Check out advanced chapters on : patreon.com/Veni_V
---------------
Storm's End stood as a massive fortress tower.
Through centuries of modifications, the castle had developed formidable defenses while maintaining a degree of comfort for its inhabitants.
The inner walls of the castle were polished to an exceptional smoothness. As the former seat of the Storm Kings, its layout resembled a small town more than a simple military stronghold.
The settlement outside the castle walls teemed with soldiers and merchants, farmers heading to market, and prostitutes with inviting smiles.
Cole rode through the muddy streets as pedestrians stepped aside and bowed in deference.
Chaos, shouting, the rumble of carts, and occasional laughter filled the air.
Though Cole was no stranger to harsh conditions—having endured years without proper bathing on the Wall—the state of Storm's End was truly deplorable.
Black, rotting mud mixed with the stench of human waste. The morning mist had only recently dissipated, leaving the air damp and heavy.
Only faint sunlight managed to break through the cloud cover. His horse's hooves sank into the muck with each step, spattering black mud onto the animal's legs and the cloak that covered its hindquarters.
He could tolerate most of these conditions. What truly made Cole frown with disgust were the decaying rat carcasses littering both sides of the road.
Though the cold winter weather and frozen ground limited bacterial activity, such unsanitary conditions still harbored countless dangers.
But this wasn't the time to address such concerns. He could only avert his gaze and push forward.
After navigating several streets and encountering a traffic jam, Camillo shouted at full volume: "Make way for the Lord of the City!"
Cole halted his horse before a blacksmith's shop.
The smith, Richard Schiff, emerged with his apprentice to greet him.
"I've come for the sword, Master Smith," Cole said as he dismounted.
"My lord, you should have sent word. I would have had my apprentice deliver it to you. You needn't have troubled yourself." The smith appeared genuinely distressed by Cole's presence.
"I was passing by and thought to stop in," Cole replied.
"Lord Commander, please follow me." The smith instructed an apprentice to fetch the swords.
The forge displayed racks lined with various weapons and armor. Recently, many hedge knights and sellswords had flocked to the area, making the blacksmith's trade particularly profitable.
Cole hadn't begun recruiting yet, but he was certainly willing to pay handsomely to enlist these fighters should he need to raise forces within the Stormlands.
The apprentice approached, carrying two swords.
The scabbards were crafted of smooth, translucent vegetable-tanned leather, dyed to achieve a rich black finish.
Silver wire patterns and scattered gemstones adorned the scabbards.
Chain-wrapped cruciform hilts featured flame-shaped pommels, each set with a round ruby at the center of the crossguard.
The two bastard swords were identical. Cole took one and drew it from its scabbard.
The blade whispered against the leather as it emerged, a flash of cold light as the pale steel left the "dark night" of its sheath.
The fully exposed sword featured a blood groove along its spine, and the edge appeared wickedly sharp.
Cole pressed his thumb lightly against the blade. It left a slight indentation on his calloused skin.
"Very sharp," he remarked, turning the weapon in his hand. "It's excellent work, Master Smith. You've outdone yourself."
"It's my honor to satisfy you, my lord." Richard Schiff smiled.
Cole secured both longswords at his waist.
He handed the smith the gold dragons they had agreed upon and rewarded each apprentice with a silver stag.
"The Black Goat blesses you, Lord Snow," the blacksmith said. The Black Goat was the deity he referred to.
"Are you from Qohor?" Camillo asked.
Richard Schiff nodded. "Yes, Sir Knight. I come from Qohor across the Narrow Sea."
Cole knew little about Qohor, only that it was one of the nine Free Cities.
"They say the smiths of Qohor are the finest in the world," Camillo remarked, studying the man.
"Qohor does indeed have the best blacksmiths and the most exquisite techniques." The pride in his homeland's craftsmanship was evident.
As an inland city among the Free Cities, Qohor was renowned for its textile industry and metalwork. The armor and swords forged there sold well in both the Free Cities and Westeros, much like Myr's fine crafts and silks.
"I've heard someone in Qohor can forge Valyrian steel?" Camillo inquired.
Richard Schiff smiled and shook his head. "That would be a falsehood, my lord. The secret of crafting Valyrian steel has been lost. Some in Qohor can rework existing Valyrian steel, but none can create it anew."
"Then I wonder, Master Smith—can you rework Valyrian steel?" Cole suddenly asked.
"I've been a blacksmith for twenty-six years, my lord, but I've never laid eyes on such steel. To my knowledge, fewer than three living souls possess that skill. Valyrian steel is exceedingly rare and deeply mysterious."
Legend held that the forging of Valyrian steel required magical incantations and the flames of dragons to complete.
No one knew precisely when it began, but Valyrian steel had spread throughout the world during the height of the Valyrian Freehold's conquests.
They left the smithy and returned toward the castle.
"How do you know of Qohor?" Cole asked Camillo as they rode side by side.
"My lord, I served as a blacksmith's apprentice for a time," he explained. "My master was from Qohor—a man of rough skill and fouler temper who was often drunk. One night in his cups, he picked a fight and was beaten to death."
Cole recalled how Camillo had eyed his armor with gleaming interest when they first met. Now he understood why.
"My father wanted me to learn a trade, but eventually I could only join him fishing at sea. The blacksmith taught me little more than how to swing a hammer, though he did share tales of Qohor."
Camillo suddenly tensed, looking ahead. "Lord Cole, be wary. Someone approaches." He pointed. "A knight."
Several guards rode forward to intercept the rider, but the approaching horse showed no sign of slowing. In the sunlight, Cole could see a drawn sword in the rider's hand.
"Hyaah!" A low female voice, neither pleasant nor harsh, called out. The knight wore a helmet that obscured whether they were man or woman.
The rider stood taller than most men in Westeros.
With two swift strokes, one guard fell dead and another was unhorsed. The female knight charged directly toward Cole, shouting, "Cole, I've finally found you!"
Cole recognized the armor—it was "Brienne the Beauty."
He drew his newly acquired bastard swords and called out, "Surround her!"
He urged his horse forward to meet Brienne's charge.
Cole parried her longsword with one hand while swinging his second blade across Brienne's body.
With a resounding clash, his sword struck her armor and pierced through the metal.