Chapter 75 The secret of zero negative reviews
The winding paths of Visenya's Hill coiled ever upward. With every step, Ian and his men passed another blacksmith's shop, the air growing thick with the rhythmic clang of hammers on steel. They climbed higher and higher, leaving the din of the lower city behind.
Finally, they reined in their horses before a massive house of timber and plaster, its upper floors jutting out to loom over the narrow lane below.
The double doors were a study in contrast, one carved from night-dark ebony, the other from bone-pale weirwood. An intricate hunting scene was etched across their surfaces. Flanking the entrance stood a pair of stone knights, both clad in fantastically shaped crimson steel. One bore the form of a griffon, the other a unicorn.
Ian left one man outside to watch the horses before leading the others through the formidable doors.
Inside the main room, a thin maidservant hurried toward them. She approached with a welcoming smile, but as her eyes scanned their attire, she saw no familiar house sigils, no emblems of the great lords. The warmth in her expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"Good day, sers. How may I help you?" the maid asked. Her voice remained polite, but the undertone of eager deference was gone, replaced by a flat, professional courtesy.
Ian understood her reaction completely. He wasn't wearing his Lannister-crested sword, having exchanged it for the fine, yet unremarkable, clothes he'd purchased earlier. The entire outfit was worth a respectable two gold dragons—a fortune to a common sellsword, perhaps, but for an establishment of this caliber, it clearly lacked a certain weight.
This was, after all, the forge of Tobho Mott. He didn't just craft armor; he forged works of art.
Rumor held that the Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell, wore a suit of Mott's white plate, intricately detailed with swirling patterns. Renly Baratheon's own forest-green armor and gilded antlered helm were also said to be his work. Every lord and landed knight of consequence in King's Landing was a patron.
"Is Master Mott available?" Ian asked, his gaze sweeping across the hall. He reached out, his fingers brushing against a finished suit of armor on display. Without the proper tools, he couldn't test its true quality, but he could make an educated guess.
Armor like this, hammered by hand piece by piece, was almost certainly properly quenched. Only with the mass production of later eras did smiths cut corners, letting inferior plate air-cool to save time and coin. A master would never compromise his work that way. He was sure of it.
"Master Mott is busy," the maid began, ready to dismiss them. Her eyes widened as she saw Ian touching the display. "Wait! Sir, please, you mustn't touch the armor!" she cried out, her voice sharp with alarm.
"My apologies," Ian said, pulling his hand back with a touch of awkwardness. He rubbed his nose, a sheepish gesture.
"Is there something you require, ser?"
The maid's sharp cry had summoned the master himself. Tobho Mott emerged from a back room, a man who wore his success like a second skin. A coat of rich black velvet was adorned with silver-thread hammers embroidered on the sleeves. Around his thick neck hung a heavy silver chain, from which dangled a sapphire as large as a pigeon's egg.
"I wish to commission four suits of plate armor," Ian stated his purpose directly. "I need them constructed with interlocking interior plates to keep the profile as slim as possible."
The armor was for himself, Rohr, Keyes, and Bronn. His other men would not be afforded such a luxury.
"That can be done, ser," Mott said, stroking his chin in thought. "But I must warn you, the price of my work may be… higher than you anticipate." He paused, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "However! You will not find another smith in all the Seven Kingdoms whose skill can match my own."
"I can afford it," Ian replied coolly. "Assuming, of course, that the quality meets my satisfaction."
"I have been selling my wares in this city for many years," Mott declared, his voice booming with confidence. "I have never had a single complaint."
"That is precisely why I am here," Ian said with a nod.
"Very well. We shall take your measurements. Will you be wanting a full helm? Gauntlets?"
"Just the torso plate," Ian clarified, shaking his head. "And keep the design simple. As plain as you can make it. I want it to look like a common soldier's harness."
The entire point was to avoid drawing attention, to reduce the chance of exposure. Ornate decoration was the last thing he needed.
"The quality of the steel and the stitching, however, must be the absolute best."
Mott nodded in understanding and called for his apprentices to measure Ian and his men. Bronn was still with Dorian the Black Falcon, but Ian had planned for this, bringing along a sellsword of nearly identical height and build to stand in for him.
After the apprentices were done, Mott named his price. "Four suits. The total will be ten gold dragons. They will be ready for collection in one week." He held out a hand. "I require a tenth of the payment now as a deposit."
"I don't need works of art," Ian pressed. "No decoration, no polishing. Just functional, high-quality defense. Can the work be done sooner?"
"It is not a matter of the work itself, ser, but of the queue," Mott said, giving Ian a strange look. "First come, first served. It is the simplest of rules."
"And if I wanted them within three days?" Ian countered. A week was too long to wait. "We can discuss the price." He knew that in King's Landing, gold could bend any rule.
"Double the price," Mott said without hesitation, "and I will have every apprentice in this forge working on your order. You can have what you want the day after tomorrow." He didn't know why this client was in such a rush, but he wasn't one to turn away coin that walked willingly through his door.
"Are you certain you can manage it that quickly?" This time, it was Ian's turn to be surprised. Even for a master, the speed seemed almost impossible.
"Come for your armor tomorrow afternoon," Mott said, his chest puffing out. "If you are not satisfied with the quality, I will remake them from scratch and sell them to you at the original price."
His confidence was absolute, and for two very good reasons.
First, he wasn't actually busy. The most urgent order on his books wasn't due for another month. The "queue" was a simple, effective illusion to create the impression of high demand.
Second, he already had most of what he needed. Of the four measurements his apprentices had just taken, two were nearly identical to stock pieces he had in the back. The other two could be quickly modified from existing components and materials.
And as for the armor's defensive capabilities, he had no concerns. He used the finest materials, after all; his work was leagues better than any other in the city. But there was a simpler, more brutal calculus at play. In the unlikely event a piece of his armor failed—truly failed, catastrophically so—the man wearing it would hardly be in a position to return and complain. A sword through the chest had a way of silencing dissatisfied customers.
It was the grim, unspoken secret to his perfect record. Master Tobho Mott's armor had never received a single negative review.
"Deal," Ian said, swayed by the smith's unwavering confidence. The promise of a free remake if he was unsatisfied sealed it.
He nodded to Rohr, who stepped forward and counted out two gold dragons for the deposit.
With the business concluded, there were no unnecessary pleasantries. Ian turned and led his men from the shop.
As he stepped out into the daylight, he glanced back one last time. He knew Robert Baratheon's bastard, Gendry, was an apprentice within these very walls. It was a shame he hadn't caught a glimpse of the boy.
Still, Ian had no plans to interfere. In this game, other players were surely already watching the boy, and Ian had no desire to stir up trouble.
Not yet. Not until he had found his treasure.
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