Chapter 136 — One Man Holds the Pass; Ten Thousand Cannot Break Through
The last gold cloak who dared raise his weapon against Podrick did not die quickly.
Podrick seized him—one hand clamped around his throat, the other gripping his shoulder—and tore him apart with his bare hands.
He did it slowly.
Deliberately.
He wanted the man—the first to turn his weapon on him—to feel death coming.
Muscle and skin connecting neck and shoulder split like wet parchment.
Ligaments binding bone to bone were stretched, torn, snapped apart.
Flesh peeled away from the shoulder.
The breastbone tore loose from the spine, jagged white ribs jutting out like the skeleton of an overcooked fish.
The body collapsed like an overfilled sack.
Organs spilled out through the opening, hot and wet, still twitching with life.
Scalding blood poured freely, soaking the ground in a slick crimson flood.
This man—the first—Podrick had saved for last.
And he died the worst.
Blood drenched the gold cloak on Podrick's shoulders.
And everyone who had still harbored objections learned, instantly, how to keep their mouths shut.
Podrick let the two halves of the corpse fall to the ground.
He swept his gaze across the silent men before him—then looked away.
The lesson had been delivered.
The city would not fall from within before Renly's army broke the gate.
They could not hold King's Landing forever—Podrick knew that.
But time?
Time, he could buy.
He turned back toward the crude barricade separating the city from Renly Baratheon's host.
Above the heap of shattered stone and timber—the makeshift "wall" not yet fully sealed—enemy soldiers were already appearing, one after another.
Someone on the other side had begun tearing the obstruction apart.
The men scrambling through the gap should have been terrifying.
Instead, they looked almost ridiculous.
Those who chose to climb through first were clearly brave—or skilled—or impatient.
Yet the moment they landed on this side and saw what awaited them—
They froze.
Their legs refused to move.
But the soldiers behind them, still ignorant of what had happened, did not stop.
And so an absurd, horrifying scene unfolded before Podrick's eyes.
The first wave—men who had charged forward moments ago with bloodlust and triumph blazing across their faces—now wore nothing but naked terror.
They screamed curses, kicked backward desperately, clawing for space, trying to retreat with every ounce of strength they had.
The madness, the eagerness to storm the city—gone.
Completely gone.
But behind them were far more men.
Men who knew nothing.
Men who wanted their share of glory, plunder, reward.
They shouted in rage, shoved forward with brute force, driving the front ranks ahead.
Strength in numbers proved brutally true.
No matter how hoarse the front men screamed—
no matter how desperately they swore there was a demon ahead—
Their feet slid forward all the same.
Step by step.
Dragged toward hell.
The breach was packed with bodies when one man lost his footing.
He went down—and took five or six others with him.
Like gourds knocked from a shelf, they tumbled end over end down the sloped barricade of rubble and sandbags.
The lucky ones managed to grab onto something and stop their fall.
The unluckiest of them all rolled straight to Podrick's feet.
He landed on his knees, sprawled forward on the ground.
Dazed, spinning, he lifted his head—
—and found himself staring up at a blinding golden helmet, tilted slightly downward, looking straight at him.
A drop of blood—still warm—slid from the rim of the helmet and landed squarely on his face.
"Good morning," Podrick said cheerfully, bending down with a smile.
"Have you eaten yet?"
If not for the horrific spray of blood crusted across the helmet,
and if not for the hands—red to the wrists—
he might have looked like a sunny young man asking after a friend's breakfast.
Unfortunately, the one asking the question was a demon who had just torn one of his own comrades apart with his bare hands.
So the soldier shook his head instinctively.
Then realized what he'd done and nodded frantically.
Then froze, unsure whether he should nod or shake.
His trousers darkened as warmth spread downward.
Podrick couldn't tell what the man was trying to say, so he took it as a no.
"If you haven't eaten," Podrick said pleasantly,
"then have a slap."
Smack.
The sound was crisp and loud.
The soldier's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed unconscious.
Podrick straightened, glanced back up at the slanted wall of rubble and stone—
then stepped forward, picked up his warhammer from the pile of red-and-white slurry where it had landed, and smiled beneath his helmet.
"Come on," he said.
"Today, I'll take on ten."
---
Outside Mud Gate, Randyll Tarly cast another look over the raging battle, then shifted his attention back to the gate itself.
"Why isn't it broken yet?" he asked coolly, turning slightly toward a messenger.
Masses of men were jammed at the entrance. If not for the fear of another catastrophe like last night's inferno, there would have been even more.
Before dawn, at the war council, Tarly had already decided—
only elite troops would attack the gate at first.
Unless the obstruction was cleared, there would be no full assault.
He would not allow himself to be humiliated by another wildfire trap. He could not afford that disgrace.
Last night's disaster hadn't been his command—it had been a Tyrell operation, with him merely coordinating.
His authority as overall commander had only been granted after the fire.
Which was exactly why he hadn't committed all his strength at once.
The city's fall was inevitable. What mattered now was minimizing losses.
Less than a third of the attackers were scaling the walls—and even they were there mainly to draw fire.
Their true purpose was to pin the defenders in place while the gate-breaking elites worked.
Most of the army still waited.
Even the troops ferried across the Blackwater were held back.
Tarly's longest planning sessions hadn't been about how to take King's Landing—
—but about what each army would do after it fell.
Yet now, as time passed, something felt off.
Men were climbing the walls.
But the gate remained stalled.
Tarly frowned.
The messenger couldn't answer. He turned and ran toward the gate.
Tarly watched him go—then suddenly narrowed his eyes.
"Signal a full assault."
"All units previously assigned to exploit the gate—redirect them to wall assaults."
"Reserve forces, reinforce the gate attack."
Speed was everything.
As the only commander to ever defeat Robert Baratheon in battle, Randyll Tarly understood decisiveness.
The anomaly didn't trouble him. It clarified his choice.
The gate no longer mattered.
Victory did.
Before the messenger even reached the gate, horns blared and banners snapped—
and the full assault began.
The army surged forward like a black tide.
---
On the wall, Tyrion Lannister watched the gold cloaks crumble under the renewed attack and felt the last of his hope dissolve into a sigh.
It was over.
As he considered how to escape with Bronn and the clans—
a group of savage warriors surged onto the wall, charging straight into the fighting.
Naturally, they closed ranks around Tyrion, separating him from the gold cloaks whose eyes had already gone wrong.
"Dwarf," Timett said, his single eye fixed on him.
"We're here."
Tyrion looked at him—and at the Burned Men, and Chella of the Black Ears.
"Did Bronn tell you?" he asked quietly.
Timett didn't bother lowering his voice.
"Shagga's gone for your sister. The boy king's going with them."
Tyrion nodded once.
Then he raised his voice.
"Men of the City Watch—we have lost. I surrender."
"You are free now."
He cast one last guilty glance over the dead—
then turned and walked away along the battlements, toward the King's Gate.
Silence fell.
Men stared as the dwarf vanished under barbarian escort.
Then another attacker crested the wall—
and an arrow from the Black Ears punched clean through his throat.
Chaos followed.
Without command, the gold cloaks fled or surrendered.
And under the cover of nearly a hundred clansmen, Tyrion disappeared down a stairway and was gone.
The wall fell soon after.
---
None of that mattered to Podrick.
He was drenched in blood.
Twenty-some bodies lay scattered at his feet.
The gold cloaks behind him were gone.
Only he remained.
Behind him: panic and flight in Fishmonger's Square.
Before him: the rubble half-cleared, enemy soldiers filling the breach.
Knights. Mercenaries. Free riders.
Not one stepped forward.
A man of average height stood there in black plate, golden helm shining, warhammer planted before him.
He stood atop corpses like a god of war.
The doorway was open—
—but he was the true barrier.
One man holding the gate.
Ten thousand unable to pass.
They stared.
He waited.
Time bled away.
Until the soldiers parted—
and a man in gleaming forest-green armor stepped forward, crowned with a helmet bearing two great golden antlers.
Gold filigree gleamed across polished steel.
Podrick saw his own reflection in it.
The man studied him.
Then spoke.
"I am Renly Baratheon."
"Give me your name, knight."
"You stand before me with great courage."