Chapter 3 – The Dwarf's Squire
"If he doesn't give your horse back, cut off his balls and feed them to the goats."
"You'll have to find the goats first."
Tyrion wanted to reply that Shagga himself probably could use a good grooming, but saying that out loud would be tactless — and pointless.
Shagga's eyes bulged at the dwarf's words, but he reluctantly loosened his grip on the reins.
"This is Shagga, son of Dolf's horse!" he barked at Podrick and the others.
Spittle sprayed onto Podrick's head from Shagga's shout. The three boys who'd been bullying him earlier cowered at once from the wildman's roar, shrinking back so that Podrick was shoved unintentionally to the front.
"Yes, my lord — this is your… horse."
"I'll take proper care of your horse, please believe me. I'll make sure she's satisfied, by the Seven."
Podrick wiped the spit from his face and forced a trembling, terrified smile at the wildman. His words were calm enough, and there was no visible fear in his gaze despite the bravado in Shagga's threats.
Shagga didn't notice the contradiction; he grinned widely, sure he'd cowed them. "If my mare's gone, boy, I'll cut off your balls and roast them."
The half-man's boast made it obvious how unrealistic it would be to expect any goats out here.
Tyrion hadn't been paying careful attention to the exchange. He only glanced at Podrick once, catching the boy's odd composure, and quipped lightly, "You mean because you can't find goats?" The dwarf found the boy's courage amusing and couldn't resist a teasing remark.
Satisfied the situation was settled, Tyrion shrugged and headed toward the inn. The poor little man had gone far too long without a proper meal; the day's riding had left him queasy and hungry.
"Where's my father?" he asked, spotting the captain of Lord Tywin's household guard posted at the inn's entrance.
The guard recognized the Lannister boy immediately — after all, this war had begun because of the Lannisters — and answered, "In the great hall, my lord."
"Tell them my men need food and drink. See to it," Tyrion said casually, then strode into the inn. He found his father inside almost at once.
…
Maybe it was Podrick's courage earlier, or just the way things had played out, but in the stable the three boys who had mocked him before no longer picked on him. Instead they clustered around Podrick, helping feed and brush the horses while muttering about the wildman in low voices.
"He probably thinks scaring us will make his mare feel safe — what a barbarian," one of them whispered.
Podrick kept his silence, his expression distant. Inside, thoughts churned — Lannisters, Tywin, Tyrion, Kevan — the names and the banners kept replaying in his head like a broken reel. Outside, the gallows swayed and the crows called; the world he'd landed in was cruel and crossed with the kind of power struggles he'd read about. He knew survival here would demand more than luck or a system log — it would demand wits, patience, and the ability to read people.
But for now, there were horses to tend, oats to dole out, and a dwarf who smelled of wine waiting for a hot meal. Small, immediate tasks. Small, immediate chances to stay alive.
At those words, Podrick lifted his left shoulder, wiped the sweat from his brow, and awkwardly rolled his sleeves up again.
Without even looking up, he said evenly,
"You can take turns tending to his horse if that makes you feel better. But I'd strongly advise against it."
His tone made the three stable boys exchange uneasy looks.
Podrick wasn't trying to pick a fight.
He simply didn't want the wrong words getting back to Shagga, son of Dolf. Whether or not there were goats around to feed, Podrick was certain his own jewels wouldn't survive if they made that mistake.
"I'm saying," he added quietly, "don't give that man a reason to twist your necks off. Somehow, I don't think he's afraid of Lord Tywin Lannister's wrath."
He shook the horsehair from his brush, lifted his chin slightly, and gestured with his mouth.
"Look."
A commotion had erupted near the gate.
The same captain of the guard who'd tried to hang Podrick that morning was now being dragged across the dirt — by the throat — in the grip of the towering wildman.
Shagga had him lifted with one hand, sword in the other, and was hauling him toward the inn like a rag doll.
Behind him followed a lean, dark-haired sellsword and several other mountain clansmen, all swaggering with barely contained violence.
As they passed through the courtyard, Shagga suddenly hoisted the red-cloaked captain higher and drove a boot into his gut.
There was a heavy thud — and the proud lion-helmed officer vanished from sight.
"Whoa!"
"Seven hells!"
The boys gasped, mouths agape, frozen in disbelief.
A few seconds later, all three of them bent their heads in unison and busied themselves furiously with their work, brushing and feeding the horses as if nothing had happened.
What came next wasn't for stable boys like them to know.
Within minutes, another rider galloped into the courtyard — a messenger.
Podrick watched the scene silently, his expression calm, and then turned back to the mare Lord Kevan Lannister had entrusted to him that morning.
After several hours of quiet work, he noticed something curious about her gait — something small but interesting enough to make the corner of his mouth curl upward ever so slightly.
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Time passed. Dusk crept across the sky.
Dinner was little more than coarse black bread and a bowl of mushroom soup that smelled faintly of blood and soil. Podrick forced it down anyway.
He knew hunger hurt worse than bad food.
Not long after he'd finished, Kevan Lannister appeared at the stable door, two men in tow.
Podrick straightened instantly, stepping out to greet him.
"My lord."
"Podrick Payne," Kevan said curtly. "You're coming with me."
His words were as economical as ever — no more, no less.
Moments later, Podrick found himself walking in Kevan's shadow, following him through the camp under the wary, curious gazes of the three stable boys who had mocked him that morning.
The group wound through the maze of tents and fire pits until they reached a half-built command tent.
Kevan raised a hand and pointed.
Ahead stood a small, filthy man with mismatched eyes, disheveled blond hair, and a face that might've been called handsome — if not for the grime and height.
"By order of Lord Tywin," Kevan said, turning toward the boys, "Lord Tyrion Lannister will be your new master.
And you, Podrick Payne — from this moment, you are to serve as his squire."
Then, facing the dwarf, he added,
"Tyrion, your father insists you have a proper attendant."
Tyrion, who had been arguing with a dark-haired sellsword, turned at the sound of his name, a trace of surprise flickering across his face.
"Well, well," he said dryly. "A groom, a servant, and now a squire — all for a dwarf? How generous of Father.
I thought only great knights like Jaime were allowed squires."
He smirked.
"At the very least, I'd need to be his height to deserve one."
The words dripped with the familiar Lannister sharpness — his tongue honed to a blade.
Yet as he spoke, his gaze slid toward the small group, landing on a thin, brown-haired boy with blue eyes.
Recognition dawned.
"Ah… I've seen you before, haven't I? At the inn earlier today. You're the one who didn't flinch."
His mismatched eyes narrowed with interest.
"So, my squire's name is Podrick Payne, is it?"
He tilted his head.
"Tell me, boy — any relation to Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice?"
"Yes, my lord," Podrick answered steadily, bowing. "Ser Ilyn Payne is a distant relative."
There was no hesitation in his voice, no trace of the fear one might expect when standing before a Lannister.
For just a moment, Tyrion's eyes glinted — curiosity, perhaps even approval.
All around them, the red-and-gold sea of tents rippled in the night breeze. The flames of countless campfires flickered, painting the scene in gold and blood.
And beneath that firelight, the reincarnated Calvin — now Podrick Payne — felt the weight of his new reality settle on his shoulders.
A system in his head, a dangerous family at his back, and a cunning dwarf for a master.
In this world of lions and wolves, of fire and blood — survival itself would be a game of thrones.
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