Chapter 56 — A New Broom Sweeps Clean
On the way to the drill yard, Podrick took in the endless rows of black and gold surrounding him — the colors of the City Watch.
And unbidden, memories of his previous life surfaced.
The Gold Cloaks had existed as long as King's Landing itself.
But their true golden age — their pinnacle — belonged to Daemon Targaryen, the era when he commanded the City Watch.
Podrick remembered it clearly: even in his past life, he'd watched House of the Dragon.
Matt Smith, with that dangerously magnetic charm, had made Daemon one of his favorite characters.
Prince Daemon Targaryen — the Rogue Prince.
As a boy, he mixed with pickpockets, whores, and gamblers of Flea Bottom and earned their loyalty.
As a man, he was a frequent patron of Silk Street's brothels.
Knighted at sixteen, bold enough to earn the ancestral sword Dark Sister from King Jaehaerys himself.
Daemon sat on the Small Council as Master of Coin and later Master of Laws.
He did not last — he was too sharp, too volatile — so they pushed him aside and made him Commander of the City Watch.
And the people loved him for it.
Because when he arrived, the Watch had been a joke — rusty weapons, mismatched armor, men dressed like vagabonds. Soldiers only in name.
So Daemon changed everything.
He armed them with proper short blades and cudgels, put them in black chainmail, gave officers breastplates — and, most importantly, he gave them the golden cloaks.
He turned them into something to be feared.
He turned them into Gold Cloaks — a brotherhood, a symbol.
Back then, there had been only two thousand of them.
Under Janos Slynt, the number had magically swelled to six thousand — a miracle only if one did not consider corruption, bribery, forged rosters, and phantom salaries.
Now, supposedly, one-third of that force waited for Podrick in the Dragon Gate camp.
So this… is what Waters meant by "everyone who should be here is here?"
Podrick reached the drill yard — and laughed coldly under the helm.
Before him stood a disgrace.
Instead of rank and order, chaos.
Gold cloaks spread across the field in lazy clusters, slouching, sitting, leaning — some flat-out lying on the ground.
No formation, no discipline, no silence.
Shouting, joking, wrestling — like a fish market outside Mud Gate.
If someone told Podrick these weren't soldiers but hired thugs killing time, he would have believed it instantly.
And this—
this was the force supposed to defend the capital.
The air around Podrick shifted — not visibly, not loudly, but sharply.
The kind of change a pack of wolves senses before a predator moves.
He didn't insult them.
He didn't yell.
He didn't threaten.
He simply walked toward the center of the drill yard.
Podrick kept his expression neutral.
In fact, he even did the opposite of what people expected — he smiled.
Without hurry, without tension, he walked up the platform at the front of the drill yard.
There was no way his arrival would go unnoticed.
Not with that gleaming, full-gold helmet catching every stray ray of morning light.
For a brief moment — just a heartbeat — the roar of the drill yard faded into silence.
Then an even louder chaos erupted.
The Gold Cloaks began shouting again, louder than before — jeering, mocking, spitting insults.
Some cursed Podrick for wasting their morning.
Some joked crudely about his family.
Most didn't even lower their voices.
To them, he wasn't a threat. He was a joke — a boy in fancy armor.
Behind Podrick, Humfrey Waters tightened his grip on the greatsword he carried.
His stomach dropped. The disrespect was shocking even for this rabble.
He quickly shot pointed looks toward the officers in the front ranks — the gate captains who should have restored order.
None of them moved.
Of course they didn't.
In their minds, one of them should have inherited Janos Slynt's position — not a twelve-year-old nobody sent to embarrass them.
Podrick didn't shout back.
He didn't ask for silence.
He simply looked.
From left to right.
Right to left.
A slow, patient sweep of his gaze across the entire crowd.
And as Podrick studied them, the Gold Cloaks studied him — curiosity, contempt, irritation, calculation.
And the five gate captains studied him as well, trying to gauge the boy who now outranked them.
He let them look.
He looked right back.
And once he had a measure of the room, Podrick finally nodded.
"Humfrey Waters. How many men are here?"
The calm question struck Waters like a jolt of ice.
"M-my lord… a little under three thousand."
Podrick tilted his head, smiling.
"That's interesting. Before I personally escorted Janos Slynt onto his ship, he told me the City Watch now numbers over six thousand. Was he lying to me?"
Waters swallowed. The morning suddenly felt cold.
"N-no, my lord, absolutely not. It is simply that the city requires manpower everywhere. These… these are the men available for your inspection."
It was a neat excuse — believable to anyone who didn't know better.
Except Podrick did know better.
Half these men never reported for duty.
Half the rest spent their shifts drinking, gambling, whoring, or sleeping.
Those who truly worked could be counted on fingers.
This — the two thousand standing (barely) in the yard — had been scraped together with difficulty.
And many weren't even soldiers.
Sellswords, drunkards, criminals who bought commissions from Janos Slynt.
The Gold Cloaks were rotting from the inside.
"Excellent," Podrick said brightly.
He even clapped.
"Well done! The kingdom needs men like you!"
Waters blinked — stunned.
Had the boy truly bought that excuse?
Was he a fool after all?
Then Podrick stopped clapping.
He looked out over the drill yard again — and the smile vanished from his face.
His voice hit like a lightning strike:
"EVERYONE — HOLD YOUR POSITION. NO ONE MOVES."
The roar shook the entire yard.
Conversation died instantly.
Hundreds of heads snapped toward the golden-helmeted boy.
Before any brain could catch up, Podrick roared again, the force of it rolling like thunder:
"All men wearing armor and holding issued weapons — take one step to your left."
"Anyone who does not obey—
will be executed on the spot."
The sound alone made the earth seem to tremble.
For several long seconds, no one moved.
Then, slowly, the armored and properly equipped Gold Cloaks looked at each other — and began to shuffle left, forming a single mass.
Those without armor, without weapons, those lounging, sitting, or lying on the ground were left exposed — naked metaphorically, though still in uniform.
The drilling field went silent.
Every man could feel danger crawling up his spine.
Those still standing — armored, armed, disciplined — stared at the unprepared ones with complicated expressions.
And then Podrick spoke again — almost gently:
"To those who remain… congratulations."
"You're free."
"The gate is behind you. Walk out."
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