Ch: 10

King’s Landing

98 AC (Ninth Moon—Day 16)

Tobyn I

Tobyn was a proper idiot, the kind of unlucky sod whose luck could sour milk. He came from some piss-poor patch of dirt west of the Vale, scraping by under the boot of the Templeton lot. Sixteen years old and dumb with dreams, he up and ran off, chasing big plans in Gulltown.

Some ragged line of traders and drifters came stomping through, and he sold off two of his family’s five goats in a heartbeat. Got ten stags for them—daylight robbery, he realized later, once he learned to count past his fingers.

By the time he reached Gulltown, he was broke, filthy, and begging in the streets. His coin had vanished into dice games and a farmer’s daughter who’d lift her skirts for anyone with a few coppers. Running home would’ve meant a beating from his old man, who’d have strung him up for such a stupid stunt. So he hung around the streets for a few moons, until he landed a job scraping decks. Smart play, really—scrubbing ships for whoever would pay him a few coins.

It wasn’t much, but it put a couple silvers in his pocket—when he wasn’t throwing them away on whores or losing them to dice.

A year later, after catching a nasty beating from some peddler whose daughter he’d bedded, Tobyn decided to try his luck in King’s Landing. Thought for sure he’d strike it rich there.

Paid his way with twelve coppers and a dull sword he’d nicked off a drunk sellsword. He’d bashed the hilt up good so it wouldn’t look like one of those cheap blades Lord Grafton’s thugs carried around.

Took a week to sail from the Vale to the capital, but it felt like a bloody year. The crew worked him like a dog, tossed him scraps to eat, and left him shivering under a rag of linen through cold nights. Bastards, the lot of them—and Tobyn couldn’t lift a finger against it.

So when they docked, he was damned glad to set foot on land—even if King’s Landing stank like a brothel’s crotch. He’d half thought the crew planned to sell him to slavers in Essos.

He made himself scarce before the sails were even tied down.

Took all of a week before he was back to begging, but King’s Landing wasn’t all bad, stink and all. The twin royals liked to toss food to the poor and dangle jobs if you were hungry enough. Most folks turned up their noses, but Tobyn was down to one shoe, wearing rags that barely held together, and ready to drop from hunger.

Turns out it was Prince Maelys Targaryen himself who showed up. First time Tobyn had seen a noble up close, let alone one who looked like he’d walked out of a bard’s fantasy. The prince had his men count the beggars, marched them off to a cleaner part of the city, and gave them real beds and fresh clothes.

They stayed six moons. Learned reading, writing, basic math. Got trained to hammer nails, shape wood, stack stone, fix what was broken—enough to get by. It was hard, thankless work. Pay was trash: one silver and eighteen coppers a week. Robbery, really.

Still, no one dared complain. The prince had a long reach, and the food was good, the clothes didn’t cost a coin. Took Tobyn a while to see it clear—the money wasn’t the point. The chance was.

When the time came, they had two options: take what they’d learned and find work in the city, or sign up to work directly under the prince. The pay still sucked, but the benefits were better.

Tobyn almost went solo—figured he could scrape by with the skills he’d picked up. But he crunched the numbers and had a chat with his mate Corren.

“It’s a damn racket, Tob. You’d get screwed on fair pay, and if you ever saved up, the inns, whores, tailors, and traders would bleed you dry,” Corren said. “And the prince’s lot’ll take back your gear—you’d be in piss-stained rags again.”

“I always figured that pretty-boy prince was up to something,” Tobyn snapped. “No one smiles that much unless they’re hiding something foul.”

Corren smacked him upside the head with a wooden mug. “Shut it, you idiot. Say that again and someone from Essos’ll gut you in the street. They worship the ground he walks on.”

Tobyn knew the type, so he kept his mouth shut. He and Corren drank until Tobyn pissed himself. Capital had good ale, at least.

When the time came, he stayed. So did Corren. Tobyn got slotted into the builder crews—messing with that weird fast-setting stone, though he still worked wood on the side for extra coin.

Corren signed on as a guard, watching over the prince’s stockpiles—granaries, caravans, farms, vineyards, distilleries, even these new “factories”. Said most days it was just standing around, bored stiff.

Tobyn wished for that kind of boredom. His job was all sweat and stress. There was always something to fix or build, and the prince’s men were picky bastards—everything had to be just so.

But it wasn’t all work. Twice a week, they got breaks. Sometimes they’d wind up in the new inns near the Street of Silk—right by the high-end brothels. Tobyn dropped by once a moon, spent a bit of coin, let off some steam.

Two years passed like that. Somewhere along the way, he found a decent girl—Rosby-born, orphaned, ran off after her uncle tried to crawl into her bed. She’d been on her way to sell her maidenhood for a pouch of coin when Princess Gael plucked her out and gave her a place in the kitchens.

Out of gratitude, Tobyn swore off jerking it to thoughts of the princess’s bouncing tits.

Then came the twins’ wedding, and wouldn’t you know it—his rotten luck showed up again. Nobles poured in from across the realm, plenty from his old stomping grounds. Word was Prince Maelys had crushed some mountain clans during the last rebellion, siding with the paramount. Flattened one of the big names, or so Tobyn heard. If he’d still been around, Templeton would’ve dragged him into that mess for sure.

Truth was, the Warrior must’ve been off screwing the Maiden while his mother was birthing him—Tobyn didn’t have a scrap of fight in him. If those mountain clans had caught him, they’d have gutted him like a rabbit.

One of the highborn visitors was a Templeton from the minor branch, settled not far from where Tobyn grew up. He noticed them as they rolled in with their train of smallfolk and traders. Mixed in was his uncle—the bitter old bastard—with his “daughter” and son in tow.

Anthon, his hawk-eyed cousin, spotted him fast and slammed him into a wall in a side alley, his father hulking just behind.

“You thieving little shit, where are they? Where are my damn goats?!” Jorren bellowed, red-faced. “Your coward of a father told everyone mountain folk took you, but I wasn’t fooled. They’d have gutted you and taken every last goat. I know you sold them off, you useless prick.”

Tobyn was scared witless, but still tried to talk his way out of it. “Th-they’re gone, Uncle, but I’ll—”

A hard slap cracked across his cheek, leaving his vision swimming.

“Wrong answer, runt,” Anthon sneered. “We’re dragging your sorry ass to Lord Jorah’s tent. Gonna tell him the whole tale—how you and your deadbeat father sold the goats and ran off.”

It was a stupid lie, but when Tobyn looked at his uncle and saw the way he was eyeing Jenna, the truth hit hard. Jorren planned to offer the girl up to Lord Jorah—make the tale sound neat by throwing her into it.

Another punch knocked the thoughts out of him. When he came to, he was lying in one of the infirmary rooms, sore and spinning. He’d been here once before after a tavern brawl. Corren stood over him, arms crossed, looking pissed.

“I saw you getting dragged off by two bastards that looked a lot like family. I stepped in and called for Captain Lem,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now it’s a damn mess. Something about stolen goats. The maesters, overseers—everyone’s been pulled in. You’ve really screwed it this time, Tobyn.”

Half-dead, Tobyn told him everything. The goats, the sword he stole from that drunk guard, the long list of women in Flea Bottom he might’ve left with more than memories. Corren slugged him in the eye for that.

“You don’t have any bastards, thank the Seven. But you might get booted out for this crap,” Corren muttered. He dropped a coin pouch into Tobyn’s lap. “If things fall apart, take this and go make a life with that girl of yours. Stay clean. No more whores, no more pissing yourself drunk.”

The next day, Tobyn was hauled in to face his overseer Gorm, a few higher-ups, his fuming uncle, and Ser Pate—Lord Jorah’s man. Jorren shouted about the goats and waved a scribbled tally. Tobyn admitted it all: he stole the goats, sold them, and yeah, the sword wasn’t his either.

One of the senior staff looked him over, then laid down the judgment. “You were one of the first to join the prince’s efforts. That counts for something. You’ll pay seven gold dragons to your kin, over time, and three years’ tax to Lord Templeton. That sword? You’ll buy a dozen new ones for Lord Grafton’s men. Keep clean, or next time you’re finished.”

Jorren grumbled but took the deal. Gorm just glared. Tobyn walked away without a whipping, but his purse would bleed for years.

Eyla smacked him hard when she found out—left his cheek stinging—but she handed over some coin she’d been saving so the debt wouldn’t swallow his whole wage. She said they were getting married. Tobyn didn’t argue.

Later, they talked about his family, and he laid it all out. He’d done wrong, no doubt, but his kin were no saints. His father was a drunk, bedding his brother’s wife three times a month. Jenna was his half-sister, and Tobyn knew it. Didn’t mean he cared for her—just meant the truth was foul. His brothers were mostly bullies, and his mother had died giving birth to him. His uncle was a bitter cuckold, and Anthon scared the piss out of him.

Eyla slapped him again for not helping Jenna. He wasn’t some storybook knight, he snapped—but he did cough up some silver for her, and Eyla found the girl honest work in the city.

Tobyn figured in the end, they were all just trying to scrape by.

The twins’ wedding went off without a hitch—big tourney and all. Tobyn tossed some coin on the bets, came out ahead, but handed most of it to Corren—his mate had a baby on the way.

Time crawled. Tobyn kept himself clean, married Eyla after a year, and hadn’t touched a whore since—gave her all his attention, proper.

Two quiet years rolled by. He joined the work crews now and then—trekked out to the Riverlands building dams and sawmills, even got shipped off to Braavos for half a year.

At the start of the new year, Eyla gave birth to a baby boy—loud, squirmy little thing. After that, Tobyn took up whittling tiny warrior figures, small enough to fit in a man’s palm.

Corren spotted them, talked to a few trader friends, and lined something up. Before long, Tobyn was making more coin selling those carvings than he ever did laying stone.

“I’m thinking of ditching this stinking city,” Tobyn said one evening. “Find a quiet village, set up proper. Got the coin for it, I figure.”

Corren didn’t travel much anymore. He’d planted himself in the city, pulling in solid coin—called it moving up. He and that Lyseni woman of his had started frequenting the fancy new eateries that had popped up over the past year.

“Stick it out a bit longer, Tob. Year or so,” Corren told him, leaning in. “Word is the prince is planning something big—some kind of job through the workhouses. You’ve been around long enough to get first pick. And Eyla’s sewing those fancy dresses all the city girls are going mad for—bringing in good coin, from what I hear. You think she’d drop that to go bust her back in some backwater village?”

Tobyn scratched at his beard, mug half-empty in hand. Corren wasn’t wrong—Eyla’s fingers were a blur at that sewing bench, stitching all the latest frilly nonsense city folk paid good silver for.

The money was coming in steady—sometimes more than his carving brought. And the prince’s “big job”? That got his attention. He’d spent enough years under foremen and lords—maybe now was the time for a step up.

“Alright, you bastard,” Tobyn grunted, sloshing his ale. “I’ll hang around, see what the golden boy’s cooking. But if it’s just more bloody dams or some fool tower, I’m gone—village or no village.”

“Good man,” Corren laughed. “Now let’s hit the docks. Might hook a few silvers off a fat catch.”

“Aye!”

They didn’t make it far—took a left down the lane and slipped into that upscale brothel where half-naked girls strutted about like they owned the place.

Tobyn dropped a silver stag on one of them, and his wife gave him a solid beating when she found out.

A week later, the big news dropped—Prince Maelys got gifted lands up Massey’s Arm. The whole city lit up, cheering loud enough to wake the dead. Eyla was all smiles. Then came word of another prince—Tobyn didn’t know a thing about him—starting work on the city sewers, rebuilding the whole system.

That was his shot.

“Not many lads can lay fast stone and stack bricks clean,” said Gorm, belly bigger than before, grin even wider. “You’ve been around five years, Tobyn. Only reason you’re not higher up is that goat-shit mess three years ago—you’d be missing a hand if His Grace hadn’t stepped in. So what’ll it be? You taking the job training new hands for the sewer work? Five gold a moon.”

It was a fat offer. Tobyn nearly jumped at it like a starving dog—but good sense kept him grounded. He wasn’t some green boy anymore; he was one-and-twenty now.

“What happens when the sewers are done?” he asked, wary.

“Something else’ll come up, probably,” Gorm said, brow furrowed. “Not the whole story yet—Prince Maelys is moving most builders to his new lands. Might leave a crew here, like in Riverrun. But you’ll be under Prince Viserys next—he could haul the whole lot of you to Dragonstone once this one’s wrapped.”

Screw that, Tobyn thought. He wasn’t breaking his back for some nobody prince who’d treat him like dirt. Only Maelys knew how to run things right. He wasn’t about to get worked to death for another pompous bastard.

He told Gorm as much, though with a bit more sugar. The fat man grunted, stamped a parchment, and shoved it into his hand.

“Show this when the ships come in,” he said, waving Tobyn off.

Tobyn didn’t understand at first, scratching his head. But when he got home and showed it to Eyla, she lit up and explained.

Turned out the royals were handpicking city folk to settle their new lands. Space was tight—half the city was trying to buy their way onto those ships. The criers swore up and down about solid roofs, steady jobs, full bellies, fine clothes—all the perks, hyped to the skies.

Eyla had been chasing permits for weeks, thought she’d been overlooked by some soft princess with no sense. But there it was in ink—her name and little Brynden’s, listed under his pass.

That night, she thanked him properly. Woke up his hips like they’d been struck with a hammer—he was half-sure he’d put another baby in her. Marrying Eyla? Best damn call he ever made.

——

“It’s a damn shame how they’re rushing us to wrap everything up so fast, I’m telling you.”

Turned out Corren was shipping out too, and he wasn’t thrilled about handing over half his gear to the charity shed—baggage limits on the ships. He even tried slipping them thirty stags for extra room, but they just laughed him off.

Tobyn didn’t mind much—he was only tossing the oldest junk he had.

“Why are you even leaving, Ren? Weren’t you the one guarding those high-and-mighty scholars from nosy types? Heard the gold cloaks caught a bunch of spies a few weeks back.”

“Maesters, you idiot. And I’m done with that whole guarding racket.”

“Why, though? You were raking in coin just for sitting on your ass. That’s the dream right there.” Tobyn would’ve jumped at that gig in a heartbeat.

“Nessari’s following the twins. She’s planning to start a cooking crew once the settlement settles down—got a whole plan in the works.” They turned a corner and joined the crowd heading toward the weigh stations, where folks were getting coin for the stuff they were ditching.

Tobyn spotted a few men hauling fine wares, selling them off to quick-witted traders camped along the roadside.

“What about you, then? Gonna just sit back while your wife earns all the coin like some lazy sack?” Tobyn jabbed.

“Shove it, Tob. I don’t need to shovel horse shit to feel like a man,” Corren shot back, though he chuckled. “Had a word with some tally-men, set up a deal—added you in too. Plan is to pool some of the coin we’ve saved, back a few new trades. Once they turn profit, we get a cut. The prince’s people will handle the paperwork.”

“Sounds like a dumbass scheme. I’m not tossing coin into some half-baked gamble run by amateurs playing merchant,” Tobyn grumbled. They reached the building and got in line.

“You’ve got coin piled under your bed, you stubborn bastard,” Corren said. “What are you gonna do with it? Blow it on more cheap wine?”

Tobyn had gotten swindled good a few moons back, trying to buy pricey wine from some Flea Bottom crooks who claimed they had smuggler ties to the Red Keep.

“Well, I’d have to talk it over with Eyla first. Count the coin, make sure we don’t end up broke in this new place before tossing anything around,” Tobyn muttered. He wasn’t as well-off as Corren, and he knew damn well Eyla would skin him if he handed over their stash without her say.

The line moved quick, and by midday, Tobyn had a pouch clinking—three gold pieces and fifteen silvers. Prince’s guards and gold cloaks kept the place tight, so no cutpurses made off with anything.

They got a break from the brickwork—a good rest before the big move, what the fancy types were calling a migration. The sewer job kicked off, dragging half the slum with it. Folks were already tearing up the ground—heard the smithies were hammering out new tools by the cartload.

Tobyn swung by two days before he left the reeking city, just to see how the job was shaping up. The pits they were digging were huge, like open hallways. He got flagged down by one of his old crewmates who’d decided to stay behind—a few of the builder types stuck around.

“They’ve got it locked down pretty tight, huh, Mord?” Tobyn asked the gruff bastard from Saltpans. “Saw some cloaks prowling near those skinny iron rods and prefab sheds.”

“Decent security,” Mord grunted. “Had to knock some bastard’s teeth in yesterday—tried to run off with a shovel.”

They stood near one of the inns where a fresh waste pit was being dug. Word was, a team of haulers would cart the filth off somewhere it wouldn’t choke the whole street.

“What about the plans then?” he pushed.

“Tobyn, you know I can’t tell you anything important.”

“I meant time and money, you tight-fisted bastard,” Tobyn snapped, pretending to be offended. “And all that schematic nonsense is plain as day to me—it’s like putting together those dams. Close enough.”

The stubborn bastard finally caved and gave him the rundown. Said the whole thing would take about a year—maybe a bit more if things went sideways or folks started slacking once the prince moved on. He was getting paid what they promised, but the Saltpans fool burned through coin on dice, ale, and cheap women, so he never had a copper to his name.

That was half the reason the bald idiot stayed behind in the capital. Princess Gael was the pious sort—no chance she’d let a proper whorehouse open in Havenhall, most likely.

Then they got into the real sewer talk. There’d be main tunnels, smaller ones, and a few big pits out near the city’s edge where all the waste would get dumped.

Mord even let slip that the maesters were collecting the filth and doing something with it. Tobyn figured those bookworms were a strange bunch.

“You think they’ll build the same kind of sewers out in the new lands?” he asked.

“Better ones, probably,” Mord said. “The prince’s the one who came up with most of this sewer work—anyone with half a brain knows it.” Tobyn hadn’t known, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “You remember Marsea? That dining hall we worked on a few moons back?”

He nodded.

“It’s done now—porcelain tiles, marble and wood panels, clear-glass windows, leather chairs—looks like a godsdamn dream.”

The midday meal got called, and the cooks rolled in with carts piled high with food. Tobyn stuck around to see how things worked under this new prince. The slumfolk lined up neat, guards posted nearby to keep it orderly.

They washed their hands in basins, grabbed plates, and were served by women Tobyn didn’t recognize. Mord sat and ate with the rest—no special treatment for him. Tobyn dug in too. The food was decent enough, but he didn’t go back for seconds.

Work picked back up quick after, and the servers packed off.

“You work a full shift, yeah?” Tobyn asked. “Do you get fed too?”

“Bread and a mug of ale. Not this fancy spread the good prince hands out, but I’m not complaining,” Mord replied. “The pay’s better than what those puffed-up knights get. And Prince Maelys still likes me, so I might be earning more than some of the fancier lordlings.”

Bullshit. Everyone knew the real prize was the end-of-day rations. Tobyn had built a wooden crate just for hauling some of it home for Eyla. No extras? That was crap.

He split off from Mord and stopped by a sweet shop, spent a stag on chocolates for his girl, then made his way home.

Come morning, a cluster of ships with seahorse flags drifted into the harbor.