Tyrion sipped his wine again, looking at the young man before him. Young man - when Pod had come to him he had been a callow boy. Now look at him. Still warm, still open, but responsibility sat well on his shoulders.

"Yes, I've heard that in the brochure ... they must be rather small houses? Like well placed cottages, and the like." Nothing like Casterly Rock, or King's Landing. "And what other position might there be here? I cannot see myself as a tailor, unfortunately. Even if there are fewer people here trying to kill us."

He eyed the chicken, with it's breaded covering, but -- when in Medietas. He took one, and broke off a piece on his plate, chewing on it thoughtfully. "...Rather good, this. I like the way it crunches."