Chapter 168 — A New Destination
"Do you know who I am?"
Podrick crouched on the ship's rail, the sea wind tugging at his brown hair as his brown eyes rested calmly on Stafford Lannister.
The "Stafford pass" had proven extremely useful. With him as leverage, the Lannisport fleet neither dared to intercept nor pursue. They feared that these so-called merchants might do something truly reckless.
And more importantly—the number of people fleeing Lannisport was simply too great.
Ships were pouring out into the sea, while on land, people fled the city in waves. With their command structure broken, the remaining Lannister soldiers didn't even know what to do. They could only watch helplessly as their own commander was taken.
Against the scale of the chaos, their numbers were meaningless.
Two days into the voyage, Podrick and the others naturally weren't going to keep Stafford hanging from the mast like dried meat.
Now his hands were bound in front of him, his head raised defiantly as he glared at Podrick through clenched teeth.
"No matter who you are," he spat, voice hoarse but proud, "believe me—the Lannisters will never forget what you've done. Nor the humiliation you've carved into us."
Like all Lannisters, he carried himself with unshakable arrogance. Even as a prisoner, there was not a trace of fear in him.
Because he understood something clearly—
Podrick had no intention of killing him.
And that alone gave him confidence.
He had, after all, been taken hostage before.
In the days of his uncle, when the old Lord Tytos Lannister ruled, a rebellious bannerman had been seized—only for retaliation to follow swiftly. Hostages had been taken in turn, and in the end, exchanges were made.
He had survived then.
He would survive now.
Podrick, however, had no interest in his thoughts.
He only cared about one thing.
So when Stafford finished his threat, Podrick simply nodded.
"I see."
"Which means… you don't know who I am."
"If you've got the courage, tell me your name," Stafford snapped back. "Whether you speak it or not—the Lannisters will find out."
His eyes burned, as if trying to carve Podrick's face into memory for future vengeance.
But Podrick remained utterly indifferent.
Once he confirmed what he needed, he pushed himself off the rail and landed lightly on deck.
"Good."
"If you don't know, that's even better."
He tilted his head slightly and gestured.
"Take him down."
Despite his age, Stafford was no match for the young, strong sailors. He struggled like a trapped animal, but after taking a solid punch to the stomach, he was quickly subdued and tossed into a small boat hanging off the ship's side.
With the creaking of ropes and pulleys, the boat was lowered toward the sea.
Moments later, he was left drifting near the shoreline.
A quiet stretch of coast.
A strip of sand not far away.
Alive.
Back on deck—
"How long until we reach land?" Podrick asked without turning.
"About two more days, according to the captain," said Jalabhar Xho.
Podrick nodded. "Good. We'll land and rest a while. Honestly, I've never spent this long at sea before."
Not in either life.
He didn't say that part aloud.
Looking out over the ocean, he silently reflected.
If not for this body—far stronger than his previous life—he doubted he could have endured the journey so calmly. Ships in this world were anything but stable; even modest waves could toss them into chaos.
Which, inevitably, brought his thoughts to—
"Gendry. How's he holding up?"
Jalabhar couldn't help but laugh faintly.
"Your blacksmith is… unfortunate."
No one had expected the strong, sturdy boy to be so violently seasick.
Less than an hour after leaving Lannisport, he had already begun vomiting uncontrollably. By nightfall, when a passing storm struck, things only worsened.
At one point, he had nearly thrown himself overboard.
Had the crew not restrained him early, they might have discovered his absence only the next day.
When Podrick had gone to check on him, Gendry had been tied tightly to a hammock, pale as death, eyes bloodshot, face covered in the aftermath of his own suffering.
"Qyburn is taking care of him," Jalabhar added. "Found some… strange remedies in the hold. Mixed them with fish blood, of all things. Stayed up all night watching him. He's better now."
"That's good."
Podrick finally allowed himself a faint smile.
"I'll go see him later. He shouldn't have had to go through this… I dragged him into it."
Jalabhar shook his head.
"For a bastard with no place in the world, being chosen by you is fortune, not misfortune. Without you… he might already be dead somewhere."
Podrick paused.
"He had a path of his own…"
Then he waved it off.
"Forget it. Go on."
Jalabhar studied him for a moment, something thoughtful in his gaze, before bowing slightly and stepping away.
Left alone, Podrick lowered his fishing rod.
He wasn't really fishing.
Just passing time.
As he set it aside, his thoughts drifted forward.
To where they would go next.
"The Shield Islands…"
He murmured softly, eyes on the horizon.
"With Renly Baratheon dead, where will the Reach turn?"
"To Stannis Baratheon?"
"Or back to Tywin Lannister?"
"Or…"
"To Robb Stark?"
He didn't believe the House Tyrell would sit still at a moment like this.
This was opportunity.
A once-in-a-generation chance to rise higher.
And no one understood opportunity better than the Tyrells.
The game was shifting.
And Podrick—
Was already moving ahead of it.
As long as they weren't utterly brainless, the House Tyrell would never let an opportunity like this slip by.
Especially not with Olenna Tyrell at the helm.
The Queen of Thorns—sharp-tongued, shrewd, and utterly ruthless when it came to advantage. Whether in the books or on screen, she was never one to make foolish decisions. With her guiding Highgarden, the Tyrells would not stumble.
That much, Podrick knew.
But knowing that… didn't mean he could predict their move.
Because in the current state of the Seven Kingdoms, wherever the Tyrells placed their weight would tip the scales of victory.
And precisely because of that, they would be cautious.
Painfully cautious.
Anyone with half a brain could see it—whoever Highgarden backed would most likely win.
So at a time like this, the Tyrells wouldn't rush. They would calculate. Bargain. Wait until they could extract the greatest possible return for their allegiance.
The highest price.
The greatest gain.
But who would they choose?
And what of their neighbor to the south—
House Martell?
Would Dorne truly want peace restored? Would they stand by and watch their enemies—the Lannisters—either rise again or fall completely, without taking advantage?
---
The more Podrick thought about it, the messier it became.
He scratched his head in frustration.
Somewhere along the way, with his arrival and the subtle ripples he'd caused, the situation in Westeros seemed to have grown even more chaotic.
Like muddy water stirred too deeply—
Even the silt at the bottom had been dragged up.
Now nothing was clear anymore.
Not fate.
Not the victor.
"…Forget it."
He exhaled, shaking his head.
"Doesn't matter. Not my problem."
"I'm not the one meant to step onto the stage yet."
"If it's chaos… then let it be chaos."
With no answer to be found, he simply gave up thinking about it.
Reeling in his fishing rod, he stood and turned away, letting all that noise fall behind him.
Instead, his thoughts drifted to something far simpler.
Dinner.
And—
The Shield Islands.
Unfortunately, he knew nothing about either.
So, with nothing but a blank slate in mind, he turned and headed toward Gendry's cabin.
The lower decks of a cargo ship were cramped and crude. The sailors' quarters were little more than carved-out corners—low ceilings, narrow spaces, barely enough room to lie down.
If Podrick hadn't still been growing, he might not even have been able to move properly in there.
There weren't even real doors—just planks and beams marking off what passed for a room.
Originally meant to hold four sailors, the cramped space now held only two.
Gendry lay in a hammock, staring blankly at the damp, low ceiling.
Nearby, Qyburn leaned against the wall, nodding off, clearly exhausted.
Neither of them noticed Podrick enter.
So he cleared his throat.
"Ahem."
Qyburn jolted awake instantly, trying to stand—
Only to smash his head straight into a low beam.
Thud.
He clutched his forehead and dropped back down with a pained groan.
The noise snapped Gendry out of his daze. He glanced at Qyburn first, then at Podrick.
Podrick couldn't help but chuckle.
"Careful. Both of you—move up to the deck later. This place isn't fit for you."
He patted Qyburn's shoulder before finally turning his attention to Gendry.
The difference was obvious.
The once-strong blacksmith looked… hollowed out.
His eye sockets had sunk slightly, dark circles heavy beneath them. But compared to the night before—when he had looked utterly broken—there was at least some life back in those blue eyes.
Still—
Something felt off.
Under the dim light filtering in through a small opening, Gendry's complexion had a faint bluish-green tint.
Like someone who'd been poisoned.
Podrick frowned.
"…What happened to you?"