Aside from the stench and the overwhelming crowds, King's Landing had its own share of charms—at least, that was the conclusion Arthur reached during the journey through its winding districts.
Brick-built manors, open-air pavilions, ramshackle wooden inns, crowded market stalls, and even a few modest technical colleges lined the streets in uninterrupted rows.
On the broad avenues like The Street of Steel or The Great Sept Road, the air wasn't as foul—ventilation helped disperse the stink. But in the narrow side alleys where two people walking shoulder to shoulder had to turn sideways to pass, the stench returned with a vengeance, bold and unapologetic.
In the distance, Arthur could make out the pale marble spires of The Great Sept of Baelor, perched atop Visenya's Hill, its seven crystal towers shining faintly in the late morning light.
To the south, on Rhaenys's Hill, the burned-out husks of the old Dragonpit could still be seen—its dome long collapsed, its bronze gates sealed since the days of King Maegor, over a century past.
Between the two hills ran Sister's Street, broad and walled, leading toward Flea Bottom and eventually the harbor.
Had Arthur and his companions taken to the skies—if, say, they had a dragon or a Maester's crow with them—they would've seen the full sprawl of King's Landing's waterfront. This second-largest port in Westeros (surpassed only by Oldtown) bore the weight of supplying a capital of 500,000 souls.
Goods came down the Blackwater Rush, floated in from Oldtown, Lannisport, Duskendale, Crab Bay, and even from across the Narrow Sea—Braavos, Pentos, Lys, Tyrosh, and beyond. Over a hundred docks bustled with the clamor of ropes, sails, crates, and shouting dockhands.
Among the ships docked were the golden-hulled galleys of the royal fleet, the Queen's pleasure barge, merchant cogs from the Free Cities, weather-worn fishing sloops, and—tucked discreetly among them—smugglers' vessels flying false flags.
Even in this, corruption was lucrative: King Robert earned royal income from port taxes and tariffs, much of it collected under Lord Baelish, the Master of Coin.
White Harbor in the North, for example, still paid annual dues to the Crown. In the books, once Robb Stark declared himself King in the North, House Manderly redirected those taxes to Winterfell—an act of quiet rebellion that would later have dire consequences.
On Aegon's Hill, the looming fortress of the Red Keep cast a long shadow over the city. Constructed of light red stone, it housed the Iron Throne, seven great drum towers, the Tower of the Hand, the Maegor's Holdfast, royal barracks, dungeons, granaries, and countless tunnels.
Tradition held that the Red Keep was the true seat of power in Westeros, but its proximity to the city and the docks blurred the lines—people referred to the whole sprawl as "King's Landing," even when technically they meant the Red Keep or the harbor.
Led by Ser Desmond, Arthur's retinue of twenty riders finally turned into a narrower street called Eel Alley, halfway up Visenya's Hill. The inn they entered wasn't grand, but it had its strengths—most importantly, it was well-ventilated.
And in King's Landing, good airflow was worth more than gold.
Veteran travelers knew the value of this place. In summer heat, with the stench rising from Flea Bottom and the docks, a gust of sea breeze through a high window could make all the difference between sanity and misery.
"I heard the Hand's tourney is scheduled to begin in about a week and a half," said Jules, fresh off a conversation with a dockside herald.
"You should say," Patrick corrected gently, "King Robert is holding a tourney in Lord Eddard's name. No way Stark would've sanctioned something so showy himself."
Desmond nodded in agreement. "Lord Stark's sense of honor is… rigid. The North has been tied to the Riverlands for years, yet I've never seen him set foot in Riverrun."
"A week and a half," Arthur repeated thoughtfully. "That's enough time to forge a full suit of custom armor."
Jules chimed in, "Two suits. Don't forget mine—and I want a full set, not some mix of scraps and boiled leather."
"There'll be armor," Arthur promised, "and golden dragons too."
Once they dismounted, a practical issue arose—what to do with twenty-two horses?
This inn, like most inside the city, wasn't built for travelers on horseback. Guests typically arrived by ship, and there were no stables to speak of.
After consulting the more city-wise among their servants, it was agreed the horses would be taken back outside the city walls, to an inn by the King's Gate that catered to overland caravans. It wasn't ideal, but it would do.
With that settled, the men finally ate and fell into bed. After days of jostling in saddles, the exhaustion was bone-deep. Even Arthur, whose dreams were often filled with dragons and fate, passed out dreamless.
The next morning.
"There really are too many people in this city," Desmond grunted, elbowing through a slow-moving crowd.
Arthur, Desmond, and Patrick, along with a few servants, were making their way to Steel Street to commission armor and weapons. What should have taken minutes stretched into an hour, trapped in the city's human tide.
Since King Robert had journeyed north to fetch Lord Stark to court, all of Westeros knew who the new Hand of the King was. And with Robert's notorious love for spectacle, the announcement of a grand tournament was as inevitable as a drunkard's belch.
And so they came: hedge knights, minor lords, masterless squires, and ambitious sellswords—flocking to King's Landing in droves.
Each knight brought squires, servants, cooks, smiths, traders, sometimes whores or seamstresses, and almost always—uninvited—thieves.
As Littlefinger once put it, the brothels were so busy the women "couldn't close their legs for days," and the cobbled streets jingled with copper coins and laughter.
Arthur had selected a specific blacksmith shop near the Dragon Gate, not far from where the bull-shouldered bastard Gendry—one of King Robert's many unacknowledged sons—was said to apprentice.
Gendry's work, even in secret, was respected by armsmasters and soldiers alike. If Arthur was to ride into the Hand's tourney, he wanted armor forged by the best.
On the way, they passed a grocer's stall. Arthur gestured for Medan, his servant, to purchase a pumpkin the size of a man's head.
Patrick raised an eyebrow. "You're not seriously planning to forge a hammer that size, are you? Not even Ser Gregor could lift that and swing it twice."
Desmond grunted, "Even if you could, no horse alive could carry you, your armor, and that monstrosity in a joust. You'd break your poor beast's legs."
Arthur frowned. They were right. A weapon like that would need a special kind of mount—something heavy, with four separate driving gaits, like the old destriers bred for war. A horse whose center of gravity stayed level under extreme weight.
But did horses like that exist in Westeros? He didn't know.
Better to be safe. A hammer for infantry, and a lighter weapon for mounted combat.
He had an idea: something modeled after the Green Dragon Crescent Blade—a curved, broad polearm from his past life. Though not truly Guan Yu's weapon, it originated during the Song Dynasty as a ceremonial blade, not one for open battle.
Still, Arthur thought it would suit him. Mounted knights wore lighter plate to spare their steeds the weight. Their armor was easier to pierce. A sweeping, heavy-cutting guandao would be just right. And, stylistically, he could replace the sigil on his banner.
The red horse and golden shield felt too passive.
But a golden guandao—a blade for slashing from horseback—fit his new image perfectly.
Just as he was pondering this, they arrived at the smithy.
After a brief exchange of coin and introductions, the blacksmith stared at Arthur with wide eyes.
"A hammer… the size of a pumpkin?" he exclaimed, bewildered. "You sure you can even lift that thing?"
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