The smell of blood and burning paraded around the battlefield as the town's buildings were set ablaze one by one. Men screamed and cried, while others laughed and looted the dead, killing any injured survivors before looting them. The sword felt heavy and hot to the touch, and the armour matched it's heat. Sweat and blood drifted lazily down his shield, while the wound in his side carried on bleeding. Grimacing, he grabbed a piece of cloth from a dead man and began to bandage himself with some lordling's heraldry, before thoroughly checking over the body. He reached down the boy's arm, checking if he'd hidden anything in there. As a hedge knight, you took what you could get. He sighed and drank from his wineskin, before kicking the hand of the body in frustration.
Suddenly, pain lanced through his foot, and he recoiled in shock and surprise as he fell backwards and landed on the body of a peasant who'd obviously crapped himself in fear. The smell gave it away. Frantically, he got up and limped towards the body, kneeling and scrabbling through the mud like a prospector who just found gold. He grabbed the boy's arm, working his way down it and forcing open his hand, before grabbing the pommel of his sword and pulling it up out of the mud. If this sword was what he thought it was, the fortunes of House Ashell had just taken a huge turn for the better. On close examination, he was rewarded with the joy of dreams coming true. The sword was a smoky black color, with wisps of smoke drifting lazily up the blade. All he had to do was have it looked at by Tycho. The Qohorik had fled his home city because of murder, back when he was an apprentice blacksmith, and had come to westeros, where his steel was reputedly the best of Fairmarket. If anyone would know about this sword, be would. Assuming he was still alive. He grabbed the belt and scabbard and carried on looting.
The corpses outside the smithy made him think he was too late, but he was relieved to see that none of them his friend's bronze skin or black hair. One of them didn't even have a head.
"Willem! You're alive after that bloody harvest! Come in, come in, can I get you some ale?"
Willem smiled and felt the pressure of an ocean leave his shoulders as he heard Tycho's familiar accent.
"Not today, my friend. I need you to tell me something"
"You don't need me to confirm that you're an idiot."
Chuckling, Willem shook his head. "Something more important than that. Specifically this." With that, he drew the sword and placed it on a table in front of him . "Valyrian?"
Instantly, Tycho's entire mood and posture changed, as he walked over and bent down to examine the sword. "A Valyrian Longsword, the colour, texture and size denote that. The hilt is a two handed greatsword, as is the blade. With the loot from the battle, I could reforge it for you. For 3000 gold coins, which is at a discount considering the battle.
"Will it make a hole in your profits if you did it for free?"
"An easily fillable one. I'm not doing this as a gift for you though. Not for complete ownership of the entire Freehold."
Willem smiled. "Riverrun. You owe me for it. This is your payment."
"1500."
"Riverrun "
"I'm halving the price for you!"
"I'm taking the price away."
"1000"
"How much did Qothor put on your head again? 10,000 gold coins?"
"Willem, if you dare take me to Qothor, I'll-"
"What? You're in no position to argue. Riverrun or Qothor?"
"This is blackmail, you bastard. "
"I know. A hand and a half Longsword please. You also do shields, don't you?"
Tycho sighed. "Your standard sigil of a white castle on a blue background?"
"With a white sword above it. Instead of my usual kite shield, I'd like a large heater instead. In return, you'll get a sizable business opportunity soon, my friend."
"How"
"You'll see."
Willem strode out the door, smiling to himself.
His dream was nearly achievable.