Chapter 261: The Market for Sun-Steel
King's Landing in late autumn lay under a lead-grey sky. The cold wind carried damp air through the streets, lifting dead leaves into spirals that drifted through the Great Sept and landed at the High Septon's feet.
While Lord Randyll and Loras comforted Margaery in the tower above, the portly Lord Harys Swyft stood bowed before the High Septon. His round body seemed even bulkier beneath the heavy sable cloak. His slack face was creased with pleading, his sparse white beard trembling with each quick breath. Sweat beaded on his bald head.
"Your Holiness, King Tommen is still a child. Without his mother these past days, he can barely eat. How can a boy grow without a mother's care? I beg you, have mercy and release Queen Cersei back to the Red Keep. I swear, she will appear for her trial."
His voice quavered. His fat hands were clasped tight, as if that alone might hold a thread of hope.
The High Septon wore a simple white robe. His face was solemn, his eyes carrying an unyielding authority. He looked down, not at Swyft, and spoke slowly. "Lord Swyft, a child can grow well without a mother and become a true man, just like the orphans we shelter in this Sept. If you find yourselves unable to raise the king, you may entrust him to the Faith. We will fulfill the duty of parents in your stead."
The words were calm, but each one struck Swyft like a hammer. He faltered. Sweat rolled down his cheeks and struck the cold stone floor in small dark spots. He turned his head, thinking, then a flicker of cunning crossed his eyes. "The Westerlands may lack grain, my lord, but we have many gold dragons. If you release Queen Cersei, I am certain Lord Kevan Lannister would be willing to contribute some to the Faith, to support the orphans you care for."
Lord Harys was a jowly old man with no chin. His slack face wore a fawning smile, and that ridiculous little white beard bobbed as he spoke. As Kevan Lannister's good-father, he believed this offer would move the High Septon. After all, Kevan was the only one of his generation in House Lannister who could truly act.
But the High Septon was unmoved. "Gold dragons are a fine thing. They bring wealth. If Lord Kevan wishes to donate even a single dragon without conditions, I will pray before the Father for Lord Tywin's soul. But I cannot release Queen Cersei. Queen Margaery is accused of adultery and treason, but at worst, she is an unchaste girl. Queen Cersei is different. She has lain with many men, and she is accused of murder. Under her orders, Osney Kettleblack killed the previous High Septon. And King Robert died by her design as well."
Swyft's face went white, as if all strength had drained from him. His fat body swayed, nearly toppling. Murder of a High Septon and a king of the Seven Kingdoms? He stared in disbelief, his mind flashing to Cersei as a child. How lovely she had been then. How could she have become this?
He turned instinctively, seeking Grand Maester Pycelle's counsel, but saw the old man kneeling far away before the statue of the Crone, bent low, muttering prayers as if lost in devotion, deaf to the conversation.
Swyft cursed the old fox under his breath and turned back, defeat written on his face. "These are terrible accusations. I have known Cersei since she was a girl. She was so kind and beautiful then, shining like the sun, bringing so much laughter to damp Casterly Rock. I can hardly believe she would do such things—"
The High Septon said nothing. He listened in silence, his deep eyes revealing nothing.
After a time, Lord Randyll and Ser Loras led Queen Margaery and the three other girls down from the tower. Margaery's skirts were stained with dust, her hair tangled at her shoulders, her eyes full of exhaustion and fear.
They climbed into a carriage lent by the Faith. The wheels creaked over the cobblestones as they rolled slowly toward the Red Keep.
Seeing that nothing more could be done, Swyft rose and straightened his rumpled robes. "Grand Maester Pycelle and I have sent ravens to Casterly Rock. Soon my good-son, Lord Kevan, will return to King's Landing as Regent. He will come to the Sept and speak with you himself." He turned and left, his fat figure looking lonely in the corridor.
As the carriage and a hundred gold cloaks left the Sept and disappeared into the streets, Aldric walked to the High Septon's side. "You just let them go?"
"We have already decided to court the Tyrells, and we have gained something from it. There was no reason to keep them. Let the Lion and the Rose fight. After this trial, whoever holds power will not be able to ignore the Faith." The High Septon's gaze was distant.
After a moment, he turned to Aldric. "How long will you stay here?"
"Until the trial ends. I would not overestimate the honor of these nobles. They killed one High Septon. They would not hesitate to kill another." Aldric's expression was relaxed, but his hand rested on his sword hilt. "Besides, this is my first time in King's Landing. I want to see it. See what the capital of the Seven Kingdoms really looks like."
The High Septon shook his head with a faint, helpless smile. "King's Landing. A paradise for the rich, a hell for the poor. There is nothing to see. But if you truly have an interest, let Brother Theodore guide you. He knows it better than I do."
"When I first arrived, I brought a dozen brothers to clear out the gangs who were preying on refugees. I saw quite a bit of the city. I have time tomorrow. I'll take you out." Theodore clapped Aldric on the shoulder.
"That would be wonderful," Aldric said with a smile.
That night, Aldric, Carlo, and a few guards took rooms in the Great Sept. Aldric's small chamber was bare. The stone walls were cold and rough. The only window was no larger than an arrow slit. Moonlight fell through it, casting a long thin shadow on the floor.
Aldric lay on the bed, staring at the light. His thoughts drifted home. A line of poetry echoed in his mind: Bright moonlight before my bed.
In this world, no one else would understand those words.
It had been more than two years since he came to Westeros. He had used his advantages to become a leader of some power, but he still longed for home every moment. He never complained aloud, but everything here was hard to bear. The black bread was hard enough to crack teeth. The pumpkin soup was bland. The straw pallets left him sore. The drafty houses left him shivering. The jolting carriages rattled his bones. The smell of unwashed women turned his stomach. The filth in the streets and the unsanitary habits were almost unbearable.
He often asked himself how he had endured it.
If he could not save this world, he would never earn his ticket home. But the wars in the south were nearly over. Why had the crisis in the north not erupted yet?
If it did not erupt, how could he save anyone?
But if the White Walkers came, it would mean slaughter. That was not what he wanted either.
Would he have to unite all Seven Kingdoms before they marched south?
The thought frustrated him. In a burst of anger, he slammed his head against the stone wall.
Pain shot through his skull. Stars swam before his eyes. He quickly used Solar Grace to heal the lump, then let the dizziness carry him into sleep.
It worked every time he could not sleep.
The next morning, dawn's pale light touched the spires of the Great Sept. Under Theodore's guidance, Aldric attended the morning prayer led by the High Septon.
Since taking his seat, the High Septon had worked to weave the faith of the Light into the worship of the Seven. He had introduced the twice-daily prayers that Aldric had established at St. Maur's Monastery into the Great Sept.
In the prayer hall, candlelight flickered. People in simple robes stood in orderly rows. The High Septon stood before the altar, his voice low and solemn, leading the congregation. After a quarter of an hour, the prayer ended, and the people began their day's work.
But Theodore, who had promised to show Aldric the city, had to break his word. Several knights had arrived together from the Reach, seeking to join the Warrior's Sons.
Aldric did not mind. Carlo, who had served in the gold cloaks for years and knew Aldric's tastes better, was the better guide.
So Aldric and Carlo set out to tour King's Landing.
The autumn streets were cold. Pedestrians pulled their cloaks tight and hurried past. The wind lifted dead leaves from the gutters and sent them spinning.
Their first stop was the Street of Steel—in Aldric's eyes, his greatest commercial rival.
The Street of Steel was where most smiths worked. It began at the market near the River Gate and wound its way up the Hill of Visenya. The higher one climbed, the more luxurious the goods became. In the smithies along the street, forge fires blazed. Sparks flew. The constant clang of hammers came from every direction, pounding against the ears. The air was thick with the sharp smell of rust and charcoal.
Aldric stepped into a shop. Warm air washed over him. A handsome young man hurried over with a practiced smile. "Ser, how may I help you?"
Aldric had dressed in simple but fine clothes that day. The fabric was made from the new spinning machines developed in the workshop district—soft, smooth, well-cut. Clearly not something an ordinary man could afford.
"Show me your best longsword," Aldric said, giving the expected request.
"One moment." The shopkeeper took a sheathed sword from the wall behind the counter and handed it to Aldric with care. "This was made by Master Rolm last year. A noble knight ordered it as a gift for his son's knighting ceremony. Sadly, the boy fell at the Blackwater. The sword has remained here. The order was placed at sixteen gold dragons. The noble paid three as a deposit. If you can pay the remainder, the sword is yours."
"Thirteen gold dragons?" Aldric raised an eyebrow, surprise plain on his face. In the Riverlands, one gold dragon could feed a family of three for most of a year. What made this sword worth so much?
He drew the blade with a sense of reverence. The steel gleamed coldly. He gave it a light swing. It felt light, but he noticed nothing special. He handed it to Carlo Schmidt. "Carlo, take a look."
Carlo took the sword. His eyes focused. He scraped a fingernail along the edge, feeling the quality. Then he shook his head slightly. "Too expensive, Grand Master. Let's look elsewhere."
Aldric understood that Carlo did not want to speak openly in front of the shopkeeper. He handed the sword back. "Do you have any cups or plates?"
The shopkeeper's smile vanished. He hung the sword back on the wall and said sourly, "You come to a smithy looking for tableware? Are you addled? Don't you know iron rusts?"
"Boy, didn't your elders teach you to respect a knight?" Carlo's voice was sharp. His eyes were like a hawk's, and a fierce presence radiated from him.
The shopkeeper was cowed. His face went pale. He lowered his head and said nothing.
The mood spoiled, Aldric had no desire to linger. He led Carlo outside. The cold wind hit them, blowing away the irritation.
"What was wrong with that sword?" Aldric asked.
"That sword." Carlo snorted, contempt on his face. "That story about a noble lord ordering it for his son's knighting—it's just a trick to raise the price. Thirteen gold dragons? That's for fooling outlanders like you. Two dragons would be too much."
Aldric raised an eyebrow and smiled bitterly. He had not bought anything himself in so long that he had forgotten how merchants worked. "He took me for a mark. No matter. I wasn't going to buy it anyway."
They visited a few more smithies. The lower they went, the shabbier the shops became, and the worse the service. In one shop, no one was at the counter. They called for a long time before a fat man came out from the back, bleary-eyed and irritable.
But the prices were much better. The cheapest swords cost only a few silver stags. Aldric knew, though, that such cheap blades were poor quality. Taking one into battle would likely get its owner wounded before it killed anyone.
"That's enough. Let's go see Master Mott's shop," Aldric said, suggesting they head back up the hill.
"Tobho Mott? Isn't he in the workshop district? What's there to see here?" Carlo frowned, confused.
"To see how Sun-Steel sells. Every caravan from the workshop district brings a few Sun-Steel weapons to King's Landing. But Master Mott has never told me how much they actually sell for. I want to see for myself."
"Sun-Steel—" Carlo touched the hilt of his own longsword. It was forged from Sun-Steel, indistinguishable from Valyrian steel, a weapon of the highest quality. He licked his lips, excitement flickering in his eyes. "Then let's go have a look."
When Valyrian steel was rare, it was a luxury. Only a few nobles owned it. The price was high, and those without means never even considered it.
But when it became common, it would become a necessity. If everyone had it and you did not, you would not belong in the same circle.
Aldric believed the market for Sun-Steel would only grow. It would not shrink just because new techniques were developed.
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