"Seven levels of hell! Gaimon, why do I feel like you're using me as a slave?"
In a small blacksmith's workshop, two men with silver-gold hair and piercing violet eyes labored tirelessly. Both were bare-chested, sweat glistening on their toned arms, their hands gripping hammers. One hammer was larger than the other, swinging with powerful, precise movements. Beside them, the furnace roared, flames dancing wildly, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
Baeron, holding the longer-handled hammer, waved it energetically as he shouted at the man across from him. Sparks flew as the hammers met the red-hot steel on the anvil with crisp, ringing collisions: "Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The steel, heated to a brilliant orange, began to slowly yield to their repeated strikes, bending and elongating under the force of their blows. This was no ordinary forging—it was the creation of Baeron's long sword, the culmination of days of preparation, planning, and training.
The two men at work were Gaimon and Baeron. Hearing Baeron's complaint, Gaimon, who held the smaller hammer with his usual calm authority, looked at him without patience. "If you feel tired, go rest," he replied coolly. "This sword isn't mine anyway."
Baeron could only snort in resignation. He knew Gaimon spoke the truth—this weapon was his, and if he angered Gaimon, the blacksmith might abandon the project entirely. He had endured countless grueling days already; there was no room for recklessness now.
Satisfied that Baeron had stopped complaining, Gaimon withdrew the resentment that had been simmering inside him. The reason for his irritation was simple: Baeron had won the right to forge his weapon first.
Just a few days ago, the two had argued over who would forge a weapon first. The dispute lasted several days, until they finally decided to draw lots. Gaimon had chosen to leave it to luck, not using any of his magic to manipulate the outcome. When the lot was drawn, it was clear that Baeron had been granted priority.
With that settled, the forging of the long sword officially began. Following Baeron's instructions, Gaimon designed a half-hand sword for him. It measured 1.25 meters from tip to pommel, with a blade stretching one meter and a hilt and counterweight ball of 25 centimeters. The blade was as black as midnight, etched with intricate patterns resembling butterfly wings, meticulously aligned along its length. A thumb-wide blood groove ran from the guard to 30 centimeters from the tip, giving the weapon an air of deadly elegance.
The counterweight at the tail of the sword was diamond-shaped, engraved with a four-leaf clover pattern symbolizing "spring." The hilt combined black and white materials—upper half black, lower half white—carefully crafted to give the sword both beauty and balance.
The most difficult part of the forging process was creating the pattern on the blade itself. Gaimon stacked alternating layers of high-carbon steel and wrought iron, produced earlier, clamping them tightly together with pliers. The block contained ten layers of metal, each needing to fuse perfectly.
Gaimon instructed Baeron to hold the tongs and point the iron block toward the furnace while he waved his right hand, drawing a streak of fire through the flames. The fiery arc wrapped around the iron layers, fusing the edges together. Once the sides were melted and sealed, Gaimon guided Baeron in placing the entire block into the furnace, carefully raising the temperature until the steel glowed a fierce orange-red.
When the block reached the correct temperature, they removed it and began hammering in turns, expelling impurities and air pockets. Sparks danced like tiny fireworks, cascading into the shadows of the workshop. With each strike, the block slowly transformed from a ten-centimeter-high stack into a long, solid iron bar.
Gaimon repeated this process meticulously, heating, hammering, and reshaping until the iron block achieved perfect cohesion. It was a grueling task, lasting the better part of a day, ending with a resonant "chi!" as the final hammer stroke rang out.
Finally, Gaimon immersed the forged sword in a cooling tank filled with oil, water, and salt, creating a hiss of steam and smoke as the metal rapidly cooled. Baeron, who had been watching intently, could not tear his eyes away from the blade. The intricate patterns formed from the layering and hammering were mesmerizing, a testament to the blacksmith's skill and patience.
Seeing Baeron still captivated, Gaimon snapped, "Okay, stop staring! Are you ready with the other materials I asked for?"
Baeron tore his gaze away reluctantly and replied, "They've been prepared for a long time. Ivory from Volantis and jade from the northern tribes. These are the finest materials, extremely rare. I had people search far and wide to gather them. Be careful—you don't have any extra for mistakes."
Gaimon examined the materials and, with a flicker of disdain, said, "These are the materials you prepared? They don't look very impressive. When it comes time to assemble the sword, I won't be responsible if it doesn't turn out perfect."
Baeron felt a flash of irritation at Gaimon's harsh tone but dared not speak. He quickly lowered his voice and replied with forced humility, "No, no, I selected them myself. If they're inadequate, it's my fault entirely. I wouldn't dare blame you."
Gaimon's words hid the resentment he had carried for days. This was the first sword he had ever forged in his life, yet it would belong to another. It was a challenge to his pride and patience, and he made no attempt to hide his displeasure. Baeron, fully aware of Gaimon's feelings, had spent the past days carefully placating him, hoping the blacksmith would finally let go of his grudge.
Compared to forging the blade, creating the hilt was deceptively simple yet equally delicate. Gaimon meticulously crafted the sword guard, handle, and counterweight, polishing each piece to a gleaming finish. He assembled them one by one, inspecting every joint and curve for balance and aesthetic harmony.
When the sword was finally complete, Gaimon held it vertically, scrutinizing it with a master's eye. He twisted his wrist and swung it twice, testing the balance and center of gravity. Satisfied, he lowered it carefully and nodded.
Baeron, who had been watching silently, could no longer contain his excitement. "Let me try! Let me try! This is my sword—I should be the one to strike first."
Gaimon handed it to him, and Baeron gripped the hilt with reverence. The sword felt alive in his hands, perfectly balanced, the weight distributed in a way that made each movement feel natural. The blade's cool steel seemed to hum with potential energy, promising strength, precision, and deadly efficiency.
As he swung, Baeron felt the culmination of days of labor, the sweat and fire poured into every inch of the metal. The patterns on the blade reflected the flickering light from the furnace, dancing like living things. In that moment, he was not just a prince; he was a warrior, a craftsman, and a master of his destiny.
Gaimon watched silently, a faint smile on his face. Baeron's joy was his reward, the sword itself a testament to the fusion of skill, effort, and artistry. "Remember," Gaimon said softly, "a sword is only as good as the hands that wield it. Treat it well, and it will serve you faithfully."
Baeron's eyes shone with determination. "I will. This sword… it's more than just steel. It's a part of me now."
As the night deepened, the workshop glowed with the residual heat of the forge, steel and fire giving life to weapons that carried both the heritage of their house and the sweat of their labor. Gaimon cleaned the tools, and Baeron admired his long sword again, turning it over in his hands.
The blade was a masterpiece, a union of high-carbon steel and wrought iron, a fusion of strength and resilience. Its patterns told a story of patience and precision. The hilt fit his hand like a second skin, the counterweight perfectly balanced, and the blood groove sharp yet elegant.
This sword, forged by the first fire of their labor, would serve as Baeron's symbol of mastery and pride—a weapon that would endure long after the flames of the forge had cooled.
Gaimon finally leaned back, exhaustion tugging at him, but satisfaction was clear in his eyes. "Today, we've completed more than just a sword. We've created a piece of art, a weapon worthy of a Targaryen prince. Guard it well."
Baeron nodded, gripping the hilt with renewed resolve. The long sword wasn't just metal and fire—it was the result of discipline, guidance, and trust. He felt an unspoken bond with Gaimon, a connection forged alongside the steel, stronger than any spell or royal command.
The furnace dimmed as the night wore on, but the sword's brilliance remained, a shining promise of the battles and triumphs to come.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)