Chapter 111: Dilemma
After parting with Tyrion Lannister, Podrick turned and made his way to a dilapidated dwelling on the edge of the city.
The little house had clearly been unoccupied for some time. The air inside was stale, unmoving, thick with the sour scent of mold. Judging from the dust and the silence, no one visited this place unless they had to.
Podrick stood at the threshold, took one breath — and chose not to step inside.
Instead, he remained at the door, looking at the man who had opened it.
"Who are you?"
Alliser Thorne rubbed his eyes, still half asleep, peering at the youth before him with irritation and confusion.
The long road had exhausted him. A moldy blanket, fleas, the stench — none of that mattered. For two days he had done nothing but eat and sleep. He had just finished a meal and drifted off when the knock came.
He had expected trouble.
He had not expected… this.
The figure before him looked young — too young. Tall, straight-backed, with sharp features, brown hair, and blue eyes. He wore a dark green velvet coat, a gold cloak draped over one shoulder, and at his waist hung a plain dagger with a black hilt.
Though still groggy — and annoyed at being woken — Thorne felt a chill the moment he met the boy's gaze.
That calm confidence. That cold authority.
It felt less like facing a person… and more like standing before a predator.
If not for remembering that King Joffrey Baratheon bore the golden hair of House Lannister, Thorne might have thought the Iron Throne itself had come knocking.
Podrick only glanced at him — and said nothing.
A voice spoke from beside him.
"The man before you is a member of the Small Council, Commander of the City Watch — Ser Podrick Payne. Show respect, man of the Night's Watch."
Podrick no longer needed to introduce himself. Others did it for him.
Thorne stiffened. Only now did he notice the guard beside the youth — black plate armor, gold wool cloak, voice like iron.
So the one who knocked had been a gold cloak.
After arriving in King's Landing, Thorne had heard rumors. Doors had been closed in his face for days. And now, the first man to seek him out was the new Commander of the City Watch.
"G–greetings, Lord Payne," Thorne said, lowering his head.
The castle had been buzzing with last night's events. Everyone knew.
Podrick didn't respond. He covered his nose slightly and looked Thorne up and down.
Lean. Hardened. About fifty. Black eyes. Hair graying. Black leather armor. Polished boots. Inside the room, a fur-lined cloak and a longsword hung on the wall.
Only after the inspection did Podrick's gaze settle on him again.
Then he smiled faintly.
"Ser Alliser Thorne. I hear you sailed from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to reach King's Landing."
"The Narrow Sea must be in a good mood. They say once the long summer ends, those waters grow temperamental…"
"Like a wife who just learned her husband's been bedding the neighbor's whore."
Thorne froze, unsure whether to laugh or kneel.
He muttered something about the gods' mercy.
Podrick nodded, unconcerned.
"I read about you before coming here, Ser Thorne."
"You were once a knight of House Thorne in the Crownlands. During Robert's Rebellion, you fought for House Targaryen."
"You were in the city garrison when King's Landing fell. Lord Tywin Lannister gave you a choice — death, or the black."
"So tell me… how does it feel to be back? Does any of this still look familiar?"
A crueler question could hardly be asked.
Thorne's jaw tightened.
After a moment, he answered stiffly:
"When I took the black, I severed myself from the man I once was. I remember none of it. I serve only the Night's Watch now. My vows. My duty."
Podrick studied him in silence.
Like a hunter judging whether the animal in front of him still had fangs.
Looking at him, Podrick lost interest.
The Alliser Thorne of old tales had been humorless and sharp-tongued. The man before him, though — tired, cautious, almost brittle — felt different.
Yet Podrick's faint shift of expression made Alliser Thorne uneasy. More confused than afraid.
He had no dealings with this rising power beside the Queen Regent. As a man of the Night's Watch, he stayed out of politics by oath and by survival instinct.
So why was Podrick Payne here?
Why the strange questions, the casual insults — and then that disappointed shake of the head?
Especially after last night, when this young commander had launched a ruthless purge that swept away three great men of the realm.
Thorne's unease deepened.
Podrick spoke again.
"Tyrion says you're a poor drillmaster. Dull. Bitter. Seems he was right."
The comment pricked like a thorn. Anger stirred — but before Thorne could answer, Podrick continued flatly:
"Doesn't matter. I hear you brought something with you."
"A rotting hand."
"Show me."
Under the watchful eyes of two guards, Thorne said nothing. He turned, went back inside, and dragged out a jar from beneath the bed.
"This is it, Ser Payne."
His tone had lost what little respect remained.
Podrick took two steps back.
"Open it."
Under the silent threat of spearpoints, Thorne obeyed. The lid came off. The stench hit immediately. A severed hand, blackened and swollen with decay, thudded onto the floor.
Podrick narrowed his eyes.
"Winter is coming," he murmured. "And the wind brings black tidings."
"You came to ask for aid. You'll have men. Before the next council session, you'll accompany me."
---
Meanwhile — another chamber of the Red Keep
"If you wish to go home, come to the godswood tonight."
No matter how many times she read it, the words did not change.
The scrap of parchment lay in Sansa Stark's hands.
She had found it beneath her pillow. No seal. No name. Handwriting she did not recognize.
She had almost taken it to the Queen to prove her obedience.
Almost.
Instead, trembling, hopeful, terrified, she had hidden it — and gone to the godswood last night.
Nothing happened.
She had waited beneath the heart tree until fear swallowed hope. Convinced it must be another of Joffrey Baratheon's cruelties. Or the Queen's test.
But no one came.
No laughter. No guards. No beating.
She had crept back to her room in tears and shaken herself to sleep.
Today had been ordinary. Too ordinary. Even Joffrey had ignored her.
If not for the parchment still warm from her hands, she might have believed she imagined it.
"So… do I go again tonight?"
She pressed a hand to her stomach. The bruises from Ser Meryn's fist had faded to sickly yellow, but they still ached.
If you wish to go home…
Could the gods have answered her prayers?
A true knight at last?
She imagined shining armor. Gallant smiles. Rescue.
Not Joffrey's trap. If it were, he would have leapt from hiding last night. She would have been beaten again.
Not a test of loyalty either. If it were, Ilyn Payne would have waited beneath the heart tree with Ice in his pale hands.
The parchment almost seemed to glow.
The door opened.
Sansa stuffed the note beneath her sheets and sat on it.
Only a maid entered. Timid. Brown-haired.
"Will you bathe tonight, my lady?"
"Light a fire," Sansa said. "I'm cold."
The girl obeyed and left. Like all the others, she was obedient. Replaceable. Watching.
Flames brought warmth — but Sansa still shivered.
Only when she was certain she was alone did she pull the parchment free and throw it into the fire.
The words blackened. Curled. Turned to ash.
She moved to the window. Usually a white cloak patrolled the bridge below.
Not last night.
Not tonight.
Where was he?
Sudden dread struck. The maid. Her eyes. She must already be running to report.
The Queen changed Sansa's attendants every two weeks so they never grew friendly. They were watchers. All of them.
Fear drowned her again.
She undressed, crawled into bed, shaking.
But sleep would not come.
What if he had been delayed?
What if tonight was the true night?
What if he was waiting?
At last, without realizing it, Sansa found herself standing before her wardrobe again.
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