Welcome to the second actual chapter. Nattery stuff down the bottom.

Also, just a slight warning but my proofreader has the flu at the moment and couldn't get to this one for some time. It is likely to be updated when I get a copy back from them but until then there will likely be the odd spelling error/grammar issue.

**I own Nothing**

**Update. I have been informed that I was mistaken in how Guillaume is pronounced. While as an Englishman it is my right, nay my duty, to get French words wrong on a constant basis, I have replaced a few instances where someone has trouble saying it and arses it up.**

Guillaume

Compared to the Imperial City, or even any other sizeable settlement in either Cyrodiil or High Rock, King's Landing was a stench filled pit of squalor and the destitute. Those were the first thoughts that had run through Guillaume Malet's head as he wandered the street the locals called the Street of Steel, which was one of the more pleasant ones now that he thought about it. In fact, he was fairly certain that not even in Black Marsh he'd be able to find a city with plumbing as bad as this ones. But then his mind turned to why he was in the Street of Steel in the first place.

Like several other Tamrielics, or at least he assumed like several others, the Prince of the Daedra he called his lord had sent him here. The arrival itself was decidedly anti-climactic, he simply appeared on a forest path after a quick flash of white. No headaches or other maladies had affected him. No theatrics involving the locals. Rather he had wandered down it till he found a small hamlet and asked for directions to the nearest town, which just so happened to the capital of the land he had arrived in, what luck.

Guillaume had arrived at the city, bearing its name for being the place where the conquering king who founded this empire of there's had first stepped ashore, the only real obstacle he faced was finding out that room and board for a night wouldn't cost him a few gold coins. He had truly found himself surprised when the fat man had accepted a single septim and shoved a fistful of silver coins into his hands. Turns out he was substantially richer in this new land than he was back in Tamriel, where he was already fairly wealthy from a career as an accomplished spellsword.

As for why he was in the Street of Steel at this very moment, he was searching for a particular smithy, one which had been heartily recommended to him by a knight deep in his cups at the tavern Guillaume had stayed at. Tobho Mott was apparently the best armourer in the city, with clients including a brother of the king and several other members of the nobility. Such would easily suit Guillaume's purposes for now, as he was using his old career as a half cover for himself while he was here. Magic may not be accepted here but knights certainly were. And to pull off being a knight, he would need a decent suit of armour and other pieces of equipment. The price didn't overly concern him, given the vastly inflated purchasing power of gold here.

A local smith had given Guillaume a scowl when he mentioned the name of Mott but had pointed him in the direction of the largest house on the street regardless. It was, compared to the surrounding estates, an impressive structure of timber and plaster, with a second floor jutting out into the street and towering up into the air above the surrounding houses. The doors when he had come to them, were of a firm and quite clearly rich wood and with a scene of a hunt carved into it. Flanking the door as well, stood two stone knights with one of a gryphon heraldry and the other of a unicorn.

Entering the shop, a slim serving girl took note of him and rushed off to get her master without saying a word to him. Guillaume was about to mutter something about the rather rude greeting when a balding man in a garishly decorated black doublet with silver hammers upon it entered the room with a broad, toothy grin. "Welcome, welcome." He said and waved off the girl to get them both some wine. "I am Tobho Mott, Ser, please put yourself at ease. If you are in need of steel, you have come to the right shop."

Guillaume gave the man a soft smile and nodded to him. "Good. The advice I was given was correct then." He was sure that Tobho Mott would not have greeted him so warmly had he not been dressed in the finery that was expected for one of his social standing in High Rock, to the Bretons, to not walk about in silks and velvets was a sign you were of the low birth and had yet to rise. "I find myself in need of a fresh suit of mail and plate. I trust you can accommodate such?"

Tobho grinned even wider as he filled two goblets with wine and offered one to Guillaume. "More than that, Ser. My work is the finest in all of Westeros, I promise you. Visit every other smithy in the city and you will not find work to equal it. Any village smith can hammer out a shirt of mail; my work is art." He went on about a so-called 'Knight of Flowers' and how he purchased all his armour from Mott, and how he even counted the brother of the King among his patrons, but there were no words for the King himself Guillaume noted. His words on the King's brother did intrigue Guillaume though, for apparently, Mott was capable of colouring the metal itself to any shade he wishes, he called the paints and enamels of other smiths journeyman work compared to his own. The other ramblings about something called Valyrian Steel, however, did not interest him in the slightest, Tamriel likely had metals that far exceeded it already.

"I assume it will be tailored?" Guillaume asked after Mott had finished his tirade of rambling.

"Whatever it is you wish, I will make for you," Tobho said proudly, but moved his eyes to look pointedly at the pouch that hung by Guillaume's side. "However, my work is expensive, I make no apologies for that."

Guillaume just smiled. "I assure you, I can afford such."

The words didn't seem to convince Mott overly much, but the smith nodded regardless and gestured to a corner that held two mirrors, Guillaume could only imagine how much those had cost the man. "I shall just need your measurements, Ser, and we can discuss your preferences for your armour." It did not take long for the smith to get what he wanted. A mere few measurements with a dotted cord and a little muttering to himself, and he was done. "Hmm, very similar to that of his grace Prince Renly." Guillaume heard Tobho mumble as the man jotted down the numbers in a tome behind the counter of his shop. "Now, Ser, what form shall you be wishing from this shop?" It seemed most of the courtesy had left him following his doubts on Guillaume's wealth.

"A simple and good suit of plate and mail will suit me perfectly, master Mott. I require little decoration." He held up a hand as the smith's expression darkened slightly. "The place where I require your expertise. I will need to be able to move, flex, run and jump as if I were not wearing armour at all, the weight of the metal itself notwithstanding. I will also need to be able to apply it myself, but I'm sure that will be a small task compared to the last."

That brought a small smile back to Mott's face, seemed he liked a challenge. "Ah, not one to forsake mobility for protection, I see. Will there be a device adorning the steel?"

"I shall cover that with a simple tabard, I should think."

Tobho nodded and looked back down to his tome, scribbling some sums and seemingly struggling with a little bit of long addition, Guillaume had to physically resist the temptation to lean other and note that he had failed to carry the one. "That shall be... hmm..." He double checked his work, and finally realised the one. "Ah. My apologies, Ser. That shall be seventy-two gold dragons and fifty-six silver stags."

Guillaume hadn't the foggiest idea what those numbers meant in any relevant sense except perhaps the words 'gold' and 'silver', so he simply pulled his pouch free and set it on the counter. "I am afraid I do not have any gold dragons, but I hope these will suffice?" He asked, pulling out a couple of septims and showing them to Tobho, who squinted to check the golden coin over.

"They shall do more than that," Tobho said quickly and produced a small set of scales and some small weights of gold with numbers etched into them. "If you wouldn't mind?" He asked politely with a gesture to one of the septims and the scales. With a small nod from Guillaume, Tobho picked one up, plopped it on one side of the scale and began to measure the weight of the gold within compared to his own weights. Mott hummed as he went about it, and tried, far more successfully this time, to accomplish his maths. "I deal with many currencies from the world, I only find myself glad you deal in gold. The equivalent is... ah... one hundred and twelve, if you permit me to round up?"

"I permit you, Master Mott," Guillaume said, opening the pouch and counting out the hundred or so septims needed, barely a fifth of gold he carried on his person alone. If only Tamriel knew just how gold heavy it was to have all these gold coins about, they could make a killing buying everything on the cheap here and importing it back.

Tobho Mott gave another toothy grin. "Oh, my great thanks, Ser. Your armour will be the envy of the city. It shall be more flexible than boiled leather, and stronger than the very walls built by the Conqueror."

"Stronger than common steel will be more than enough, Master Mott." Guillaume smiled again. Even if the armour wasn't up for the idle boasting of its smith, it would be a damn sight better than what he had on hand when his Prince had sent him over here, a measly shirt of brigandine. "Can you give me a rough idea of when it shall be ready."

"A single week shall be all I need, good Ser."

Guillaume thanked Tobho Mott and was about to leave as the great wooden doors of the shop were pushed open and a large, though young, man of ink black hair sauntered in, an ornate helm of gold and green in one hand. "Master Mott!" The man called out in a powerful voice. "When you're done with this fellow, I need my helm repaired. Damaged it in Highgarden in a spar and the local smith knew not how to fix it correctly."

Tobho Mott's expression changed in an instant from pleased with the deal with Guillaume to a scowl at the word of his work being defiled, only to swiftly return to an affable smile to the newly arrived man. "Of course, your grace. I will begin work on it as soon as I am able." He said and took the helm, looking at the damage with a stare before handing it to the serving girl who half sprinted off with it. "May I ask his grace what blow caused the damage?"

"Fossoway of the Green Apple struck it with a morningstar." The man answered casually, only now seeming to notice that Guillaume was eve there. "Ah, hello there. Do you know of Ser Jon Fossoway perchance?"

Guillaume blinked, he had no idea who anyone of note was in this land. "No, Ser, can't say I do."

The man just laughed. "And you don't know who I am either it seems, though I confess I know you not either, so we are both at fault." His smile was friendly and despite himself, Guillaume found himself charmed by the man. "Renly Baratheon, brother to our grand King Robert and Lord of Storm's End."

That caused Guillaume to pause for a moment. A prince stood before him. He recovered quickly, however. "Guillaume Malet. I am a mere knight, my lord."

"A mere knight? The greatest men I know are knights." Renly scoffed. "I have not heard of you, I admit, but that does not mean there will soon be songs sung of you. A knight unworthy of them would not have such fine tastes in armoursmiths." He flashed Tobho a smile, who was almost beside himself at the praise. "Are you sworn to anyone, Ser... Geeyam? I confess yours is not a name I have oft-encountered before, forgive my difficulties with it."

"Guillaume, my lord. My mother had quite the imagination. And, no. I am not sworn to this lord or that Lord. Recently returned from across the Narrow Sea as it happens." It had been his best idea of explaining his general ignorance of the current politics in this land, if only it would explain why he was also generally ignorant of the land as a whole.

Renly laughed at that, like he seemed to at everything, though this laugh was noticeably less genuine than the one before if only because Guillaume was used to the backroom dealings of High Rock. "A sellsword then? Golden Company? Or some other band of them?"

Already finding his excuse on thin ice, for he knew not any of the sellsword companies from Essos, Guilliman shook his head. "None of them either, my lord. I was more a guard of jumped up merchants than a soldier of fortune. More honourable than sacking cities I felt."

This time the mirth coming from the prince sounded more real. "Indeed it is, good Ser." Renly flashed another warm smile and looked back to Tobho Mott for a moment. "I leave my helm with you, master Mott, I know it will be gold well spent." And as the Smith bowed his head in thanks, he turned once more to Guillaume. "If your business here is done, would you ride with me, Ser Geeyam?"

Guillaume ignored the second failed attempt at his name and nodded gratefully. "It would be my honour, my lord, just I left my horse at the stable of the inn I'm staying at." This was certainly a struck of obscene luck. If he could befriend a brother of the King, it would make his given purpose here so much easier.

Renly waved off the concern. "No matter, I shall walk beside you then." He said and walked from the shop, Guillaume following behind.

Outside, where the stench of the city at once began infesting Guillaume's nostrils again, were a collection of men at arms in tabards of gold with a black and rampant stag embroidered on them. One was holding the reins of a rather attractive horse and kept holding on to them when Renly turned them down as the man offered them to him. "We walk from here on," Renly said to them curtly and his men quickly caught on, dismounting their own steeds to follow. "How long have you been back in the capital, Ser?"

"Only a few days, my lord," Guillaume said in answer. "Just felt right somehow, coming back now."

Renly hummed at that, quickly returning to his amicable smile. "You've picked a good time for it, Ser. There's like to be a grand tourney or some such soon."

"Oh?"

"Our dear Hand of the King passed not a month past. And now my kingly brother is traipsing up to the North to get his beloved Eddard Stark down here to take the shits for him as well." Renly said with a half genuine smile.

Guillaume had heard something about a hand or somesuch dying, some high ranked position in the ruling regime. He had also heard about the thing with shits, a rather crude term of phrase in all honesty. "How does that make this a good time?"

"Why? Because Robert cannot resist hosting a tournament if there's a decent excuse for one. Which this is."

A tournament? Now, this was something that Guillaume could most certainly use. "Oh, my lord? Any thoughts on when this will take place?"

"When Robert gets back I should think," Renly answered, giving Guillaume a wry smile. "Time enough for Mott to finish his work on your new armour. That is why you were there, correct?"

Guillaume nodded to the prince. "Plate was not the most comfortable of kit in Essos, so I sold it for more suitable lamellar." From what he had heard Essos was warmer than Westeros, so it was a valid excuse in his mind. "And lamellar is not like to be half so good at stopping a lance than good, solid plate."

"Yes, I'd say it is." Renly agreed. "Jousting or melee?"

"Melee I should think. Not much use for jousting in Essos."

Another laugh escaped Renly, while it might, like all the others, merely be put on, it was oddly disarming by its nature. "That shall likely pit you against mad Thoros. He's a nasty one when it comes to a fight, let me tell you. Crazy drunkard likes to set his sword alight with wildfire before he enters the field. The horses fear that and the riders too, more often than not. Wish you luck if you fight him, Ser Geeyam."

Inwardly, Guillaume sighed as it seemed that the man could never get his name right. But that mattered very little in the grand scheme of things. What did though, were the words about this Thoros. A flaming sword was nothing to be scared of unless it was treated with the most powerful of enchantments, which this one didn't seem like to be. "Thoros, I'll remember that name, my lord."

"See that you do," Renly said, holding up a hand to stop his small company at the point where the Street of Steel met the King's Road. "This is where I leave you I think, Ser Geeyam. I have other business to attend to as Master of Laws for my kingly brother. But I hope to see you again come the tourney. I will certainly be watching how well you compete in the melee." The brother of the King held out a hand for Guillaume.

Taking the hand, the two men shook and began to depart. "I thank you for your words, Prince Renly, I look forward to seeing yourself in the lists."

Renly laughed again as he walked off with his men, genuinely this time it seemed. "Make sure to place a bet on me, Ser, you will grow fat off of it!" He shouted and disappeared among the mass of people that milled about the King's Road, heading in the direction of the massive, vulgar fortress that was named for the red stone it was made of.

Dawdling in mild thought there for a short while, Guillaume himself set off along the King's Road, in the opposite direction, to the inn he was staying in. The day had been productive he felt, very productive. But it was nothing that would please his Prince, at least not yet. The fruits had been identified mayhaps, but now the seeds had to be extracted and planted. And though it was early days yet, Renly Baratheon seemed to be the ideal seed to grow the tree from.

He just hoped Boethiah would be patient enough to see it come to pass.

Hope you enjoyed the read. Feel free to leave a review.

And now on to the bit where I waffle on and such.

The first thing I think most of you will notice is that pretty much everything has changed about Guilliman Dinontus (now known as Guillaume Malet). This is for several reasons. Number 1 among them being that Guilliman was always intended to be that figure in black I included two chapters and then seemed to drop. Here we drop the facade and he's our main secondary champion character right from the get-go rather than a hanger-on of Severus who supposedly tricked them all into going to Westeros in the first place (grew to dislike that. The Empire would surely verify this with a few orc shamans rather than just trusting a Breton who wandered in).

The name change is simply me finding out that Guillaume is the actual real life Breton (the people of Brittany who descend from a mixture of locals and British Celts fleeing the Saxons, hence the similar name to Briton) version of William. The surname was just because Malet is French surname while Dinontus sounds if anything vaguely Imperial.

A slight thing to add while I'm at it. In original drafts, I had for where the first story was going to end up going. Guilliman was going to die in the Battle of the Blackwater, killed by Eadric as Guilliman tried to kill Stannis, this was while I still had plans to have Eadric stay with Tyrion and get down to gifting lycanthropy to the Mountain Clans.

And do not fret, Severus shall still be coming to Westeros, just his reasons for going shall be a tad different as you can likely guess.