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Lord Tyrion recovers, to Podrick's relief. Despite Ser Mandon's intent, Tyrion Lannister survives the Blackwater, albeit missing half a nose (Pod feels a little guilty for that, for not reaching him in time to stop the injury). The former Hand even manages to give out commands when not being visited by the Lady Shae or Lord Varys. Pod complies, running between the kitchens and Tyrion's new chambers, fetching food or Maester Frenken if asked.
The battle remains within the Red Keep as Pod climbs the stairs of Maegor's Holdfast. Words and stories fly, not swords and axes, proclaiming the return of Renly Baratheon and the demise of the false king Stannis, awash in wildfire, killed by his own men, or burned by his red priestess. Well, the highborn lords and ladies are the ones discussing those rumors. The gold cloaks, spearmen, and Kingsguard, however, speak only of women.
Pod hears aplenty in his travels, walking amidst the surviving soldiers within the castle on errands for Tyrion. Osmund Kettleblack boasts of having two women at the end of the Blackwater. His brothers brag of similar dalliances. Bronn's—Ser Bronn, now—claims are lewder and larger in celebration of the victory, and Pod is certain he had blushed hotter than the fiery blaze on the river only several nights ago.
He thinks little of such things. Knighthood is his desire, at least for the moment. He is nearly of age, yes, but skulking to a brothel or finding a serving girl to appease any lust never appealed to Pod. Perhaps it's just his belief in the stories, but no song had a knight loitering in a pleasure house—those knights were on adventures and earning glory or wearing a lady's favor in a tourney in the hopes of stealing her love.
"Podrick?"
The wine in his hands slips, splattering across Lady Sansa's boots and gown.
"My lady," he blurts out, grateful that she is alone and lacking a Kingsguard escort (one less person to mock his mistake). "I—I...sorry!"
"No," she interjects, bewildered. "It's fine."
"I—your gown," Pod sputters. "It's...dirty. I can clean it. Not I! I mean, someone else. A seamstress. Or washerwoman. Not me...erm, not I. Sorry."
"I have others, Pod. The benefits of being a lady," she remarks, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. (Pod likes her eyes in the rare moments he looks at them; they're easy to decipher, even if her expression says differently.)
He nods, observing the puddle of wine on the ground, clutching the empty flask to his chest.
Awkwardly, Sansa clears her throat. He watches her shift from foot to foot as a flush creeps up his neck.
"You fought in the Blackwater," she notes. Her hands leave her sides and intwine, fingers twisting a gold ring around one digit. She's nervous, too, Pod realizes, sneaking a glance at her face. He wonders why until remembering it is his turn to speak, and coughs.
"Yes, my lady."
"Were you hurt?"
"No, my lady."
"Thank the Seven for your bravery, Podrick Payne," she says with a smile. Pod inclines his head in acknowledgement, lowering his gaze to the floor, then his own boots.
She moves too quickly for him to react, but suddenly, her hand is on his chin and her lips are pressed against his cheek. The gesture fills him up like Arbor gold, a sip of summer in an instant, a sample of something more. He wants the moment to last until the end of his days, if it was just him and Sansa in Maegor's Holdfast, living as statues, with a mere kiss keeping him alive.
Sansa withdraws in a swish of her wine sodden gown, the brief warmth and serenity vanishing like the sun setting in the sky, a dream disappearing from view, out of reach. She departs with a low curtsy, a genuine smile on her lips, and he bows to her retreating figure, at a loss.
"What are you smiling about, boy?" Bronn grunts as Pod returns to Lord Tyrion's chambers with a new pitcher of sweet red.
Pod shakes his head, biting his lip to quash a silly grin from showing itself. He might understand the other men now, lifting his fingers to his jaw. Sansa's kiss may've been decidedly less wicked than the favors his fellow soldiers received, but it was a favor all the same. The gesture will change nothing in itself, nothing of his life nor hers, but he'll remember it forever; in that moment, he was a knight and Sansa was his lady, his true love, just like in the songs.