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The fire blazed brightly, and the steady clang of the hammer echoed as it struck the sword. Donal Noye turned the blade with a pair of tongs, placed it back on the anvil, and continued hammering.
Once the sword had taken shape, he set the hammer down and removed his heavy fur gloves.
"Master Blacksmith, I hope you can help me forge two swords," said Cole, using the respectful title he had always used for Donal Noye at the Wall.
"Ser, there's no need to call me 'master.' Just Donal will do," the blacksmith replied. "Whether you need a bastard sword, a knight's sword, or even a greatsword, I can forge them all."
Standing before him was a young man with silver hair, dressed in plain leather clothes that didn't match his status. At his side hung a worn leather scabbard. The young man drew a bastard sword made of fine steel and handed it to Donal.
"This style is good."
Donal took the sword, ran his fingers along the blade, and nodded. It was a fine piece—not a mass-produced weapon. A sword like this would fetch hundreds of silver stags in the markets of Westeros. Still, it fell short of the very best.
Stroking his beard thoughtfully, Donal said, "Crafting a sword like this takes time. His Grace's demand for weapons is high, and I don't have much energy to spare. But if you're willing to wait, I can begin gathering the materials now." He paused. "It'll likely take a few weeks."
"Of course. Sorry to trouble you," Cole said. "But I was wondering—do you have any finished swords available?"
Donal brought out a few swords, and Cole picked two bastard swords and a knight's sword.
Though the two bastard swords were different in design, they were the same length—long blades that suited his height well. They were ideal for use with a shield, offering a good balance between offense and defense. While not as powerful as a greatsword, they were more than enough to pierce armor.
In truth, Cole preferred a blade slightly longer and broader than a bastard sword. His sword "Winter Night," for example, sat somewhere between a bastard sword and a greatsword in size.
The knight's sword, also known as an arming sword, was a simple one-handed weapon. Its hilt could be gripped with one hand, and it was shorter than a bastard sword. Cole selected a particularly short one. He found it perfect for everyday self-defense—more convenient than always carrying two long swords.
As soon as he stepped out of the blacksmith's shop, he ran into someone he'd rather not see.
Monterys Velaryon.
"Ser Cole," Monterys greeted him, unexpectedly.
"Ser Velaryon."
They nodded at each other and passed without further words. Cole kept walking, but Monterys stopped and looked back at him.
Back at the castle, Cole undressed and wrapped the minor wounds on his body. Though none were serious, he still asked Maester Pylos to treat them.
Afterward, he lay on his bed with a book. Not long after, there was a knock at the door. Cole always locked his door out of habit, so he called out, rose, and opened it.
Standing there was the king's attendant, Davon.
Cole was living like a lone knight these days—no servant, no squire—and when he fought, he fought alone.
"Ser Cole, His Grace is holding a war council in the Great Hall to discuss the next move on King's Landing," Davon announced.
"Understood. I'll be there."
It seemed the king was eager to march on King's Landing. Once Davon left, Cole dressed quickly and headed out of the castle.
There was a knock at the guard post.
Davos Seaworth happened to be inside.
Though there was a bit of an age gap between them, that didn't stop them from becoming friends. Compared to most lords and knights, the Onion Knight was someone Cole could actually talk to.
"The king is holding a war council tonight," Cole said as he sat down. "According to His Grace's wishes, we must march on King's Landing."
Davos heard the unease in his voice. "Lord Velaryon suggested a direct assault on King's Landing. Do you see a problem with that?"
Cole nodded. "Ser Davos, I'll speak plainly—I don't believe we can take King's Landing."
Davos fell silent, deep in thought. "His Grace won't accept that. He's determined to strike. But from what I've heard, the city isn't well-defended."
"Our enemies aren't just in King's Landing."
"You mean Tywin Lannister?"
"Not just the Lannisters. Randyll Tarly has gathered a new army at Bitterbridge. It's nearly as large as ours."
"You think they'll still fight us? Many lords have already sworn loyalty to His Grace, and he's granted them pardon."
Cole shook his head. "Do you truly believe the Tyrells, the Tullys, or House Rowan—who once backed Renly—have truly switched sides? With the king's nature, do you believe he'll forgive those who once betrayed him?"
No. That was impossible. Davos knew it too. Stannis Baratheon followed the law as if it were a god.
"The lords who back the king now are not fools. They're desperate. They betrayed Renly for Stannis, and when a better choice comes along, they'll betray him too—without hesitation."
An army that relies on shaky loyalty and is prone to infighting isn't much stronger than a band of sellswords.
"Will you raise this at the war council?" Davos asked. He hoped not—he'd have to stop him if he tried.
"No," Cole said. "I won't speak up during the council. But after the meeting, I want you to come with me to see His Grace. I'll also ask Maester Pylos to join us."
Back when they were still away from court, it had always been the three of them—Cole, Davos, and Pylos—who offered counsel apart from the rest.
Speaking out at the war council would only embarrass the king and offend the lords of the Stormlands. Cole wasn't foolish enough to make enemies of them all.
Davos sighed. "I should trust you. Everyone knows your skill. I'm just a common man—a fool, really. With my background and lack of learning, I doubt I can persuade the king."
"Your presence is enough, ser. No one wants Stannis on the Iron Throne more than we do. Everything I have, I owe to him."
In the end, Davos agreed. He thought that maybe—just maybe—Stannis would listen to someone.
After Cole left Stannis's chambers, someone came looking for him. It was a patrol knight.
"My lord, a group claiming to be from your house is waiting outside the gates," the knight informed him.
Cole frowned, puzzled, but followed him out of the castle.
Sure enough, outside the gatehouse flew the banner of the flaming white bird.
The leader of the group wasn't very tall. As Cole looked closer, he recognized the man—it was Camilo, the one who had been separated from him long ago. So it was them. No wonder they claimed to be from his house.
As soon as the knight at the front of the column spotted him, he rode forward on his horse.