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Chapter 381
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 12:39:04 +0000 UTCQhorin noticed the undeniable firmness in Aegor's tone and wisely shut his mouth.
Yesterday, he had glimpsed the scholarly and gentle side of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Today, however, he witnessed a different aspect—one of sheer decisiveness. Of course, decisiveness wasn’t inherently negative. While being stubborn was often a flaw, if the individual in question possessed enough rationality, keen judgment, and the ability to make well-thought-out decisions that ultimately proved correct, then being "unwavering" could very well lead to greatness.
Whether or not to reforge swords was, in the end, a matter of personal preference. It wasn’t an issue of principle, let alone one of right or wrong. Still, as Qhorin mulled over Aegor's final remarks, he caught a deeper meaning: Did the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch harbor a certain disdain for Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters?
No, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t disdain—it was pride. His commander, the supreme leader of the Night's Watch, seemed to believe that he would one day become a figure even more renowned than the founder of the Targaryen dynasty and the conqueror of the Seven Kingdoms.
Was that arrogance—or confidence?
Time would undoubtedly reveal the answer.
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They weaved through the narrow streets. Because Daenerys had recently demonstrated her might by flying a dragon over King's Landing, far fewer civilians remained in the city compared to an ordinary siege. The Blackwater Rush offered a milder climate than the Gift, but winter had fully descended, and the dampness near the river and sea made the cold even harder to endure. Fortunately, the infamous stench of the city was much diminished—whether that was due to the reduced population, the lower temperatures, or the gradual construction of public latrines, Aegor couldn’t say.
A few beggars, wrapped in rags, crouched by the roadside. The usual sight of barefoot children running about was absent in the frigid weather. After leaving the square, they turned onto Steel Street and began ascending the long Visenya’s Hill. Along the way, countless blacksmiths labored at their forges, though the usual haggling customers were scarce. The reason was simple—every forge was busy crafting arms and armor for King Stannis’s army, leaving no room for private commissions.
The higher they climbed, the grander the forges became. Status within this trade was no different from anywhere else in King’s Landing—the better the craft, the higher the altitude. Their destination was a massive armory near the hill’s summit, built of wood and plaster, its upper levels overlooking the narrow alleys below.
The shop’s double doors were crafted from ebony and weirwood, carved with a hunting scene. Two stone knights flanked the entrance, clad in fantastical red steel armor—one shaped like a griffin, the other a unicorn.
Aegor wasn’t the only visitor. Several horses were already tied to the stakes near the entrance, guarded by a man holding a long, dark banner. Seeing the best “parking spot” taken, Aegor tied his horse on the other side, leaving a guard behind before heading toward the doors.
Before he even entered, raised voices from within reached his ears.
“Ser, this equipment is reserved for King Stannis’s commanders. You can’t take it!”
“Once armor and weapons are forged, aren’t they meant to be used? We’ll equip ourselves and still serve King Stannis by defending the Seven Kingdoms. Name your price—every last copper will be paid!”
“This isn’t about money, ser. Disobeying the king’s orders could cost us common folk our heads!”
Aegor’s men had already sent word ahead, so when a maid spotted the black-clad newcomers, she immediately recognized them and cried out, “Master Mott, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch has arrived!”
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Aegor stepped through the doors, his mood souring as he realized he’d walked straight into a dispute. The shop’s main hall, lined with racks of gleaming weapons and armor, was the scene of a heated argument. A short but stocky man in a black velvet coat, marked by a silver hammer embroidered on his sleeve and a heavy silver chain adorned with sapphire gems the size of pigeon eggs, was cornered by a group of unwelcome guests.
It didn’t take much to piece things together: someone was trying to force the purchase of items not for sale. The shopkeeper had refused, and the argument had escalated. Aegor’s sudden appearance, flanked by Nina, Melisandre, Qhorin, and a contingent of guards, had interrupted the commotion.
His annoyance stemmed not from fear but from frustration. This forge, renowned as the best in King’s Landing, catered exclusively to royalty and the elite. Anyone brazen enough to stir trouble here was unlikely to be a mere commoner. Aegor had intended to handle his business quickly, leave through the King’s Gate, and sail downriver on the Blackbird before nightfall, his cargo of saltpeter in tow. An unnecessary delay could mean finding lodging in the city—and wasting a precious day he couldn’t afford to lose.
Unfortunately, the man he needed to see was none other than the shopkeeper himself. Leaving wasn’t an option. For now, he could only hope the sight of his heavily armed entourage, accompanied by a red priestess, would defuse the situation.
The shopkeeper, spotting Aegor’s group as if they were his salvation, broke away from his antagonists and rushed toward them. Surprisingly, the troublemakers didn’t try to stop him, instead turning their attention to the new arrivals.
Aegor, now under their scrutiny, quickly assessed his opponents. Their leader was a young nobleman with gold and red hair, clad in a black satin cloak embroidered with stars. His chest bore a sigil of a purple lightning bolt slashing through the night sky—Aegor couldn’t recall which house it belonged to. Flanking him were a freckled red-haired boy, a burly man with a dagger and sword at his belt, and a rotund figure in a bright crimson robe.
It was this last man who captured Aegor’s attention. In a world where vibrant dyes were a rare luxury, such eye-catching garments were almost unheard of. Apart from Melisandre and Moqorro, Aegor had never seen anyone dressed like this.
Another red priest?
Aegor glanced at Melisandre. She didn’t wait for his prompting, her sharp gaze already locked onto the crimson-robed figure. Her voice, cold and disdainful, broke the tense silence.
“Thoros of Myr, what are you doing here?”
