"Myrish crossbow." The blacksmith proudly displayed his new wares to the man standing before him. "Just got it in. Can fire three bolts at once."
The man critically inspected the finely made weapon. "I'm looking for accuracy in the weapon, not quantity of crossbow bolts." Dressed in stolen clothing, he looked even more frightening than he did when he killed the last owner of his clothes.
The blacksmith nodded, understanding the man. "Here," he said, slinging a new, smaller crossbow on the counter, "I think this is what you're looking for. It can fire a bolt into a buck's eye at 100 yards."
He inspected the weapon and found it satisfactory. "I'll need a sword as well." He demanded.
The blacksmith disappeared into the back for a moment before reemerging with a greatsword at least five feet long. "The finest steel money can buy. You'd have to find a Valyrian steel sword to find one better than this."
The man visibly flinched at the mention of the metal. "No, no Valyrian steel." He seemed shaken by the very idea of it.
The blacksmith shrugged this off, and asked if there was anything else ser needed. Soon he had added a dagger, a longsword, and a quarrel of steel-headed crossbow bolts to the pile.
"So how will ser be paying? This will cost you a pretty penny. The King himself couldn't ask for a better set of weapons." He was anxious to get the intimidating man out of his store and collect his gold.
The man just mechanically loaded a bolt into the crossbow. "I won't be paying at all." He leveled the bolt at the blacksmith's face and fire. The bolt punched through his skull and out the other end. His body crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll. The murderer didn't even flinch. As the blacksmith's body cooled on the floor behind the counter, he simply collected his unpaid for weapons and walked out the door.
In an alley a few streets down from the Sept of Baelor, another man was attempting to avoid the gold cloaks.
The copper-skinned man struggled to stay awake. He was waiting for the sept's bells to ring, signaling that the marriage was complete and Westeros had a new crown princess. When that happened, he needed to find her. The sept was too heavily guarded to approach her there. During the reception, when everyone was nice and drunk, including the guards, there he would find her.
But he was having difficulty staying awake. He always slept during the day, it was safer in the daylight than at night. Night was when the monsters came out. Though he had never experienced sunlight like this. When the sun came up hours ago, he thought he had died and joined the Great Stallion in the sky. Had joined his khalasar to ride through the endless plains. And the warmth given off by the sun was greater than any nightfire burned by the red priests. It warmed him to his very core.
He needed sleep though. Perhaps just a quick nap, to rest his eyes. He will need his strength. Barely had his eyes closed when he was swept into memory. A memory he'd rather not re-experience.
The memory was so clear. Though it was the sensations he remembered more than anything coherent. The biting cold against his exposed flesh, the feel of the horse thrumming underneath him, and the pure adrenaline of battle.
When fighting the enemy, they fought with fire. All around him, he could hear the crackle of flames and he could feel the heat given off by hundreds of individual fires. Some men fought with blazing branches, others with steel soaked in wildfire. Whatever they fought with, the corpses would go down blazing and not get back up.
The heat of his own sword threatened to sear the beard right of his face. Wildfire was a fickle bitch, it burned whatever it touched. He was no fool however, he was not callous enough to make that big of a mistake. He knew how to handle a blazing sword. His was an arakh, a curved sword with no hilt. Perfect for fighting foes on horseback.
His bloodriders fought beside him. Blood of his blood, Haggo. He laughs, enjoying the fight and the carnage. His laugh is quickly cut short when one of the accursed corpses, stabs him through the heart.
He is quick to react. Haggo's body must be burned before he can return. Haggo's corpse just makes another pyre burning on the battlefield. He had known Haggo all his life, he had fought with him, played with him. He was the blood of his blood. Yet he did not hesitate, watching the corpse of one his closest friends burn, couldn't even move him to tears. This was the reality he had grown up with. This was the reality that he couldn't let future generations face. He had grown up with the pale light of the sun and the constant threat of death. He would not flinch now, not when they were so close.
Spurring his horse, he rode back off into the thick of battle.
He awoke with a start, hearing the sept's bells tolling in the distance. He sprinted off down the narrow alleyway. There was a crowd blocking his way. Over the top of their heads, he could see a procession making its way down the streets.
There, he could see her. A fair maiden wearing a white dress, draped in the black and red colors of her house, the house of her new husband. He rode next to her on a great black destrier, waving and smiling. What a great fool.
They would make their way down to the Red Keep where the reception would take place. Hundreds of laughing, drunk fools paying more attention to their dinner plates than the princess. But what did he expect to do? Walk right in and make off with their future queen? He needed to think of something better than that.
Suddenly, he remembered something a friend of his had told him a long time ago. He darted off away from the crowd, and down to the wharf.