The Street of Steel was a cacophony of industry and commerce. The air rang with the constant, rhythmic hammering of a hundred smiths, punctuated by the shouts of traders and the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. The street climbed Visenya's Hill from Fishmonger's Square, a river of humanity flowing between shops and forges. Knights in worn surcoats examined new blades, lords' stewards haggled over prices, and everywhere was the smell of smoke, hot metal, and sweat.
My companions seemed overwhelmed by the chaos, but I had a specific goal. I stopped a grimy apprentice carrying a bundle of spearheads. "I'm looking for the shop of Tobho Mott. Do you know it?"
The boy pointed a soot-stained finger up the hill. "Top of the street, ser. Can't miss it."
Rolf looked at me, curiosity plain on his face. "This Mott, ser? He is someone special?"
"He's a master smith from Qohor, in Essos," I explained, weaving a half-truth. "The smiths there are renowned for their work with steel. I heard his name mentioned in the Free Cities." I left out how I truly knew of him, and we resumed our climb.
After an hour of navigating the bustling street, we found it: a shop that stood out for its relative quiet and clean display. Inside, the air was still hot, but the clutter was organized. Tobho Mott himself, a massive man with a forked, white-streaked black beard, greeted us. His eyes, however, didn't linger on my face for long. They were immediately drawn to my armor, scanning the dark metal and intricate articulations with a practitioner's keen interest. He saw what others missed: the superior flexibility, the unique craftsmanship.
Rolf's cough finally broke his concentration. Mott's gaze shifted, and he adopted an air of practiced arrogance. "My work is costly," he declared, his voice a low rumble. "And I make no apologies for that. You will not find craftsmanship equal to mine anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms, I promise you. Visit every shop in King's Landing if you like. Any village smith can hammer out a shirt of mail, but my work is art." He gestured dismissively towards the street. "And I'd wager a silver stag that armor of yours was forged somewhere else entirely."
My companions looked skeptical, but I merely nodded. "Your reputation precedes you. I need a helm, fashioned with wings. And for these two," I said, indicating Alban and Alaric, "I need a full set of equipment—practice swords, gambesons, the works."
The boys' eyes widened with shock and hope. Alban stammered, "Ser... does this mean... we are to be your squires?"
"Consider it an early name-day gift," I said, and watched their faces fall slightly. I felt a pang of guilt. "But," I added quickly, "becoming a squire is a serious matter. It cannot happen without your mother's express permission." Their smiles returned, brighter than before.
As Mott took our measurements, he mentioned, almost casually, that the Crown Prince had commissioned a dragon-themed helm of similar design some months prior. I asked if he planned to travel to Harrenhal for the tourney.
He shook his great head. "No. It is not my place to steal work from the smiths of the Riverlands. My shop is here."
We settled the order; my helm would be ready in five days, the boys' gear in ten. The bill came to eighty silver stags—a significant sum, but understandable for his quality. Then, I made my move.
"I have a proposition," I said, drawing one of my black steel daggers. I placed it on his counter. "For the right price, I would part with this."
Mott picked it up with an amused curiosity that quickly hardened into intense focus. He turned it over in his hands, feeling its weight, studying the non-reflective, pitch-black finish. "The material... the technique is foreign," he muttered. He led us into his forge, where he subjected the dagger to a series of tests—heating, hammering, and quenching. Finally, he looked up, his expression one of deep respect.
"There is no magic in this steel," he announced. "But it is stronger, more resilient than any castle-forged steel I have seen. I can rework Valyrian steel, but this... this is a different art entirely." He made his offer. "One hundred gold dragons now. Another fifty in three months' time. And your order... will be free of charge."
The man was clearly wealthy, no doubt from his work for the crown. Though I knew the dagger's value to a craftsman like him was likely higher, I saw a greater prize. I waved a hand. "Keep the future payment. Take it as a token of friendship. Call me Julius. But," I said, my tone firming, "my armor is not part of this bargain."
I saw the hunger in his eyes. "In the future," I offered, "if you swear a solemn oath not to reveal its secrets, I may let you study it."
He agreed, a look of pure, avaricious joy on his face. I had bought myself a powerful, if specialized, ally.
We left his shop far richer than we had entered. My next destination was the Street of Silk on Rhaenys's Hill. The place was infamous, home to the largest brothels in the Seven Kingdoms, but I had no interest in their services. The risk of disease or a chance encounter with a Faceless Man was too high.
I found the most reputable tailor, a slender man from Lys with sharp eyes. I described what I wanted: an outfit of fine, black leather—a long coat, trousers, a vest, and gloves, all tailored for movement and imposing style, reminiscent of a nobleman from a forgotten world.
The tailor looked skeptical, taking my measurements with a delicate touch. "You are sure of this design, my lord? It has a... maritime flair. Are you perhaps from the Iron Islands?"
I gave him a wry smile. "No. I am a pirate king from Yi Ti."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "As you say, my lord. It can be done." The price was steep—two hundred gold dragons, half now, half upon delivery—but image was a weapon as potent as any sword.
With a large portion of my coin still intact, I had another idea. On Rolf's advice about colors and sizes, I purchased three expensive dresses from a nearby clothier—one for Miranda and one for each of her daughters. If questioned, I would claim they were belated name-day gifts.
The sun was beginning to set. I had intended to find a horse trader, but the day had slipped away. As we stood near the city's most famous brothel, "The Fair Maid's Cry," a mischievous thought struck me. I could initiate the boys into manhood right here, a small, petty revenge against their mother for her manipulations.
I looked at Alban and Alaric. Their faces were beet-red, their eyes darting everywhere but at the brothel's inviting entrance. But the thought of Miranda's reaction—a woman trained in the arts of Lysene assassination—sent a cold chill of pure survival instinct down my spine. The plan was abandoned instantly.
"We're going home," I announced, turning us back toward the inn.
The word felt strange in my mouth. Home. It wasn't my home. It was the home of this normal family, save for its formidable matriarch. Yet, they had shown a stranger kindness, and in this brutal world, that counted for everything. A wave of homesickness for my own world, my own family, and my own regrets washed over me. If I ever returned, my first act would be to delete my browser history.
"Ser Julius?" Alaric's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "We're here."
We had returned, our arms laden with food and drink. It seemed another feast was in order.