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While Jon was busy compiling the domain's latest statistics back in Oros, Gaemon had already been staying at the Red Keep for some time.
He had returned mainly to stand guard over Daemon's birth, but he didn't need to hover in the birthing chamber every hour. With time on his hands, the bored prince decided to find something productive to occupy himself.
What Gaemon wanted to do was forge his own weapons and armor. Every time he saw King Jaehaerys and Prince Aemon carrying Blackfyre and Dark Sister—the legendary Valyrian steel blades—he burned with envy. Those two swords already had masters, and Blackfyre in particular was the very symbol of royal power. They would never end up in his hands.
Since the Doom of Valyria, only a few thousand Valyrian steel weapons were known to still exist in the world. Westeros held barely three hundred, most of them locked away in the armories of ancient noble houses. Even for a prince of the blood, acquiring one was nearly impossible.
So Gaemon decided: if he couldn't get one, he would make one himself.
Valyrian steel was light, incredibly tough, never rusted, and almost impossible to break or dull. Its surface bore beautiful dark ripples, and legend said it could only be forged with dragonfire or ancient spells.
Although Gaemon didn't know the exact Valyrian process, the description reminded him strongly of pattern-welded steel from his previous life—Damascus steel, the famous imitation of which he had read about in detail. He remembered enough of the technique to try.
For the past several days, Gaemon had spent nearly all his time in the Red Keep's forge.
As a fortress originally built for war, the Red Keep naturally had a smithy—small, but complete. It was mainly used to maintain the guards' weapons and armor, so it had everything a smith could need. Gaemon didn't have to go hunting for tools or a workspace.
The process for making pattern-welded steel was simple in theory: fold and hammer high-carbon steel together with softer wrought iron. In practice, it was brutally difficult.
Wrought iron was easy—he could find that anywhere. The real problem was producing high-carbon steel. In this era, no one knew how. Even the best smiths in Westeros couldn't make it.
So Gaemon had to experiment, step by step. Thankfully he had fire magic and a dragon. He could push the forge temperatures well above 1,700 degrees—far hotter than any normal bellows could reach. Without that, the project would have been impossible.
He began by crushing iron ore and limestone into walnut-sized pieces, mixing them ten parts ore to one part limestone, then feeding the mixture into the forge. The temperature still wasn't high enough, so he channeled his fire magic directly into the flames, forcing them to roar hotter and hotter.
As the temperature climbed, the ore and limestone reacted. Time passed slowly. Eventually, he pulled out workable wrought iron.
Next came the crucial step. He took a clay crucible, layered charcoal powder at the bottom, added thin slices of wrought iron in the middle, covered it with more charcoal, sealed the top with clay, and placed the whole thing back into the forge. Again he poured his magic into the fire until the crucible glowed cherry-red. Then he removed it and let it cool.
Temperature and timing were everything. One mistake and the carbon wouldn't fuse properly with the iron.
He failed many times. When he tried to fold and hammer the resulting steel, the bars would snap in half under the hammer.
Gaemon kept at it, adjusting heat and timing with each attempt. His fire magic let him experiment far faster than any ordinary smith could have. Without it, the secret of high-carbon steel might have stayed lost for centuries.
While Gaemon spent his days locked away in the forge, the rest of the Targaryen family noticed his strange new obsession. He ignored his own domain, vanishing into the smithy from dawn till dusk. Yet everyone knew how mature and purposeful Gaemon was. He wasn't playing like a child. They left him to it, confident he would explain when he was ready.
One person, however, couldn't contain his curiosity—Gaemon's second brother, Prince Baelon.
Early one morning, after breakfast with the family, Gaemon was heading back to the forge when a familiar voice called out behind him.
He turned to see Baelon watching him with a grin.
"Second Brother? Did you need something?"
Baelon snorted. "Can't I just call my little brother over for no reason?"
Gaemon chuckled. "Of course you can. But I've got work to do right now. We can talk later when I'm free—"
He tried to slip away, but Baelon's arm shot out, locking around his neck and pulling him into a rough hug against his chest. The older prince's voice turned mischievous.
"Not so fast, you little rascal. You've been acting strange lately—sneaking off at dawn, coming back at dusk, spending every waking hour in that filthy forge. Did you find buried treasure in there or something?"
Gaemon laughed helplessly, trapped in his brother's grip. "Second Brother, I'm not digging for treasure. I'm making it."
Baelon's brow furrowed. "Making it? In that broken-down old smithy? What kind of treasure could you possibly make there?"
He tightened his hold just enough to keep Gaemon from escaping. "Don't think you can brush me off so easily. Your second brother isn't that gullible."
Gaemon sighed, still smiling. "I'm trying to recreate Valyrian steel. I want to forge my own weapons. It doesn't look right for a prince of House Targaryen to walk around without a proper blade of his own, does it?"
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