“A mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone.”
– A Game of Thrones
***
The armorer’s shop was modest in appearance, a small building of pale stone with wooden shutters, a wrought-iron sign darkened by years of weather, and a stout stone chimney rising above the roof.
Yet the moment one stepped inside, it became clear that a true craftsman worked here.
The air was thick with the scents of hot metal, leather, and charcoal, while rows of armor, swords, daggers, and even a pair of heavy crossbows hung neatly along the walls.
A small bell chimed, announcing the arrival of customers to the absent owner.
Arthur’s gaze was immediately drawn to the impressive display.
Without meaning to, he found himself comparing his own blade to the swords hanging around him.
Then his eyes caught upon a handsome helmet adorned with a crimson plume.
Ray strode directly toward the large worktable that separated the workshop from the rest of the shop.
“Coming!” a voice called.
A tall, broad-shouldered man emerged from around the corner.
A short gray beard covered his chin, dusted with soot and coal dust.
He had clearly been interrupted in the middle of some task and did not appear particularly pleased about it.
“See something you like?” he asked, wiping his hands on a leather apron while giving Arthur and Ray a measuring glance, his eyes lingering on the boatswain.
“Need some armor fitted,” Ray replied.
“For him.”
Then he turned to Arthur.
“Well?
Put it out.
Don’t just stand there.”
“Good day, sir.
Here,” Arthur said politely as he placed the sack upon the counter.
The armorer, who was evidently also a weaponsmith and blacksmith, grunted as he opened the sack and pulled out the leather armor reinforced with riveted plates.
He ran thoughtful fingers across the gouges and marks upon it, examining each piece before speaking.
“Good work.
Worn, but good work.
A trophy?”
He nodded toward the gambeson, where dark brown stains had long since soaked into the leather.
Arthur had never managed to clean them away.
“Aye,” Ray answered with a grin.
“Our cabin boy isn’t helpless.
Ironborn attacked us on the way here.”
“Then he’s earned it,” the man said, a trace of respect entering his voice.
He looked Arthur up and down, judging how much work would be required.
Then his eyes returned to the armor, silently weighing whether it was worth interrupting his current commissions.
“All right.
Put it on.
Let’s see what can be done.”
The armor was leather rather than plate.
Most of the work would involve replacing straps and removing a few sections.
Arthur awkwardly began fastening the pieces, tangling himself in the long straps.
“Here, let me.”
The armorer stepped around the table and quickly fitted the armor onto him, making charcoal marks only he seemed to understand.
Just as swiftly, he removed it again.
To be fair, the armor sat rather poorly on Arthur.
“Well?” asked the boatswain, who had been silently inspecting a dagger.
“Well, I’d say there’s plenty of work to be done…” the craftsman began, clearly intending to drive up the price out of habit.
Then he looked at the boy before him.
Oversized hand-me-down clothes.
Bare feet.
A sword slightly too large for its owner.
The man sighed.
“A couple of silver stags will do.”
“Uh…
all right.”
The price seemed more than fair to the former sellsword.
Besides, not every craftsman worked with armor.
The boy was fortunate.
They could have gone to a common leatherworker, or even a cobbler if necessary, but Ray knew exactly how dangerous ill-fitted armor could be.
He had no desire to see the lad meet an early death.
“Take off the scabbard too.”
“Why?” Arthur asked as he unfastened the sword belt.
“Because you’ve nearly beaten your leg black carrying it,” the armorer grumbled.
“The blade’s too long for your height.”
He took the sword, drew it from the scabbard, tested the balance, and nodded to himself.
“I’ll make you a back harness.
Wear it at your belt in battle.
In peacetime, sling it over your shoulder.”
Arthur blinked.
“That’s possible?”
“Everything’s possible if a man’s hands know their trade,” the smith replied with a grin.
“You can leave the sword here.
No one’s going to steal it.”
He quickly took measurements, examined the buckles, and measured the strap length.
“It’ll be ready by evening,” he finally said.
“No sooner.
I’ve got other orders.
Any later and I’ll be asleep.”
“Thank you!” Arthur exclaimed.
“Then let’s stop disturbing the man while he works,” Ray said with a chuckle, clapping Arthur on the shoulder and steering him toward the door.
The moment they stepped back into the street, a feeling of freedom washed over Arthur.
Temporary freedom perhaps, but freedom nonetheless.
The scents of fresh bread, fried fish, and ripe fruit mingled in the warm air.
Merchants shouted from every side, calling customers to their stalls.
“Now’s the perfect time to wet my throat!” Ray declared, looking over the bustling town.
“Who knows when we’ll get another chance?”
“I’d like to buy some boots first,” Arthur muttered after stepping on a particularly sharp stone.
Bare feet had not bothered him much aboard ship, but the town streets were another matter entirely.
He still had money left.
Enough to buy proper footwear instead of the miserable sandals he’d worn before.
“That’s your affair,” the boatswain snorted.
“You’re not a child anymore.
You’ll manage.”
Once his feet were protected by a new pair of shoes purchased from a cobbler, Arthur’s mood soared higher than it had in weeks.
He had wanted boots, of course.
But none were available in his size, and the cobbler had instead offered to adjust a sturdy pair of leather lace-up sandals to fit him.
The boots would not be ready for several days.
They cost nearly three times as much besides.
And the sandals were cooler in the heat and would match his armor well enough.
Truth be told, Arthur was already eagerly awaiting the moment he could wear his armor again.
For now, however, he practically skipped up the hillside in search of peaches.
To his disappointment, the market held none of the fresh peaches he had hoped to find.
The season was still several weeks away, and by then the Black Betha would almost certainly have sailed far beyond the island.
Still, someone had told him that if fortune favored him, a few trees in the old orchard ripened earlier than the rest.
The grove greeted him with dense foliage and the faint sweet scent of fruit not yet fully ripe.
The air carried the smell of sun-warmed leaves and damp earth.
Arthur wandered between the trunks, studying the branches overhead.
Most of the trees remained green.
One, however, standing a little apart from the others, immediately caught his eye.
He had already reached toward one when he noticed someone sitting beneath a neighboring tree.
A plump boy dressed in a simple dark robe sat with a large book resting on his lap.
He was so absorbed in reading that he seemed entirely unaware of the world around him.
His pudgy fingers carefully turned the pages while sweat glistened on his pale forehead.
His face was tight with concentration.
Arthur frowned as he studied him.
He did not look like a local peasant or a sailor from the harbor.
His clothes were too clean.
His hands too soft.
Yet neither did he resemble a lordling.
More like a monastery scribe.
At first Arthur considered leaving.
Then he noticed the symbols.
The symbols on the page looked remarkably similar to those he himself could not read.
He could not simply walk away.
He had to know what they were.
“Hello.
What are you reading?” Arthur asked awkwardly.
The boy jumped and nearly dropped the book.
He hurriedly snapped it shut, looked up, and blinked in surprise.
“Oh…
um…
just history,” he mumbled.
“History?” Arthur repeated.
“The history of the Rhoynar Wars,” the boy explained, freezing as though he expected to be mocked.
Arthur had no intention of doing any such thing.
“Is it interesting?”
“Well…
yes,” he replied awkwardly, shifting where he sat.
“It’s about the wars between the Rhoynar and Valyria.
Battles.
Commanders.
Things like that.
There are illustrations too.
Look…”
He turned the book toward Arthur.
The picture showed some enormous beast, three times the size of a horse, with a long nose.
Beneath the illustration lay the inscription that had caught Arthur’s attention.
“That’s amazing!” Arthur’s eyes lit up.
“What’s that?”
He pointed at the writing.
“That’s an elephant,” the boy answered with a shy smile, assuming Arthur meant the illustration.
“They’re huge animals.
In Essos, they say people ride them instead of horses.
Can you imagine?”
“Gods…” Arthur murmured, trying to picture such a giant creature.
The writing interested him far more.
“And what language is that?
I’ve never seen it before.”
“Oh, that…” the boy began.
“It’s just…”
“There you are, Sammy!”
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)