The forge crackled. Embers leapt like angry insects as Edric brought the hammer down again and again. Sparks flared with every strike, biting at his arms and cheeks. He wasn't trying to finish the armor—just shaping the general parts, ready to be molded later to fit any wearer.
"You swing that hammer like you're chasing ghosts," came a voice—cool, worn with age.
Edric turned, looking in the direcgion from which it originated. "Well, they say there's no shortage of ghosts in Harrenhal."
A pause. Then slow, deliberate footsteps.
A tall figure stepped into the firelight, his white cloak stirring faintly in the breeze, streaked with dust like he'd walked a long way. His face was calm but shadowed, the kind that didn't need to speak loudly to be heard.
"Ser?" The snow white cloak alone was enough—but so was the fine enameled armor beneath it.
A Kingsguard.
"I needed air," the man said, as though reading Edric's thoughts. "His Grace is... enjoying himself. I was sent with the Prince, who then ordered me to 'stretch my legs' and sniff out rumors. So. Here I am."
Edric nodded. The man was older than he'd expected. Not weak in the slightest—but past his prime, . Still sharp. Still deadly.
Ser Barristan the Bold. Of House Selmy of Harvest Hall.
"Ser Barristan?" Edric asked, startled.
Why him, here?
"Yes, It's me." He replied sighing. Though the admiration of the people could be fantastic at times, it could also be midly annoying, as evidence by certain celebrities.
"I didn't expect to see someone of your renown here."
"I've heard your name," Selmy said. "More than once in the last two days. Lords whisper like fishwives when something stands out too much."
He stepped closer, eyes drifting across the wall of swords and the warhammers gleaming near the hearth.
"I didn't have much to do with highborns until lately," Edric said. "Unlike you, Ser. I'll have to take your word on it."
Selmy gave a slight nod. "I came to see the famed dark steel. The Kingsguard are sworn to defend the king with all our strength—and we ought to wield the finest steel in the realm. I wanted to know what the noise was about. Maybe take a sword or two, if the praise of those lords is true."
Edric hesitated, then stepped aside. "See for yourself, Ser. I'd be honored."
Selmy took his time. He touched a dagger, then hefted a warhammer. His face stayed composed—but Edric caught it. A flicker in the eyes. A tightening at the jaw.
Awe.
It was happening more often now—men stunned into silence by his work.
Selmy drew his own sword and held it beside one of Edric's blades, comparing them in the forge-light.
"I understand now," he murmured. "Why they speak so highly of your craft."
Then he turned. "And yet, the boy who made all this steel isn't allowed in the Grand Melee."
"You know?"
"Plenty do. A big disagreement over a smallfolk boy, between two Lord Paramounts—that's the sort of thing people like to talk about. A great conversation starter these days."
"Didn't have the right name for it, I suppose," Edric muttered.
"What's done is done. But it isn't right, not in the slightest. The melee is for anyone who wishes to participate, unlike the joust which, understandably, is more limited."
Selmy's voice softened. "So if you win the Squire's Melee—and I mean win it—I'll knight you myself."
Edric blinked. He even more shocked than before this time, but managed to keep that surprise undercontrol. "You... would?"
"I've knighted worse men for less. You earned a title defending your home. You should've been knighted then, in my opinion. Still—being squire to Lord Baratheon's not a poor reward."
Edric was quiet. Then: "If you can get Robert to agree... yes. I'd take it. Doubt he'll give you any trouble."
Selmy allowed himself a small smile. "Then fight like you mean to be remembered. Swing that hammer like it's last thing you, do. You have certain advantages others don't, let's hope you use them properly."
He turned to go—but paused, hand drifting to a longsword. Plain-hilted, elegant in its simplicity.
"Would you sell one?"
Edric raised a brow. "For you? Of course."
Selmy turned the blade in his hands. "Is the steel colored?"
"No," Edric said. "It's natural. Forged that way."
The old knight looked up. "Can you make it white? Like the cloak?"
Edric nodded. "Sure. I can cover it with enamel, I never had a reason to try though—most men like the dark shine."
Selmy gave a short nod. "Make it hold."
"Oh it will," Edric smile, confidence in such matters permeating the air surrounding the two. "I'll make it whiter than Dawn, shining like snow in moonlight. Does that work for you?"
The Kingsguard gave him a rare smile. "That works."
"You'll own the finest non-magical blade in the Seven Kingdoms—for the modest price of five-and-ten gold dragons. I'm honored to serve your legend, Ser Barristan."
Selmy coughed. "Seven hells—five-and-ten?" He gave Edric a mock-suspicious look. "Even for armor that much would be extravagant much less for a sword. Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe you are a crook."
Edric's eyes shook, a mixture of annoyance and anger taking a hold of him. "What!? The lords said I was a crook? I assure you that I'm not. My work is the best in the world, comming short of only valyrian steel, that and besides, enamel is a little expensive."
Damn lords, I could have been selling this steel for its weight in gold and this how they treat me. He thought
Selmy didn't press. He turned the blade once more in his hand and gave a single nod. "Very well, I'll have to take your word for it then. Should I come in a week?"
"Well the enamel isn't exactly present here at the moment so I'll try to get Lord Whent to place and order."
"I'll see you when the time comes then."
___
Later, Edric spotted one of Harrenhal's stewards near the storeroom, hunched over ledgers with ink-stained fingers.
He walked up without ceremony, looming like a long shadow.
"Here." He handed over a pouch of silver. "I need to buy enamel, is there any in Harrenhal?"
The steward blinked, thumbed the seam, and weighed it in one hand.
"Aye," he muttered. "That'll cover it. It can easily take more than a fortnight for it to arrive however. Though, I-I don't know why Lord Whent would accept your request."
Robert is already pissed enough as it is over the melee business. He'll try to make amends. I'm paying him on top of that, so there is no reason for him to refuse."
Edric nodded and turned to go.
"I'll, uh... see you next fortnight, then?" the steward called after him.
Edric didn't answer right away. But as he walked off, his voice drifted back over his shoulder:
"Yes. Untill next fortnight."