Chapter 115: A Wild Card Appears from Nowhere?
Looking at the terrified child before him, Podrick felt as though he were staring at himself from a few months ago.
But with only a flicker of recollection, another image forced itself into his mind—
the bloated corpse of the middle-aged innkeeper's wife, swaying gently from the gallows.
He remembered her straw-dry, gray-white hair.
The crows perched all over her body.
The exposed, blood-red teeth.
The lips, eyes, and most of her face pecked clean away.
He remembered the rope.
The rope that should, by all rights, have been meant for him.
And most of all—
That smile.
Podrick didn't know whether it had been mocking her own weakness, the injustice of fate, or the countless so-called heroes of the world who all ultimately met the same end.
Staring at the trembling boy, Podrick let out a quiet sigh.
"If you behave, you can go home," he said calmly.
"I pardon you, in the name of the King's Hand."
He reached out and placed his hand on the child's head.
His voice softened without him even realizing it.
The warmth of that large hand seemed to steady the boy.
The panic drained a little from his eyes.
Encouraged—perhaps by the words, perhaps by the tone—the child gathered his courage and looked up, carefully studying Podrick's face, trying to decide whether this noble was lying.
He had seen what nobles could do.
He remembered a boy older than himself—run down by a knight riding at full gallop, flung through the air like a sack of grain, screaming through the night until he finally died.
And when the screams stopped, another sound had filled the air—
a woman's wailing, more heart-rending than anything he had ever heard, echoing for an entire day.
The compensation that knight had promised never came.
"And," Podrick continued, "if you can give me the information I want, this silver stag is your reward."
As the boy looked at him with suspicion, Podrick didn't explain.
He simply flicked his wrist.
A bright silver coin rolled across his fingers and dropped neatly into his palm.
"It should help your mother feel better," he said quietly.
"And maybe… help her recover."
Without waiting for an answer, Podrick let the coin slide from his fingers into the boy's shirt—into the small cloth pouch pressed tightly against his bony chest.
"Mi… milord," the child stammered,
"what… what do you want to know?"
The silver hadn't dazzled the boy's eyes.
But the words my mother might get better made them light up instantly.
He had prayed before—begged the gods, pleaded with the septons.
He had repeated words he barely understood, like everyone else.
But the gods hadn't answered.
No miracle ever came.
All he'd gotten on the way home was a bowl of brown soup.
Brown soup couldn't cure sickness—but it dulled hunger and quieted his sister's cries at night.
And now, this nobleman was telling him—clearly, plainly—that what he offered could help.
"I want to know what happened here," Podrick said, pointing at the ruined house.
"And where the woman who lived here was taken."
The boy tilted his head, thinking back.
"Last night… I was asleep, then the noise woke me up," he said hesitantly.
"I saw a group of people hiding in the alley. I couldn't see their faces."
"They said if they caught a woman, they could trade her for food—lots of food—and money."
"So I followed them," he admitted.
"More people joined. I was starving… my sister too…"
"But I swear, milord, I didn't do anything."
"There was smashing and shouting… riots everywhere. People bleeding. Someone got their head cracked open."
"I was scared. There was blood everywhere. I didn't dare go closer, so I went home."
"Later… after I finally fell asleep again, I was woken up once more. This time there were even more people."
"After they left, I… I got brave enough to come here."
"But milord, you can see—I didn't take anything. I only ate what was left on the plates. I didn't steal, and I didn't join them…"
His words came out in broken pieces—half memory, half terror—afraid that this noble would decide he was an accomplice.
Podrick didn't interrupt him.
He listened patiently, piecing the story together.
It aligned almost perfectly with his suspicions.
Someone had stirred the masses from behind the scenes.
The riot had been a tool.
And the true target—
Had been Shae.
The rest—the smashing, the looting—had all been whipped up by the riot itself.
Its purpose was obvious: to lower the difficulty of abducting Shae.
And yet, of all places, it had happened in Flea Bottom.
Podrick rubbed his chin, thinking for a moment, before turning his gaze back to the boy.
"Do you know where those two groups went afterward?"
"If you can tell me where each of them ended up, I promise you'll never go hungry again."
Never go hungry.
Those words were more tempting than anything in the world.
In the wrecked kitchen, the boy's stomach growled loudly in protest.
The child swallowed hard. He hadn't wanted to get involved—certainly hadn't wanted to be mistaken for one of the rioters—but his eyes flickered with hesitation.
The truth was… he knew.
Because he had lied.
He hadn't waited until dawn to work up the courage to come here.
The first time, he'd already slipped into the house—and had even managed to steal some bread, rushing it back to the leaky shack where his family lived.
His mother had barely eaten any. She took a single bite and gave the rest to him and his sister.
After his sister fell asleep, clutching the bread and smiling, he heard the noise again.
This time, his belly wasn't screaming in pain, so he didn't rush out blindly. He waited until everyone had left before sneaking back.
But there was nothing left.
And that was when he'd been caught by a noble.
Hope filled the boy's eyes.
"If… if I take you there," he asked shakily,
"can I really eat my fill? Can I share the food with my mother and sister?"
"Of course," Podrick said, patting his shoulder this time.
"That's what a man does—when he keeps his word."
The boy couldn't ride, and Flea Bottom wasn't a place where horses could pass anyway.
Podrick left his chestnut warhorse in the courtyard, shut the door loosely behind him, and followed the boy—Henji—into Flea Bottom.
As King's Landing's slum, and the most lawless, filthy, and brutal part of the city, Flea Bottom was poverty and crime made flesh.
Everything imaginable—and unimaginable—lived here.
Grace had no place here.
Courtesy was allergic to it.
The alleys formed a tangled maze of dirt paths and crossings, buildings pressed so close together they nearly touched.
The air stank of pigsties, stables, and tanneries, mixed with wine cellars and brothels.
There were rat pits where rodents fought like gladiators.
Gamblers ran games using nothing more than broken roof tiles.
Before noon, a customer was already fumbling with his trousers, dragging a prostitute into a narrow alley. After haggling, they simply went at it against the wall.
In a nearby shop, a pot of oddly colored stew boiled. A skinned rat floated up, its long tail slapping the rim, before the cook cursed and shoved it back down, adding something unidentifiable.
Shouting.
Cursing.
Noise layered atop noise.
Only when Podrick passed did things quiet slightly.
Greedy eyes crawled over him—then stopped at the half-sword and dagger on his belt.
Some glanced at Henji, eyes glinting strangely. The boy lowered his head instinctively.
Someone laughed.
A hand reached out—testing.
Podrick broke the fingers without hesitation.
Henji froze, stunned, but Podrick patted his shoulder.
"We keep going, Henji."
"And afterward, I expect an invitation to your home."
For reasons he couldn't explain, Henji felt braver. He even dared to meet the adults' gazes—though their twisted smiles still frightened him.
King's Landing had grown around Aegon the Conqueror and his court, spread across three hills near the mouth of the Blackwater.
The crude fortress built during the Conquest soon proved insufficient, and expansion began even before the wars ended.
Trade shifted here. Temples, shops, and homes sprang up like weeds.
The rich claimed the hills.
The poor crowded the lowlands between them.
Mud and straw huts became Flea Bottom.
Podrick met the stares with interest rather than fear.
He recalled a story he'd once read in Tyrion's study.
"Two centuries ago, a plague called the Shivers swept Westeros," he said casually.
"King's Landing was hit hard."
"With much of the City Watch dead, order collapsed."
"The Master of Coin at the time—Rigo Draz—was murdered in Flea Bottom by starving drunks. They cut off his fingers for the gold rings and rubies."
It was a horrifying story—especially to Henji.
The boy glanced nervously at Podrick's bare fingers and relaxed slightly.
But Podrick continued.
"War. Famine. Plague. Death—the four riders of the end."
"Famine is already here. War is coming. Plague lurks in the dark. Death follows closely behind."
"All it takes is a single spark."
"I think I understand now… why someone would do this."
Still smiling, Podrick followed Henji onward.
And just as the thought settled—
Figures closed in from all directions.
A man stepped forward, a crooked scar running from his eye to his mouth, twisting half his face.
He glanced at Henji—who'd gone pale again—then sneered at Podrick.
"Henji," he said lazily,
"your friend's annoying. He doesn't know the rules here."
"We need to teach him this isn't a place for noble brats."
"It's not a castle where he can show off—or cry for his mother."
He drew a darkened knife, its blade bright white, fashioned from a broken spearhead, and flicked it toward Podrick's throat.
"Nice story, kid. So here's how this ends."
"Put down your sword and dagger. Strip naked. Walk away."
"That's payment for breaking my friend's fingers."
"Glue tape?" Podrick tilted his head.
"What glue tape?"
"What—did you grow a baby? Asking everyone for tape?"
The crowd froze.
The scarred man snarled.
Before he could finish shouting, Podrick moved.
The knife-hand froze mid-thrust.
Bones crushed.
With a sharp crack, Podrick clenched the man's hand and the knife together into a single mangled mass.
As the man tried to scream—
Podrick turned the grip.
The blade punched into the man's mouth.
One horizontal pull.
Skin split.
Jaw peeled open.
Half a tongue fell out onto the ground.
The alley went silent.