Chapter 88: Farming the Wild, Returning to the City
"Pack up everything—cream, honey, salted ham, all of it.
King's Landing can barely get a taste of this stuff anymore."
Podrick stood high atop a stone tower, barking orders while pointing in every direction like a man conducting a storm.
"Thanks to Lord Gyles and Lady Tanda Stokeworth, the Red Keep's supplies aren't running short."
"But don't get it twisted—those stores belong to the lords and ladies. To the king. The queen regent. The Master of Coin. The Hand of the King."
"They're for people who matter."
"And you?"
"You stinking mud-foot soldiers don't get so much as a single strand of wool from it."
His voice rose, sharp as a whip:
"But now—if you haul this back to King's Landing, I promise you one thing."
"Half of it is yours."
"I don't care whether you eat it, sell it, or trade it for a night under some woman's skirts. That's none of my business."
"But right now, I want everything you can lay your eyes on."
"Take it all."
"Not one damn thing stays behind."
---
Three hundred gold cloaks had been reduced to pack mules under Podrick's command.
They shouted, cursed, chased people down, and yelled at one another—an uproar that rolled through the town like thunder.
And yet, despite the backbreaking labor and constant scolding, not a trace of frustration could be seen on their faces.
Every last one of them grinned like idiots, eyes shining, running around in giddy excitement—like baboons who'd just won mating rights, hooting and hollering as they tore through the place.
Inside the castle, dozens of gold cloaks were busy as ants.
They rummaged, dragged, smashed, hauled—driving the servants into frantic motion while working just as hard themselves.
And outside, in the town beyond the walls…
It was even worse.
The entire place had descended into chaos—screaming and wailing everywhere.
A full-on chicken-flapping, dog-barking riot of misery.
---
"Move your asses!"
Podrick roared again, his voice booming like a thunderclap.
"I don't care if it belongs to peasants or nobles!"
"I don't care if it's cows, sheep, horses, or whatever else!"
"I don't care if it walks on four legs or sits nailed to the floor!"
"If it's edible—load it up!"
"Leave them only enough grain to make it south."
"If they've got kids, leave them an extra piece of meat."
"And everything else comes with us."
"Surely their merciful King Renly Baratheon will take care of them, won't he?"
Then his tone turned colder—flat, absolute.
"And listen well."
"None of you touch the women."
"Anyone who does…"
"I'll take his head myself."
---
Under Podrick's thunderous commands, Tumbleton looked like it had been thrown into a boiling pot and stirred with a spear.
It was no different from a town being hit by raiders.
And it didn't matter who you were—peasant, merchant, noble…
Hell, it felt like even animals were suffering the same fate.
Once Podrick's orders went out, everyone got dragged into the disaster.
The gold cloaks didn't slaughter people indiscriminately—not with Podrick keeping a leash on them.
And that terrifying nobleman himself made sure no one started kidnapping or outright raping.
But even so…
What those bastards were doing wasn't much different from killing them.
Because the moment Tumbleton fell, everything in it stopped belonging to them.
Aside from their own bodies, not a single coin, tool, scrap of cloth, or family heirloom could still be called theirs.
That was war.
War was plunder.
The winner took everything.
Podrick felt no guilt about that at all.
After all—this had been his purpose from the start.
The only thing he did bother doing was keeping his own men from crossing the final line.
---
Of course, not everyone submitted.
A few resisted fiercely.
But once two gold cloaks hacked them down and blood splashed across the ground, the rest immediately shrank into quivering quails—silent, obedient, too afraid to breathe.
As for the nobles who were supposed to protect them…
They were even more miserable.
If Podrick still left the commoners a sliver of mercy—some bottom line, some thin thread of survival—
Then for those highborn "lords," bound together in long strings with hemp rope and tossed in beside livestock like animals…
Their options were far fewer.
They were crammed together in a pigpen, shoulder to shoulder, sharing space with cattle, sheep, and pigs.
Dung from every beast mixed beneath their feet, trampled into a foul mud that became their "residence."
Every one of them was filthy—pink and greasy as Peppa Pig.
And Podrick had already decided what to do with them.
Simple.
He'd drag them all back to King's Landing.
A neat little bundle of merit and reward.
After all… you didn't come out on a trip like this and return empty-handed, did you?
At the very least, he wasn't going to give people the chance to gossip that he'd wasted an opportunity.
---
After ordering his men to strip the place clean, Podrick's gaze shifted to the pigpen full of bound knights and noblemen.
"And you lot—don't go looking for trouble."
"You're prisoners. Act like prisoners."
"Otherwise don't blame me when I tie a rope around your necks and hang you off the city gatehouse."
This stronghold—House Footly's castle—now belonged to Podrick Payne.
A single man had climbed its walls, broken its spine, and taken them all.
So Podrick did whatever he pleased.
The nobles huddled in the pen, packed together, furious…
But none of them dared speak.
---
And yet, just as Podrick was thinking that, a voice suddenly rang out from inside the enclosure.
"Podrick Payne—may the gods curse you!"
Podrick didn't even bother identifying who it was.
He snorted coldly.
"Whether I'm cursed or not, I don't know."
"But your curse?"
"That's me."
"Enjoy it, my lords and knights."
"Pray the queen regent's in a good mood—maybe she'll spare your lives."
"Maybe she'll let you take the black and go freeze your balls off beyond the Wall."
---
With that, Podrick lost interest entirely.
From the roof of the stone tower, he sprang down in a few swift movements—vaulting, dropping, landing lightly as if gravity didn't apply to him.
He was back on the ground in moments.
A steward who'd been watching him the entire time immediately hurried over, rubbing his hands together, smiling so hard his face almost cracked.
"My lord… we'll need at least a full day to sort everything out. This is a great victory, you understand…"
The steward sounded joyous—yet also burdened with a very happy kind of anxiety.
Ever since the Dance of the Dragons, Tumbleton had never truly recovered.
It wasn't exactly a wealthy town anymore.
But even so, as a crossroads settlement—east toward King's Landing, west toward the Reach, near the Rose Road—
Its stored goods were still nothing to scoff at.
And that wasn't even counting House Footly's accumulated reserves: military stockpiles, trade goods, hoarded supplies.
The granaries were stacked. Then stacked again.
Warehouse after warehouse.
In short—Podrick had eaten his fill.
And that was precisely what worried the steward.
Because one "glorious harvest" was all well and good…
But hauling it all away in one go?
That was another story.
They gathered every cart, every mule, every horse-drawn wagon in town and beyond—
And still, it wasn't enough.
"So, my lord… should we garrison here for a few days? Send a raven to King's Landing and request transport support?"
Podrick had already realized the same thing—otherwise he wouldn't have been standing on high ground screaming orders about prioritizing valuables.
So he answered without hesitation.
"No."
"We can't stay here."
"Not for a few days—not even for one."
"I'll give you half a day at most."
"By tomorrow morning, we march. We go back to King's Landing."
He narrowed his eyes.
"The nearby lords and knights aren't idiots."
"The moment they learn something happened here, they'll ride to reinforce it."
"Give them a full day to react…"
"And when they arrive, they'll find nothing except my dust and the smell of my shit."
---
The order made sense.
The steward—himself a knightly second son—furrowed his brow.
"Then we only have half a day, my lord."
"Will that be enough?"
Podrick glanced sideways at him.
The words sounded like discussion.
But the tone was pure ice.
"It will be enough."
The steward jolted.
"Y-yes, Lord Payne! Enough—more than enough!"
"Good."
"Then keep your eyes open. Watch them closely."
"Prioritize the valuables."
"And if you do a good job…"
"Next time I ride out, I'll take you with me again."
Podrick grinned.
"I promise you—once you've tasted sweetness…"
"This kind of good fortune won't be the last you see."