"Such beautiful ripples... where did you get this?" Henrik the tavern-keep was entranced, his eyes tracing the intricate, flowing lines of the blade. "I've never heard of a hedge knight carrying Valyrian steel."
"Is that truly a Valyrian blade?"
"Gods, I heard only the Great Lords could afford such things!"
Whispers rippled through the taproom like wind through wheat. Across the table, the three card-sharks stared with eyes full of a sudden, sharp hunger. Everyone knew the legends: Lord Tywin was said to produce gold even in his sleep. If they couldn't get a castle for a blade like this, three or five thousand gold dragons were certainly not out of reach.
The bearded leader of the sharks sat back, trying to steady his shaking hands. "You're Ser Caden, right? Look, if you're willing to put that sword on the table as a stake... I wouldn't mind playing a few more rounds with you."
Caden let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Stake a Valyrian blade against your gutter-silver? You think you're worthy of even looking at this steel? You're the things that live in the shadows of the sewers; don't compare yourselves to my sword."
He turned to Henrik. "Henrik, keep the sword behind the bar. If I lose, it stays here. When I've earned the coin back, I'll come for it."
Henrik licked his lips nervously. "And if... if you never return to claim it?"
"Then let it sit," Caden grinned. "Let it be passed down through your line, waiting for me or my heirs. Or did you truly think you could walk away with a treasure of the Freehold for ten silver moons?"
Henrik stammered but finally nodded. "Fine. Ten moons. If you come for it within the week, you owe me an extra silver stag for the trouble. If it's longer—"
"It won't be a week. I'll have your coin shortly. Deal the cards!"
The sharks were no longer interested in the silver. Their minds were entirely on how to maneuver that sword away from Caden. The game resumed with a feverish intensity. The entire tavern—patrons, mummers, and servers alike—pressed in, crowding the aisles just to catch a glimpse of the "Valyrian" blade resting behind the bar.
Time bled away. A singer named Lennar approached the bar, frowning. "Is it early? Why does the room feel so heavy?"
Henrik looked out the window, surprised to see the stars had claimed the sky. "It's late, Lennar. No show tonight. We're watching a drama of our own."
"What's happened?" Lennar asked.
Henrik nodded toward Caden, who was currently taking on all three sharks and, remarkably, winning. "The Ser there lost his purse, staked his Valyrian sword for ten moons, and is now clawing back his fortune."
"Ten moons? For a Valyrian blade?" Lennar laughed. "Henrik, you've hit a vein of gold. The interest alone is worth a lordship."
"Forget the interest," Henrik whispered. "I just want my ten moons back. If he loses, I have to guard that thing. Where would I find a replacement if someone steals it?"
Lennar smirked. "It's in your hands now, Henrik. Who's to say what happens if he loses?"
Henrik's eyes brightened. Yes... if he loses...
But Caden didn't lose. Whether it was the "miracle" of the Light or simply the sharks being too distracted by greed to cheat properly, the silver began to flow back across the table.
Eventually, Caden stood up, gathering his coins. He turned to Henrik, slid ten silver moons and a single stag across the counter, and reclaimed Petal-Breaker. "There's your coin, Henrik. And the stag for your 'guardianship.' I'm a man of my word."
Henrik watched the "castle" walk away on two legs, his expression one of hollow disappointment. "Aye... so you are."
Caden turned to the crowd, raising his sword high. "Friends! Thank you for the support. To celebrate my luck, the next round of wine is on me!"
He tossed another silver moon to Henrik, then signaled to Jasmine. "Come, boy. We're done here."
As they left, Lennar the singer asked, "Well? What should I perform now?"
"Tell a story of gamblers," someone shouted. "And hope we all stay away from the tables!"
Lennar began the tale of the King of the East and a certain Brother Charyian who once bet against a goat-spirit, a reindeer-demon, and a shadowcat. But Caden was already gone, slipping back into the darkness of the rented quarters where Gale and the others waited.
Inside the common room, Brother Gale looked up from his ledgers, his expression stern. "You shouldn't have done it, Caden. Gambling is a vice of the old world."
"I didn't do it because I love the cards," Caden explained, recounting the night's events. "The tavern is a sieve of information. By tomorrow, half of Tumbleton will know a hedge knight is carrying a Valyrian sword. The right people will come to me now. It's better than knocking on every Lord's door asking if they want to buy a treasure."
Gale nodded slowly. "It has its cleverness, I admit. But it also has teeth. Men with dark hearts will come looking for you."
Caden patted the hilt of his sword. "Let them come. The brothers at the monastery are hungry, and our warriors need steel. If I have to bleed to put grain in the House of Rolf, I'll do it gladly. Besides... isn't the Lightbringer watching over us?"
In the days that followed, Caden settled into the rhythm of the town. As a hedge knight, his presence was expected. He spent his mornings training Jasmine and sparring with his Sunwalker companions, subtly showcasing the lethality of their drills.
Eventually, a man named Lune Merrick approached him. Merrick was a known merchant with ties to the local nobility. He sat across from Caden, calling for a bottle of the Arbor's finest.
After the usual toasts to the boy-king and the local lords, Merrick leaned in. "They say you carry a blade of the Freehold, Ser. Might I see it?"
Caden, playing the part of a man slightly loosened by wine, drew Petal-Breaker. "Look at the ripples, Merrick. Like a flower shattered by winter frost."
Merrick reached for it, but Caden's grip remained firm despite his "drunkenness." Merrick withdrew his hand, his eyes narrowing. "When I knew you before, you carried castle-forged steel. Where does a man find a beauty like this?"
Caden sheathed the blade, a look of mock nostalgia on his face. "In the Riverlands. From a man who valued honesty and the Sun more than steel."
Merrick smiled politely. "A fine tale. Just like in the storybooks."
In his heart, Merrick knew the story was a lie. The sword wasn't a gift of "honesty." It was likely looted from a corpse or stolen from a lord's solar during the chaos. But as for its quality? He had no doubts. In all of Westeros, he had never heard of a smith capable of faking such ripples and such an edge.
If a man could forge this, he wouldn't need to lie about it; he'd be the richest smith in the world. No, it was real. And if it was real, it was worth more than its weight in dragons.
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