The armorer’s shop was modest in appearance a small building of light stone with wooden shutters and a wrought-iron sign, darkened by age, and a sturdy stone chimney.
Stepping over the threshold, one immediately understood that a master worked here: the air was thick with the smell of hot metal, leather, and charcoal, while along the walls hung rows of armor, swords, daggers, and even a couple of massive crossbows.
A small bell jingled, announcing the arrival of visitors to the absent master.
Arthur’s gaze was drawn involuntarily to the variety.
Without thinking, he began comparing his own blade to those displayed.
Then his eyes caught a beautiful helmet adorned with a red plume.
Ray walked straight to a large table separating the work area from the rest of the shop.
“Coming!” a voice called out, apparently having heard the bell.
From around the corner emerged a tall, muscular man with a short graying beard, slightly smudged with charcoal dust.
He seemed to have been interrupted in the middle of a job and was initially less than welcoming.
“See anything you like?”
He asked this while wiping his hands on a leather apron, giving Arthur and Ray an appraising look before settling on the latter.
“Fitting some armor…
for him,” the bosun replied.
Then, turning to Arthur: “Go on, don’t just stand there.”
“Good day, sir, here it is,” Arthur said politely, laying the sack on the counter.
The armorer also a weaponsmith and, apparently, a blacksmith grunted, opened the sack, and pulled out the leather plates studded with rivets.
He ran his fingers thoughtfully over the scratches, examining each piece carefully, then spoke:
“Good work…
though a bit battered.
A trophy?” He nodded at the underlying armor with brownish stains ingrained in the leather.
The boy hadn’t been able to scrub them out.
“Yes,” Ray confirmed with a grin.
“Our cabin boy didn’t miss.
Ironborn attacked us on the way here.”
“Meaning he earned it,” the man said, a hint of respect in his voice.
He examined the boy from head to toe, estimating the work required.
Then he looked at the armor again, wondering if it was worth interrupting his current commission.
“Alright, put it on.
Let’s see what can be done,” he grunted.
The armor was leather, not plate.
Mostly, just the straps needed replacing, along with a couple of plates.
Arthur hesitantly began putting on the pieces, fumbling with the long straps.
“Let me help…” the master came out from behind the counter, quickly fitting all the pieces and making notes with charcoal.
Then he removed the armor just as quickly it hung on Arthur rather poorly.
“Well, what do you think?” the bosun asked, who’d been examining a dagger that had caught his eye.
“I’d say there’s work to be done here,” the man began, as if to inflate the price, then looked at the boy before him, at his borrowed clothes, bare feet, and slightly oversized sword, and sighed.
“Two stags will be enough.”
“Um…
alright,” Arthur said, pulling two silver coins from his pouch and receiving an approving nod from Ray.
For an experienced mercenary, the price was more than reasonable.
Not every master worked with leather, so the boy was lucky.
He could have gone to an ordinary leatherworker, or even a cobbler in a pinch, but the old mercenary knew the consequences of poorly fitted armor.
He didn’t want the boy to die needlessly.
“Take off the scabbard too.”
“Why?” the boy asked, unfastening his sword along with the belt.
“I see you’ve been bruising your leg,” the man grumbled, shaking his head.
“For your height, the blade is a bit long, awkward.”
He took the sword in his hands, drew it from the scabbard, checked its balance, and nodded to himself.
“I’ll make you a back harness.
In battle, you’ll wear it at your belt; in peacetime, you can sling it over your shoulder on a strap.”
“Is that possible?” Arthur asked, surprised.
“Anything’s possible, if your hands grow from the right place,” the man grinned.
“You can leave the sword here; it won’t be stolen…”
He quickly took measurements, checked the buckles, and estimated the strap length.
“By evening it’ll be ready,” he finally said.
“Don’t come earlier; I have other orders.
Later either I’ll be sleeping.”
“Thank you!” Arthur said enthusiastically.
“Then we won’t keep you from your work,” Ray grinned, clapping the boy on the shoulder and turning toward the exit.
Once they stepped back out into the street, Arthur was overwhelmed by a sense of freedom temporary, but real.
The air was thick with the smells of fresh bread, grilled fish, and ripe fruit.
Nearby, the voices of merchants loudly hawking their wares filled the air.
“Now’s the perfect time to wet our throats!” Ray exclaimed, surveying the bustling city.
“When else will we get such a chance…”
“I’d like to buy some boots too,” the boy muttered, having just stepped on a sharp stone.
On the deck of the ship, it hadn’t been so noticeable, but in the city…
He still had money left; he could easily afford good boots instead of the worn sandals from before.
“Well, that’s beyond me,” the bosun grunted.
“You can manage on your own; you’re not a child anymore…”
After Arthur’s feet were finally protected by the footwear he’d bought from a cobbler, his spirits soared to untold heights.
He’d wanted boots, of course, but none were available in his size, and the shoemaker had offered to fit good leather sandals with laces for him.
Boots would have taken several days and cost three times as much.
And besides, they’d probably be warmer and fit better with the armor.
Arthur was already eagerly anticipating the moment he’d don his armor, but for now, he practically skipped up the slope in search of peaches.
At the market, to the boy’s disappointment, he couldn’t find any fresh peaches.
It turned out the season was still a few weeks away, and the Black Beta would likely sail from the island before then.
But Arthur was told that if he was lucky, he might find a few trees in the old orchard whose fruit ripened earlier than the others.
The orchard greeted him with dense thickets and the sweet, barely perceptible scent of fruit not yet fully ripe.
The air was filled with the smell of sun-warmed leaves and damp earth.
Arthur walked between the trunks, scanning the branches.
Most of the trees were still green, but one, slightly off to the side, caught his attention heavy golden-pink fruits hung from its branches, promising juicy, ripe flesh. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
He was about to reach for one when he noticed someone sitting under a nearby tree.
A plump boy, dressed in a simple dark cloak, sat leaning against the trunk with a large book on his lap.
He was so absorbed in his reading that he seemed oblivious to everything around him.
His chubby fingers carefully turned the pages, and his pale face, sweaty from the heat, was furrowed in concentration.
Arthur frowned, studying him.
He didn’t look like a local peasant or a sailor from the port too clean, too soft hands.
But he didn’t look like a noble lord either; he seemed more like a monastic scribe…
At first, Arthur just wanted to leave.
But then he noticed the symbols in the book.
They looked so much like the ones he couldn’t read.
Arthur couldn’t just walk away he had to know what they were.
“Hey!
What are you reading?” Arthur asked awkwardly.
The boy started and nearly dropped his book.
He quickly closed it, looked up, and blinked, clearly not expecting company.
“Oh…
um…
just a history book,” he stammered.
“A history book?” Arthur repeated.
“The history of the Rhoynar Wars…” the boy explained, freezing as if expecting to be mocked.
But the cabin boy had no such intention.
“Interesting?”
“Well…
yes,” the boy replied awkwardly, fidgeting in place.
“It talks about the Rhoynar-Valyrian conflicts, battles, generals…
And it has illustrations.
Look here…”
He showed Arthur an image of some giant beast, three times the height of a horse, with a long nose.
And beneath it, the inscription Arthur was curious about.
“Awesome!” Arthur’s eyes lit up.
“What’s that?”
He pointed to the inscription.
“That’s an elephant,” the boy smiled shyly, thinking Arthur meant the picture.
“They’re huge animals…
in Essos, they say people ride them instead of horses.
Can you imagine?”
“Oh, wow,” Arthur said, involuntarily picturing such a giant.
But his interest was more focused on the inscription itself.
“And this…
what language is that?
I’ve never seen it before.”
“Ah, that,” the boy replied, understanding what his companion meant.
“It’s just…”
“There you are, Sammy!” a rough, mocking voice interrupted.
From behind the trees emerged a tall, red-haired boy in an obviously expensive doublet.
He carried a wooden practice sword.
“Oh no…” Arthur’s companion paled.
Looking at the inscription above his head, the boy realized his name was Sam.
“Not again!”
“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked, but the boy didn’t answer, clutching his book tightly.
Meanwhile, the approaching bully drew nearer, swinging his weapon.
“What’s this, piglet?” Horas laughed.
“Time for another beating.
I wonder how you’ll squeal today…”
“Listen, leave him alone!” Arthur exclaimed, stepping forward.
The orphaned boy’s somewhat faded dream of becoming a knight still compelled him to defend the obviously un-fighty new acquaintance.
In build, he and the red-haired boy were well-matched, though Arthur was slightly thinner.
He hadn’t even been afraid of the ironborn what was this…
And who was this anyway?
Only now did Arthur think to glance at the inscription above his head.
“What?” the red-haired boy seemed genuinely surprised, stepping closer.
His square, freckled face stretched in disbelief, then flushed red with anger.
“Did you just say that to me, peasant?
Do you even know who I am?”
To his misfortune, Arthur did know.
It read:
“Horas Redwyne.
Heir to Paxter.
Level .”
The son of the lord of these lands.
“Blood and fire…” Arthur muttered, realizing the trouble he’d walked into.
“Talking back to me, you beggar…
I’ll teach you!” Horas lunged at him with his stick.
Arthur dodged the attack.
He didn’t know what to do.
Hitting the lord’s son…
So he just kept avoiding.
Arthur barely managed to jump and move aside from the wild swings of the wooden sword.
Horas, despite his crude fighting style, moved quickly and with the confidence of someone used to such games.
But the orphan was clearly faster.
“What’s the matter, running like a girl?” the red-haired heir grinned, trying to catch Arthur with a blow to the side, but the boy dodged at the last moment.
Arthur gritted his teeth.
If this were a real fight, he’d have a chance…
but fighting the lord’s son?
Even if he won, it would be bad for him.
And if he lost, worse.
The situation seemed hopeless.
All he could do was try to run.
“Please stop…” a trembling voice came.
Arthur saw his new acquaintance, clutching his book, nervously shifting his weight.
The boy clearly wanted to do something.
He was large, even slightly taller than his tormentor, but fear held him back.
Horas swung again, and Arthur, who’d hoped to circle around and head down the path, dodged at the last moment.
The blows were fast, but not very accurate the bastard was clearly used to people not fighting back.
“What, all you can do is run?” the red-haired boy taunted, having seen through the cabin boy’s maneuver.
Arthur gritted his teeth but kept dodging.
He felt the anger rising within him.
Should he just let this peacock beat him?
“Leave him alone…” the boy muttered again, but Horas didn’t even acknowledge him.
He was cornering Arthur, closing in.
Then Sam tried to block his path, stepping between him and Arthur, but the stick landed squarely on his arm, and the boy let out a pained cry, dropping his book…
“And you, you can only attack the unarmed?” Arthur shouted, backing away.
“Oh, how sweet!” Horas laughed.
“A peasant defending a fat pig!
Maybe you’ll kiss him, huh?”
The laughter, the tone, the contempt it all ignited a fierce anger in Arthur.
He took a step forward involuntarily, opening himself to attack, then caught himself and tried to retreat again, but Horas swung from above, and the tip of his weapon grazed Arthur’s forearm.
Sharp, burning pain seared his skin, making him flinch.
“You…” Arthur hissed, jumping back, but his back hit a tree.
The boy grinned and struck again.
Arthur tried to dodge, but a root caught his foot.
He lost his balance and hit the ground with a dull thud.
He tried to scramble up immediately, but a heavy blow landed on his back.
The wooden sword cracked against his skin, leaving a burning trail of pain.
“Oh dear, the peasant can’t jump anymore!” Horas taunted, raising his stick again.
Arthur gritted his teeth.
Another blow hit his shoulder, then his side.
He tried to shield himself.
“What, giving up already?
Not even going to try fighting back?
Pathetic.”
But before he could strike again, a loud, almost animal roar cut through the air:
“ENOUGH!”
Sam’s voice, unexpected and fierce, and the next moment his plump hands shoved Horas hard in the chest.
Though his new acquaintance was clearly overweight, his mass was an advantage here.
The red-haired heir didn’t react in time he stumbled backward, tripped, and slammed into a tree with a crack.
A sharp cry followed:
“AAAH!
MY NOSE!”
He clutched his face; blood immediately began seeping through his fingers.
He dropped his sword, grasping his injured nose.
“You’ll pay for this!” Horas shrieked, turning, but Arthur had already scrambled to his feet and snatched the wooden sword from the ground faster than Horas could react.
“Shall we continue?” Arthur said angrily, raising his weapon.
He was trembling with pain and rage, and if the redhead had come forward, he might not have been able to hold back.
Horas stared at him with hatred, but when he saw Sam standing nearby, fists clenched, his round, red face still fierce with emotion, he thought better of it.
“You’ll regret this!” he hissed, backing away.
“Both of you!
My father will hear of this!”
Then he turned and fled, clutching his broken nose.
Arthur sighed with relief and turned to Sam.
“You know, that was pretty good!” he said, still breathing heavily.
The blows would definitely leave bruises, but nothing seemed broken.
“I…
I just…” Sam stammered, staring at his still-clenched, trembling hands.
“Just sent him flying into a tree,” Arthur grinned, hiding his relief.
Since he hadn’t actually touched Horas, he figured nothing could be done to him.
Same with his new friend, presumably.
He’d attacked them first.
Only now did Arthur read the inscription above his head.
Sam nodded, dazed, then smiled hesitantly.
“Yeah…
I suppose…” He carefully picked up the dusty folio, then, thinking, added: “Thanks…
Oh, I just realized we haven’t even introduced ourselves…”
“Yes, that is funny!
I’m Arthur…” the boy said, caught up in the moment and giving his full name.
Not that it mattered they probably wouldn’t stay long on this island anyway, so no harm done.
“Sam,” the boy said, extending his plump but firm hand.