While Jon busied himself with statistical reports across the territories, Gaimon had already settled back into life at the Red Castle. This time, his purpose was to escort Damon's birth safely, but he quickly realized that constant vigilance wasn't necessary. Damon was well-protected, and there was no need for Gaimon to shadow him day and night. Bored by the lack of immediate duties, Gaimon decided he needed to find something meaningful to occupy his time.
He turned his thoughts to the one thing that had long fascinated him: weapons. More precisely, Valyrian steel. Every day, he had watched the legendary blades—Blackfyre and Dark Sister—rest in the hands of King Jaehaerys and Prince Aemon. The elegance, the unmatched sharpness, and the stories surrounding them filled him with envy. Owning such a weapon had always been a dream, but he knew it was impossible. Blackfyre symbolized royal authority, and Dark Sister had its own inseparable legacy. These blades would never belong to him.
Valyrian steel had become a rarity since the fall of the Valyrian Freehold. Only a few thousand of these enchanted weapons remained in existence worldwide, with around three hundred in Westeros alone. Many had been lost over time, and those that survived were in the possession of long-established noble families. Even if Gaimon wanted to obtain one, it would require immense luck, connections, and wealth.
Legends spoke of the Lannisters' Lightwhistle, lost in the ruins of Valyria. The Lannisters had reportedly offered earldoms and vast treasures to anyone who would surrender a Valyrian steel weapon, yet no one ever succeeded. This reality only strengthened Gaimon's resolve. If acquiring a true Valyrian steel weapon was impossible, perhaps he could create one himself.
The characteristics of Valyrian steel fascinated him: its lightness, toughness, resistance to rust, and curved blade that resisted breaking. Its surface shimmered with intricate dark patterns, said to result from magical forging and dragon fire. Although Gaimon had no knowledge of the original forging process, these descriptions reminded him of something from his previous life: Damascus steel. The famed patterned steel had inspired generations, and he understood its basic production process. If he could replicate its properties, perhaps he could create a weapon of equal or even greater quality than Valyrian steel.
Gaimon decided to dedicate himself to the Red Castle's blacksmith shop, spending nearly every waking hour there. Originally constructed as a military fortress, the Red Castle still housed a small but functional blacksmith shop. Though modest in size—barely fifty square meters—it contained all the necessary equipment. This meant Gaimon could focus entirely on his experiments without needing to search for a suitable location.
Forging patterned steel was deceptively simple in theory. The process required folding and forging high-carbon steel with wrought iron to create layered patterns. Yet, the practice was extraordinarily challenging. Wrought iron was easy enough to obtain—plentiful throughout the realm—but high-carbon steel posed a greater problem. In this era, it was virtually unknown; no one could produce it reliably.
Gaimon had no choice but to experiment, relying on both intelligence and magic. Fortunately, his fire magic allowed him to reach temperatures exceeding 1,700 degrees Celsius, far higher than ordinary furnaces, which struggled to surpass 1,200 degrees. High temperatures were critical for forging steel, which is why Valyrian steel was rumored to require dragon fire or magic.
He began by mixing iron ore with limestone in a roughly ten-to-one ratio, forming walnut-sized pieces. These he placed into the furnace, where the heat alone was insufficient. Channeling his fire magic, Gaimon pushed the temperature upward, carefully controlling the flames. As the furnace roared and the iron and limestone reacted, wrought iron began to form.
Next, he experimented with creating high-carbon steel. Gaimon placed a sheet of wrought iron in a ceramic jar, surrounding it with layers of charcoal powder, and sealed the container with clay. He reheated it until the jar glowed crimson. Both temperature and time were crucial. If either was off, the iron would fail to absorb enough carbon, producing brittle, unusable steel. More often than not, Gaimon's initial attempts ended in failure. Sheets of carbonized iron cracked and broke the moment he attempted to fold and forge them.
Each failure only fueled his determination. Through countless iterations, he gradually learned the delicate balance of time, heat, and technique. Magic aided him greatly, yet the process remained painstaking. Without it, the forging of high-carbon steel might have taken a lifetime.
His long hours at the forge did not go unnoticed. Members of the Targaryen family began to wonder about Gaimon's unusual routine. Unlike many nobles who would seek leisure or indulgence, Gaimon seemed to vanish into the blacksmith shop day after day, ignoring responsibilities elsewhere in the castle. Yet no one pressed him. Gaimon was mature, disciplined, and capable. If he wished to remain absorbed in his work, it was understood that he had his reasons.
Only one person truly began to grow curious: Gaimon's second brother, Belron, known as the "Prince of Spring Dawn." One morning, after Gaimon finished breakfast with the family, he was preparing to slip quietly to the blacksmith shop when he heard Belron's voice calling out to him.
"Brother! Can't I call you if everything's fine?"
Gaimon turned, raising an eyebrow at his younger sibling. "What is it, Belron?"
Belron stepped closer, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Stinky boy, you've been acting strange lately. Leaving early, returning late… all you do is disappear into that shabby blacksmith shop. Are you hunting some secret treasure in there?"
Gaimon felt a flicker of embarrassment but quickly composed himself. "Brother, I'm not searching for treasure. I'm trying to make something valuable."
Belron's expression shifted from curiosity to confusion. "Make something valuable? In a dusty old blacksmith shop? Don't think you can fool me. What could possibly be made there that's worth all this secrecy?"
Gaimon sighed, realizing he could not hide the truth from his inquisitive brother. "I'm trying to imitate Valyrian steel," he admitted. "I want to forge a weapon worthy of the Targaryens. After all, a prince without a blade is a prince without power."
Belron's eyes widened. "Valyrian steel? You mean the legendary swords? That's… impossible. Only dragons and magic can forge such steel. And even then, no one has succeeded for centuries!"
Gaimon smiled faintly. "Perhaps, but I have my methods. I may not have dragons at my disposal in the traditional sense, but I can control fire… and I have knowledge beyond this world."
Belron stared at him in disbelief, then a hint of admiration flashed across his features. "You really mean to try it… alone?"
"Yes," Gaimon replied firmly. "It may take time, and I will fail many times, but I will find a way. One day, I will forge a weapon that even the kings will envy."
Belron shook his head, half in exasperation, half in awe. "You never cease to surprise me, brother. I suppose I'll just have to watch this madness unfold. But remember—don't burn the castle down."
Gaimon laughed softly and ruffled Belron's hair. "I promise, I'll be careful. Now, leave me. I have work to do."
As Belron finally walked away, still muttering under his breath, Gaimon returned to the blacksmith shop. He stared at the rows of tools and piles of raw materials before him. Each piece of wrought iron, each handful of charcoal, each spark of magical flame was a step toward his goal.
Days blurred into nights. The rhythmic pounding of hammer against steel echoed throughout the castle. Smoke and heat filled the blacksmith shop, yet Gaimon's resolve never wavered. He folded, hammered, heated, and reheated, experimenting endlessly. Each failure brought him closer to understanding the tempering of steel, the fusion of carbon, and the creation of the intricate patterns that danced along the blade's surface.
Despite the isolation and exhaustion, Gaimon felt a strange exhilaration. He was not merely forging metal—he was creating a legacy, a tangible symbol of skill, ingenuity, and perseverance. The Valyrian steel he admired from afar would no longer be an unattainable legend; with patience, magic, and determination, it could become his reality.
And so, day after day, he worked. The forge became his sanctuary, the hammer his companion, and the flames his teacher. Outside, life continued at the Red Castle—nobles attended ceremonies, servants tended to duties, and the world moved on—but inside, a young prince pursued a dream older than any living memory: to recreate the steel of dragons.
In the quiet heat of the forge, amidst sparks and smoke, Gaimon felt something stir within him. He was no longer a boy gazing longingly at the weapons of kings. He was a creator, a maker of treasures, and perhaps, in time, the master of a steel so fine that even history itself would remember his name.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)