Chapter 159: Slaughter Them—Leave None Alive!
"Y–you… don't know?"
Jalabhar's eyes widened into perfect circles, almost comical to look at.
In his understanding, one's homeland was the most important thing—
the place where life began, where the soul belonged.
And yet his "master" looked completely indifferent.
Well… maybe not that surprising.
After all, he had even refused the conditions offered by Robb Stark, the King in the North.
So what was a mere family holding?
…Still—
That's not the point!
"My lord, what I mean is… don't you at least want to… hmm… you know… take back what's yours?"
Jalabhar fidgeted beside him, winking and gesturing, before finally just saying it outright.
Podrick tilted his head, took another sip from the waterskin, and looked at him strangely.
"And what would I do with it?"
"Money. Land. A foundation for your house—what's wrong with that?"
"And didn't you say you wanted to achieve great things? The money we have now isn't enough—"
He stopped halfway, remembering the chest of gold Robb had given them—thousands of golden dragons.
Even so…
That amount wouldn't be nearly enough for what Podrick was talking about.
They might even spend most of it before reaching the Summer Isles.
Podrick just shrugged.
"When Aegon the Conqueror first set foot on this land, what did he bring?"
"He had dragons."
"I have my sword."
"He also had his sisters—who were also his wives. You don't have that, do you?"
Podrick immediately sat up, glaring.
"Is that so?"
The threat in his tone made Jalabhar instantly clamp his lips shut, shaking his head frantically
Their little exchange had nothing to do with Gendry.
The former blacksmith's apprentice, now a "temporary" squire, didn't find it hard to start a fire in the wild.
But when it came to preparing the ducks Jalabhar had hunted…
He was completely lost.
The feathers were plucked clean, sure—
But the skin was torn open, the bones crushed awkwardly. It looked terrible.
And then there were the spices Podrick had given him—
most of which he didn't even recognize.
Salt and pepper were the only ones he knew.
"M–my lord…"
Gendry flushed red, finally asking for help.
"What should I do next?"
Hearing him, Podrick didn't even bother responding to Jalabhar anymore. He tossed the waterskin back and stood up, ready to teach his squire how to make a proper meal.
Whether his squire could fight didn't matter.
After all, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could outfight him anyway.
But if his squire couldn't cook—
That was unacceptable.
As someone who came from a culture obsessed with food, Podrick absolutely refused to tolerate that.
He had just taken two steps—
When he suddenly stopped.
His ears twitched slightly, and he turned toward the road.
The sound of hooves.
A lot of them.
In times like this, such a scale could only mean one thing—
War.
But when the group came into view, Podrick realized they weren't soldiers of House Stark or House Lannister.
Instead—
It was a mercenary company.
Their clothing was mismatched, their hair dyed in loud, garish colors.
A strange and chaotic-looking force.
"At a time like this… a mercenary group of this size?"
Podrick stood on a small slope by the roadside, watching them with a frown.
"And heading west too…"
As he observed them, the group suddenly slowed and stopped right in front of them.
Dust rose beneath the horses' hooves.
At the front, a few riders pointed toward Podrick and whispered among themselves.
At the same time, both Jalabhar and Gendry immediately became alert.
Gendry dropped the ducks without hesitation, grabbed his dagger, and rushed to Podrick's side.
Jalabhar reacted even faster.
He had already taken his golden longbow from the saddle, an arrow nocked, before returning to Podrick's side—though he didn't aim yet.
Seeing that Gendry had only brought his own weapon, Jalabhar kicked him.
"Go get your lord's weapon. That's what a squire is supposed to do."
Gendry froze for a moment, then hurriedly ran back and brought over Podrick's greatsword—Ice.
Their hurried actions drew laughter from the mercenaries.
The encirclement grew more obvious.
Podrick, however, ignored their tension.
His eyes were fixed on the banner—
A white swallow-tailed flag bearing a black goat with blood-red horns.
He didn't recognize it at all.
Just as he was thinking, a man rode out from the group.
He was mounted on a black-and-white zebra, wearing a helmet shaped like a goat's head.
He approached with several others.
"That helmet kind of looks like yours, Gendry."
Jalabhar smirked, bow raised but still relaxed.
"My helmet's not that ugly…"
Gendry muttered, gripping his dagger tightly, veins bulging in his arms.
Across from them, about a dozen archers raised their bows.
Unlike Jalabhar—
They didn't hesitate.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Arrows tore through the air without warning.
No one expected the mercenaries to attack so suddenly.
Jalabhar's body reacted instinctively—his hand loosened, his arrow flew, but without aim, disappearing into the wind.
Podrick himself had been caught off guard for a brief moment.
But his body moved faster than his thoughts.
With a sharp sound, the Valyrian steel dagger at his waist flashed out.
He stepped forward, pulling Gendry behind him.
The next moment—
The dagger turned into a blur.
Each strike, each arc—
Perfect.
Every arrow was intercepted.
Clang after clang rang out, sparks flying.
The deadly rain of arrows was reduced to nothing.
The last few arrows that came slightly slower—
Podrick didn't even bother cutting them.
He simply reached out and caught them mid-air.
In his hand, they became completely still.
The scene froze.
Not just Gendry and Jalabhar—
Even Vargo Hoat, riding forward on the zebra, stopped in place.
His eyes widened in shock.
He had traveled far and wide, seen countless battles.
But this—
This was something he had never seen before.
Like a cheap stage trick—
And yet undeniably real.
In that instant, he understood.
The boy in front of him…
Was something terrifying.
At the same time, he finally understood—
Anyone who could do all of this so effortlessly… was something truly terrifying.
He tightened his grip on the reins.
His throat bobbed uncontrollably, cold sweat bursting out from every pore.
Staring at the young face barely a dozen steps away, a rumor he had once heard in the Riverlands suddenly flashed through his mind.
On the other side, Podrick lowered his head, glanced at the shattered arrowheads scattered at his feet, then looked at the two arrows still in his hand.
He lifted his head again, fingers tightening slightly as he snapped off the arrowheads and held them between his fingers.
Then—
He flicked them.
Two explosive cracks rang out in the air, almost merging into one.
One arrowhead shot forward and blew apart the zebra's skull.
The other struck Vargo Hoat's right shoulder, tearing his arm clean off.
Blood, flesh, and bone sprayed into the air, splattering across his face.
Instinctively, he shut his eyes.
Before he could even understand what had happened, he felt his body drop as the mount beneath him gave way—
Man and beast crashed to the ground.
The zebra's corpse, half its head gone, twitched reflexively, its weight pinning down one of his legs.
Vargo lay there, dazed.
There was a dull pain in his right shoulder.
He turned his head—
And saw nothing.
The fallen carcass crushed his leg, its spasms only worsening the break.
Then—
As realization dawned and the pain surged in—
A scream tore through the air.
Everything had happened too fast.
No one had expected things to turn out like this.
The rest of the Brave Companions stood frozen, staring blankly at their fallen commander from Qohor.
Most of them hadn't even seen what had just happened.
Until—
An arrow shot from the front.
It pierced straight into one man's eye.
Blood burst out from the back of his skull, the iron tip punching through, yellow and white spilling out after it.
"Break them. Kill them all."
Podrick now remembered where this mercenary band came from.
The Brave Companions—known across the Seven Kingdoms by a far more fitting name:
The Bloody Mummers.
A company made up mostly of criminals and exiles, infamous for their cruelty and bizarre appearance.
Their sigil—a black goat with bloody horns.
Their leader liked to mutilate prisoners, which earned them another name:
Goat's Men.
Among their notable members were: Qyburn, a disgraced maester; Septon Utt, a depraved priest; Shagwell, a mad jester; and Zollo, a Dothraki.
During the War of the Five Kings, Tywin Lannister had brought them into Westeros to fight his enemies.
They had been stationed at Harrenhal, later betraying the Lannisters and opening the gates to Roose Bolton.
Their history was nothing but blood and treachery.
But none of that mattered now.
Podrick picked up the greatsword Ice, which Gendry had brought to him.
Then he repeated, calmly—
"Break them. Leave none alive."
The "war god" of the Battle of the Gate descended upon the Gold Road like a crimson storm.
Gendry, nervous but not afraid, pulled on his bull-headed helmet and followed close behind.
His dagger felt too light—
At some point, he had picked up a hammer instead.
It whistled through the air as he swung it, crushing skulls as easily as smashing apples.
Jalabhar, too, became like a dark reaper.
Still draped in his bright feathers, he drew his golden bow again and again.
Each arrow flew without mercy—
Harvesting lives like rain.