The dark silhouettes of the capital's watchtowers loomed ahead as twilight deepened into night. The Gate of the Gods stood wide, flanked by more than twenty wagons laden with casks of cider, crates of apples, bundles of hay, and massive pumpkins the likes of which Caden had never seen.
Guards stood by every cart: levies with minor noble sigils, sellswords in boiled leather and mail, and even farm-boys clutching fire-hardened spears with wide, honest faces. Caden offered them a polite smile as he rode past, reaching the threshold where the Gold Cloaks were busy squeezing every merchant for a heavy entry fee.
"Why the tax?" Trick, the Sunwalker accompanying him, asked curiously.
A Gold Cloak standing by the road, tasking with keeping the queue moving, spat into the mud. "Orders from the Hand and the Master of Coin. All goods entering the city are taxed to the bone."
Caden surveyed the endless line of carts and pack-beasts. "If the tax is so high, why is the road so crowded?"
"War is done, and gold is moving," a cheerful miller called from a nearby wagon. "The Lannisters are in charge now. Safe as a vault. They say old Lord Tywin is so rich his very waste is made of silver."
"I heard it was gold," Caden laughed. "They say House Lannister fills their mines with the old man's 'wealth'."
The Gold Cloak chuckled, then remembered who signed his pay and quickly stifled the laugh. He turned a stern eye on Caden. "And you? What's your business?"
Caden gestured to his companions. "Mercenaries from the Reach. We heard there was a war in the capital and came to see if there was work for our steel."
The guard looked at their armor and let out a derisive snort. "You're too late to the feast. The fighting is over. There's no work for sellswords here unless you want to shovel dung for a copper a day."
Caden sighed, playing the part of the desperate veteran. "A pity. We were heading for King Renly's host, but the man died before we could reach him. The Reach went to madness after that. We heard Lord Stannis was coming for the city and rode as hard as we could, but we're late again. Our purses are dry. If we don't find work, we'll be selling our mail for bread."
The Gold Cloak, likely a former mercenary himself, softened slightly. "Equipment won't buy many meals these days. You have no cargo? Then take the foot-lane. Two silver stags each. And keep your heads down."
Caden touched two fingers to his brow in gratitude. "Thank you, brother. May the heavens watch over you."
They paid the ten silvers and slipped into the city.
Aldric had sent them to King's Landing with a specific goal. Having successfully produced Light-Forged Steel, he wanted to test the market without exposing the Order. Direct sales to lords were dangerous; intermediaries provided safety. Caden carried the blade Wildflower, intended for a master smith who could then find a high-born buyer.
Accompanying Caden were the Sunwalker Trick and two candidates, Morton and Hobart. Along with his squire Jasmine, the party of five was small but more than capable of protecting a fortune in steel.
Despite the recent siege, the capital was more vibrant than ever. On the Street of Seeds, a ragged beggar from the Guild of Beggars cried out for the souls of the fallen, but the crowds ignored him as if he were mere wind.
Everyone was back in their place: Gold Cloaks in black mail, boys selling hot pies and jam-tarts, whores leaning out of windows with unlaced bodices, and the poor, smelling of waste and desperation. Five men were dragging a dead horse from an alley while a juggler tossed daggers for a crowd of drunken Tyrell soldiers.
Famine still walked the streets. Skeletal refugees sat in every gutter, watching passersby with hollow eyes, waiting for a scrap of food or a minute of work that never came.
"I heard the Tyrells brought a mountain of grain from the Reach," Caden whispered. "Why are there still so many hungry bellies?"
"The grain is for those who can pay," Trick replied, his voice hard. "You think they'd hand out free bread or find work for the weak? That is what the Dawn does, not what Lords do."
Caden went silent. Lords made the war, and the smallfolk fell like grass. Peace came, and they fell all the same.
They found lodgings in a tavern on Shadowblack Lane, just two blocks from Flea Bottom and a short walk from the Street of Steel. The next morning, leaving Trick and the others to gather intelligence on the city's prices and the movements of the court, Caden and Jasmine headed for the blacksmiths.
The Street of Steel was a cacophony of hammers. Shops stood open, muscular smiths pounding red-hot iron into weapons and tools. Finished pieces hung on the walls in gleaming rows.
Caden entered a smaller shop where a master was eating black bread and grey soup. "Buying or selling?" the smith asked without looking up.
"What's the difference?"
"If you're buying, look at the walls. Prices are low. If you're selling, go somewhere else. I've too much stock as it is."
Caden pulled a knightly longsword from the wall, inspecting the balance. "How much for this?"
The smith wiped soup from his fingers. "Good eye. It belonged to a captain of the City Watch who 'lost' his post. A deserter, more like. I took it for fifteen silver moons. You can have it for twenty."
A gold dragon was worth thirty silvers by royal decree. Normally, such a blade would cost a full dragon or more. The price had dropped by a third—the end of the war had flooded the market with the steel of the dead.
"Twenty is fair," Caden noted, "but perhaps there's a lower floor?"
"That's the floor," the smith snapped. "Iron doesn't rot. If you don't buy it, I'll store it until the next war and sell it for double."
Caden hung the sword back up. "Fair enough. Perhaps I'll just wander the Blackwater mudflats and find a blade for free."
The smith scoffed. "The poor picked those bones clean days ago. You might find a bent hilt if you're lucky."
Caden turned to leave, then stopped. "One thing—you said you don't buy common steel. What if I 'found' something of Valyrian quality?"
The smith's eyes went wide. "You have Valyrian steel?"
"Not yet. But what if? I heard the lords who came with Stannis brought many treasures. If a blade slipped into the river and I happened to find it?"
The smith's interest died instantly. He waved Caden away. "And I dreamed I found a chest of dragons. Go play your games elsewhere."
"But if it were real?"
"Then go to Tobho Mott," the smith grunted. "None of us can afford the price you'd ask. He's the only one on the street who can talk that kind of coin."
Caden and Jasmine headed for the largest shop on the street. It was a massive timber-and-plaster building overlooking the lane. Its doors were made of ebony and weirwood, carved with a hunting scene. Two stone knights in red-lacquered armor—one a griffin, the other a unicorn—stood guard.
Inside, there was no soot or smoke. A well-dressed youth stood behind a counter, surrounded by masterworks.
"How may I help you, Ser?" the youth asked.
"I heard the battlefield left many things behind," Caden said. "Do you have any 'salvaged' stock?"
The youth shook his head. "We have masterpieces, but none are scavenged. Master Tobho is an artist. He does not sell the work of others."
Caden leaned in, whispering. "And if I have a piece you might wish to acquire?"
"How good?"
Caden loosened his belt, revealing the hilt of Wildflower. He slid the blade out just an inch, letting the rippled, chaotic patterns catch the light.
The youth's breath hitched. He reached for the hilt, but Caden pulled back. "Fetch your Master."
"I... I cannot," the youth stammered. "Master Tobho was summoned to the Tower of the Hand by Lord Tywin. He won't be back until late. You must wait."
Caden sheathed the blade. He had learned caution in the Reach. "I'll return tomorrow. Tell him I'm coming."
He tossed a copper star onto the counter as a tip and walked out.
"Where now, Ser?" Jasmine asked.
"Let's look at the King's Gate," Caden said. "If I'm going to claim I found this on the field, I need to know the details of the fight."
Outside the gate, the world was ash and bone. Mud and charred remains were all that was left of the assault. Yet in the shadow of the walls, tents had been raised, and men were selling fish from barrels to survive.
The people looked at Caden—a knight in mail with a squire—with a mix of fear and indifference. They knew who to avoid. Caden surveyed the river, where masts of sunken ships still poked through the waves like blackened fingers.
As they turned back into the city, Caden sought a tavern for a drink and some gossip. He didn't expect to run into a ghost from his past.
A man was walking beside a dwarf on a pony. The man was dressed in polished black mail, looking as if he had finally found the wealth he'd always craved. Caden recognized him immediately—an arrogant, deadly sellsword he had served with in the Reach.
"Bronn!" Caden shouted, a grin spreading across his face. "Bronn, you old dog! Long time no see!"
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