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Ser Hugh wasted no time. He ordered two of his mounted attendants to unload the horses. Generously, he even left the saddles attached and presented them to Jimmy with a satisfied grin.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he sent a man to quietly inquire whether Jimmy might be willing to part with the armor as well.
Jimmy nearly laughed.
Designed by Stark. Engineered beyond this world.
Could you afford it?
He declined politely, claiming it was a family heirloom.
At last, he had horses.
Jimmy secured the bundle of swords across one saddle, mounted the other, and merged with the caravan as they headed toward King's Landing.
He felt a faint disappointment.
If Hugh had tried to bully him. If he had attempted to seize the swords by force. Jimmy would have had an excuse to remove him from the board.
Instead, Hugh had followed the rules.
Westeros was not entirely composed of smiling nobles who stabbed you in the back, it seemed.
Jimmy was mistaken.
Hugh was not acting out of honor. He was acting out of caution. The Rose Road was crowded. Witnesses everywhere. If he behaved like a thug in plain sight, no one would treat him as a knight again.
In war, though.
In war, Hugh would have stripped you down to your undergarments without blinking.
---
Riding within the caravan, Jimmy fell into conversation with one of the guards. The group called themselves the Turtledove Caravan.
In truth, they were little more than wandering peddlers. When they reached a small keep, they sold trinkets. If needed, they could juggle or perform small tricks for coins.
They had heard tales from singers and decided fortune lay on the road.
Their wealth reflected reality.
Bandits did not bother robbing them. There was nothing worth taking.
Most of their "goods" were items purchased cheaply in one place and sold for slightly more somewhere else. Their most valuable possessions were probably the five donkeys pulling their wagons.
As for Pentos, their knowledge came entirely from secondhand stories.
Jimmy had never been there either, but he knew enough common details to answer their questions while extracting information of his own.
The Hand of the King was Eddard Stark of the North.
That placed him squarely at the beginning of the spiral.
Then came the second confirmation.
A grand tourney was about to be held in King's Landing.
Everything was aligning.
The caravan members envied Jimmy. A tourney meant nobles. Nobles meant money. With swords of that quality, he could make a fortune.
---
By evening, Jimmy entered King's Landing with the caravan.
The gate fee was his responsibility. He had only gold on hand, so to avoid drawing attention, he asked the caravan leader to cover the small copper payment.
Inside the city, Jimmy went straight to a moneychanger.
He exchanged fifteen gold coins and received thirteen gold dragons, sixty-eight silver stags, and a scatter of smaller copper pieces.
The entry fee had been a single copper penny.
Outside the exchange, he repaid the caravan leader immediately.
The Turtledove Caravan headed for Flea Bottom, where their finances allowed them to lodge. They planned to remain until the tourney ended, performing songs in praise of the victors in hopes of earning silver stags.
Jimmy had other plans.
He led his horses to the Street of Steel and rented a small house as if intending to stay long term. Along the way, he purchased several sets of local clothing.
Then he found a respectable-looking forge.
"Master Smith," Jimmy said calmly. "I have blades forged by a master in Pentos. Would you be willing to sell them on commission?"
The blacksmith frowned. "What sort of blades?"
Jimmy drew one.
"Test it."
After several strikes against a practice blade, the blacksmith's eyes widened.
Without hesitation, he made an offer.
"Twenty gold dragons for each greatsword. Seventeen for each one-handed blade. I will buy them all now."
"That way you do not waste time selling them yourself, and I still make a profit."
He was not wrong.
Jimmy had purchased them for far less.
The blacksmith's offer was fair. More than fair.
For blades of that quality, the price was honest.
Jimmy had already decided to sell. But he could not make it look easy. If he appeared indifferent to gold, that would draw attention. Attention in King's Landing was dangerous.
So he haggled.
He sighed. He complained about losing his ship. He talked about taxes at Dragonstone. He hinted at starving in foreign lands.
By the end of it, he walked away with a few extra gold dragons and over a dozen additional silver stags.
A clean deal.
---
The horses were stabled in the courtyard of the house he had rented. Jimmy changed into local clothing and spent his days wandering the city.
He bought small, ordinary items. Food. Tools. Trinkets.
But mostly, he memorized.
Streets. Alleys. Guard rotations. Gates. Rooftop lines.
Horus circled high above, mapping King's Landing from the air.
The first major objective was clear.
Eddard Stark.
Rescuing him would require precision. Horus was essential.
Jimmy purchased large quantities of flour, salted meat, and preserved supplies. Horus located a secluded island offshore, hidden enough to serve as a future refuge.
If Ned survived what was coming, he would need somewhere no one could find him.
Preparations finished, the tourney began.
---
Jimmy took a place among the spectators.
Knights in full armor lined the lists. Squires handed them blunted lances.
The weapons were designed to reduce fatalities, but a misplaced strike or a direct hit at a weak point in the armor could still kill.
Jimmy had already seen a few men knocked from their horses, struggling to breathe beneath their dented breastplates.
So far, no deaths.
The crowd roared.
As the rounds progressed, stronger competitors emerged. The excitement grew louder.
There were wagers everywhere.
Some backed their favorite knights. Others backed coin alone.
Now two riders remained on the field.
One of them was familiar.
Ser Hugh.
Still wearing that gleaming, ornamental armor. It looked impressive, but it was not meant for real combat.
Jimmy did not know what the man was thinking. Most knights wore practical war armor for the lists. Hugh had chosen display over durability.
Across from him waited a giant.
Jimmy felt something close to pity.
Even from a distance, the other man radiated brutality. Unrestrained. Violent.
Jimmy was tall.
This man towered over him by nearly half a head and then some. Heavy plate armor covered him completely. The horse beneath him strained under the weight.
And the helm.
Calling it a helmet was generous.
It looked like a metal barrel dropped over his head.
If Hugh landed a clean hit, the giant might shift back a step or two.
At most.
The name rippled through the crowd.
Gregor Clegane.
But most did not call him that.
They called him the Mountain That Rides.
A butcher. A raider. A monster in armor.
And the favorite to win.
Jimmy shook his head.
If Hugh had any sense, he would yield immediately.
Otherwise, he might need a grave.
"Begin!"
The signal rang out.
Both horses thundered forward down their lanes.
They closed the distance in seconds.
Impact.
A brutal collision.
The crowd gasped as one.
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