Chapter 113 — Yes, Lord Podrick… My Knight of Moonlight (2 in 1)
"Yes, Lord Podrick Payne. I am Sansa Stark."
Steeling herself, Sansa dipped into a proper lady's curtsy. There was even a faint smile at the corner of her lips as she confirmed his words.
Her confirmation, however, hardly mattered.
At this hour, in this place, confronted with a beautiful young noblewoman still carrying an unmistakable air of innocence—and crowned with that unmistakable auburn hair—Podrick could scarcely have mistaken her for anyone else.
Only moments earlier, the cloak, the night, and his own less-than-noble assumptions had delayed the realization.
"Well then, Lady Sansa Stark," Podrick said calmly. "I can't say I'm pleased to meet you under circumstances like these, but I doubt you came here without a reason."
"And I'm equally certain you considered what would happen if the Queen Regent discovered your recklessness tonight."
Since Eddard Stark's head had been struck from his shoulders by order of King Joffrey, this girl was the last piece left on the board—thin, fragile, yet undeniably valuable.
Podrick knew it wasn't only Cersei who thought so. Tyrion did as well.
Both siblings still harbored the faint, desperate hope that Sansa might one day be traded for a lover… or a brother.
They also knew, deep down, that such hopes were almost certainly illusions.
Yet to Podrick's mild sarcasm, Sansa seemed deaf.
She shook her head stubbornly, her eyes bright with conviction.
"No, Lord Podrick. I did think about it."
"Oh?" Podrick replied lightly. "Then tell me—was your plan to endure another beating from the king's white cloaks? I hear Joffrey favors that solution."
"No."
Her voice was soft, but firm.
"That doesn't frighten me anymore. I've already decided—if the choice is between death and humiliation, I would rather die."
She bit her lip as she spoke. Though her body still trembled with fear, her resolve was unmistakable.
The girl truly meant it.
Podrick studied her in silence. The urge to tease her vanished entirely.
Fate had been cruel—unspeakably cruel—to an eleven-year-old child. Compared to this, even the rotting hand he'd seen earlier that day seemed distant and unreal.
Well, he thought, if she can face this head-on, who am I to flinch?
"Very well," he said at last. "You're stronger than I expected."
"But you still haven't answered me. Why did you come here tonight? Who summoned you—and what did they want?"
"If you tell me," he added evenly, "I give you my word that tonight's secret will go no further. And I will escort you safely back to your cage."
The question was blunt, even intrusive.
Yet to Sansa, it sounded like freedom.
Her face brightened, and for the first time her voice carried a note of lightness—almost joy.
"There was a note. A piece of parchment, hidden beneath my pillow."
"It said: If you wish to go home, come to the godswood tonight."
"I'm sorry, my lord. I don't know who wrote it. I don't recognize the handwriting. I only know that the note led me here… to you."
"The gods truly answered my prayers."
Every thought she had lay written plainly across her face. Sansa had not yet learned how to hide her heart.
Podrick's expression hardened.
"If the gods truly heard your prayers," he said coolly, "they wouldn't have let your father ride south at all—much less bring you with him."
"The Stark duty has always been in the North. The South does not belong to northern wolves."
"Especially not under a king who clung so stubbornly to honor."
"In the South, if you cannot learn to be a wolf—cunning and blooded—then you pay for it with your life."
He paused, then added quietly:
"Lady Sansa, take this as advice. Never place the gods—or any person—so high in your heart again."
"The only one you can truly rely on… is yourself."
Podrick almost said to hell with the gods.
Even after everything that had happened, Sansa Stark was still so pure—so naïve it bordered on foolishness—that Podrick could only warn her in this way.
The smile frozen on her face stiffened instantly.
Hearing Podrick so brazenly blaspheme the gods and curse her father, Sansa stood rooted to the ground, frightened into stillness.
"M-my… my lord…"
Like a trembling bird, she lowered her chin. Her voice still carried the quiver of tears.
Her sound pulled Podrick back to himself. He rubbed his brow, exhaling softly.
"Sorry. I lost my temper. Too many unpleasant things happened today."
"As for the note you mentioned—my advice is this: let no one else ever see it. Eat it, burn it, destroy it—do whatever you must. Then bury the matter deep in your heart."
"I have a good idea who wrote it. I also know who was meant to meet you here tonight."
"But I won't tell you. Don't ask. Pretend none of this ever happened."
"Now I'll take you back. Learn how to keep your mouth shut. Watch more. Listen more. Speak less."
"So—put your hood back on, and follow behind me."
Sansa did not understand why Podrick Payne had reacted so strongly, but she followed obediently, step by step, toward the cage she called home.
Along the way, she wanted—desperately—to speak. To say something. Anything.
To ask him for help. To beg the moonlit knight before her to save her.
But after his warning, she didn't dare utter a word. She shrank inward, silent and trembling.
She could feel it—Podrick Payne was serious.
On the way back, he did not retrace the hidden paths she had taken earlier, sneaking along riverside corridors, through back kitchens and pig pens.
Instead, he walked openly—across bridges, through grand halls, along stone-paved roads.
The two of them moved one behind the other, bathed in pale moonlight and rising silver mist, saying nothing.
Before she realized it, they had reached Maegor's Holdfast.
Only when the massive, square fortress—looming like a nightmare at the heart of the Red Keep—came into view did Sansa snap fully out of her inner turmoil.
Her gaze fixed on the drawbridge, and fear rose instinctively in her chest.
She half-expected to see a white-cloaked Kingsguard knight waiting there—grinning, ready to strike her again where no one would see, leaving bruises that would ache through the night.
"From now on, the Kingsguard will remain at the king's side to ensure his safety," Podrick said coolly, expression unreadable. "The Queen Regent will be guarded by Lannister redcloaks."
"So rest assured. As long as you don't do anything foolish and behave yourself, the white cloaks won't single you out, and no one will be watching you."
"And if anyone lays a hand on you again, tell me directly—or tell your maid. The words will reach my ears."
Standing before the fortress she knew all too well, Podrick spoke as though he had seen straight through her fear.
Sansa understood at once.
She had always been clever—only too innocent.
"My lord," she asked softly, moonlight reflected in her clear blue eyes, "if those words truly reach you… what will happen?"
Podrick didn't look at her. He lowered his gaze and waved a hand dismissively.
"Before the deal is concluded, you are not to be harmed again. Especially not by such pointless, idiotic games."
"Whoever laid hands on you—and whichever hand they used—will lose it."
"And if possible, I'll try to send you back to your mother and brother. I'll also try to convince them to stop doing stupid things. Every Stark seems to lack a brain."
"Remember what I said. This is the last time."
"Go."
Podrick was already half-lost in his own thoughts, answering her almost perfunctorily—
When suddenly he caught the scent of roses.
Something cool yet warm brushed against his lips.
Soft. Fleeting. Real.
The girl, face burning with shame at her own boldness, lowered her head. She hurriedly added another curtsy and murmured, barely above a whisper:
"Yes, Lord Podrick… my knight of moonlight."
Then she gathered her cloak and skirts and ran—disappearing into Maegor's Holdfast, swallowed by the moonlight.
Podrick stood where he was, staring at her vanishing silhouette.
At the lingering taste on his lips.
Without thinking, he licked them.
Slightly sweet.
A little salty.
Only then did he freeze—his heartbeat inexplicably quickening.
"…Damn."
He let out a short, helpless laugh and lifted his head to the bright, silver-plated moon above.
In the pale mist of night, something almost pink seemed to drift through the air.
"I think I just smelled something unbearably sour."
"…Fuck. The moon really is beautiful tonight."
"But I'm not your knight."
"And you're not my princess."
"And I hate those damn songs about knights and ladies."
That night, Podrick did not return to the Queen Regent's chambers. He did not tumble across the great bed that had once belonged to Robert Baratheon.
Instead, he quietly returned to his small room in the Hand's Tower—Tyrion Lannister's tower—his room.
No one knew he slept there.
Tyrion wasn't around either. Most likely, he had gone to Shae.
After their frank conversation earlier that day, they had returned to their old rhythm.
And now that it was clear Varys had not been secretly disposed of by Podrick, Tyrion's first instinct was to think of the prostitute he had defied his father to bring to King's Landing.
Varys had personally arranged the previous safehouse. Now that the Spider had fled, Tyrion had to move Shae immediately.
Even if it only bought a little time, it was better than nothing.
He would also need to assign her more guards. With Podrick's early curfews and initial control measures, King's Landing looked safer—
But Tyrion dared not imagine how much resentment had been crushed beneath the surface.
He had tacitly accepted it.
War was coming. He had neither the energy nor the heart to deal with everything.
Perhaps early martial control wasn't a mistake.
As for the consequences—he would deal with them when they came.
That night, Podrick dreamed strange, fragmented dreams.
___
When he woke and saw the pale morning light beyond the window, he couldn't remember a single one.
Everything.
Nothing.
He stretched—long and lazily—rubbed his tangled hair, yawned, wiped sleep from his eyes, and sat up.
After another yawn, he adjusted himself comfortably before rising and opening the window wider.
The morning air was fresh. Thanks to the Hand's Tower's height, there were no unpleasant smells.
"Rare to get a good night's sleep. Wonder if Cersei slept at all."
"Ah well. Call it a holiday for her. Honestly, only she could endure me like that—any younger woman would've collapsed by now."
"And that accidental title quest… tch. One hundred times. I'm genuinely curious what happens when it's completed."
"Sigh. Looks like Cersei's the one suffering."
"And after flipping the table this hard… the headaches won't belong to just her."
"Tywin Lannister. Tyrion Lannister. Cersei Lannister…"
"Tch. This isn't just poking the Lannisters anymore."
"Still… I wonder if the future might change, even a little."
Muttering to himself, Podrick smiled again, tossing last night's events and dreams aside.
What mattered now wasn't reflection.
It was cleaning up the mess he'd made.
"So where the hell did Tyrion go? I haven't seen him since yesterday."
"And why does the Hand's Tower feel so damn quiet today?"
"Where did those savages disappear to?"
Only then—fully awake in the morning breeze—did Podrick realize:
It wasn't just the Red Keep that had turned upside down.
It seemed the dwarf had begun moving as well.
The question was—
What kind of move required the wildlings… instead of Podrick's help?