When Master Tobho Mott announced his intention to shutter his shop on the Street of Steel and ride for the Riverlands, the protests from his kin and apprentices rose like a winter gale.
"The Riverlands are a butcher's yard," his wife lamented, her face a mask of worry. "What business could a man of your years have in that chaos?"
His eldest son, Torred, was sharper. "Father, think. What if this knight, Caden, is merely spinning a web? He lures the greatest armorer in the capital into the mud only to hold you for ransom. We have the gold, but your bones are too old for a dungeon."
Tobho wavered. He was nearing sixty, an age where most men were content to sit by the hearth and wait for the Stranger. But then, the world broke. King Joffrey was poisoned at his own wedding feast, and the capital descended into madness.
The hunt for the Imp's wife, Sansa Stark, turned the city into a hornet's nest. Gold Cloaks kicked in doors from the Muddy Way to Visenya's Hill. Even Mott's forge wasn't spared. A squad of City Watchmen ransacked the shop, looking for hidden Northmen. It cost Tobho a gold dragon in "ale money" to keep them from breaking his anvils.
That night, listening to the screams echoing from Flea Bottom, Tobho realized that neither lords nor kings were safe. Death was coming for everyone. Why not chase one last obsession before the fire went out?
Years ago, he had traveled a thousand leagues to Qohor to learn the secrets of reworking Valyrian steel. Now, Caden claimed a master of even greater skill was hiding in the Riverlands. He could not stay away. Even if it meant his death, he had to see.
He divided his shares between his sons, provided for his wife, and took his most trusted apprentices through the Gods Gate as the sun rose.
The journey from King's Landing to the Gods Eye took ten days. Near the capital, the land still held a ghost of peace—cattle grazed in the meadows, and wagons of oats and winter wheat clogged the roads.
But once they crossed into the Riverlands, the world turned to ash. There was not a field unburnt, nor a village unpillaged. The Kingsroad was empty of travelers; from dusk till dawn, the wolves ruled the wastes. They had lost their fear of men.
One evening, a young knight in their escort named Gabe Bruce dismounted to relieve himself. When he turned back, his destrier had been hamstrung and disemboweled by a silent pack.
"Demons in wolf-skin," Sir Gabe spat, his face pale with grief. "A punishment for our sins."
"Sins don't fill bellies," Trick, the leader of the party, said coldly. He ordered the horse butchered and salted. Meat was too precious to leave for scavengers.
He gave Sir Gabe a pack-stallion to ride, but the knight spent the next day complaining. To a man of the Reach, riding a common pack-beast was a slur upon his lineage. That night, Gabe demanded the mount of Morton, Trick's assistant—a fine Northern garron.
Trick settled the dispute with his fists. By the next morning, Sir Gabe and the other arrogant young knights were remarkably silent and respectful. Master Tobho didn't ask how Trick—a commoner who wasn't even a knight—had "persuaded" them so thoroughly. Nor did he ask why Gabe showed no bruises despite the sound of the beating the night before.
As they neared the Gods Eye Alliance, the scenery shifted again. Life was returning to the soil. Despite the deepening chill, farmers were working the earth with an intensity Tobho hadn't seen since the start of the war.
He saw a massive plow-horse straining against its harness, dragging a blade through the heavy clay. Only two men worked it—one leading the horse, one steadying the handles.
Tobho signaled the party to halt. As an armorer, he had spent his youth forging the tools of the field before he ever touched a sword. He knew the weight of a heavy plow. Usually, it required four oxen and a team of men to manage the cumbersome wooden frames and straight iron shares.
He offered a copper star to the farmer, an old man of his own years, to inspect the tool.
It was a marvel. The plow-share was cast iron, fused to a curved moldboard that turned the soil in a fluid, seamless motion. The frame was short, made of light, reinforced wood, and featured a rotating disc at the front for easy steering.
"I've never seen a design so lean," Tobho whispered, running a calloused hand over the iron. "It's been refined a hundred times over. Who forged this?"
The farmer took back the handles, a small smile playing on his weathered face. "The Lightbringer let us have it on credit. We pay him back in grain once the harvest is in. He calls it the 'Alliance Plow.'"
"The Lightbringer..." Tobho turned to Trick, his eyes wide. "The master I seek—is he the one who designed this?"
Trick nodded, his expression unreadable. "He designs everything, Master Mott. From the swords that don't break to the plows that feed the hungry. We're almost there. I'll show you the forge."
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