Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

Clint Mott had heard of the most talked-about legendary figure in King's Landing over the past two days, even if his health had kept him from going out.

He simply felt that the rumors surrounding the Bear Hunter were exaggerated. After all, the idea of one man beheading a hundred people in the fighting arena sounded like a myth—hard to believe.

However, after seeing Lynd wield the great knight's sword and display his swordsmanship, Clint gradually began to believe that the man before him was indeed capable of killing a hundred men, perhaps even a thousand, without much trouble. Moreover, the strange strength Lynd demonstrated made Clint think of one particular person: the Mountain, Gregor Clegane.

Lynd ignored the curious glances from those around him and pointed at the two knightly greatswords. "I'll take these two swords. Also, have better sheaths made for them, along with two sets of sword belts. One set should be for these great swords, and the other set should be turned into back straps for these two broad-bladed half-swords of mine."

The smithy servant stood frozen in a daze until Old Clint reached over and gave him a firm pat on the back. "What are you standing around for? Do as Lord Lynd commanded. Go to Gold-Tooth Pello for the sheaths and belts—he makes the finest leather goods."

The servant helped Old Clint settle into a chair before summoning a few others to assist. They carefully removed the knight's greatsword and carried it out of the smithy, heading for the street where the leather goods shop was located.

With the immediate problem of weapons resolved, Lynd turned to the other reason for his visit. He asked Old Clint, "Since you were the best smith in King's Landing once, you must know about Valyrian steel, right?"

Old Clint nodded. "Of course. Even if I'm not the best smith anymore, I know about Valyrian steel."

"So, do you know where I can get some Valyrian steel?" Lynd asked bluntly.

Old Clint paused, his expression thoughtful, before responding with a question of his own. "My lord, do you know how many Valyrian steel swords there are in the Seven Kingdoms?"

"I don't know, but there can't be many," Lynd replied.

"No, there aren't," Old Clint confirmed with a heavy tone. "Over the years, only a handful of swords made of Valyrian steel remain. Every great noble house covets one. Your host family, House Tyrell, has been searching for a Valyrian steel sword for years, but they haven't found one yet. Now you ask me where you can get Valyrian steel. What do you think I should say, my lord?"

Lynd remained silent, beginning to realize that acquiring Valyrian steel weapons—or armor—was going to be far more difficult than he had anticipated.

Old Clint continued, "And even if you were to find Valyrian steel, how would you reforge it? You must understand that forging Valyrian steel is an incredibly advanced process. It's said that when Valyria fell, the secret of working the steel was lost. Even across the Narrow Sea, on the continent of Essos, it's nearly impossible to find someone who knows how to do it. Here in Westeros, it's even rarer. So whether you're hoping to forge weapons or armor from Valyrian steel, I'll be honest—it's almost impossible."

"Is there really no way?" Lynd asked, somewhat unwillingly.

Old Clint thought for a moment and replied, "If you simply want to obtain Valyrian steel, you might find some at the Citadel. Someone there might even know how to forge it. Some Maesters, after completing their studies, forge a Valyrian steel chain link to demonstrate their mastery of metallurgy."

Lynd rolled his eyes at the suggestion. He had thought about visiting the Citadel, but his primary reason was to learn about the world, not to seek Valyrian steel. He could easily imagine the Citadel regarding the knowledge of Valyrian steel's smelting and forging as their most guarded secret. Tampering with such sacred knowledge would undoubtedly offend the Citadel, and doing so would make it impossible for him to move freely within the Seven Kingdoms.

There were two major powers in Westeros that no one could afford to offend: the Faith of the Seven, which controlled the people's beliefs, and the Citadel, which held dominion over knowledge. The Citadel's Maesters served as advisors to noble houses, influencing their decisions with quiet subtlety—a power far more dangerous for being silent and unseen.

Lynd considered what he knew of Valyrian steel and murmured thoughtfully, "I know that among the Free Cities of Essos, there's one city that has mastered the art of reforging Valyrian steel. I think there's enough of it there, but I can't seem to remember the name of that city…"

"You're talking about Qohor, the City of Sorcerers," Old Clint volunteered, naming the place. He added, "My son, Tobho Mott, is studying the art of blacksmithing in that very city. He should be returning this year to take over my smithy. If he's learned how to reforge Valyrian steel, he might be able to help you—provided you can find enough of it. Then, he could reforge it into the weapon or armor you want."

Hearing this, Lynd's mind cleared immediately. He remembered seeing discussions on a forum in his previous life about the Free Cities, with Qohor mentioned briefly.

Not much detailed information had been shared, but he knew that the people of Qohor were often called "Qohorik," and the city housed a significant number of Valyrian descendants. As such, it made sense that Qohor preserved much of Valyrian knowledge, including the lost art of reforging Valyrian steel.

That said, it was clear that Qohor lacked the ability to create new Valyrian steel. If they did, the city would export Valyrian steel items, and such weapons would not be so rare in Westeros.

Additionally, it struck him that Old Clint's son, Tobho Mott, was likely the same blacksmith who would, more than a decade later, help Lord Tywin Lannister reforge Ice into two Valyrian steel swords. This was undoubtedly a stroke of good fortune for Lynd.

Although he hadn't uncovered a direct clue for acquiring Valyrian steel, he now knew someone who could reforge it into weapons and armor—a valuable connection for the future.

Having gained all the useful information he could, Lynd saw no reason to linger. After paying for the two swords and accessories, including sheaths and belts, he asked Old Clint to have the items sent to the Tyrell camp outside the city.

Once he left the smithy, Lynd didn't immediately return to the camp. Instead, he and Raul wandered through King's Landing. Despite having spent several days in the city, he hadn't yet taken a proper look at it.

King's Landing, often described as a city built on "shit and piss," was in a better state than usual. The sharp drop in population caused by the plundering and slaughter of the Westerlands' army a year ago had left the streets quieter. Over the past year, Lord Jon Arryn had worked tirelessly to rebuild the city, and the results were apparent. At least for now, several main streets and some of the larger urban alleys were clean, and the air carried less of the foul stench usually associated with the city. It was a marked improvement compared to the slums outside the walls.

Still, Lynd knew it wouldn't last. As people continued to flood back into King's Landing, the city's environment would inevitably return to its original state. Flea Bottom, for example, was already reverting to its infamous squalor.

After wandering through the Castle's main streets for a while, the daylight faded, and Lynd's curiosity about the city began to wane. He decided to head to the Dragonpit to gather a sufficient amount of Dragonfire Obsidian to last him for a long while. Once that task was done, he would return to camp.

However, as soon as Lynd entered the Street of the Sisters and walked a short distance toward the Dragonpit, a young girl suddenly darted out from a nearby alley. She approached him quickly, bowed, and said, "My lord, there is someone who wants to meet you."

Lynd glanced at the girl and immediately recognized her as the same one who had led him to the tavern earlier. At her words, his mind turned to Varys.

After a brief hesitation, Lynd turned to Raul and instructed him to return to camp. He then followed the girl without further question.

Instead of leading him into the narrow alley, the girl continued along the Street of the Sisters in the direction of the Dragonpit—the very place Lynd had been heading.

The two moved quickly, one ahead of the other, until they ascended Rhaenys's Hill and came to a stop before the ruins of a vast, domed structure.

Lynd gazed up at the Dragonpit, his expression hardening as a trace of unease flickered in his eyes.

Perhaps it was the result of the Dragon Communion Ritual, but his body wasn't the only thing that had changed—his senses had transformed as well. It wasn't that his senses had been sharpened; rather, they seemed to have gained a kind of extraordinary power.

What others saw as mere ruins—an abandoned and desolate place where some civilians now built makeshift homes, and where prostitutes and their clients sneaked in for privacy—was something far different in Lynd's eyes.

The ruins were shrouded in countless dark shadows, like clumps of rotting, shapeless mud, ceaselessly shifting and writhing. Among the shadows, faint, anguished faces emerged and disappeared, while other shapes, darker and more defined, took the form of dragons. These shadow-dragons streaked through the darkness, letting out wails of torment so faint they were almost beyond hearing.

Lynd's gaze grew heavier as he recalled what he had read in Maester Hawley's books about the Dragonpit.

It had once been an important temple of the Faith of the Seven, until Maegor the First had ridden Balerion the Black Dread to destroy it in flames. Everyone inside the temple had been burned alive. Later, Maegor transformed the site into a dragon's lair for raising the young dragons of House Targaryen.

But it was during the Dance of the Dragons that the Dragonpit met its true destruction. A frenzied mob of starving smallfolk had stormed the building, slaughtering the dragons within—five, it was said—while many of the attackers perished in Dragonfire as the dome collapsed, burying all in the wreckage.

Even that wasn't the end. During the Great Spring Sickness, the ruins had been turned into a mass grave. Bodies of the dead—too numerous to bury in time—were dumped into the Dragonpit. Worse, even some who were still alive, suffering from the disease, were thrown in.

Eventually, the Dragonpit itself had nearly overflowed with corpses. To address this, the King's Hand had ordered the remains burned with wildfire. The resulting flames roared for days, towering so high they could be seen from beyond the walls of King's Landing.

In truth, the Dragonpit was now little more than a massive tomb. Faithful worshippers, desperate smallfolk, bold warriors, and even dragons—all were buried here, their lives claimed by fire, violence, and plague.

The dark figures Lynd now perceived were, he believed, the anguished and angry spiritual remnants of the souls who had died in this cursed place—men, women, and dragons alike.

The presence of this energy likely stemmed from the dragons' own magic. It was an energy that most would never perceive, but Lynd, transformed by the Dragon Communion Ritual and unusually attuned to such forces, could feel it distinctly.

Just as Lynd was overwhelmed by the scene before him, a sudden and intense sense of hunger gripped him. It wasn't a normal hunger; it felt primal, as though the dark energy formed by the wraiths here was a feast waiting to be devoured.

"My lord, what's wrong with you?" the little girl asked, puzzled, as she noticed the change in his expression.

Lynd didn't respond immediately. Instead, he gestured for her to wait while he concentrated on this inexplicable sensation, searching his body for its source.

It didn't take long for him to realize the hunger wasn't coming from himself but rather directly affecting his Spirit. The source of this yearning didn't originate here but instead seemed to radiate from the cage in which Glory was being held back at the Tyrell camp outside King's Landing.

At that moment, it became clear—he and Glory shared some kind of spiritual connection. The dark energy he saw in the Dragonpit resonated with the creature, as though Glory could sense the wraiths through him.

"Skinchanger?" Lynd thought immediately, recalling the special ability some possessed in this world. But he quickly dismissed the idea. No, this was something else—something tied to the day Glory had absorbed the lingering dragon soul from the cracked dragon egg through his body.

Fueled by an overpowering hunger, Glory began gnawing frantically at the iron bars of its cage, its bite far stronger than what one would expect from a young Shadowcat.

It wasn't long before the iron gave way with a screeching sound, and Glory, now free, slipped like a shadow out of the tent. Unseen by anyone in the Tyrell camp, the creature darted swiftly through the dark, speeding toward Lynd.

Lynd didn't resist or break this strange connection. Instead, he maintained it, splitting his attention between himself and Glory's perspective. Steeling himself, he signaled the little girl to continue leading the way.

The girl looked at him curiously, as though reassured by the improvement in his demeanor, and then, without further hesitation, climbed through a broken section of the Dragonpit's ruins.

Lynd followed her inside. They navigated the narrow, debris-laden paths of the Dragonpit ruins, descending deeper and deeper underground—far beneath Rhaenys's Hill. The air grew colder, thick with dust and an eerie silence. After passing through a narrow corridor littered with ancient bones, they finally entered a relatively open crypt.

The chamber bore the unmistakable marks of its past. Remnants of stonework still bore the symbols of the Faith of the Seven—weathered carvings. This underground vault must have been part of the old temple that Maegor the Cruel had burned to the ground centuries ago.

"The Sept of Remembrance was built by one Targaryen and destroyed by another. What a strange fate, don't you think, my lord?"

Lynd turned as the speaker stepped into the flickering firelight. It was Varys, the Spider, his face calm and unreadable as always.

At the sight of him, the little girl bowed deeply before turning wordlessly to leave the way they had come. Lynd watched her disappear into the dark passage, leaving him alone with Varys in the cold, oppressive silence of the crypt.