"Mayhaps we should travel on foot?" said Corwyn, as he struggled with his palfrey.
"The going would be slower still," Willam replied, turning in his saddle. Aegon's squire looked like he would have rather stayed with his older brother Leowyn, dealing with the business with the Red Keep's stewards, and not here traveling to the Street of Steel.
All around them, King's Landing felt as if it was fit to burst, and he had to tread lightly less his horse trample some poor child. The Heir's Tourney had drawn a crowd not seen since the tourney celebrating the fiftieth year of King Jaehaerys the Old's reign, and they crowded the Fishmonger's Square. Lords, knights, and squires from all corners of the kingdom had come to compete in the melee and the joust. Merchants and farmers with their wagons filled with fruits and vegetables shouted out for all to hear. Little boys and girls ran through the crowd, all waving sticks around like they were knights in battle, while a stern old woman leaning from a window shouted at them to stop. On a corner, a mummer stood on a crate with a flagon in one hand, spitting a jet of flame into the air from his hand and mouth. The show drew cheers from onlookers, but Willam's horse misliked it, stamping a hoof into the cobblestone.
"Easy, Honor," Willam said, patting him on the neck. The horse snorted at him, but kept on all the same, and the rest of his little group followed.
Visenya's Hill was before them, the Street of Steel winding its way up in a curving path straddled by blacksmiths, less crowded than the square. Willam led the way, past open forges bellowing with heat, blacksmiths hammering away at fresh swords that glowed, freeriders haggling over mail shirts, and ironmongers catering to hedge knights and would be squires. A group of knights bearing the arms of House Reyne headed downhill passed by, their leader offering a curt nod to them. Willam returned it, though he did not offer the same courtesy to the squad of gold cloaks that followed a couple paces behind. Even before their party had reached King's Landing, tales of the newly organized City Watch had reached them upon the Kingsroad, and none of them were good. "Thugs in gold," Old Lord Oakheart had called them when they had met his party, the old man leaving the city behind him for the Reach. "Commanded by their rogue prince."
It had left a sour taste in Willam's mouth, as did seeing their work with his own eyes. Midnight raids, sharp beatings for petty crimes, public executions in the streets. There was no glory or honor in keeping the king's peace in such a brutal manner. That it was handled in such a way by Prince Daemon himself spoke ill of the man, and the ilk would no doubt trickle down to feed the fears that men held for his son. The thought had Willam frowning. Even a blind man can see that Aegon is not his father's son. But blind or not, men would believe what they wanted to believe.
"This is the one," he called out, reining up Honor in front of the largest building upon the Street of Steel and dismounting. The higher upon the hill the more expensive the shops, and this one was at the end of the Street of Steel, next to the white square of Grand Sept which sat on the summit of Visenya's Hill. The Storm Forge read the painted sign, and what a mighty forge it was, two stories entirely of grey stone with a door of Ironwood a foot thick. Two suits of steel plate expertly crafted stood on either side of the entrance, polished to a mirror shine.
"I've heard many great things about Iron Durran," Ser Robert Redfort said. The strapping heir to the Redfort tied his horses reins to the post, taking in the building as he did. "Seen some of his work as well."
"Looking at his work is all we'll be doing here," said Kyle Woodhull, and Andrew Hardyng behind him nodded in silent agreement, keeping his eyes to the street. "The man charges an eyewatering amount of gold for a suit of plate. Gold which none of us have, and even if we did, we'd lose it for ransom in the joust."
"It will be a certainty if you keep that attitude, Woodhull." Ser Jaime Hunter brought up the rear, a tall man of two-and-twenty with a crooked nose amidst a plain face. Broken during a spar and healed slanted. Fixing it would mean breaking it again. "What kind of knight are you that is so sour about life? Who whinges about their lack of gold? No knight fights for gold alone, for if he did, then he is no better than a brigand."
"Spare me the lecture, Ser Warrior," Kyle muttered. "You're starting to sound like Aegon."
"My coz has the right of it," Willam called over his shoulder, turning the handle of the Ironwood door and shouldering it forward. So heavy was it that he had to work to get the weight moving. "If you focused more in the sparring yard than you do in Lady Jeyne's gardens, you might actually win a tourney and have some real gold to your name. Andrew, with the horses. The rest of you, let's look at some armor."
The inside of the Storm Forge looked more akin to an armory than a shop. The far walls were lined with suits of steel plate, each more intricately detailed and wrought with designs than the last, their helmets of various sizes and forms. Above them hung shields of different make, pristine in their craft. Wooden racks stood back-to-back down the middle of the expansive room, displaying the pommels and hilts of freshly forged longswords. A massive warhammer rested beside the entrance itself, the head a fist of blackened steel, the handle nearly as tall as Corwyn was. Deep inside the shop, where the hearth burned pale embers, sat a boy honing a blade with a whetstone. He took note of them, then left the sword behind, and returned shortly after with Iron Durran himself.
"More knights," said the master armorer. Iron Durran was short, bald, and had the shoulders and arms of an aurochs. The stained apron he wore covered a strong chest full of black hair, a silver chain tucked underneath both. "So, have any of you boys seen real battle, or are you as green as summer grass like the last lackwit highborn son who graced my shop?"
"We are knights of the Vale of Arryn," Robert explained. "We've all dealt with our fair share of mountain clansmen whilst traveling the high road. We are not as green as summer grass. Our blades have been blooded."
"Vale knights, eh?" Iron Durran surveyed them with a hard eye. Willam found himself standing a little taller under the older man's gaze, resting a hand on Lamentation's pommel. Robert and Jaime both did as much, while Kyle slouched against a wooden beam, and Corwyn had eyes for the suits of armor. "Well, least you lot look like men grown. All you see is what I have to sell. You want a suit fashioned to fit perfect? That will take considerable time and gold, for I don't sell cheap armor like the others on the Street of Steel."
The others went about the shop, eyeing sword and suit, but Willam had a more specific desire. One that he had thought about ever since they had left the Gates of the Moon. "I have need of a warhelm of the finest steel, one with a falcon's wings fanning from either side, and a falcon's head upon the crest."
"And who will wear such a helm?" Iron Durran asked. "The falcon is the sigil of the Arryns, that I know. You don't look like an Arryn."
"Aye, I am not an Arryn. I am Ser Willam Royce, a knight of Runestone. The helm would not be mine to wear, no, its intended wearer has yet to be born."
Iron Durran frowned. "Then how will I size the helm if the man to wear it has yet to be born?"
"By shaping it to be of a size to fit most men and praying that it will be the right size when the time comes."
The frown didn't move, yet the master armorer did not refute the offer either. "Hyle!" he yelled, and soon enough a young apprentice came running through the back door, soaked in sweat and smelling of a forge. He looked to be of an age with Aegon, flushed red in the face, his chest and arms corded with a blacksmith's muscle. "Start on a helm. Standard shape and keep it unadorned, I'll add the details when it's ready." The boy nodded and was halfway out the door when Iron Durran caught him by the arm. "What's this?"
Willam saw it only after Iron Durran snatched it up. "Flowers in your hair?" the master armorer said. Hyle flushed redder than he already was. "You hit your head and mistake yourself for a maiden? No, you were away from your work, with the girl again."
Hyle wretched his arm free. "Her name is Lily. We only spoke a whit."
"Keep it at that." The flower was thrown to the other boy by the hearth, who paused from his work sharpening the blade long enough to tuck it away, before he threw an empty hand at the burning embers. Willam bit his cheek to keep from grinning. "I don't need her father knocking on my door when you've got her with your bastard in her belly."
The lad got a clout round the ear and was sent on his way. He retrieved the flower from the other boy when the master armorer had his back turned to him, eyes pleading with Willam to keep quiet, and so he did. "There's nothing wrong about a little young love," Willam said, thinking about Elinor's sweet smile when she laughed. Iron Durran simply snorted. "What? Never been in love?"
"Hyle thinks he'll woo that girl's heart. Ha! The apprentice and the merchant's daughter, now that's a tale. But life isn't like that. The songs about Florian the Fool and Sweet Jonquil are nothing but that, songs. Tales for young boys who dream about becoming perfect knights and saving the fair maiden locked in the tower. Fantasy. The life of a knight isn't like that. No one is as perfect as the knights of the songs."
Then you have yet to meet Aegon, for he is nobler than most. Willam inspected his coin purse. "Price for the helm?"
"Two hundred stags," said Iron Durran.
He looked up. "Two hundred? It is only a warhelm. For that price I could buy myself a full suit of ringmail."
"This is the Storm Forge, lad. Look around. Quality work like mine demands a high price."
When they left the armorer, Willam's coin purse was near empty, and Andrew Hardyng wanted their next place of call to be a good tavern for he had built up a hunger for chicken. Corwyn agreed, as did Jaime, and so they mounted up and set forth. The journey down the Street of Steel and across Fishmonger's Square was a slow one, the crowd thicker than it had been, but it seemed to part for the squad of gold cloaks who marched by. "Make way for Prince Daemon!" one of them shouted, while his fellows shoved those too slow to move. "Make way for Prince Daemon!" And with a thunder of hoofbeats came the Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing himself, a striking figure armored in masterly wrought black steel, with silver hair and a cloak of gold streaming from his back. His black courser was racing for the Red Keep, not slowing for any who happened upon to be in his way.
So that is Prince Daemon. Willam watched him go, soothing Honor when the crowd drew too close. Hearing about Aegon's father was one thing. It was another to see him in the flesh, if only fleetingly. It is truly a wonder they are father and son. Willam had known Aegon all his life. They had trained in Runestone's sparring yard together, learned from the same maester, ate in the same halls, jested with the same friends, prayed in the same septs. But neither of them had seen hide nor hair of Prince Daemon in all their years, until now.
"Willam!" called Robert. The crowd had thinned, and Willam saw that he was lagging behind. "Come on! Jaime's found us a tavern!"
It was called the Dragon's Head, a squat building of stone and plaster beside River Row, the eastern wall of King's Landing with the quays and fishmongers to its back. The ceiling inside was low, half the tables filled with men from all over Westeros, and the serving girls were bustling about with trays filled with food. Honeyed chicken, roast goose bathed in sauce, pigeon pie, black breads, honey cakes. The smells alone were delicious and soon enough their group had a table in a corner, tankards of ale before them.
"What are the odds of any of us winning the joust?" Kyle said, looking around the tavern. Kyle always saw the worst in things, but Willam could not fault him in his thinking for this. The tavern was filled with men-at-arms and knights, strong men older than they were, more experienced too. "There's got to be more than two hundred knights entering the lists alone."
"Try four hundred," said the serving girl as she presented them a tray of bread and cheese. Corwyn was the first to grab a chunk of each, Robert not far behind. "I hear the Red Keep can't fit all you lot. That some are camping across the Blackwater Rush."
"Gods be good," Robert exclaimed. "Four hundred? That can't be right."
"This is the Heir's Tourney," Jaime reasoned. "The king himself will be attending and there are many knights who wish to prove their worth. No doubt the number will grow larger still. The competition will be fierce."
"You mean to enter?" the girl asked.
"I do, and if the gods are willing, I will come out victorious."
The girl smiled at that, and she looked pretty enough when she did. A shout for more wine from across the tavern drew her away, and Willam grabbed a piece of cheese for himself. The ale wasn't half bad either. "Do you really think you'll win?" Corwyn asked.
"I've never seen a task that Ser Jaime Hunter has yet to complete when he puts his head to it," Willam said.
"Yet it was Aegon who bested him in the joust for Lady Jeyne name day tourney," muttered Kyle, and Andrew drove an elbow into his side. "What? It's true. We were all there."
"Aye." Jaime nodded. "Aegon did best me, and his victory was hard won. Breaking eight lances against one another is no small feat. But mayhaps it will be different for this tourney. With so many lords and knights and men-at-arms, the chances we will face each other are slim."
"I took a glance at the names before we left," Robert said, "Lord Reyne has entered, along with half the Westerlands it seems. Lord Boremund Baratheon as well. Ser Gedmund Peake, the Great-Axe. Ser Lyonel Storm, the Bastard of Stonehelm, the one they call the Black Storm. Ser Garth Costayne. Ser Joffrey Mallister. Ser Jon Roxton. Ser Alan Tarly, and both his brothers. Ser Ormund Hightower, who wields Vigilance."
"Aye, and Tarly's got Heartsbane," Willam said. "I've got Lamentation. Leowyn has Lady Forlorn. Prince Daemon wields Dark Sister. Seems like there's to be much and more Valyrian steel in the melee." The sight would be glorious, he knew, a true showing of martial prowess. But a part of him doubted he could stand up to such renowned knights with his own blade.
"Speaking of princes." Andrew seldom spoke when they ate as a group, preferring his own company to others. When he did speak, they all listened. "Aegon does not know his father makes for the Red Keep."
Kyle shook his head. "I'm sure we'll hear about that meeting soon enough," he said into his tankard.
"Why does he hate him?" Corwyn asked, looking at them all. At times he seemed all too young to be a squire. "I've asked before, but he never said much."
"Prince Daemon is a dishonorable man," Willam explained, his voice low. Speaking ill of the royal family around the wrong ears would quickly find a man without his tongue. "He abandoned Lady Rhea soon after Aegon was born, leaving Runestone for King's Landing on his dragon. The servants say that the prince left orders for Lady Rhea on what to name the babe, Baelon for a boy, and Alyssa for a girl. Yet my coz was named Aegon, for the Conqueror. Not once did he visit Runestone, and I would know."
"They do not call him the rogue prince as a compliment," Jaime added. "He may be a knight in the eyes of the seven, Corwyn, but I fear he is not a godly man, nor one keen to keeping oaths."
Corwyn frowned, pushing a piece of bread between his fingers. "But why?"
"Because he can," Kyle said.
"Just know this, Corwyn." Willam drew his attention and tapped Lamentation's ornate hilt. "Lamentation is the ancestral sword of House Royce, wielded by the Lords and Kings of Runestone for hundreds of years. It came to my father when Lord Yorbert only had daughters and no sons. When I became a knight, he passed it on to me, swearing me to defend House Royce and the family honor with it. Then as a knight himself, it was within Aegon's right to demand the blade from me, as the Heir to Runestone. But he did not. He told me he would not force me to break mine own oath. That it is not honorable to desire what others possess. Now, knowing about Prince Daemon, would you say he would do the same?"
"Please." Robert grinned into his tankard. "As if that's even a choice."
Corwyn didn't seem to hear him. "He wouldn't."
"He wouldn't," Willam echoed. "Aegon is the knight you should strive to be. No matter what others might say of him, of false words and rumors, you are his squire and know him better. You know me, and when I say this, I do not lie. He is a true knight."
