Chapter 116: She Isn't That Clever—Not Even Close
"Next time you feel like throwing your weight around,"
Podrick murmured softly, gripping Scar-Face by the hair and leaning close to his ear,
"remember to open your eyes first."
Unfortunately, Scar-Face—whose body was now only barely attached to his head by half a neck—no longer had the strength to answer.
After years surviving in Flea Bottom, earning names like Scar-Face and worse, his death was… fitting.
His skull split cleanly along the jawline, half his head separating as if sliced by a butcher. Scalding blood poured from the torn arteries, soaking half his body as though it cost nothing at all.
The tongue that had fallen onto the dirt—still twitching faintly—seemed to be trying to say something.
Podrick couldn't hear it.
So he let go.
At that moment, the men who had already closed in from behind—moving on instinct, trained by street violence if nothing else—lunged forward before they'd even fully processed what they'd just seen.
In Flea Bottom, you could survive with a dull brain, but slow hands meant starvation.
The thug closest to Podrick's back—Scar-Face's most trusted partner—had barely taken two steps when his vision blurred.
Podrick, having casually discarded Scar-Face's still-twitching corpse, reversed his grip and flicked the spike in his hand backward.
The rough, blood-dulled spike slid through the bald thug's chin like tofu, punching through his skull and bursting out the back of his head.
One more down.
This time, Podrick didn't bother retrieving the blade. He simply left it embedded in the man's brain.
The body collapsed forward, inertia carrying it down, the knife still lodged in its head as it hit the ground with a dull thud. A puff of dust rose.
Stillness.
For the rest, Podrick raised his fists.
Crack.
A wooden club shattered against his skull, splinters flying.
Podrick didn't even flinch.
He turned slightly, glanced at the man who'd swung it, then returned the courtesy—driving a fist straight forward.
The club thick as an arm broke apart on his head. His fist, however, landed cleanly.
By the time the man truly saw what had happened—saw that his boss and his strongest enforcer were already dead—regret flooded in.
Too late.
The punch crushed nose, eyes, and mouth into one place.
When fist and face separated, what had been a human visage was now a bloody crater—perfectly sized to hold a hand.
There were many men around them—more than a dozen at a glance.
But fewer than half had actually rushed in.
And of those who reacted quickly enough to truly attack, only three or four had moved.
The fast ones were already dead.
One of the slower ones was just lifting his club—hands trembling—as he finally realized exactly what they'd stepped into.
Unfortunately, he stood frozen in place, as if turned to stone.
The way he looked at Podrick was the way one might look at a god.
Podrick glanced at the club raised high in the man's hands, smiled faintly—and without warning, lifted his foot and kicked.
There was a blur of motion.
The man vanished from sight, smashed straight through a shack behind him, and rolled off somewhere unknown.
Podrick couldn't be bothered to check whether the man lived or died. He merely brushed at his sleeves and arms, as if dusting away invisible grime, then lifted his gaze to survey the surroundings.
Seeing their supposed "fat sheep" wipe out Scar-Face's crew in just a few moves, the rest—who'd long made a living skimming profits behind Scar-Face—finally understood they'd kicked solid iron.
Three bodies lay sprawled on the ground, blood soaking into the dirt. Another had been kicked away and never reappeared.
The remaining dozen men exchanged a single look, then turned tail and scattered in all directions, vanishing in moments.
They moved with a speed and decisiveness that bordered on impressive.
Podrick, who'd been about to say something, paused in mild surprise.
Henji, however—the boy who had unwittingly led him into danger—did not flee.
He stood there with his mouth wide open, utterly dumbfounded.
"I was planning to recruit you a few companions," Podrick muttered, nudging the grotesquely dead bodies with his boot and sighing.
"Looks like that won't be happening. Guess job-hunting really is a scam."
He had intended to squeeze information out of them. Street thugs like these always knew things—especially after such chaos near the Iron Gate, followed by soldiers from the Red Keep pouring into Flea Bottom.
To say they knew nothing would be an insult to stupidity.
Unfortunately, now they were dead.
And so was that plan.
"Should've left them alive," Podrick muttered.
"So, Henji—don't disappoint me."
Blood crept toward the boy's feet. Henji was too frightened to move.
At Podrick's words, he looked up shakily.
"M-my lord… they… they went up the hill—to the Dragonpit ruins. I saw them take the woman that way."
"And… the second group too. The wild ones."
Tears trembled in Henji's eyes, but he stubbornly refused to let them fall. He raised a shaking finger and pointed uphill.
Podrick followed his gaze. The ruins loomed dark against the skyline.
Then he looked back at the boy.
"You're more afraid of me than you are of following me," Podrick said calmly.
Henji flinched.
But Podrick waved it off. "And that's the right choice. What comes next isn't something you should be part of."
"Leave. That's best for you."
He pulled a brooch from his coat and placed it in the boy's hand.
"Take this. If you ever need help, show it to the Gold Cloaks—they'll know what to do. If you need to find me, they'll bring you."
It had once fastened his cloak. He no longer needed it.
After one last glance around, Podrick suddenly moved—bounding across debris, vaulting onto a rooftop in a few effortless steps.
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
With a target in sight, speed mattered.
---
Tyrion had imagined Varys might flee.
He'd imagined retaliation.
He'd even imagined that Shae might be targeted.
But when the thing he most feared finally happened, it still filled him with grinding rage.
When he went to Shae's house—seeking comfort, seeking warmth—he found only a letter left on their bed.
With your intelligence, I trust you will find the lovely Lady Shae, Lord Lannister.
He could hear the eunuch's syrupy voice between the lines. The parchment even carried that familiar scent of perfume—cloying, nauseating.
Tyrion forced his anger down and acted quickly. He returned to the Red Keep, gathered the mountain clansmen who'd survived the Green Fork, along with Bronn's handpicked sellswords, and plunged into Flea Bottom.
He'd considered asking Podrick for help.
But he didn't want Cersei to know.
A weakness exploited once was enough.
"Once I find her… I'll send her away," Tyrion swore inwardly.
"For her safety."
"And she's just a whore… just a whore."
His legs burned, cramped, screamed—but he pressed on.
Nearby, Bronn had finally lost patience.
"This wandering around—how long do you plan to keep it up?"
"Even double pay isn't worth this cesspit."
"You should go back. Sleep in your fancy Hand's bed. Wake up, drink wine, eat roast meat, forget all this."
"Be a Lannister again—not some fool being danced around by a eunuch over a whore."
The bluntness snapped Tyrion back to himself.
The stench from a nearby barrel made him dizzy. He staggered; Bronn caught him before he fell.
"I just need to find her," Tyrion said hoarsely.
"Alive or dead. She shouldn't suffer because of me."
Bronn snorted. "Ever think this is a trap? Bait to kill you?"
"The last Hand died that way."
"If you mean Eddard Stark," Tyrion replied bitterly, "he was killed by his pride."
"And by my nephew… with a little help from Ser Ilyn Payne."
"No, I meant the one before him," Bronn growled.
"Jon Arryn," Tyrion said softly.
"Poisoned. By cowards—women, old men, and eunuchs."
Bronn shook his head. "Then you're no different from them right now."
He hesitated, then said, "Ever consider this might be your sister's doing?"
Silence.
"Kill you in a riot," Bronn continued. "Clean. Convenient. No rivals left."
"Your Hand, your council—gone. Your precious Podrick lost in her bed. And you? The last obstacle."
"Dead in Flea Bottom."
"Perfect excuse."
Tyrion stared at him.
Because damn it—Bronn wasn't wrong.
And yet…
"She's not that clever," Tyrion finally said.
"…Not clever enough for this."