Renly's declaration of war and the royal recruitment proclamations had spread through King's Landing like wildfire through a summer-dry forest.
Some sneered at the news, lips curled in disdain. Others remained indifferent, shrugging shoulders grown weary of the games of lords and kings. The worried whispered in tavern corners, while the incredulous scoffed openly in the markets. And some—those with memories of the last war still fresh as blood—were simply terrified.
Still others, with gleams in their eyes, smelled opportunity as keen as hounds scent prey.
In short, King's Landing roiled with uncertainty. The Street of Steel rang with the symphony of smiths' hammers that never ceased from dawn till dusk, the rhythm proclaiming the extraordinary nature of these dark days.
The blacksmith shop on Visenya's Hill was the loudest of them all.
It boasted the most furnaces and anvils, the most blacksmiths and apprentices, and a master renowned throughout the city for his exquisite craftsmanship. Though it had only been at work through five sleepless nights thus far, the clanging from this shop had become a nightmare for nearby residents. Folk dared not imagine what their nights might become in a fortnight or even half a year hence.
Hot Pie, however, cared nothing for the neighbors' complaints; his thoughts were consumed only with his good brother's future.
"Gendry," he called, his voice nearly lost amidst the hammering. "Forget about those red-hot irons. Let's hurry and take action. You don't know—people over there are fighting tooth and nail to sign up. If we're any later, it'll be too late!"
Hot Pie was so anxious he was shifting from foot to foot like a man with fleas in his smallclothes, but he could see nothing of his friend's face—only a muscular back glistening with sweat in the forge's glow.
He has the build of a true blacksmith, Hot Pie thought. But I have better plans for him than pounding metal till he's old and gray.
Gendry continued his work, refusing to set down his hammer. "Fatty," he grunted between strikes, "there are so many people joining the recruitment. You seem awfully sure of yourself."
Hot Pie kept wiping sweat from his brow. The shop was deafening, and the air was hotter than the inside of one of his bread ovens, thick with the smell of hot metal and coal.
"I have confidence in you," he insisted. "As for me, just a baker's apprentice—they're recruiting tens of thousands this time. They'll need cooks by the score."
Hot Pie leaned closer, his eyes darting about with the look of a man clutching a secret worth gold.
"I've asked around," he whispered. "Join the Goldcloaks or that army department, and they provide food and lodging. After you pass basic training, they even give you seven silver stags a month! Seven silver stags!" He paused for emphasis. "How long would it take us to earn that much coin here?"
The iron in Gendry's tongs glowed orange-red, spitting angry sparks with each strike of his hammer.
"Tobho Mott is a good man," Hot Pie continued, glancing around to ensure no one was paying them any mind. "But even if you become a master one day, you'll still be just a blacksmith, still having to doff your cap to every strutting Goldcloak that passes."
Gendry said nothing, his face grim as he continued to swing the hammer, letting its rhythm speak for him.
"You saw it when His Grace was crowned, didn't you?" Hot Pie pressed, undeterred. "What a great miracle! I can't believe you had no reaction."
Gendry plunged the shaped iron into a water bucket, sending up a great hissing cloud of steam that slowly dissipated around them.
"That has nothing to do with the likes of us," he said finally, his voice low. "A blacksmith's apprentice only needs to think about being a good blacksmith. And you," he turned to look at Hot Pie, blue eyes stern beneath his shock of black hair, "your bread and pies are good. They'll find hungry mouths in any future."
Hot Pie shook his head vigorously. "That was before. Haven't you seen it? Everything has changed. The gods bestowed divine power upon His Grace because the Long Night is coming. When darkness falls, what good is even the most delicious bread?"
His eyes gleamed with something akin to fever. "Divine grace is priceless! His Grace will share the gods' blessing with us, and those who join the army will have the highest priority! That's divine grace, Gendry!"
Gendry set the finished piece carefully on a shelf before sitting down beside Hot Pie to rest, his broad shoulders slumping with exhaustion.
"Strange, then," he mused. "I heard that divine grace requires people to offer a tenth of their wealth, and even then, it's rarer than honest men in court. Did I remember wrong?"
Hot Pie waved a dismissive hand through the smoky air. "That's all outdated news. Just yesterday, a hundred Goldcloaks were bestowed with divine grace. I saw it with my own eyes—without them needing a single copper penny."
Gendry's brow furrowed. "Then why didn't you sign up yesterday?"
Hot Pie gave a sheepish grin. "Wasn't I thinking of my good brother? If we go together, we can watch each other's backs."
Gendry remained unmoved, like stone beneath a light rain.
He harbored no grand expectations for his life. It would be enough to continue working in his master's shop, step by careful step. At least here he needn't worry about food or shelter. What more could a bastard who knew not his parents' names ask for in this world of lords and kings?
Hot Pie's gaze fell upon an iron helmet resting on a nearby bench. He reached for it curiously.
"Don't touch that," Gendry growled, lunging forward to snatch it back with unexpected speed.
Hot Pie looked from Gendry to the bull-headed helmet in his protective grip, and a knowing smile spread across his round face. "Good brother, you still say you just want to be a blacksmith? Which smith would forge a special helmet for himself and guard it like the crown jewels?"
"Who says there aren't any?" Gendry shot back, his voice rising. "Many do the same. The one standing before you is one of them."
Hot Pie seized Gendry's arm with surprising strength. "Stop hesitating. Even if you just come with me to look, just for half a day—if you don't like what you see, you can return. Where's the harm in that?"
For some reason Gendry couldn't fathom, he found himself unable to break free from the plump boy's grasp.
Like the days preceding it, the Goldcloak headquarters adjacent to Cobblers' Square was thronged with eager recruits.
Rows of spears divided the yard into a grid of makeshift corridors. Newcomers shuffled along these channels in an orderly fashion, all making their way toward a line of long tables at the far end.
Hot Pie leaned close to Gendry's ear, whispering with nervous excitement, "Goldcloaks are to the left, the army department to the right. Which shall we choose?"
Gendry was not completely ignorant of these matters.
The army department was led by the "Kingslayer," he knew. Like many smallfolk, Gendry despised the man. How could a commander who would slay his own king produce followers worthy of respect?
But the Goldcloaks...
Gendry had seen them many times on the Street of Steel, finding fault with Tobho Mott's work, demanding bribes for imagined infractions. Their gold cloaks hid hearts black as pitch.
"Let's choose the Goldcloaks," Hot Pie urged. "They have comfortable lives, patrolling the city, enjoying its pleasures. The army department will be sent to fight. Of course, Stannis can't win against His Grace's divine power, but men will still die."
Gendry glanced sidelong at his friend. "Don't fret so. You're to be a cook—it won't be your turn to lose your life." He jerked his chin toward the right. "Let's go there."
Hot Pie shrugged, resigned. "True enough."
After standing in line for what felt like half a day, Hot Pie maneuvered himself behind Gendry, nudging his friend forward.
Gendry found himself before the recruiter's table, feeling as awkward as a bear in a sept. The man recording names wore a black sphere upon his chest, similar to those Gendry had glimpsed at the King's coronation.
The recorder looked up, and a flicker of recognition passed across his features. "Gendry," he said, his tone level. "What think you of Renly Baratheon's rebellion?"
Gendry parroted the answer of the man before him, words spoken by rote: "I swear to defend the throne to the death. May the gods protect us, His Grace is the one true king. Light Eternal!"
"What position are you inclined toward?"
Hot Pie jabbed him in the ribs several times from behind, and Gendry stammered, "Warrior protect me, Gendry is willing to kill the enemy for His Grace."
The recorder held the black sphere before him and waited in silence. After several long breaths, he looked up at Gendry with evident surprise, then produced a silver square badge threaded with a fine chain.
"Do you see that lord wearing the hound-shaped helm over there?" he asked, nodding toward a towering figure across the yard. "Show this badge to him. He is your superior now."
Gendry accepted the silver badge and walked a few paces before halting in confusion. I'm to serve under the Hound? he wondered. But isn't the Hound commander of the Goldcloaks?
Before he could ponder further, Hot Pie trudged over to him, his face as dejected as a rain-soaked cat. "What in seven hells is the 'Security Bureau'?" he lamented. "I've never even heard of such a thing."
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