Thoros groaned, rolled onto his back, and found the ceiling beams of a tavern he did not remember choosing. A sour-smelling blanket tangled around his legs, an empty wineskin lay near his hand like some faithless lover who had slipped away in the night, and his tongue felt like a strip of old leather left too long in the sun.
"Lord save me," he muttered.
He sat up, slowly, so the room's spinning might tire itself out, and go torment some other poor soul, and rubbed his eyes. Somewhere below, the tavern was already alive with morning noise: clattering dishes, men barking for ale, the rising hum of a city swollen with visitors for the tourney… and now for something worse.
Thoros found his boots under the bed and trudged downstairs. The tavern was packed shoulder to shoulder, freeriders, sellswords, smallfolk, merchants come to sniff profit from spectacle. The air stank of sweat, wine, baked bread, and the sharp tang of anticipation.
He slid onto a bench, gestured at the innkeep for ale. Every other face seemed lit with the same fierce fervor, as though Arthur Manderly's speech had kindled something in them that had been waiting to burn.
Strange, Thoros thought, watching them. Once, that sort of fire had burned within him. R'hllor had sent him to a foreign king, a foreign throne, to serve some divine plan. Now that king was gone, the crown had changed heads from a dragon to a stag, and whatever task he'd come for had slipped away into the years like smoke from a dying hearth. He lifted his cup. The ale was cheap, rough, and blessedly strong.
"When was it," he murmured into it, "that I lost the taste for anything but this?"
Behind him, a group of men grew loud, freeriders by the look of them, mail patched with rust, cloaks crusted with road-dust. "The Knight o' Flowers can shove off," grunted a burly one with a beard like a tangled rope. "The Merman will win this one too. Mark me."
His skinny companion snorted, sharp-faced and twitchy as a ferret. "Fuck off. This time it's going to be the Kingslayer, mind you. Lannister's hungry for glory again."
"Aye, hungry for his gold more like," the burly one barked, earning a round of coarse laughter.
The fat one leaned in conspiratorially, "Did you see the chaos last night? Fucking bastards everywhere with pitchforks. Thought the whole city would burn."
The burly man slapped the table. "Aye! Fishermen thinking themselves warriors. All trying to save the gods' children, wasn't it?" He laughed so loudly the table shook.
The whole city is mad, he thought. Has been, since the Conqueror first set foot here. Faith and folly were close cousins, always had been. It chilled him more than he wished to admit, seeing the fire in those smallfolk eyes, how eager they were to spill blood in the name of gods who seldom seemed to lift a finger for them.
"Holy wars," he muttered. "As if the world needed another reason for blood."
The burly freerider must have heard him, for he glanced over. "You say something, Priest?"
"Only that ale before noon is a fine blessing of the gods," Thoros replied with a genial smile.
The men laughed, thinking him a drunk madman. Thoros shut his eyes a moment, he knew what they spoke of.
Arthur Manderly's voice had rung through the Red Keep like a sword drawn from its sheath. The people had swallowed every shining word, let it burn in their bellies until zeal spilled out into the streets like boiling pitch. By evening, half the city was shouting for holy cleansing, waving torches as though they meant to scour sin from the cobbles by sheer noise alone. False priests, seven-crazed, half-trained, drunk on borrowed fervor, had stood atop crates and fountains, calling for the purge of heathens. Of foreigners. Of men like Thoros, truth be told.
By nightfall the mob had swarmed toward the Street of Silk, where the Essosi merchants lived and plied their trades. Lamps overturned, shutters smashed in, a few poor fools cornered in the alleys and cut down for no crime greater than their tongue or their gods.
"Aye," the fat freerider was saying as he tugged at his greasy beard, "I saw the Merman himself, Ser Arthur, standin' in front of the mob, bold as you please. Calmed 'em right down."
"Calmed?" The burly one snorted. "Looked more like he was daring 'em to take a swing at him. Man like that could stare down a kraken."
"He had a dozen of those blue cloaks with him too," said the skinny one, nodding. "Galladons. With their bright shields. Seven bless 'em. If they hadn't marched in, half the city would've burned."
"And the mad priests?" asked the burly one.
"Oh, hauled off by the watch," said the skinny man. "Straight to the cells. They say Lord Stark will behead them personally."
"That's northerners for you," the burly man grumbled. "Lose your head or go freeze your balls off at the Wall."
The men laughed, pounding the table, sloshing ale. Thoros only watched them over the rim of his cup. Strange to think how jolly they were at the idea of heads rolling. But Westerosis often laughed loudest at the things that frightened it most.
"…I'm telling you, Lord Caron's taking men," the skinny one insisted. "There'll be good coin in his retinue once the tourney is over."
"Coin, aye," the burly one barked, "Many offer the same, I plan to join Morrigen's men. I hear Ser Guyard is a brave and generous knight."
"War's coming. Might as well be on the right side of it." the fat one muttered.
"What side is that?" the skinny one asked dryly.
"Wherever the gods stand and…" the burly one grinned. "Whichever lord pays first."
They all roared at that, the rough laughter of men who had never once feared dying because they had never once expected to live long enough for it to matter.
Thoros pushed back his bench. Enough. Their noise gave him a headache, their eagerness for war made his stomach sour, and their careless talk of gods. Thoros jingled the last of his coins into the barman's hand, poor payment for the ale, poorer still for the company, and stepped out into the morning glare. The city was already seething with noise. Caravans creaked toward the tourney grounds, knights polished their armor until it gleamed like lies, and every cutpurse in King's Landing prowled the crowds with a grin sharp enough to flay a purse open.
Tomorrow the tourney begins. Thoros winced at the thought. His fire trick made for splendid spectacle, but it left swords ruined, temper cracked, steel warped like melted wax. And he had none to spare. The Merman boy had knocked him senseless last tourney, seven hells, the lad hit like a leviathan breaching out of the sea, and Thoros had lost more than his footing that day. He'd lost his purse, his blade, and most of his pride.
Win this time, he told himself, or go begging before the king again like some washed-up mummer.
Thoros wound his way through the forges and smoke of the Street of Steel until the familiar golden anvil sign swung into view. Tobho Mott's shop, the finest smith in the city, though the man had a temper as sharp as any of his blades. And if Tobho had a list of customers he despised, Thoros of Myr held pride of place at the top.
He stepped inside with a smile, "May the Lord of Light bless you with warmth against the cold, Tobho Mott."
Tobho turned from his forge, his dark face twisting, "False priest," he said flatly. "You've returned."
Thoros clutched his chest in mock injury. "False, is it? Is that how you greet your friends?"
"Thoros of Myr is no friend of mine." Tobho snorted. "You are an enemy to my craft."
"Well," Thoros said, "many have called me worse things. And most of them were true."
Tobho scowled. Thoros kept smiling, long practice made it easy enough.
"Come now, friend," Thoros pressed, "Tell me how you fare. How's business? How's the wife? How's that apprentice of yours, what was his name? The one who looked like a startled rabbit—"
"All of them fare better than your performances in the tournaments," Tobho replied with a harsh laugh.
"You've become as salty as you are a crook." Thoros said smiling. Tobho glared at him.
Thoros cleared his throat. "Speaking of tournaments, I shall require another sword."
"No."
"Come now…"
"No swords for you." Tobho stabbed a finger at him like a spearpoint. "I've seen what becomes of my good steel in your hands. You take a perfectly fine blade, pour madness over it and light it on fire. Then return it to me looking like something a goat shat out."
"That's part of my magic, old friend." Thoros said with a lazy smile.
"You'll get no more," Tobho growled. "Buy from some back-alley smith if you must ruin another weapon. My work deserves better."
Thoros sighed dramatically. "My dear Tobho, must you wound me so? You know I fight best with a blade of your making. The crowd expects a certain… flare."
"Flare is it?" Tobho barked. "What you do is an abomination. Good steel is meant for war, not for setting yourself ablaze like a fool in the street."
"Fool?" Thoros said. "I prefer the term 'The champion of the crowds.'"
"Then go champion them without my steel." Tobho replied with a laugh.
Thoros glanced meaningfully at a rack of newly finished swords, slender ones, broad ones, cruel ones etched with patterns no Westerosi smith could shape. His fingers twitched. Beautiful work. Beautiful, expensive work.
Thoros was about to try one last desperate plea, perhaps an appeal to Tobho's vanity, or to the smith's secret fondness for gold, when the forge door swung open. A tall young man stepped inside, flanked by two guards who remained at the threshold. Broad shoulders, fair hair, the easy grace of a knight who had been born to admiration. Thoros knew the face at once, only a fool would not.
Ser Arthur Manderly.
If the city had been fevered since the speech yesterday, Arthur was the fire that had brought the fever on.
The moment the boy entered, Tobho's scowl vanished like snow under a dragon's breath. The smith's entire posture straightened; he nearly tripped over his own feet rushing forward.
"My lord…. welcome, welcome!" Tobho beamed, bowing so low Thoros feared he might snap in half. "What an honor to host our savior!"
Arthur smiled brightly, the kind of smile that made smallfolk cheer and old knights remember their youth. "You flatter me, master smith. I'm no savior, merely a customer."
"Ah, but a noble one," Tobho said, all but glowing. "To what do I owe the pleasure? If you wish it, I shall fashion you a suit of armor fit for the songs."
Thoros watched the exchange with mild irritation. Songs, he thought sourly. The lad has half the realm singing already.
Arthur shook his head gently. "Alas, master smith, it is not I who requires the armor."
Tobho blinked, surprise flickering across his face. "For whom then, my lord?"
There was a hint of disappointment in his tone, Tobho had hoped to snare a great fish.
Arthur answered without pause. "For three great men. I require you to forge armor for our King Robert Baratheon… and his brothers, Lord Stannis Baratheon, Lord Renly Baratheon."
The smith froze. Then he lit up brighter than his forge at midnight.
"My lord… this… this is…" Tobho struggled for breath. "I shall be greatly honored to do so. Greatly!"
He bowed again, deeper this time, nearly kissing the floorboards.
Thoros bit back a laugh. Tobho Mott, who had just moments ago threatened to throw him into the forge, now melted into a puddle at the boy's boots and had forgotten Thoros existed at all.
Arthur nodded as Tobho rattled on about alloys and hammer-temper. "I'm certain you'll deliver your best work," the young knight said, warm as summer sun. "Price is no issue."
Thoros could practically hear Tobho's knees weaken.
"Of course, my lord," Tobho said, nodding so fervently his jowls trembled. He snapped toward his apprentice. "Boy! Bring the designs, quickly!"
Arthur raised a hand. "Oh, no need for that." He reached into his cloak and unrolled two sheets of parchment, crisp and neat, the ink still dark. "I had designs prepared beforehand."
Of course he did, Thoros thought. The lad probably drew them himself, singing hymns while he worked.
Tobho leaned over the parchment, his brows tightening as he took in every line, every mark. His eyes flicked from the designs back to Arthur, and nodded eagerly. "Aye, my lord, I can do this. The king and his brothers will have the finest plate in Westeros. Leave it to me."
Arthur's smile came warm and certain. "I knew I could trust you, Master Mott." He tapped the design with a gloved finger. "My steward shall deliver you the white steel from which you'll shape them. The plates have already been forged in White Harbor. I need you only to fit them to the King and his brothers, shape them according to the measurements and preferences recorded there."
Tobho's lips pressed into a thin line. "Half-forged then, my lord?" he asked, not quite able to keep the sting from his voice. "Your smiths have done the first shaping?"
Arthur replied the faintest apology in his smile. "I know this may displease your trained hand, Master Smith. But time is short, and the need great. I require the armors within the week."
"You shall have them, my lord," Tobho said. "Within the week. On my honor as a smith."
Arthur inclined his head. "That is all I can ask." The boy shifted to leave but then he noticed Thoros lurking near the racks, he smiled, "Thoros of Myr? What brings you here, priest?"
Before Thoros could answer, "He was just leaving, my lord," Tobho said sharply, as though he were some rat skulking near the grain.
Thoros offered a bow, "I had hoped to buy a sword," he said lightly, "but it seems Master Tobho is… busy."
Arthur smiled, "No, stay. Make your purchase. My work here is done." He handed Tobho a pouch of coins and strode out with that unburdened certainty only young heroes possessed.
"Right," Thoros said, rubbing his palms together. "About that sword—"
"Out."
"Come now," Thoros said with a hopeful grin. "We haven't discussed price."
Tobho rolled his eyes. "What coin you bring?"
Thoros sighed. "Fine. I admit I'm… light of purse."
"Penniless," Tobho corrected.
"Momentarily," Thoros insisted. "When I win the melee…"
"You won't."
"I might."
"OUT!" Tobho roared.
And out Thoros went, all but shoved into the street. He wandered around with his staff toward the reek and rattle of Flea Bottom, thinking how he could win the melee with this stick. Smoke stung his eyes. Carts rolled past with the stink of onions and eels. Children darted between legs with practiced thievery.
There he saw them. A cluster of men in black robes stood ahead, each robe marked by a seven-pointed star worked in pale thread, and beneath it a trident stitched in silver-blue. Priests, aye, but not septons of King's Landing. These were colder men, northern men. Hospitallers, the smallfolk called them.
Two priests stood at the fore. The healer wore a green scarf looped around his shoulders, and the other a white scarf, white as new-fallen snow, marking him a preacher. Between them towered a knight in silvered plate. His armor gleamed with a blue tint, like moonlight reflecting on deep water. White steel, if the tales spoke true. Forged in the North, born in cold and made to endure colder.
The knight, the Galladon they called such men, bore a great round shield upon his arm. It was forged of the same pale steel, and though the day was dim, the shield seemed to catch every scrap of light and throw it back in a soft glow. They said those shields warded off evil.
Thoros wondered, Would it ward off a penniless red priest with a fondness for fire?
The white-scarfed priest raised a ladle high, voice ringing clear across the yard. "Come, come, get your food, brothers and sisters. The Father and the Mother provide for their children. Form a line. There is enough for all."
Fingers of steam lifted from cauldrons. The scent surprised Thoros, not rot or water gone sour, but honest stew. Onion, barley, even a hint of meat. Flea Bottom seldom smelled so kind.
What surprised him more were the people. They were forming lines. Actual lines. No shoving, no fists, no knives hidden under cloaks. Men, women, children, gaunt faces, wary eyes, waiting for their turn like faithful acolytes.
Thoros muttered, "Seven hells… either the gods have cowed them or that knight has."
A rat-faced boy near him whispered, "The Galladon don't let no fightin' happen. Saw him lift a man clean off the ground with one hand."
"Truly?" Thoros asked.
The boy nodded vigorously, then darted toward the line.
The white-scarfed priest's voice carried again, "If you are sick or wounded, stand in line for our Greenhand, and with the Seven's blessings he shall take care of you." He gestured toward the priest in green.
Thoros stepped back slightly, adjusting his robe. Then the preacher's gaze fell upon him. "Come, brother. Take food, alms, or the gods' words, whatever you may need."
The simple kindness should have warmed Thoros. It did not. He looked into the eyes of the smallfolk waiting for their portion. Fear glimmered in some, curiosity in others, and in most, hatred.
Thoros bowed slightly, keeping the smile thin. "I require nothing. And if I did, the Lord of Light shall provide."
The words left his lips before he had fully thought them. Immediately, he wished he could take them back. They might as well order the peasants to kill me now, Thoros thought, grimacing.
"Heathen!" The shout cracked through Flea Bottom, sharp and ugly. More voices joined, rising in confusion and anger, the usual murmur of the slums turning into something hotter and unpredictable. Thoros stiffened.
The white-scarfed priest stepped forward, "Peace, brothers and sisters. Peace."
He approached Thoros, moving with calm, then turned to the crowd. "He is not your enemy. Merely a follower of different beliefs. And as long as they are in our king's realm, the Seven's chosen realm, these men of different faith are our brothers too. Remember that."
The words fell like cold water on fire. Slowly, grudgingly, the shouts died down. The lines reformed. Bowls were taken. Murmurs replaced curses. Thoros exhaled, feeling the tension drain like blood from a wound.
The priest turned to him, voice soft, "I believe you should leave this place, brother. For your safety…and theirs."
"Aye," Thoros said bitterly, voice low. "It'll be for the best."
How different this city has become, Thoros thought bitterly. Once, they treated men like me as fools, nothing more. A foreign god, a silly story to amuse themselves while they went about their business. A joke to be ignored.
Now the same story marked him as dangerous, unclean, an enemy. Thoros shook his head, half in disbelief, half in irritation. He knew exactly who had changed the rules, who had stirred the fear and the hatred. He knew who to blame for the blood, and the gods will too.
He walked past narrow alleys as night started to fall. Thoros stood in an alley, letting the chill of shadow wrap around him. He pulled his breeches down to take a piss. When he was almost done, a shout split the night air.
"There's the priest! We found him, boys!"
A group of men spilled into the alley, rough shapes in rags and dirt, weapons crude but dangerous, knives jagged, daggers chipped, sticks sharpened to a point.
The leader, a wiry man with a scar slicing across one cheek, pointed his blade at Thoros. "Heathen," he spat, voice low and dangerous. "You'll rot our city no longer. We'll wipe your stench away, you bastard."
Thoros turned, feeling the cold kiss of fear coil around his spine. Ah, he thought wryly, so it's come to this.
He lifted a hand, letting a trickle of piss escape, and smiled. "Stench?! My piss stinks less than your mother's cunt," he said, voice dry as ash. "I can smell you from here."
"What did you say, bastard?" The man growled, stepping closer.
Thoros picked up his staff, "I should be thankful, though," he said, voice loud, "If this is the smell from her cunt, one can only imagine how terrible it would have been if you came out of her ass."
A few of the men barked laughs, short and ragged, but it did little to calm the tension. The leader's teeth clenched. Red bloomed in his cheeks, rage sharper than any blade.
Without warning, the leader surged forward, charging with the recklessness of a cornered animal. Thoros planted his staff, pivoted, and drove it into the man's chest, knocking the air out of him. Momentum carried the leader forward. Thoros spun under the weight, tripping the man with a swift kick, and the staff found its mark across the temple. The leader collapsed, limp and groaning, onto the cobbles.
A hush fell for a heartbeat. Then the others closed in, ten, perhaps fifteen, faces twisted with anger and fear, crude weapons raised, daggers and knives flashing in the weak sunlight filtering down the alley.
Thoros scanned them quickly. Five he could take, maybe, at best. Then they would swarm him, crush him under sheer numbers. He needed space, distance… a gap to run through.
Thoros planted his feet and lifted his staff high, voice straining in what he hoped was reverence, what might better have been panic disguised as devotion. "Lord of Light, lead us from the darkness! O my Lord, light your flame in the shadows, for the night is dark and full of terrors!"
He could almost feel the echo of his words on the walls of the alley, a hollow resonance that reached the ears of the armed peasants before him. He took a trembling breath, fingers slick with sweat and grime, and struck the staff against the cobbles.
The wildfire ignited. A hiss, a flare, and suddenly the staff roared like a torch possessed. Flames licked the air, curling toward the faces of his foes, casting their shadows grotesque and monstrous against the walls.
For a heartbeat, it worked. Eyes widened. Some of the men faltered, their hands shaking on crude knives and jagged daggers. A mutter ran through them, Sorcery… witchcraft…
Thoros pressed the advantage, swinging the flaming staff in wide arcs, "Behold the Lord's wrath!" he called. "Fear the fire, fools! Fear the light!"
But fear, he realized with a sinking heart, was a thin veil. They did not run. They were angry, not cowed, shouting the names of their gods, Warrior, Father, Stranger!
Steel met wood with a hiss of flame and sparks. Thoros struck one man squarely with the staff, sending him sprawling into the wall. Another came at him from the side, and he spun, knocking him down with a sweep that sent fire spraying across the stones.
But the staff was giving way. The heat warped it, blistered the wood, and soon it began to splinter. His arcs became clumsy, desperate. The flames hissed out, leaving him grasping a warped, useless stick. Lord saveme, Thoros thought bitterly. This is it.
Thoros could feel the sweat rolling down his back, dripping into his eyes, blurring the approaching shapes into angry spectres. His heart thumped like a war drum in his chest. I would die here, he thought. And perhaps I should. At least then the Lord would have me closer inthe end.
One moment, the alley was dark and full of knives, the next a white light shone from behind him, blinding as dawn breaking over the narrow streets of Flea Bottom.
"Halt in the name of Hugor!" boomed a deep voice, as if it had traveled through the very helm of a god.
The peasants froze, knives trembling in their hands. Thoros blinked, trying to see the source of the voice.
A Galladon stepped forward, broad-shouldered and tall. His armor gleamed blue in the shadows, and his shield shone, radiating a soft, almost painful glow.
The knight raised his voice, calm but commanding, "You men have befouled the Seven's and our king's peace. You have disobeyed Ser Arthur Manderly's will. I give you this one chance to repent and leave the priest alone. Refuse, and you shall receive the Father's holy justice."
Some of the peasants faltered immediately. The ones who had laughed, who had sharpened knives for sport and vengeance, now shrank back. A few muttered curses, then ran, their legs carrying them faster than their courage had ever let them.
But a handful, stubborn, foolish, or drunk, remained. "You defend a heathen!" one shouted, voice cracking with rage. "You are a false knight!"
They charged. The foolhardiness of desperatemen, he thought.
The Galladon lifted his mace high, a simple gesture, and struck it squarely against the shining shield. The impact was immediate. A blast of pure light roared outward, a white star burning against shadow.
The effect was terrifying. The assailants staggered backward, some screaming, some collapsing onto the cobbles, unconscious before they even hit the ground. Thoros blinked and raised a hand to shield his eyes. The light seared through his lids like molten silver. Had he not been accustomed to fire, he would have been blinded.
By R'hllor, he muttered under his breath. I have never seen the Lord's flame so bright.
The Galladon stepped closer, slow and deliberate, each movement measured like a giant shifting in the wind. Thoros could see the full scope of the man's height, taller than the Hound himself, broader at the shoulders, the armor clinking faintly with every step.
He knelt, great gauntleted hand extended toward Thoros. His voice, muffled beneath the helm, "Come, brother. We must leave before they wake."
Thoros hesitated only a heartbeat before taking the offered hand. The strength in it nearly lifted him from the cobbles, and he found himself half-smiling despite the sting of blood and sweat.
They stepped from the alley, leaving the groaning peasants behind. Thoros tried to mumble a thanks, awkward and stumbling over his words, but the knight shook his head, silent beneath the helm, guiding him through the maze of Flea Bottom streets.
At last, they arrived at a modest building marked with the same white stars and tridents he had seen earlier, a hospital. Inside, warm light and the smell of herbs greeted him. He was helped to a cot. Priests in green scarves moved quietly but efficiently, tending to his bruises, scrapes, and burns.
They worked in silence, speaking only when necessary, offering food and water. Thoros marveled, half in disbelief, half in awe. These men, different gods, different faiths, foreign and cold to his beliefs, treated him as a brother, not a heathen, not an enemy.
"Thank you," he murmured.
The healer smiled, "Walk in peace, brother. Your life is the gods gift, whether you know it or not."
Thoros nodded, overwhelmed. Food was set before him. Bread, stew, a small cup of watered wine, and he ate slowly, savoring the generosity that felt almost alien. Once his hunger was at least half-sated, he pushed himself upright and sought the knight who had saved him.
Outside, the sun gleamed across the cobbles, glinting off the pale steel of the Galladon's armor. The knight stood motionless, sentinel-like, as though carved from the street itself.
Thoros hesitated, then asked, dryly, "Do you ever take off the armor?"
The knight's laugh came muffled beneath the helm. "Not at all, priest," he said, voice amused. "I sleep in it."
Thoros laughed, "Thank you for helping me, truly. I am forever grateful to you for saving my life. Few have done so without expecting coin, favors, or my soul in return."
The knight's gauntleted hands rested lightly on the hilt of his mace. "It was my duty, priest," he said evenly, voice calm yet firm. "Now I have another. My elders believe you need protection in this city, and I have been appointed to watch over you."
Thoros opened his mouth, ready to protest, but the knight raised a hand. "I know, I know, you need no protection. And I shall not bother you. Tis my duty, and I shall do it. You keep to yours. Now… shall we head to the tavern?"
Thoros felt a dry chuckle rise in his throat. "You are much different than those priests of yours," he said, voice amused, eyes glinting with mockery and wonder both.
The knight laughed, a sound that had a surprising warmth. "Aye," he said, "that is why I am no priest."
He bent slightly and lifted the visor of his helm. Dark brown hair fell in rough locks, eyes sharp but not unkind, and his features, though handsome, carried the kind of hard-won lines that spoke of toil, sun, and battle.
"The name is Darius," he said, extending a hand, gloves still on but the gesture firm. "A pleasure to meet you, Thoros, priest of Myr."