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A World of Death Chapter 48 — A Knightly Encounter
🕑 Added 2026-01-11 09:03:08 +0000 UTC(AN: Sup guys, just giving you a heads up that I’ve not been able to make as much progress as I would’ve liked on the Vikings chapter yet due to some personal problems. But I’m getting there. In the meantime I’m going to try post these chapters every 1-2 days, hopefully when I’m done I’ll do a few more Star Wars chapters then move onto What a Marvel Part 3. Sorry about this.)
Arthur stepped into the street and took deep breath, one which he regretted immediately. The morning air was damp with the stink of last night's piss and rain, the kind of smell that never fully went away in Flea Bottom, no matter how long he spent here. His boots landed in a shallow puddle, sending a ripple across the filth-clogged stones. He shifted his pack higher on one shoulder and pulled his cloak tighter over the sword at his hip.
A rat darted across the gutter in front of him, while a boy chased it with a stick, barefoot and grinning wildlyy. Somewhere close, a pot clanged and Two women argued in behind a broken-shuttered window as a scared looking man that was half naked stood in between them. 'That could've very easily been me...' Arthur thought as he moved past them and navigated the crowds.
While Flea bottom still left a lot to be desired there were still some good people here. People he had gotten to know casually over the last few months. A smile formed on his face as he greeted them along the way. Old Tom the beggar sat against a wall near the first corner with his cap outstretched and his one good eye squinting up at passersby, Arthur stopped when he saw him. "Morning, Tom," Arthur said, reaching into his pouch for a few coppers that he dropped into the cap. "How fares the leg today?"
Tom grinned up at him, showing gaps in his teeth while he pocketed the coins quickly. "Better than yesterday, lad," he replied, patting the bandaged stump below his knee. "That poultice you brought last week did wonders, it bloody hardly aches now. You're a good soul, Arthur."
Arthur nodded with a smile. "Glad to hear it," he said. "Try and get some warm food today," he said as he continued on, weaving through vendors who set up stalls along the wider road that led out of Flea Bottom toward the Hill of Rhaenys. The widow Lena stood at her cart selling wilted flowers from the fields outside the walls, her hands arranging bunches with care that belied the hardship in her lined face. Arthur approached her next, picking up a small bundle of daisies that he handed a copper for.
"Arthur," Lena said warmly, taking the coin. "That's the tenth bundle this month, your ladies must have quite the garden by now."
Arthur chuckled as he tucked the flowers into his pack. "The old garden looked a little dreary, even with the vegetable patches, I'm just glad you had such a range," he replied. "How is little Sam faring with the cough?"
Lena's expression softened. "The herbs you suggested helped," she said. "He sleeps through the night now. Thank you for that."
Arthur pulled a silver from his pouch and pressed it into her hand in a secretive manner. "For more if he needs it," he said before moving on with a wave.
"Seven bless your soul Arthur..." Lena said as she took a hold of his hands.
Further along the street, where the path sloped upward and shops gave way to workshops, he spotted Fat Harry the baker pulling fresh loaves from his oven with a long paddle. Harry wiped sweat from his brow and grinned when he saw Arthur. "Mornin' Arthur," Harry called. "Usual?"
Arthur nodded and handed over a few coppers for a warm loaf that Harry wrapped in cloth. "Add a couple of those honey rolls," Arthur said.
Harry tossed them in with a wink. "On the house for you," he replied. "Heard you fixed up that old place next to the orphanage, heard it looks proper now."
Arthur took a bite from the loaf as he walked away, the crust crunching while steam rose from the soft inside. "Yeah it was a nice building, even bigger than the orphanage itself, just needed a little work, anyways thanks Harry," he said over his shoulder. "See you next week."
He continued on his way, enjoying speaking to some of the people he'd come to know. Yet after a while, as he climbed the hill toward the Street of Steel, his stomach dropped slightly and he got a feeling that prickled the back of his neck.
Someone had just started watching him. He didn't know how he knew that, but it was as if it wasn't even a question, like he'd just seen someone with his own two eyes.
He focused on the sensation, turning casually toward a stall selling trinkets where he pretended to browse carved wooden figures while his eyes scanned the crowd behind him. A man lingered near a cart across the way, dressed in patched tunic and breeches typical of Flea Bottom with a hood pulled down despite the sun. Arthur did not recognize him, but the way he stood with eyes fixed too intently marked him as no casual passerby.
There was only one person he could imagine would want to watch him.
'It must be one of Rudge's men,' he thought to himself. Sent to tail him after the morning's failed collection. With what had happened at the orphanage fresh in mind, there was no doubt they would try something soon. 'Well as long as they are only following me,' Arthur thought, relieved they had not circled back to the home where the women and children remained. He continued on his way to the Street of Steel, aware now of the few people trailing at a distance—another joined from a side alley, then a third who pretended to haggle at a stall but kept glancing his way.
It didn't take long for Arthur to reach the street of steel proper. Due to the incoming tournament it seemed that everyone here was working overtime; Arthur had to dodge, avoid and even duck as he navigated the throng of apprentices carrying coal and customers bargaining for swords and armour, while heading toward the forge he had visited a few times before for nails, tools or even some of the more outlandish things he'd wanted for his projects. The smith, a burly man named Garrick with arms thick from years at the anvil, looked up from hammering a red-hot bar and grinned when he saw Arthur approach.
"Arthur, lad," Garrick called over the clang of metal. "Back so soon? What can I do for you this time, more hooks for that contraption of yours?"
Arthur returned the greeting with a nod, leaning against the post outside the open forge. "Morning, Garrick," he said. "I need something finer today, gold dust and silver dust, small amounts if you have them or know where to get."
Garrick paused his hammering, wiping his forehead with a sooty cloth. "Dust, eh? Not for melting, I take it? jewelers use that for gilding or mixes. I keep a bit for special orders." He set the bar aside and rummaged in a locked chest behind the anvil, pulling out two small vials that he handed over. "I have a small sack of each, gold's pricier, 2 dragons for the lot."
Arthur haggled briefly, drawing on his [Haggling] skill they settled on 1 dragon and four stags that he counted out from his pouch. "Many thanks Garrick," he said, handing over the coins to him.
Garrick let out a booming laugh that echoed through the forge like a thunderclap, his massive chest heaving as he slapped his knee with a soot-streaked hand. "By the Seven, boy, you haggle like one of those damn Pentoshi merchants! Next thing you'll be offering me silks from across the Narrow Sea! Damn boy... costing me nearly a full dragon."
Arthur couldn't help but smile at that, his lips curling up as he leaned against the post, the warmth of the forge fire licking at his skin through the open front. He tucked the purse of gold and silver back onto his belt. "Well, Garrick, I'm sure you're making plenty off all the suckers flooding in here. With the tourney just weeks away, you must be raking in quite the dragon hoard."
Garrick's eyes twinkled with amusement, his bushy brows knitting together as he barked out another laugh. "Aye, that's the truth of it! These tourney fools come prancing in with their fancy plate, thinking a quick polish will make 'em invincible. Half of 'em couldn't swing a sword without tripping over their own spurs." He wiped his hands on his leather apron, still chuckling, and shot Arthur a conspiratorial wink. "But you, lad... you've got a head on your shoulders. Hang on, I'll fetch that dust proper from the back. Won't be but a moment."
Before Garrick could turn toward the rear of the forge, a man strode in, his presence filling the space like a sudden gust of wind. He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a fine woolen tunic embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs and collar, over which hung a cloak clasped with a brooch shaped like a rearing stallion. His boots were polished leather, scuffed just enough to suggest travel but looked brand new, and a jeweled dagger hung at his belt. His face was sharp-featured, with a smooth face and hair cropped short. He didn't look much older than Arthur maybe, three or four years.
Without so much as a glance at Arthur, the man barreled straight up to the anvil. "Smith! I need my armor buffed, polished, and repaired. And my sword sharpened to a razor's edge. All in time for the tourney. Can you manage that, or should I take my business elsewhere?"
Garrick paused mid-step, his broad back stiffening as he turned slowly to face the intruder. His face, usually jovial, darkened like a storm cloud rolling in over Blackwater Bay. "I'll be with you in just a moment, ser," he said calmly, though Arthur could hear the edge in his voice. "Just grabbing this customer's order from the back, won't be long."
The man's lips twisted into a sneer, his hand drumming impatiently on the hilt of his dagger. "A moment? I've no time for moments, smith. Do you know who I am? I've ridden half the bloody realm to get here, and I won't stand about while you fuss over some urchin's trinkets. Get to it now!"
Arthur watched the exchange, feeeling his own annoyance rise at his attitude. The forge seemed to grow hotter in the tense silence that followed. Garrick's fists clenched at his sides, his massive arms flexing as if he were about to grab the anvil hammer and use it for something other than metalwork. His eyes narrowed, and Arthur could see the vein pulsing in his temple—the smith was a heartbeat away from tossing this pompous fool out into the street, coin be damned.
Before things could escalate, Arthur stepped forward smoothly, raising a placating hand. "It's fine, Garrick," he said calmly despite the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. "I'm in no great rush. Tend to the ser's needs first, I'll wait."
Garrick's gaze flicked to Arthur, the anger in his eyes softening just a fraction. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing as he shot Arthur an appreciative smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Thank you, lad.... Alright, then." Turning back to the man, he nodded curtly. "Hand over the equipment, ser. Let's see what we're dealing with."
The man huffed, clearly displeased at having to fetch his own gear, but he spun on his heel and stomped out to the street. Arthur peered through the open door, spotting a fine destrier tied to a post outside, its saddlebags bulging. The man grumbled under his breath as he unstrapped a heavy bundle from the horse's flank, hauling it back inside with visible effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead by the time he dumped the armor and sword onto a nearby workbench, the metal clanking loudly against the wood. The plate was indeed ornate, etched with swirling patterns and once-gilded edges now tarnished, but it bore deep dents along the breastplate and gorget, as if from heavy blows. The sword, a longsword with a pommel shaped like a black stag's head, showed nicks along the edge and a faint warp in the blade.
Garrick knelt to inspect it, his callused fingers tracing the damage with a professional eye. He prodded a particularly deep gouge in the pauldron, then lifted the sword to sight along its length. "Quite a bit of damage here, ser," he said gruffly, his tone neutral but laced with underlying disdain. "Some of it's tricky, looks like the breastplate took a lance strike, and the sword's got a twist that'll need careful straightening. I'll have to inspect it in greater detail to give you a proper timeline."
The man waved a dismissive hand, his rings flashing in the firelight. "Inspect all you like, but get it done and quickly. If you finish by week's end, there's an extra dragon in it for you. That's more than fair for a smith of your... caliber."
Garrick's face flushed red, his jaw clenching so hard Arthur could hear his teeth grind. The offer was generous on the surface, but the condescension dripped from every word, implying Garrick was some back-alley hack desperate for scraps. The smith rose to his full height, his hammer twitching in his grip as if itching to swing. Arthur, sensing the powder keg about to ignite, cleared his throat and interjected with a light-hearted grin. "Well, I guess you'll make that extra dragon back after all, eh, Garrick?"
For a split second, Garrick looked ready to explode, but Arthur's words pierced the tension. The smith blinked, then let out a reluctant chuckle that built into a full-bellied laugh, shaking his head as the anger drained from his features. "Aye, lad, you're right about that." Still chuckling, he gathered up the armor and sword in his burly arms and lumbered toward the back room. "Won't be long now."
As Garrick disappeared into the back of the forge, Arthur and the man were left standing in awkward silence. Arthur turned to the man, curiosity overriding his earlier annoyance. "So, are you to be fighting in the tourney?" he asked politely, leaning casually against the post.
The man turned slowly, his eyes raking over Arthur with a condescending sweep, as if appraising a horse at market. He nodded curtly, puffing out his chest. "Indeed I am. Ser Donald Black, at your... acquaintance. My line traces back through generations of knights, each one earning his spurs on the field of battle, not in some cushy hall. I've claimed victory in the joust at Maidenpool, dominated the melee at Highgarden, and took second in the joust at Rosby. No small feats, boy."
Arthur raised his eyebrows, genuinely impressed despite the man's arrogance. In his mind, he noted slightly oddity, the man had no squire, no young attendant to haul gear or tend horses. It was unusual; even minor knights often had at least one lad in tow. An idea sparked... perhaps this was a chance. He had come here to be a squire, hells even the competition was just a way to get noticed. Even if Ser Donald was rude, the opportunity might outweigh the lack of a personality. "That's impressive, ser," Arthur said sincerely. "A fine record."
Ser Donald preened under the praise, launching into a boastful monologue as if instead of Arthur being there it were an audience of fair maidens. "Oh, it'll be domination in the melee this time, mark my words. These King's Landing fields will he crushed under my might. I'll unhorse them all, crush their shields under my boot. The prize purse? Mine. The glory? Mine. My name will echo through the halls of the Red Keep—"
Arthur listened patiently, nodding at the right moments, but his thoughts raced ahead. There was no harm in asking; the worst was a refusal. As Ser Donald paused for breath, Arthur seized the opening. "Ser, if I may... I'd like to offer my services as your squire. I have skill with a blade, I can ride well enough, and I'm a quick learner. I'd serve faithfully, polish your armor, tend your horse whatever you need for the tourney."
Ser Donald stared at him for a beat, then threw back his head in a huge, bellowing laugh that reverberated off the forge walls, drawing stares from apprentices outside. His face turned red with mirth, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he slapped his thigh. "You? My squire? Oh, that's good! That's too good!!! Boy, my first squire won't be some common-blooded whelp from the streets. I'm a great knight! Black blood runs true and noble. I won't lower myself to scraping the bottom of the barrel like that. But I'm nothing if not a generous Knight, perhaps you could be my maid, scrubbing my boots and emptying my chamber pot, but im afraid I wouldn't pay you for the honor!"
Arthur stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his expression neutral as the insults washed over him. The words stung, pricking at old wounds from back in the day when he was experienced his father's endless tirades—'Useless bastard,' 'No blood of mine,'. Because of that it wasn't that big of a deal listening to the knight, he'd endured worse; this was just bluster from a man who had to haul his own gear. He met Ser Donald's gaze calmly, refusing to rise to the bait.
At that moment, Garrick emerged from the back, carrying the small sacks of dust in one hand and a ledger in the other. He froze at the sight of Ser Donald doubled over in laughter, his brow furrowing. "What's all this, then?" he demanded as he set the sacks down with a thud.
Ser Donald straightened, wiping his eyes as chuckles still escaped him. "This boy here thought he had what it took to be my squire! Can you imagine? A Flea Bottom rat polishing my spurs!"
Garrick's face darkened like quenched iron, his grip tightening on the ledger until the leather creaked. He opened his mouth, no doubt ready to unleash a torrent of curses that would peel paint from the walls, but Arthur cut in with a forced laugh of his own, clapping a hand on Garrick's arm. "It was a poor joke on my part, Garrick. Nothing more."
The smith locked eyes with Arthur, who gave him an intense look, one that had a clear message: Don't start trouble. Not worth it. Garrick held the stare for a long moment, then sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. Turning to Ser Donald, he flipped open the ledger with a snap. "Repairs'll cost you five stags upfront, ser. I'll be able to do it in a week should be no problem."
Ser Donald grumbled but fished out the coins from a velvet purse, slamming them onto the workbench before snatching up his cloak and storming out without another word. The door banged shut behind him, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
Garrick spat on the floor where the knight had stood, the glob landing with a wet splat. "Bastard," he snarled, grabbing his hammer and smashing it down on the anvil with a resounding clang that made the tools rattle on their hooks. "Pompous arse, thinks his shit don't stink 'cause he's got 'ser' in front of his name."
Arthur chuckled softly, shaking his head as he leaned against the workbench. "He wasn't that bad, Garrick. Just full of himself, like half the knights rolling into the city."
Garrick rounded on him, hammer still in hand, his face flushed. "Not that bad? The man's a disservice to the Knight's Code. They swear oaths to protect the weak, not mock 'em! And the way he laughed at you, lad... I ought to 'repair' his armor with a few extra dents and break the bloody thing over his head."
Arthur raised his hands in a calming gesture. "I appreciate it, truly. But don't let it hurt your business, something like that doesn't matter to me. I've heard worse, and it rolls off me like water on a duck's arse."
Garrick sighed again, setting the hammer down with a gentler clink this time. "You're a good lad, Arthur. Too good for this city sometimes." He reached for the sacks of dust, handing them over, then—surprisingly—pressed a gold dragon into Arthur's palm alongside them.
Arthur blinked, trying to push it back. "Garrick, no I—."
The smith shook his head firmly, closing Arthur's fingers around the coin with his massive hand. "Remember, I got that extra dragon after all," he said with a grin, his eyes twinkling once more. "Besides, all I'll do with it is buy more supplies to waste on pompous knights and other kinds of scum. At least with you, I know it's going toward those children you care for at the orphanage. Take it, lad. Buy 'em something sweet."
Arthur smiled warmly, pocketing the coin after a moment's hesitation. "You're a good man yourself, Garrick. Better than most." He straightened, slinging his pack over his shoulder, but paused as a thought struck him. "Oh... before I go, how's my armor coming along? Is it ready?"
Garrick laughed, a deep rumble that chased away the last shadows of anger. "Aye, lad, just putting the finishing touches on it. Polished the plates yesterday, reinforced the joints. Come by tomorrow to pick it up."
Arthur nodded gratefully, clasping the smith's forearm in a firm shake. "Thanks again, Garrick. For everything." With that, he turned and stepped out into the bustling Street of Steel.
Stretching his back a little, he shook his limbs before he started making his way back to the orphanage. He had all the ingredients now so he can finally attempt to forge the Valyrian steel.
(AN: these might not seem like important characters and some aren't, but I think it's good to add some colour. It's gonna be a while before Arthur gets his own land and keep so he'll be in Kings Landing for a while. It's important to develop some extras. Though he'll probably end up seeing Ser Donald in the melee.)
Comments
Car Crash
Tyftc
Dragonslayer29
It’s all good. Take all the time you need in writing. Each story you write is worth the wait. Thanks for the chap and I hope he crush’s Sir Black in the Melee.
