Chapter 52- Two Hundred Sets of Armor

"Watch your tone," Patrick said coldly, stepping forward. "You're speaking to a noble lord of the Riverlands."

Arthur didn't seem to mind the blacksmith's attitude. "Who cares if I can lift it? You don't want coin walking through your door?"

Tobho Mott, master armorer of King's Landing and the most sought-after smith in the capital, was quick to adjust his attitude. "I'll forge it. If you'd like, I can add rivets around the hammer's crown. It'll give more bite when it lands."

He assumed this was another one of those noble boys looking to swing oversized weapons for show—bluster, not battle. Most of them couldn't even lift what they commissioned, let alone wield it effectively.

But as a professional, Tobho still offered suggestions. Craftsmanship came with pride, even if the clients were absurd.

"You're the expert. Make it brutal," Arthur said, unfazed. "And while you're at it, I need a full suit of plate. Custom-made. Head to toe."

The shop was perched high on Visenya's Hill, just off Steel Street. The rent alone in this district was crushing—proof enough of Tobho's skill and reputation. His forge supplied the Gold Cloaks and had once done work for the City Watch itself. Rumor had it he even helped reforge the great Valyrian sword Ice into Oathkeeper and Widow's Wail, though that wouldn't happen for another few years.

Arthur's own armor would be forged here, but for outfitting his men—Jules and the others—they could scatter their business among the dozens of other smiths working along Steel Street.

"Plate armor, huh? Want any embellishments? A sigil? Trim?" Tobho asked. Adding decorative work meant higher profit, and most lords wanted some flair.

"No. Functional. Efficient," Arthur replied bluntly.

He had around 2,800 gold dragons in his coin purse. A full suit of custom armor from Tobho Mott would cost at least ten. Add engraving or ornamental design and the price doubled. For what? Something that would catch a sword better?

Armor was an investment. Unlike soldiers, it didn't die. With the right care, a single set of plate could last years, even decades. That's what cloaks were for—not pomp, but protection. A draped cloak over leather or steel kept moisture from ruining the hide or rusting the metal.

Armor made veterans. Veterans made armies. And while green recruits could be trained, elite warriors took years to forge. When they died, the war effort often died with them.

Arthur nodded to Tobho. "Once the hammer and armor details are set, I also want something different—a golden guandao."

Tobho tilted his head. "We can thicken the blade, lengthen the haft. But to make it gold-colored—what are you thinking? Gold plating? Copper? Both are soft."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Do I look like someone you can fool? Gold's too soft for war. I want steel. Color it gold, but make it deadly."

Tobho was surprised. This young lord clearly knew the difference between ceremonial and functional. "Gold paint over blackened steel, then. I know a mixture that'll hold up under blood and rain."

"I don't care how. Just get it done before the Hand's Tourney. I'm not swinging that hammer to win favor. I'm swinging it to survive."

After placing a deposit of three gold dragons and taking a forged token from the shop, Arthur turned to leave with his companions.

They still had another errand: outfitting their soldiers with standard armor.

Down the hill, in a far shabbier section of Steel Street, they found a smaller forge. This one was nothing like Tobho's. The smith wore a sweat-stained loincloth and his chest was black with soot. Still, his work was solid enough for common soldiers.

"A full suit of plate's eight dragons," the smith grunted. "Zipper mail's five. No chain mail."

"No chain?" Arthur asked, surprised.

Chainmail was cheap, decent for training new levies. With his remaining funds, Arthur could equip several hundred men with basic armor.

But the smith's apprentice stepped forward to explain: "The Westerlands and the Vale send chain mail here for cheaper than we can forge it. We don't waste time making it anymore. Only plate and lamellar armor now—and even then, the orders have been piling up ever since the king announced the tournament."

Arthur nodded. "Fair enough. What about two hundred suits of lamellar armor?"

Two hundred sets would do. Shire only had three or four hundred adult males. On a battlefield, if two hundred were armored, they'd form the backbone of any real force. And if more were needed—well, armor could be stripped from the dead.

At Arthur's question, the blacksmith perked up. "Two hundred? My lords, please, sit."

He waved an apprentice over with a cracked bench and offered them seats with a smile so wide it threatened to split his soot-caked face.

"We can do it," the smith said quickly, "but it'll take time. Lots of demand this week with the tourney, and I'm just one man with a few boys. A month—maybe a little more."

Arthur frowned. "No good. I want the armor before the jousting's over."

He wasn't just planning for the tourney. He knew the timeline. In a week, the tournament would begin. In two weeks, Eddard Stark would start investigating Jon Arryn's death. By week three, he'd be injured in the leg during a scuffle with Jaime Lannister. And after that, chaos would unfold: Lannisters, betrayal, blood in the streets, and the Mountain's return.

Westeros would be on fire in a month.

"Half a month," Arthur said. "I'll pick up the first batch then."

The smith looked panicked. "M'lord, we're not Lannisport. We can't—"

"If you can't do it," Arthur interrupted, "I'll find a shop that can."

He dropped a handful of gold dragons on the counter. The sound of real coin silenced the shop.

The smith's eyes widened. "Half a month it is. Even if I have to call every smith on the street and skip sleep."

The job was too big for one forge, but armorers shared clients, shared labor, shared coin. He could subcontract—do a few dozen himself, spread the rest around. Everyone got a cut. No reason to say no.

Arthur gave him a firm nod. "Good. I'll return in two days for a sample. If I'm satisfied, I'll pay the rest."

He left a deposit of twenty gold dragons, enough to get the work started. The remaining 180 would be paid upon delivery.

With the token in hand, Arthur and the others finally left the forge, satisfied.

They'd spent the entire morning arranging orders—armor for soldiers, armor for show, and weapons for war.

Now, it was time to find a tavern, grab a flagon of Dornish red or Stormlands cider, and enjoy a decent meal before the true madness of King's Landing began.

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