Chapter 202 — I'll fuck your mother!
King's Landing
Though winter had arrived, the city seemed as if it had been set ablaze—transformed into a boiling cauldron.
The air itself vibrated with noise.
Human voices, wagon wheels, merchants shouting, and livestock braying all mixed into a deafening tide of sound. It crashed against the stone walls of the narrow streets and rebounded endlessly, echoing without pause.
Ever since news of the Dragon Festival spread, King's Landing had been flooded with people pouring in from every corner of Westeros.
Dragons.
The lure was simply too great.
Farmers sold off their livestock.
Knights abandoned their training fields.
Noble caravans clogged the entire King's Road.
All for one purpose—
To witness with their own eyes the legendary creatures that had previously existed only in ancient songs, historical chronicles, and family heraldry.
The sudden surge in population immediately caused prices to skyrocket.
The most obvious example was the inns.
Any establishment that was even remotely clean and decently located had become a rare treasure.
A room that once cost a single silver stag for a night now demanded two heavy silver moons.
A terrifying fourteen-fold increase.
And even at those outrageous prices, decent rooms were still almost impossible to find.
Outside the inns stood crowds of travelers clutching coin purses, staring anxiously at the doors, hoping someone might check out.
Rumor had it that on Silk Street, even a simple bed now cost one gold dragon per night.
The exploding prices created a staggering flow of wealth.
Economic benefits seeped into every corner of the city.
Just look at Tobho Mott—his old face stretched into such a grin it practically bloomed like a chrysanthemum.
That alone showed how much money he had been making lately.
As the most famous and skilled blacksmith in King's Landing, his shop was far larger and more impressive than any other forge on Steel Street.
A three-story building constructed of sturdy timber and rough mortar towered above the surrounding low workshops.
From the top floor, one could even overlook the entire street.
After all—
The Dragon Festival wasn't just a spectacle for dragons.
It was also the greatest gathering of the Seven Kingdoms' elite in recent memory.
Nothing displayed status and power better than a sword personally forged by Tobho Mott, or a gleaming suit of armor produced in his workshop.
And everyone wanted to make a good impression in front of the Regent.
"Work! Work harder, you lot!"
Old Tobho shouted toward the forge while grinning foolishly, his voice full of dreams of wealth.
"Put your backs into it! By next month I'll buy every shop on this street!"
"And then you lazy idiots won't have to sleep in the stables anymore!"
"Ha ha ha!"
His laughter rang loudly, sounding almost like those wealthy nobles who never had to worry about money.
Fame brought customers.
So many that his shop's doors were nearly bursting.
All the inventory that had gathered dust on his shelves for who knew how long had become blazing hot commodities.
Everything had sold out a week ago.
Even with prices inflated more than five times, the nobles still waved their money purses frantically to secure orders.
Orders piled up like mountains.
To keep goods flowing, old Tobho had thrown every bit of effort into the work.
The apprentices who once merely fetched tools, swung small hammers, and pumped the bellows were now driven like spinning tops.
They barely had a moment to rest.
Working through the night?
That was simply the new normal.
Behind the shop, in the workshop courtyard, three forges burned from dawn until night, their fires glowing red-hot without pause.
The constant clang! clang! of hammers striking heated metal rang through the air in a dense, relentless rhythm, rarely stopping even for a moment.
As for overtime pay?
"Quit slacking off! I feed you, house you, and give you work—that's already a blessing from the gods!"
With his hands on his hips, Tobho Mott shouted toward the back again.
Looking at the seven or eight apprentices—faces etched with exhaustion, bare-chested in the dead of winter and dripping with sweat—he showed not the slightest hint of pity.
"Do you know how many people outside would kill for the chance to work here? Don't forget—you're here to learn my craft!"
"If you want to work, work. If you don't, get out!"
"If you won't do it, plenty of others will!"
He spoke with absolute conviction, spittle practically flying into the forge.
To him, these apprentices were nothing more than cheap labor that cost almost nothing to maintain.
"Ahh…"
Watching the apprentices hammer even harder, old Tobho leaned back comfortably in the chair reserved for him—a seat padded with relatively soft animal fur.
On the counter before him lay a thick ledger.
The writing in it had become a chaotic mess, nearly impossible to read.
The number of gold dragons flowing in these days was simply too astonishing.
The income from the past few weeks alone almost equaled everything he had saved in the first half of his life.
He couldn't keep track anymore.
He truly couldn't.
All Tobho knew was that the money was enough to equip an entire company of well-armed mercenary knights—or to buy several fine estates in prosperous towns and live the rest of his life in outrageous luxury.
But that wasn't his dream.
He wanted to buy this entire street.
Turn Steel Street into his own personal blacksmith kingdom.
And when that day came, everyone would call him—
The King of Smiths.
"Right there! That's the place!"
Just as Tobho was indulging in his dream, a commotion rose outside the shop.
"The one with the two knight statues at the door! That's it!"
Moments later, two figures barged in.
One tall, one young.
Both had rough, darkened skin, their thick cotton coats grimy as if they had never been properly washed. A faint fishy smell clung to them.
"Look around, look around…"
Despite their shabby appearance, Tobho still forced a professional smile when customers walked in. Raising his voice so everyone could hear, he proudly declared:
"This is Tobho Mott's forge—the finest steel in King's Landing! Honest craft, the very best—"
"Bullshit!"
Before he could finish, the larger man strode forward and BANG!
His heavy boot slammed into a brand-new knight's half-plate displayed nearby.
The armor gave a painful metallic groan as it flew off the rack, tumbling across the stone floor before landing bent and twisted.
The sudden crash froze the air.
The steady ringing of the forge hammers instantly stopped.
All eyes turned to the tall, broad-shouldered young man whose skin had been weathered dark by the sea. His black eyes burned with undisguised fury.
"You damned liar—you worthless excuse for a blacksmith!"
Balon Greyjoy roared.
He dragged forward a boy of about eleven or twelve—equally dark-skinned, his face still childish but filled with nervous unease.
Balon shoved him roughly ahead and raised a sword high in his hand.
"Open your blind eyes and look carefully, Tobho Mott!"
"Look at the garbage you sold my brother! This is the top-quality blade you swore by?"
"We took it back and trained on wooden targets for less than a morning—and it ended up like this!"
"It's so dull you couldn't even split firewood with it!"
His booming voice quickly attracted a crowd outside the shop.
People leaned closer to examine the blade in Urrigon's hand.
The once-sharp edge was now riddled with chips and curled metal, the damage so dense it barely looked like a weapon meant for training.
Old Tobho's eyes were sharp.
He recognized the mark on the blade immediately.
It had come from his shop.
The experienced blacksmith quickly drew his conclusion.
Some apprentice must have rushed the job or cut corners, producing a defective blade that somehow slipped into the goods and got sold.
In the chaos of overwhelming orders—especially when those idiot apprentices handled cheap bulk orders—such mistakes were entirely possible.
Those damned fools. Tonight they're working all night as punishment.
With that thought, Tobho's smile faded.
But now wasn't the time to find the culprit.
The important thing was protecting the reputation he had worked so hard to build.
Customers and passersby were watching.
If he handled this poorly, his "top-quality goods" would become "top-quality junk."
And the compensation alone might bankrupt him.
Taking a slow breath, Tobho's sharp eyes drifted to the golden kraken sigil on Balon and Urrigon's chests.
Instantly, naked contempt flashed across his face.
"Heh heh heh…"
He deliberately stretched the sound, letting out a mocking laugh.
Judging by their appearance…
"You two gentlemen… must be from the Iron Islands, right?"
"That's right!"
Young Balon failed to notice the trap in Tobho's words. Straightening proudly, he spoke with the threatening tone typical of an ironborn.
"I'm Balon Greyjoy, eldest son of King Quellon!"
"You cheated my brother Urrigon Greyjoy."
"Return the three gold dragons we paid—or I'll burn your shop to the ground!"
Instead of anger, Tobho's smile grew even wider.
He spread his hands innocently and spoke loudly.
"I've never sold a sword to any ironborn."
Before Balon could react, Tobho seized the momentum and raised his voice further.
"You ironborn must have stolen that sword from my shop!"
"Then you deliberately smashed it against steel and granite—or used whatever filthy tricks you islanders favor to ruin it!"
"And now you come here shouting and slandering me just to extort money from an honest craftsman!"
"Isn't that bullying a decent man?!"
Under Balon's stunned gaze, Tobho slammed his hands against the counter and addressed the crowd, pretending to look aggrieved yet resolute.
"Everyone here can see this!"
"Maybe that pirate logic of yours—taking what you want instead of earning it—works back in those barren rocks you call home!"
"But this is King's Landing!"
"The city beneath the King—and the Regent!"
"This is a place of law, rules, and evidence!"
"You dare smear my reputation and try to rob me of my gold dragons with such filthy tricks!"
"Is there no justice left? No law at all?!"
His words splashed over Balon like filthy water.
The shop fell into silence for a moment—then erupted with murmurs.
"So they're ironborn… figures."
"I knew Tobho's forge couldn't possibly sell junk."
"Disgusting thieves, trying to scam people."
"My cousin lives in Seagard—he says those raiders kill hundreds every year!"
"These pirates think they can bully people in their own lands and now they're trying it here in King's Landing!"
The looks that had once been curious now carried naked hostility.
Balon and his brother were suddenly under suspicious scrutiny from every direction.
As if everyone had already decided they were criminals.
Balon Greyjoy was completely stunned.
He stood there like a statue, his rage replaced by a sense of absurd humiliation.
What the hell? Are people in King's Landing always this unreasonable?
I'm ironborn, damn it!
Ironborn storm into people's homes shouting "Pay or die!"
If we want something, we take it.
If anyone resists, we split their skull with an axe.
"We do not sow— we take."
Ever heard of that?!
Could you at least show some respect?
And what the hell was going on today?
He had only come to demand justice.
Even if he were insane, he wouldn't start trouble in King's Landing at a time like this.
He had paid for the sword.
Yes.
Paid.
The great Balon Greyjoy had actually bought something with money.
A once-in-a-lifetime miracle.
And what happened?
This damned blacksmith accused them of stealing it—and trying to extort him!
In front of everyone!
That insult was worse than calling him a refined and honorable southern knight.
Balon felt a burning bitterness surge from his chest to his skull.
Blood roared in his ears like wildfire racing through dry brush.
Tobho Mott's smug face.
The suspicious, knowing looks from the crowd.
They struck his ironborn pride like whips dipped in saltwater.
This was an insult—
To him.
To House Greyjoy.
To the entire Iron Islands.
The humiliation and rage shattered the last fragile piece of his restraint.
Balon's face turned black, then red, then deep purple.
The veins in his neck bulged violently, threatening to burst.
"Tobho… Mott!"
Grinding the name through his teeth, Balon abandoned all thoughts of laws or consequences in King's Landing.
He stepped forward in two strides.
Grabbing the blacksmith by the collar, he raised a fist the size of a hammer and smashed it into Tobho's sneering face.
"I'll fuck your mother!"