"Is that reasonable? Then do you think your second brother is reasonable? You're not the only one without a Valyrian steel weapon. I, your second brother, don't have one either. Now I want to imitate Valyrian steel weapons, but I didn't consult your second brother. Do you think that's reasonable?"
When Baeron realized that Gaimon had started imitating Valyrian steel weapons without telling him, a flash of anger passed through him. Among the male members of the family, only he and Gaimon had weapons worth using. Vaegon lacked the talent for knighthood, and the rest had none. Now, here was Gaimon secretly crafting weapons for himself, modeled after the legendary Valyrian steel—a thing so conspicuous it would surely draw attention. Panic surged in Baeron.
"Brother, I, your second brother, have always been good to you. Can you make one for me? I've always wanted a Valyrian steel weapon that truly belongs to me," Baeron said, trying to sound casual but laced with urgency.
Baelon had no doubt about Gaimon's ability. Over the years, Gaimon had rarely failed at anything he attempted. If anyone else had expressed a desire to imitate Valyrian steel, Baelon might have smiled politely and left it at that. But this was Gaimon. If he said it, it would happen.
Gaimon observed Baeron's tone—arrogant yet respectful—and shook his head with a hint of resentment. Struggling out of Baeron's embrace, he said disdainfully, "Forget it. For all these years, you've taken advantage of me since I was a child, and I didn't care. And now, you have the nerve to act like a good kid?"
Baeron tried to explain himself hurriedly. "You've misjudged your second brother! I've been training you all these years. Look at you—you can ride a dragon, fight on horseback, even forge weapons rivaling Valyrian steel. Isn't that because of me?"
Gaimon felt a wave of incredulity at Baeron's shameless self-praise. Anyone watching would surely see the "Prince of Spring Dawn" in a new, less flattering light. For the sake of family dignity and to prevent Baeron from completely losing face, Gaimon softened his tone.
"It hasn't been imitated yet. I only have some ideas. It will take time to put them into practice. I'm not sure it will work," Gaimon said.
Baeron ignored the subtle caution in Gaimon's words. "It's fine. I'll help you. From today, I, your second brother, will assist you. This way, your work will be easier."
Gaimon cast a sharp glance at him, recognizing the underlying strategy: Baeron wanted results quickly so he could have his sword sooner. Still, Gaimon agreed—after all, a helper near the furnace was invaluable. Ordinary people couldn't endure the heat, but the Targaryen bloodline made them uniquely suited for the blacksmith's work.
Thus, the blacksmith workshop of the Red Castle gained one more participant. Under Gaimon's guidance, Baeron began experimenting with temperature control, heating times, and the careful interaction of steel and coal.
They started with basic wrought iron, which broke after a single hammer blow, and gradually progressed to low-carbon steel, capable of enduring one or two folds. Countless experiments and repeated failures tested their patience. Then, one day, after a session that seemed routine, Baeron took a red-hot steel block fresh from the clay jar and hammered it mechanically.
"One… two… three!" he counted aloud, his voice monotone, repeating the usual practice.
About to discard the block into the scrap pile, Baeron paused. Something felt different. His hand trembled slightly as he shouted, "Gai… Gaimon! Come see! Did we succeed?"
Gaimon approached, curiosity piqued, and examined the steel block in Baeron's hands. Carefully, he placed it into a nearby bucket of cold water. The sizzling contact sent a burst of white steam into the air.
Once cooled, Gaimon removed the block. Its surface gleamed a bright silver—proof of success. Baeron's excitement was palpable, and he looked at Gaimon with awe.
"We did it. High-carbon steel," Gaimon said, his voice brimming with restrained excitement. "The next step is combining it with wrought iron. Then, we forge it repeatedly until we achieve the final form. Only then can we create sharp, durable swords and nearly indestructible armor."
Baeron's curiosity was immediate. "Why combine high-carbon steel with wrought iron? High-carbon steel is harder. Wouldn't weapons made purely from it be stronger?"
Gaimon smiled patiently. "High-carbon steel is indeed very hard, but hardness comes at a cost—it's brittle. A single heavy impact can break it. Wrought iron, though softer, has toughness. By forging them together repeatedly, they fuse. The final weapon inherits the hardness of high-carbon steel and the toughness of wrought iron, making it both strong and resilient."
Baeron nodded, understanding in theory but not in practice. For now, his concern was minimal; he was more focused on the idea of holding his own sword crafted by Gaimon.
Gaimon, seeing Baeron's eyes glaze over with anticipation, decided no further explanations were necessary. In time, the boy would understand, or he wouldn't—it didn't matter. Gaimon's priority was the forging process, which was arduous and unforgiving.
They returned to work. Red-hot steel met the anvil in rhythmic beats, sparks flying in all directions. Hours passed, and sweat ran freely down their faces. The furnace glowed hotter than the midday sun. Baeron's stamina was tested, yet he continued, driven by the excitement of creating a weapon that would be uniquely his.
During breaks, Gaimon instructed, "You should also think about the appearance of your weapon. The forging itself is exhausting. Once we start, we cannot pause, or the entire process will be ruined."
Baeron nodded earnestly, imagining the elegant curve of a blade, the balance in the hilt, the engraved symbols along the fuller. He realized this would be no ordinary sword—it would bear a piece of himself, crafted through sweat, fire, and Gaimon's unmatched skill.
Days turned into nights as they perfected high-carbon steel production. With each batch, the metal became more consistent, the forging smoother, the final product increasingly closer to perfection. Gaimon's mastery shone, guiding Baeron through each delicate process, teaching him about temperature control, hammering rhythm, and the subtle ways the metal responded to each strike.
Baeron, for his part, learned quickly, absorbing knowledge like a sponge. His hands grew calloused, his arms stronger, yet every blow against the anvil brought him joy rather than pain. He was not merely a prince here; he was a craftsman, a student of fire and steel.
One evening, after a particularly successful session, Gaimon laid out the freshly forged high-carbon steel bars on the workbench. They shimmered under the torchlight, promising the weapons they would soon become.
"Tomorrow, we begin the next stage," Gaimon said. "Forging these with wrought iron. It will be grueling, but this is the only way to achieve true strength. Remember, every strike matters. Precision, timing, and endurance—if we fail, the entire effort is wasted."
Baeron nodded. He could feel the weight of responsibility, the importance of every movement. In the furnace's glow, he felt closer to Gaimon, to the legacy of his house, and to the dream of a sword that could rival Valyrian steel itself.
Through the weeks that followed, they hammered, folded, heated, and cooled steel again and again. The rhythm became almost meditative. Sparks danced like fireflies, steel hissed as it met water, and the blacksmith shop echoed with the heartbeat of creation.
Each success was a small victory, each failure a lesson. And through it all, Baeron's respect for Gaimon deepened. This was more than skill—it was patience, ingenuity, and unwavering determination.
Finally, after countless trials, they held the first forged sword in their hands. Its surface gleamed with the brilliance of high-carbon steel fused with the resilience of wrought iron. Baeron traced the blade with awe, feeling its weight, balance, and latent power.
Gaimon looked on, satisfaction clear in his eyes. "This is only the beginning. Soon, every weapon we forge will carry this strength. A true Targaryen weapon, crafted by Targaryen hands."
Baeron smiled, a mixture of pride and anticipation in his gaze. He had not only gained a sword but an understanding of the labor, skill, and heart that went into its making. From this forge, under fire and hammer, the legacy of their family would be reforged—not in blood alone, but in steel.
As night fell over the Red Castle, the furnace glowed softly, a sentinel to the work that lay ahead. Gaimon and Baeron, side by side, continued hammering, each strike echoing the promise of weapons that would endure as long as their house itself.
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