Chapter 57 — I Won't Bear This Glory Alone!
The moment Podrick spoke, the entire drill yard fell silent.
Two thousand men stared at one another, bewildered, as if checking whether they had all misheard the boy standing on the platform.
Then the truth settled in.
Those who had been pushed aside — the idlers, the drunkards, the street scum in borrowed armor — felt their stomachs drop.
That vague unease they'd felt when Podrick split the crowd suddenly made horrible sense.
Even a fool could understand what the young commander meant.
The gate captains understood it too.
So did the armed and armored Gold Cloaks who had been permitted to remain on the left.
The twelve-year-old newcomer — the boy who single-handedly dismantled Janos Slynt's squad — was using the simplest, most brutal method possible:
Cut out the rot.
Purge the dead weight.
Drive out every leech in the City Watch.
No warning.
No speech.
No transition.
Just a single sentence — and a guillotine dropped.
For a heartbeat, the yard held its breath.
Then the explosion came.
Hundreds of discarded Gold Cloaks surged to their feet, screaming, swearing, howling for blood.
The entire drill yard transformed into a raging cattle pen.
"Why?!"
"You little bastard, what are you doing?!"
"I PAID to get in — you can't throw me out!"
"I want to see Commander Slynt! I want the KING!"
"I've bled for this city! I've fought for the Crown!"
"Get down here, boy! I'll rip you in half!"
Men pushed, surged, crashed forward like a rolling tide of bodies.
But Podrick did not retreat.
He had expected this.
A new commander's first fire had to burn hot — or it might as well not burn at all.
Sometimes leadership required neither subtlety nor complexity.
Sometimes, the simplest tool was the most effective:
Kill one chicken to warn the monkeys.
But only if you had the strength to make the entire jungle listen.
And Podrick did.
As the mob began pressing toward the platform, Podrick's voice cracked like a thunderclap:
"CITY WATCH — HEAR MY COMMAND!"
"Draw your blades. Strip every piece of WATCH ISSUED EQUIPMENT from these useless dogs and drive them out of the barracks."
"If anyone resists—
kill them. No mercy."
A twelve-year-old boy should not have been able to roar like that.
Yet the sound froze the entire drill yard at once.
Humfrey Waters, still clutching Podrick's massive greatsword, went pale. His legs shook.
The fury of a thousand men charging was a force no sane man wanted to confront.
But the boy on the platform didn't flinch.
What made Humfrey tremble was the realization:
Podrick intended to gut the Watch on his first day. Publicly.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
It was tyranny — or genius — depending on who survived the hour.
Yet despite Podrick's command, the "loyal" half of the Watch didn't immediately move.
The armed Gold Cloaks stood frozen, confused, terrified to act against former comrades.
For several seconds the yard hung in eerie stillness.
Podrick's eyes narrowed.
Then, with a single flash of motion too quick for most to track, he tore the greatsword from Humfrey's arms.
BOOM!
The blade crashed down point-first into the platform, splitting the wood with a deafening crack.
The sound jolted the Gold Cloaks like a slap.
Podrick's voice followed — cold as winter steel:
"What's wrong? Do you intend to disobey?"
"If so, stand with them.
And lose your head with them."
"But if not—"
His blue eyes gleamed beneath the gold helm.
"—then show me your loyalty.
Now."
His words rang across the yard, metallic, echoing, impossible to ignore.
That was all it took.
The armed Gold Cloaks — some understanding exactly what this moment meant, others simply following instinct — finally moved.
One sword rasped free.
Then another.
Then another.
A chorus of steel.
In seconds, hundreds of men stepped forward, creating a wall between Podrick and the raging mob, their blades raised, eyes hard.
Some did it for survival.
Some for ambition.
Some simply for lack of better judgment.
But it didn't matter.
Podrick smiled — just barely.
This was the outcome he wanted.
Obedience.
Order.
A line drawn in steel.
Podrick's first task upon arriving was simple:
make them obey.
Make them follow his will.
And there was only one way to do that—
with strength, not softness.
If he had stepped into this cesspit with courtesy and compromise, he would have accomplished nothing.
Obedience.
That was the first impression he intended to carve into the minds of every Gold Cloak he would command.
And clearly…
the first step had gone very, very well.
With one loud order, one calculated provocation, Podrick had done what Janos Slynt never could:
He separated the worthless from the useful, the drunken parasites from the handful of men who still remembered what discipline felt like.
He tore the rot out of the Watch—
or at least scraped off the first thick layer—
and in doing so showed the entire yard exactly what kind of commander he was.
Thunderous.
Decisive.
Merciless.
It was only the beginning, nowhere near enough to build the force he envisioned, but it was the proper foundation.
A house infested with rats must first be gutted before it can be rebuilt.
What Podrick wanted was effectiveness—and that required cutting flesh.
No painless solution existed for a City Watch that Slynt had turned into a tumor on King's Landing.
This?
This was a multi-victory.
Podrick won by cleaning the army.
He won by establishing authority.
He won by empowering the loyal.
He won by terrifying the disloyal.
One move, four gains.
And the soon-to-be-ousted men felt it.
The moment those remaining Gold Cloaks stepped forward to block them, the rejected half exploded like a kicked beehive.
Their anger at losing their positions, their pay, their privileges—it all erupted at once.
Desperation made them bold.
But they had no armor, no formation, and for many—not even weapons.
How could they possibly stand against armed Gold Cloaks, armored and holding short swords and truncheons?
They couldn't.
The clash was brief and brutal.
The rabble hit the line of real soldiers like waves smashing into cliffs—
and shattered.
Screams, curses, the crack of wood on bone, steel flashing through the air—
the yard became a cauldron of chaos.
Podrick didn't move.
He simply stood atop the platform, hands resting on the greatsword, watching with calm indifference, as if the violence below was none of his concern.
The men Slynt had stuffed into the Watch—drunkards, loafers, petty crooks—
were no match for men who now fought to prove their worth and keep their positions.
Once the remaining Gold Cloaks gained momentum, the outcome was inevitable.
Even without many swords drawn—most still had enough sense to avoid killing in the first minute—their truncheons swung with hungry enthusiasm.
Six strikes a second wasn't their limit; it was simply enough to make sure their new commander noticed.
Under the staccato rhythm of cracking wood, the useless ones screamed, tumbled, scrambled on all fours, fleeing in all directions.
The loyal, blood up and adrenaline singing, only hit harder.
Once violence begins, restraint rarely returns.
Soon enough, the mob broke entirely.
Those who had come roaring for justice fled like scattered dogs.
Armor, belts, half-broken helms lay in piles across the yard—stripped from the expelled men by the Gold Cloaks who no longer considered them brothers.
When at last the chaos ebbed, the drill yard that had once sounded like a fish market now looked startlingly organized.
Only a few hundred remained—forming disciplined blocks, standing straight, silent, attentive.
Podrick allowed himself a faint smile.
He had achieved exactly what he wanted.
Those with true discipline remained.
Those without it had been beaten out of the Watch like rotten grain sifted from wheat.
A few quick-minded cowards might have escaped with their gear, but Podrick didn't care.
They couldn't hide long.
A sweep of the city later would solve that easily.
What mattered was now.
Podrick stepped forward, voice ringing clearly across the yard:
"Brothers of the Gold Cloaks—congratulations.
You have passed my test.
You have proven your loyalty."
Hundreds of eyes—once fearful, now simmering with heat—locked onto him.
Podrick raised his fist.
"I know many of you are afraid.
I know you wonder whether you'll end up like those driven from this yard."
He paused deliberately, letting the tension twist.
"And you are right to fear it."
The Gold Cloaks stiffened.
"But now hear this:
I am not Janos Slynt."
His voice deepened, steady as steel on stone.
"I stand here by order of the Hand and by command of the King—not to waste time, but to build something worthy of the Crown."
"I will not steal from you.
I will not bleed you dry.
I have no interest in exploiting you."
A murmur swept through the men.
"In fact, everything that should have been yours—will be returned to you.
And the shares left behind by the garbage you just drove out—also belong to you."
Cheers flashed in their eyes.
"After all—what do we fight for, if not coin?"
A ripple of excitement ran through the ranks.
Podrick let it simmer, then cut sharply through the noise with a raised hand.
"But coin and comfort are not the only things within your reach."
His expression turned solemn.
"If you seek more—
more rank, more honor, more future—
then know this truth:
You must give something in return."
He lifted his chin, voice booming:
"What I require…
is loyalty."
"Show me that loyalty, and I will lead you."
"Lead you to strength.
Lead you to glory.
Lead you to make this kingdom better than what it is."
He extended an arm to the entire formation.
"And this glory—
I will not claim it alone."
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