderous stare, Tyrion finally told the truth.
"So you believed him?" Podrick growled.
His teeth practically ground together.
Tyrion flushed and defended himself instinctively.
"Well—he didn't actually do anything wrong, did he? Since we arrived in King's Landing, he's been helping us. Whatever we asked, he delivered."
"And when you colluded with Cersei behind my back, I didn't know about that either!"
"So why shouldn't I trust a capable, resourceful, and supposedly 'loyal' eunuch?"
"Cersei listened to your instigation and tried to purge the council to seize power," Podrick said flatly. "She's an idiot, yes—but your handling of this was still sloppy."
This time, Podrick's patience snapped.
Not verbally.
His fist hardened.
He had gone through all that trouble—selling himself, manipulating Cersei, throwing the blame squarely onto her—to clear the Small Council in one stroke and hand Tyrion absolute authority.
And this pig of a teammate turned around and sold him out instead.
Yet Podrick couldn't deny the alternative would have looked even stranger—if he had personally moved to eliminate Littlefinger, Varys, and Pycelle without a scapegoat.
So now here they were.
"Well?" Podrick said coldly.
"Your beloved loyal eunuch nearly buried you in that riot."
"Do you remember how much effort we've poured into saving King's Landing?"
He smiled faintly, rolling his knuckles.
Tyrion flinched and took a half-step back.
Then he stiffened his neck stubbornly.
"Podrick… you're being extreme."
"And this doesn't have to be Varys, does it? In this city, anyone who wants to be Renly's spy could form a line from King's Landing to Storm's End."
"Besides, I haven't dropped my guard around Varys. I didn't trust him that easily. He's still safely locked inside my tower."
"The fact he brought Shae to me feels less like treason—and more like a man who can't let go of power."
"I kept asking myself what Varys truly desires."
"What drives him."
"And when he returned Shae untouched, along with that groveling letter begging for trust, I finally understood."
"Power," Tyrion said quietly. "That's what he wants."
"But for a eunuch whose only real asset is information, attachment is the simplest path to power."
"So he chose dependency."
Tyrion's reasoning was sound.
Convincing, even.
Podrick almost believed it.
Almost.
He sneered.
"But have you considered this?" Podrick said.
"What if he's grown tired of depending on others?"
"What if he wants to be the one holding the leash?"
Tyrion looked at him as if he'd heard a joke.
"…That's not impossible," Podrick said calmly.
He remembered the countless interpretations of Varys' motives in another life—how readers endlessly debated the eunuch's true agenda.
But before they could unravel who truly orchestrated the riot—
A sharp warning horn suddenly sounded.
Outside the walls, Renly Baratheon's army was advancing once more.