A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

garb, my lord,” the boy mumbled when Tyrion entered, staring down at
his boots. Even when he worked up the courage to speak, Pod could never quite
manage to look at you. “For the audience. And your chain. The Hand’s
chain.”
    â€œVery good. Help me dress.” The doublet was black velvet covered with golden
studs in the shape of lions’ heads, the chain a loop of solid gold hands, the
fingers of each clasping the wrist of the next. Pod brought him a cloak of
crimson silk fringed in gold, cut to his height. On a normal man, it would be
no more than a half cape.
    The Hand’s private audience chamber was not so large as the king’s, nor a
patch on the vastness of the throne room, but Tyrion liked its Myrish rugs,
wall hangings, and sense of intimacy. As he entered, his steward cried out,
“Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King.” He liked that too. The gaggle of
smiths, armorers, and ironmongers that Bronn had collected fell to their
knees.
    He hoisted himself up into the high seat under the round golden window and bid
them rise. “Goodmen, I know you are all busy, so I will be succinct. Pod, if
you please.” The boy handed him a canvas sack. Tyrion yanked the drawstring
and upended the bag. Its contents spilled onto the rug with a muffled
thunk
of metal on wool. “I had these made at the castle forge. I
want a thousand more just like them.”
    One of the smiths knelt to inspect the object: three immense steel links,
twisted together. “A mighty chain.”
    â€œMighty, but short,” the dwarf replied. “Somewhat like me. I fancy one a
good deal longer. Do you have a name?”
    â€œThey call me Ironbelly, m’lord.” The smith was squat and broad, plainly
dressed in wool and leather, but his arms were as thick as a bull’s neck.
    â€œI want every forge in King’s Landing turned to making these links and
joining them. All other work is to be put aside. I want every man who knows the
art of working metal set to this task, be he master, journeyman, or apprentice.
When I ride up the Street of Steel, I want to hear hammers ringing, night or
day. And I want a man, a strong man, to see that all this is done. Are you that
man, Goodman Ironbelly?”
    â€œMight be I am, m’lord. But what of the mail and swords the queen was
wanting?”
    Another smith spoke up. “Her Grace commanded us to make chainmail and armor,
swords and daggers and axes, all in great numbers. For arming her new gold
cloaks, m’lord.”
    â€œThat work can wait,” Tyrion said. “The chain first.”
    â€œM’lord, begging your pardon, Her Grace said those as didn’t meet their
numbers would have their hands crushed,” the anxious smith persisted.
“Smashed on their own anvils, she said.”
    Sweet Cersei, always striving to make the smallfolk love us.
“No one
will have their hands smashed. You have my word on it.”
    â€œIron is grown dear,” Ironbelly declared, “and this chain will be needing
much of it, and coke beside, for the fires.”
    â€œLord Baelish will see that you have coin as you need it,” Tyrion promised.
He could count on Littlefinger for that much, he hoped. “I will command the
City Watch to help you find iron. Melt down every horseshoe in this city if you
must.”
    An older man moved forward, richly dressed in a damask tunic with silver
fastenings and a cloak lined with foxfur. He knelt to

examine the great steel links Tyrion had dumped on the floor. “My lord,” he
announced gravely, “this is crude work at best. There is no art to it.
Suitable labor for common smiths, no doubt, for men who bend horseshoes and
hammer out kettles, but I am a master armorer, as it please my lord. This is no
work for me, nor my fellow masters. We make swords as sharp as song, armor such
as a god might wear. Not
this.
”
    Tyrion tilted his head to the side and gave the man a dose of his mismatched
eyes. “What is your name, master armorer?”
    â€œSalloreon, as it please my lord. If the King’s Hand will permit, I should be
most
honored to forge him a suit of armor suitable to his House and
high office.” Two of the others sniggered, but Salloreon plunged ahead,
heedless. “Plate and scale, I think. The scales gilded bright as the sun, the
plate enameled a deep Lannister crimson. I would suggest a