News that the Pyromancer Prince had succeeded in forging Valyrian steel spread faster than any raven could fly. It raced from the Crownlands to the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands, a wildfire of awe and avarice. The knighthoods of his elder brothers, Viserys and Daemon, were quickly overshadowed by this seismic revelation.
Nobles who normally prized their composure became restless, their eyes gleaming with a singular purpose: to find Prince Aegon. The allure of a Valyrian heirloom was too potent to resist. Their efforts, however, proved futile. The prince and his betrothed had flown back to Dragonstone the very next day. King Jaehaerys had not-so-subtly suggested that any inquiries regarding the swords be directed to his heir, Prince Baelon, making it clear House Targaryen would act as the sole agent for Aegon's craft.
In the sun-drenched gardens of the Red Keep, Jaehaerys reclined in a cushioned chair, his eyes closed against the gentle light. Two Kingsguard stood a respectful distance behind him. The sound of steady footsteps on the gravel path made him turn his head.
"Oh, Baelon," Jaehaerys said, a hint of a smile on his lips. "You are here. How fares the court?"
Baelon sighed, looking down at his father's relaxed form. "You were right to send Aegon back. These pestering nobles are a headache."
Jaehaerys chuckled softly. "You will get used to it. It is the music of power…endless, demanding requests."
"I have given no answers, as you instructed," Baelon reported, taking a seat on a nearby stone bench.
"Good."
After a moment of comfortable silence, Jaehaerys asked, "I hear Lord Corlys also approached you."
"He did," Baelon confirmed. "Much the same as the others. Pleading the ties between our families, offering gold, ships… for a sword."
Jaehaerys gave a low hum of acknowledgment, his gaze drifting across the garden as his fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair. When he looked back at Baelon, his eyes were sharper. "And what news of the dragon egg we gave him for his son?"
Baelon frowned. "He hinted it had not hatched. He seemed… disappointed. His son may be dragonless."
For a long moment, Jaehaerys said nothing. He seemed to be turning the information over in his mind, his eyes narrowing slightly. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. "Keep an ear out. For any strange rumors from Driftmark. Distant roars, perhaps… or a hatchling's cry."
Baelon gave his father a questioning look, as if he were being overly suspicious.
Jaehaerys met his son's skepticism with a patient, knowing expression. "Think on it. If the egg had truly turned to stone, would a man like Corlys simply be disappointed? Or would he be at our gate, demanding another chance for his bloodline?"
Realization dawned on Baelon's face. He nodded slowly, conceding to his father's shrewd judgment of the Sea Snake's character.
Another peaceful pause settled between them as they both watched bees drift among the flowering shrubs.
Baelon broke the silence. "Though I've made it plain that any sword will be granted solely by the King's authority, I doubt the petitions will stop. They may already be trying to reach Aegon directly on Dragonstone. So… when do you plan to announce this academy of his?"
Jaehaerys's expression grew serious. "No hurry. Let the hunger for Valyrian steel ferment a while longer. Let the desire become a need. A plan announced from a position of overwhelming demand has more force than one offered as a concession."
Baelon nodded, absorbing the strategy. "Hmm."
Jaehaerys's demeanor softened again, his smile returning. "And what of our newest knights? How are Viserys and Daemon?"
Baelon sighed, the sound carrying a father's familiar mix of pride and exasperation. "They are…"
The rhythmic clash-clang of steel echoed across the training yard. Prince Daemon Targaryen moved with fierce, fluid grace, his new Valyrian steel sword, The Red Tempest, a blur of dark crimson. Across from him, a Targaryen household knight defended desperately.
Each parry from the knight's sword sent a sharp ping into the air. With every block, a new notch appeared. On the fifth brutal impact, the sword gave a final crack and broke in two. The severed point skittered across the ground.
The knight stumbled back, staring at the ruined hilt in his hand. "My sword," he murmured, his voice thick. "My iron beauty…" He had carried that blade for five years.
Daemon didn't seem to hear. He raised The Red Tempest high in a victorious flourish, grinning as if a roaring crowd surrounded him. He spat on the ground. "Again!" he barked, pointing his blade at another guard by the wall.
The man flinched, exchanged a helpless look with his comrades, and stepped forward with a resigned sigh.
From the sidelines, the small audience of knights and guards whispered.
"Is that the eleventh this week?"
"Leave him be. If I had that sword, I'd test it on every piece of steel in the Keep, too."
"A pity. Good steel, broken for sport."
"Quiet. That's the prince."
"Just… appreciating the difference in our stations. And our swords."
Another loud crack cut through the murmurs. The latest volunteer was left holding a shattered hilt. He stared at it, dejected, before trudging away.
Daemon, breathing hard and grinning, lowered his sword and turned to the sidelines, chest still puffed with pride, ready to choose his next opponent.
The benches were empty. The standing areas were clear. The knights and guards had melted away quietly, finding sudden urgent business elsewhere.
Daemon's triumphant grin froze, then slowly faded. He stood alone in the center of the silent yard, Red Tempest hanging at his side, his expression shifting from confusion to a speechless annoyance.
Inside Maegor's Holdfast, the air was still. Princess Aemma Arryn found her husband in his solar. The half-finished architectural model of Old Valyria sat abandoned on a side table, gathering a faint layer of dust.
Prince Viserys stood by the window, the light glinting off the pale ash hilted blade in his hands. He was carefully, almost reverently, polishing it with a soft white cloth.
"Daily wiping won't make it any sharper," Aemma commented as she entered.
Viserys glanced over his shoulder, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Of course," he said lightly, but did not stop his ministrations. He held the sword upright, turning it so the flat caught the light. "But look at it, Aemma. Isn't it perfection? Aegon truly outdid himself." His grin was one of pure, obsessive delight.
Aemma sighed, looking from her husband's rapt face to the neglected model. "And what of your Valyria?"
Viserys followed her gaze, looked back at the sword, then at the model. "Well, I'll get back to it. After a while."
"You mean after you've finished playing with your sword," Aemma said, a gentle jibe in her voice.
Viserys chuckled. "Swords are a man's romance, my love. And a Valyrian one… it demands attention."
Aemma shook her head. "I will never understand you men and your blades. Why not join Daemon in the yard? He's been sparring with the knights. You could see what your sword can do."
A flicker of annoyance crossed Viserys's face at the mention of his brother, but it was quickly replaced by a superior smirk. He hefted Last Mercy. "What do you know? Daemon is Daemon. This is not The Red Tempest. This is Last Mercy. It is not to be brandished carelessly."
Aemma had no reply to that. She had privately thought some exercise might help with the softness growing around his middle, but it seemed unlikely now. She watched her usually placid husband, standing there polishing his sword with that strange, possessive smirk.
At Harrenhal — House Strong
A guard stumbled and fell heavily onto the practice yard's packed dirt with a solid thud. Lord Lyonel Strong, standing on the sidelines, gave a sharp clap of approval.
"Well done, Harwin," he called out.
His eldest son, already a head taller and broader than him, removed his training helmet, his hair plastered with sweat. He walked over, breathing hard but grinning.
Lyonel gave his son's shoulder a firm, proud pat. To the other guards, he motioned for them to resume their exercises. "Come inside, out of the sun," he said to Harwin.
As they walked toward the towering, soot-blackened keep, Lyonel continued, "You've the strength and the reach. You should compete in the next tourney. Make a name for yourself."
Harwin's grin widened at the praise.
From a side passage, Larys appeared. He was slight where his brother was broad, and he moved with the careful, quiet step of his lame foot. He offered a small bow. "Father. My lessons with the maester are finished. I was just going to take some air."
Lyonel's approving expression for Harwin faded into a faint frown. "Listening is not the same as learning. You should return to your chamber and review what was taught. Ensure it sticks."
Harwin shifted his weight, seeing his younger brother chastened. Eager to steer the conversation away, he spoke up, a little hesitant. "The guards... they can't stop talking about those new swords," he said, glancing from Larys back to his father. "Last Mercy and The Red Tempest. They say the princes were testing them in the yard. Cut right through common steel."
A flicker of sharp interest passed through Lord Lyonel's eyes, cutting through his mild annoyance. His attention was fully captured, and his previous instruction to Larys was clearly forgotten. "Ah, yes," he said, his tone shifting from stern to contemplative. "Those blades are all anyone speaks of. A marvel. And to think, they were forged by a boy."
Larys, instead of leaving, drifted a step closer, his voice soft but clear. "The maesters are equally fascinated, Father. They speak of little else in the library. There is talk of sending a delegation to Dragonstone, to seek an exchange of knowledge with the prince on the forging techniques."
Lyonel turned a sharper look on Larys. "Do not interrupt," he said, his tone stern. He then looked back to Harwin, his expression softening once more with ambition. "We may not have the riches of other Great Houses, but we are a House of the Riverlands. I will see what can be done. A Valyrian blade would be a worthy heirloom for you, Harwin. Something to pass down our bloodline."
Harwin's face lit up with pure, uncomplicated joy at his father's promise. "Thank you, Father!"
Beside them, Larys did not look up. His gaze remained fixed on the stone floor by his own feet, his face an expressionless mask.
At Casterly Rock — House Lannister
Tyland Lannister, with sharp green eyes and hair like spun gold, paced the length of his father's solar. The rich Myrish carpet did nothing to muffle his agitated steps.
"Father, we must approach the prince directly if the heir gives no answer," he said, his voice tight.
"Calm yourself," said his father, Lord Tymond Lannister. The lord, in his late-thirties, sat at a heavy oak table, methodically cutting into a rare beef steak. He did not look up from his meal.
"How can I be calm?" Tyland stopped his pacing, his hands gesturing sharply. "Jason has failed to secure even a promise from Prince Baelon at court. The King's line is a polite wall, nothing more."
Tymond finally set his knife and fork down with a soft clink. He looked at his younger son, his expression one of weary patience. "Sit, Tyland. You are making the room feel smaller."
Tyland ignored the command, his frustration finding a new target. "We are the richest house in the realm, yet we have no Valyrian steel to show for it. Losing Brightroar was a generational disgrace. We cannot fail to secure a new one now that the chance is here. We must be the first. We must secure two."
Lord Tymond leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning shrewd. "Two? An ambitious number. Or is it that you wish one for yourself ?"
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Tyland's face, but it was swiftly buried beneath a mask of earnest concern. "It is for the future of House Lannister, Father. Security. Should fate ever take one again, we would still have another. It is prudent."
Tymond let out a soft, humorless breath, acknowledging his son's transparent scheme without comment. He took a slow drink of his wine.
"The King said all petitions go through the heir," Tyland pressed on, seeing his father's silence as an opening. "But you know the other lords. They will not wait. They will send envoys, write letters, sail to Dragonstone themselves to beg the pyromancer prince. We must do the same. Let Jason continue his diplomacy at court with Prince Baelon. As your second son, I can take on this… less formal task. I will go to Dragonstone. I will speak to Prince Aegon directly and make him see the advantage of an alliance with the West."
"And make a fool of yourself in the process," Lord Tymond stated, his tone flat. "You would arrive uninvited, like a merchant hawking wares at a lord's gate. It would diminish us."
"Then what?" Tyland demanded, his composure cracking. "We wait until the Velaryons or the Arryns have beaten us to it? Until the price is not just gold, but something more?"
Tymond sighed, a long, weary sound. He pushed his plate away. "We wait for now. Let the other houses make the first move. Let them reveal their limits. Everyone knows whose coffers are deepest. When the moment is right, our offer will not be one of beggary, but of business. A Lannister does not scramble. A Lannister concludes."
He fixed his son with a firm look. "You will not sail to Dragonstone. Not yet. You will watch, and you will learn patience. The hunger for these blades will not fade. It will only grow."
Tyland's jaw tightened, but he saw the finality in his father's eyes. The argument was over. He gave a stiff, reluctant nod.
"Good," Tymond said, his attention returning to the remnants of his meal. "Now, sit. You are still blocking the light."
Meanwhile on Dragonstone
Alone in his chamber, Aegon closed his eyes and focused inward. A cool wind drifted in from the open balcony. He opened his eyes, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Time to upgrade."
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📜 Milestones:
200 Power Stones → +1 Chapter
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