Chapter 43 — I Strongly Suggest You Apologize to Me
Morning chaos bled into noon, and noon bled toward dusk.
Through the narrow lead-glass window, Podrick could see that the bright sunlight of morning had long since faded into a honey-gold haze.
Banners outside fluttered in the wind.
Inside the room: some unconscious, some dazed, some barely clinging to clarity — Chataya and her girls lay collapsed in a ring around Podrick, as though they had been swept aside by a passing hurricane.
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[You have recklessly and passionately embraced a thrilling chapter of life.
You have taken a crucial step forward on the path of adulthood — from boy to man.]
[You gained insight in life. Your special talent Gift of Anomalous Growth has activated.]
[Title Unlocked: The Tyrant Spear]
[Title Effect:Undefeated. Unyielding. Unrelenting.
Every battle crushed. Every challenge broken.
Your "technique" inspires awe and absolute surrender.]
[Remark:Wait wait wait… you're telling me this spear can't kill people, but it can kill someone in another way?
…Very well. As of today, The Tyrant Spear reclaims its throne — ranked above the Turning Wheel itself!]
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Podrick took in the battlefield of overturned silks and fainted bodies.
He tilted his chin, eyes half-lidded, and solemnly gave himself the only evaluation he found appropriate:
"Invincible."
Then he started sifting through the chaos to find his scattered clothes.
Time had flown — Tyrion had been clear that Podrick was to return to the Red Keep before supper, and Tyrion's tone implied there was business, not pleasure, awaiting.
He had just tugged his trousers on and bent to retrieve his shirt when a faint tremor ran under his bare feet.
A tremor — faint at first, then stronger.
Podrick froze.
Then his brows drew together.
Then he listened.
"…Chataya," he murmured, "do you… usually have a full squad of armored guards visiting your establishment?"
Chataya — still hazy and boneless from the afternoon's devastation — blinked once, twice, and only then processed his words.
Armored guards?
An entire squad?
Absolutely impossible.
Her prices alone ensured only nobles walked through that door — mostly princes, lords, wealthy merchants, and men with House crests. Knights barely dared to enter.
But Podrick clearly wasn't waiting for her answer.
He already knew.
Because regardless of who paid how much, nobody came to Chataya's brothel in full armor and marching formation.
So he dropped his shirt instantly and scanned the room — spotted his sword on a table — and snatched it up in one smooth motion.
Outside, the sound was no longer subtle.
Steel boots. Metal on metal. Angry shouting. Something — or someone — being smashed.
The malicious energy rolled closer.
Even Chataya could hear it now.
Podrick's arm moved on instinct — he pulled the tall woman behind him, as if his smaller body could shield her.
He barely reached her shoulders, and the two looked mismatched as protector and protected — but no one in that moment was thinking about size.
Because the noise outside had escalated into chaos.
"Wake the others. Now."
Podrick's voice cut through the room like a blade.
No explanation needed.
Chataya snapped to alertness — shaking the girls awake.
Podrick stepped forward.
— Shing.
Steel slid free from its sheath.
He grabbed the door handle.
And just as he yanked the door open—
A guard in black ring-mail and a gold cloak had already lifted his leg for a brutal kick.
The sudden opening of the door sent him stumbling forward — his armored boot arcing straight toward Podrick's chest.
Podrick stayed perfectly still.
Yet Podrick's reaction speed was terrifyingly fast—especially considering he had already sensed the intruder arriving at his door a moment earlier.
With the reflexes he possessed now, the golden-cloak's movement looked almost like slow-motion to him. Podrick even caught, with crystal clarity, the flash of panic on the man's face as his kick missed and his foot hung helplessly in midair.
Podrick merely shifted his weight, stepping lightly to the side, letting the gold cloak fly past him while his eyes stayed fixed on the street outside.
On the staircase of the alleyway beyond the door, a squad of at least seven or eight guards stormed in with aggressive purpose, two of them dragging along a bruised and battered man whose face was barely recognizable.
Seeing that, Podrick raised an eyebrow, his heart stirring—clearly, a thought had just clicked.
He might have dodged the man who kicked the door, but the gold cloak was nowhere near as quick. His eyes spun, the world lurched—and he crashed violently to the floor.
A shriek of pain mixed with the clatter of armor hitting wood echoed through the brothel, immediately grabbing the attention of the pack of gold cloaks charging in like wolves. They all turned their heads.
The sound also startled Chataya, who had been busy waking the girls.
But beyond that first moment of panic, a woman who could run a high-end brothel in a place where every inch of land bled money was no amateur. Regaining her composure, she snapped into action, shaking her girls awake with practiced efficiency.
Outside, the gold cloaks continued to smash and tear through the place, evidently searching for something—or someone—until they finally noticed Podrick standing coolly in the doorway, blocking their path.
Before any of them could issue a word, Podrick looked straight at the leader of the group and spoke first, voice steady and sharp:
"Lord Janos Slynt?"
"To arrive in such force and wreck private property—may I ask what reason you have for this?"
Leading the search, Janos Slynt turned. Seeing someone recognize him, he glanced first at the man sprawled on the floor, then finally at Podrick.
One look—and he frowned. He didn't recognize the young man.
"And who are you supposed to be?"
"Podrick Payne. I serve the Hand of the King, Tyrion Lannister," Podrick answered without hesitation.
"Payne?" Janos raised his eyebrows. He didn't know the boy, but he certainly knew someone else at court who carried that surname.
And as for Tyrion Lannister…
"So you're the Imp's squire?"
Recognition finally dawned, followed swiftly by disdain.
A squire of the Imp daring to question him? Even Tyrion himself wouldn't dare speak to him like that—not here.
"Yes."
Podrick nodded.
The moment he confirmed it, Janos Slynt's face twisted in contempt.
"Then get the hell out of my sight, you damned dwarf's plaything. Don't get in my way while I'm doing my job."
Podrick hadn't expected a calm greeting to be answered with an insult. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he lifted his sword just a fraction.
"The last man who called himself 'my lord and master' to my face—had his mouth torn apart by me afterward."
His gaze locked on Janos.
"Lord Slynt, I strongly advise you… to apologize."
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