Tobho Mott, who had been talking nonstop a second ago, dropped his head like a scolded dog.
"What do you mean, Your Grace?"
"You want me to commission a full suit of plate right now—does that mean you've decided I'm never going to grow another inch?" Joffrey snapped, sounding pissed. "Or are you saying if it stops fitting later I can just drag it back for alterations?"
Big drops of sweat hit the floor. Tobho looked nervous. "I… I hadn't thought of that, Your Grace. My apologies!"
He stole a few upward glances. Joffrey's face kept shifting, like he was turning something over.
He wasn't thinking about armor at all.
He was wondering when the hell he'd get those three points.
[Heaven's Will Points +1]
That was the smallest bump yet—most of them trickled in one at a time.
He was still trying to figure out exactly what counted as playing the new role right.
Seeing Tobho still bent over waiting, Joffrey stopped messing with him.
"I'm here to order a sword."
The air in the forge loosened up the second he said it.
Tobho lifted his head, smile snapping back into place.
"Crafting a blade for Your Grace would be my greatest honor." He bowed deeper, voice dripping respect. "Any preferences on style, weight, or decoration?"
"Handle the details yourself. I trust your work." Joffrey sounded bored. "And it's not for me. It's a gift."
"Ohhh," Tobho drew the word out, disappointed.
"For the son of a certain duke."
"…Oh!"
"Would that be Ser Loras of Highgarden, Your Grace?"
Joffrey shook his head. "No."
He glanced around the big front room and gave Tobho a meaningful look.
"Ah, yes—this way, please."
Once they were in the back room Joffrey started describing it with his hands.
"For a boy around fourteen. Build him like me. Nothing too flashy—you know how they are up north. And… uh…"
"How do I put this?"
He looked around, then nodded at the Hound. "Dog, give a couple barks."
Sandor stared like they'd both lost their minds.
Tobho got it instantly. He pressed his fingers together into a hollow point, put it to his lips, and went "Woof? Woof?"
Joffrey shot him a thumbs-up.
"Ah!" Tobho relaxed. "A fine gift indeed. The St… that family has always preferred practical steel."
"How about a good hand-and-a-half sword in fine steel? I can scale it down but keep the strength and edge."
"Whatever you think works. Just put a gray wolf head on the pommel."
Watching the two of them, Sandor wiped a hand down his face.
What the fuck? They hadn't said a damn thing and the smith already understood?
These people were annoying as hell.
After a short back-and-forth Joffrey stood and stretched. "How long?"
"Two months, Your Grace." Tobho tapped the table, already sketching the blade in his head.
"Twenty days. Not a day more."
The smith's face fell. "That's tight—finding the right steel and carving the wolf alone will—"
"Thirty gold dragons."
"Oh, Your Grace, say no more! Stay in the Red Keep and I'll work day and night. You'll have the finest blade in King's Landing." Tobho was grinning ear to ear.
A short sword from Tobho normally sold for a hundred-odd silver stags—less than one dragon. Even a fancy steel longsword for a lord ran about ten dragons with carving and gems.
This was a downsized kid's blade with simple work. Thirty dragons was basically stealing.
Deal done, Tobho bowed them out with a flourish.
"And remember—don't go blabbing outside. His Grace hasn't announced it yet," Joffrey warned.
Tobho nodded so hard his head nearly came off. Lips sealed.
"Besides the sword, anything else? Gilding, coloring—I can do it all…"
Joffrey let a smile break across his face.
"Actually, yeah."
"Since I'm here, show me where you work. Father always says you're the best smith in King's Landing. I want to see how steel is made."
Joffrey never gave free handouts.
The request sounded perfectly reasonable—curious boy, big client who just dropped thirty dragons.
Tobho thought about it, then shrugged. "This way, Your Grace. It's loud and smoky back there—mind your fine clothes."
They stepped through the back door, crossed a narrow yard, and entered a huge barn-like hall.
The second the door opened, a wave of heat and sweat smell slapped them in the face.
"Your Grace, there's really nothing to see. You'll ruin your clothes," Tobho shouted over the hammer strikes and bellows.
Joffrey just twitched his nose at the sulfur stink and walked straight in.
The Hound and Tobho had no choice but to follow.
"What's that?" "The furnace." "And that?" "Quenching tub."…
Every odd-looking tool Joffrey asked about.
After passing several forges he finally spotted what he was after.
"What's this, a bull's head?"
He picked up a helmet from a long bench and turned it over in his hands.
Tobho's face changed. "Just some apprentice's silly project, Your Grace. Nothing special."
"It's boiling in here. Let's head back outside."
Joffrey nodded but deliberately held the helmet high, turning it slowly.
Then he rapped the horns with his knuckles—thunk thunk—and the dull ring echoed.
A tall, shirtless boy with thick black hair came charging over.
"That's my helmet!" he bellowed.
The Hound's hand dropped to his sword.
Tobho jumped in front of the kid. "Gendry! What are you doing here? Get back to work!"
The boy shoved sweat-soaked hair out of his face, tried to dodge around the smith, and stubbornly repeated, "That's my helmet."
Joffrey stepped right up to him and studied his face.
Then he handed the helmet over.
"You made this? Looks pretty damn cool."
The boy clutched it to his chest and gave a cautious nod.
Tobho jumped in. "Thank His Grace properly! This is the crown prince!"
He yanked the boy into a bow, then practically kicked him back to his forge.
"Kid's stubborn as raw iron," Tobho said with a nervous laugh. "I'll straighten him out later. He didn't offend you, did he, Your Grace?"
"Not at all." Joffrey waved it off like it was nothing.
He wandered a little longer, then left under Tobho's eager good-byes.
Taking the reins from his escort, Joffrey's mind was already spinning.
That half-brother really did take after Robert more than he did.
Which meant he couldn't stay in King's Landing.
Not a chance.