"Does it look right? You think your second brother looks right? I don't have a Valyrian steel weapon either, you know. And now you're trying to copy one without even telling me? You think that looks right?"
The moment Baelon learned Gaemon was secretly trying to recreate Valyrian steel weapons—and hadn't included him—he exploded. Among the male members of the family, only he and Gaemon lacked proper blades of their own. (Vaegon didn't count; he had no knightly talent anyway.)
Now Gaemon was forging weapons in secret, and of Valyrian quality no less. Baelon immediately panicked. No one wanted to be the only one without a legendary sword.
"Little brother, your second brother has always been good to you, hasn't he? Can't you make one for me too? I've wanted a real Valyrian steel blade of my own for years."
Baelon didn't doubt Gaemon's success for a second. Over the years, whenever Gaemon set his mind to something, he almost always achieved it.
If anyone else had claimed they could replicate Valyrian steel, Baelon would have laughed and forgotten about it. But when Gaemon said it, Baelon believed him completely.
Seeing Baelon's sudden shift from arrogant to pleading, Gaemon shrugged with mock annoyance and wriggled free from his brother's grip. "Oh, come on. Over the years you've taken advantage of me more times than I can count, and now you're playing nice? Where do you get the nerve?"
Baelon quickly tried to save face. "You're mistaken about your second brother! All those years I was training you—look how well you turned out! You can ride dragons, fight on horseback, and now you're in a forge making weapons that rival Valyrian steel. You have to give your second brother some credit for that training!"
Gaemon was speechless at Baelon's shamelessness. If anyone else saw the "Spring Prince" acting like this, the legendary aura around him would shatter completely.
For the sake of House Targaryen's dignity, Gaemon sighed and relented. "It's not finished yet. I only have a few ideas so far. It'll take time to test everything. I'm not even sure I can actually make it."
Though Gaemon was being cautious, Baelon didn't care. His eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "No problem, no problem! Take all the time you need to experiment. This isn't easy. Tell you what—from today on, your second brother will help you. It'll make things easier for you."
Gaemon gave Baelon a sideways look. He knew exactly why his brother suddenly wanted to "help"—he was afraid Gaemon would finish the first blade without him. But Gaemon didn't call him out. He had never planned to exclude Baelon anyway. An extra pair of hands would be useful. The forge got brutally hot, and only Targaryens could endure it for long. They were practically born for smithing.
From that day forward, a second person joined Gaemon in the Red Keep's forge. Under Gaemon's guidance, they experimented together—carefully controlling flame temperature and the precise timing of heating steel and charcoal.
They went from producing wrought iron that snapped after one hammer blow to low-carbon steel that survived two or three folds. Countless failures and adjustments later…
One afternoon, Baelon took a fresh, glowing bar from the crucible and hammered it on the anvil—once, twice, three times. He was moving mechanically, counting out loud as always: "One… two… three!"
After the third strike, he automatically reached to toss the bar onto the scrap pile like every other failed attempt—then froze.
"G-Gaemon! Come look at this! Did we… did we do it?"
The sudden success left Baelon stammering in disbelief. He called out to Gaemon, who was busy at another station.
Gaemon looked up, heart racing with hope, and hurried over to the bar still gripped in Baelon's tongs.
He took the tongs, plunged the glowing bar into a bucket of cold water. A sharp hiss erupted as steam billowed up in a white cloud.
When the bar had cooled completely, Gaemon lifted it out. The bright, silvery surface told them everything.
Baelon stared at the gleaming metal, voice trembling with excitement. "We… we succeeded? This is the high-carbon steel you wanted?"
Gaemon couldn't hide his own thrill. "Yes! We finally did it. Next we combine it with wrought iron, heat them together, and fold and hammer them repeatedly. That's how we'll make blades sharp enough to cut silk and armor strong enough to stop anything."
Baelon frowned in confusion. "But why mix them? You said high-carbon steel is harder. Wouldn't using it pure make even stronger weapons?"
Gaemon patiently explained. "High-carbon steel is harder, but that also makes it brittle. It can snap under heavy impact. Wrought iron is the opposite—softer, but incredibly tough and flexible. When you fold and hammer them together, the two metals blend in layers. The finished blade gets the hardness of high-carbon steel and the toughness of wrought iron. It becomes far stronger overall."
Baelon nodded slowly, though he still looked a little lost. Gaemon didn't press the lesson. His brother was a prince, not a blacksmith. Once Gaemon forged him a proper sword, Baelon would probably never set foot in a forge again.
Gaemon set the fresh high-carbon steel bar on the workbench and turned to Baelon. "Don't worry about the details right now. Let's make more of this first. Once we have enough, we'll start forging the actual weapons. In the meantime, think about what kind of blade you want. The hammering process is exhausting—we'll both have to strike without stopping. If we pause even for a moment, the whole thing is ruined."
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