Arthur turned at the sound of the voice and saw the girl from the tavern—the daughter of the couple he'd defended.
"I can be your maid," she said quickly, stepping forward. "I can do needlework. I can keep accounts."
Arthur raised a brow. She was no older than thirteen or fourteen—too young for this kind of desperation. Her clothes were simple, but clean and carefully sewn. "Look," she said, lifting the hem of her sleeve, "I stitched all of this myself."
Arthur glanced about the courtyard, noticing that the tavern owners had vanished from the castle grounds, slipping away after the King's ruling. They hadn't even waited for their daughter. He frowned slightly. It seemed they didn't care much for her fate.
"But I don't need a maid," he said with a shrug. "We're all men on the road. It wouldn't be right."
The girl's face paled, her voice trembling as she rushed to speak. "But you're a good man, ser. Please—take me with you. If you don't… they said they'd sell me to one of the training houses in Flea Bottom."
Arthur stiffened. He'd passed through Flea Bottom often enough during his time in King's Landing to know exactly what that meant. If she stayed, she'd be bartered off to a brothel—or worse.
She reminded him of the school-aged girls from his past life—barely a teenager, but already aware of the worst the world could offer.
He swallowed and looked away briefly. It made his stomach churn. No one in Westeros would bat an eye if a girl like her disappeared into the underworld.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Come with me. What's your name?"
"Hayley, ser—thank you, thank you! May the Seven bless you and your house forever." She bowed deeply, nearly in tears.
As Arthur turned to leave, he caught Patrick Mallister's smirking expression.
"So that's what you're into," the heir of Seagard said, nudging him with his elbow.
"Don't talk nonsense," Arthur shot back, "I only like beautiful ones."
Arthur Bracken's standards weren't particularly complicated: long legs, slim waist, generous curves, fair skin, and a pretty face. As for hair? Wavy, straight, long, or short—it didn't matter. He liked women with style, whether it was a princess braid or a high ponytail.
Hayley was far too young and plain for that kind of attention. No—he intended to keep her around as a seamstress, maybe a steward.
And speaking of accounting…
Arthur realized that perhaps it was time to appoint someone to oversee his household expenses and logistics—someone who could actually manage coin.
The girl might have potential. She could be trained. Tested.
His current steward, Ambor, was loyal but uninspired—competent at simple tasks, but far from capable of running a growing domain.
Jules, the grizzled veteran, was worse with coin than a drunk septon, and Arthur still suspected he might pocket a few silver stags when no one was looking.
Most of the other men in Arthur's company were humble folk from the Riverlands—honest, yes, but uneducated. None of them had ever managed a farm larger than a few fields, let alone an estate.
At least Arthur himself could do basic arithmetic. He knew how to multiply decimal numbers like 0.8 and 0.5 by 0.4.
It wasn't much, but judging by the tales he'd heard in this world, it already made him more qualified than half the goldcloaks.
By the time they exited the Red Keep, the sun had reached its zenith. It was too early to return to their inn in the Dragon Gate district, so they strolled down the winding streets of the capital, passing spice merchants, candle makers, and the ever-present calls of fishwives in the market square.
When they passed a narrow tailor shop near Cobbler's Square, the scent of lavender and linen caught their attention.
"Arthur, you should get yourself some decent clothes," Patrick suggested, pressing a hand over his nose. "Something that doesn't reek of sweat and blood."
Arthur, also holding his nose, glanced at Patrick's bright yellow doublet—silk, of course, and embroidered with black Mallister eagles. He shrugged. "Sure. I could use something flashier."
He thought for a moment. If the price wasn't outrageous, maybe he'd ask for a dragon motif—though not like the Targaryen wyverns. No, he imagined something with serpentine bodies and antlers like the divine beasts of ancient Daxia—emblems of immortality, of divine rule.
"Receiving the Mandate of Heaven," he mused. "And living forever."
The shopkeeper stepped out before they could enter, a wide smile plastered on his face. He was draped in pale blue silk and wore a golden pin shaped like a spool of thread.
"My lords!" he greeted with a slight bow. "Please, come in! You honor my humble shop."
With the influx of merchants and soldiers into the city, most of the gold had gone to blacksmiths and armorers. But now, finally, a noble or two might remember to dress well—and he was not about to let this opportunity pass.
After all, for a wandering knight, life depended on his armor, and Arthur was more than willing to pour his coin into his appearance and protection—both mattered in court and in combat.
After a quick selection, he chose a deep black silk as the base material and requested a custom embroidery: a golden dragon, not the three-headed Targaryen beast, but a long, serpentine creature with deer antlers—like those carved on the totems of ancient Yi Ti or emblazoned on scrolls from Asshai.
Then came the haggling.
Hayley, with all the boldness of a Braavosi merchant, bargained the shop owner down to just thirty percent of the original asking price. Patrick and Desmond were stunned. Both men, born and raised in the Riverlands, had little experience with silk, much less the pricing in a capital as cutthroat as King's Landing.
But Hayley clearly wasn't new to this. She bartered with unflinching resolve, citing the influx of lords for the tourney and how the tailor wouldn't sell another piece that week if he passed on them. Arthur didn't interrupt—he only smiled. The girl had bite.
After Arthur's measurements were taken—waist, chest, shoulders, and inseam—the group left the shop.
"That cost a whole gold dragon and forty silver stags," Desmond muttered, half in awe, half in protest. "Just for clothes?"
Arthur didn't bother replying. Desmond still acted like a hedge knight, clinging to every copper. If he could scavenge something for free, he'd do it. If not, he'd argue about spending it.
They stopped briefly at a vendor selling exotic sachets imported from Dorne—fragrances of lemon, myrrh, and fire pepper—and bought a few before heading back to their inn nestled along the mid-tier streets of Visenya's Hill.
The next morning.
"Hayley," Arthur said as he approached the small room she'd been given, "I'll be out with these lords for the day. Can you tidy my room while I'm gone?"
"Yes, my lord." She emerged quickly, bowed at the waist, and moved to begin her chores.
But Arthur had left a subtle trap.
Before leaving, he'd placed three silver stags and several copper pennies in different hidden corners of the room. It was a test. If she missed them entirely, it would show carelessness—not ideal for someone he was considering for a role in financial matters. If she found them but said nothing, that was worse—greed could not be trusted.
Only if she found the money and returned it would she pass.
If she succeeded, he'd continue testing her slowly. After all, he barely knew her, and the Seven only helped those who helped themselves with caution.
That day, Arthur and his companions made a half-day excursion around the city.
They visited the ruins of the Dragonpit atop Rhaenys's Hill—its scorched stones and crumbling dome still haunted by the memory of the last dragons. Even after decades, the scent of ash and the eerie silence left a mark.
From there, they wandered to the Street of the Sisters, named for the Silent Sisters' septry nearby. There, veiled women walked slowly past old tombs, their faces hidden, their chants quiet and hollow.
Arthur sighed. In a world without books, broadsheets, or the hum of electricity, entertainment was in short supply. Aside from markets or brothels, there wasn't much to do in the capital unless you were noble-born and invited to feasts.
And he wasn't going to a brothel. Those places were coin sinks and rumor mills—bad news either way.
By afternoon, the group returned to their inn tucked halfway up Visenya's Hill. The moment Arthur entered his room, he saw Hayley waiting with a small bundle in her hands.
"Ser, I found three silver stags and some copper in the corners. I thought maybe you dropped them."
She extended the coins with both hands.
Arthur accepted them silently, nodding to himself. She had passed the first test—sharp eyes and a clean heart.
"Take these two copper stars as reward," he said, slipping them into her hand. "Good work. Carry on."
"Thank you, my lord." She curtsied and stepped out.
Patrick leaned in from the hall once she was gone. "Seven save me, today was dull. This city needs more feasts or noble gatherings."
Arthur agreed. A man couldn't sharpen a lance or swing a sword properly on cobblestone alleys.
Just then, the door creaked open and Desmond stepped inside.
"Ser Arthur," he said with a grin, "Ser Loras Tyrell invited us to the training yard by the Blackwater. Seems he wants to test swords in friendly combat."
Arthur's expression changed instantly. Finally—something interesting.
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