Baelon stared at the finished blade like a starving man who'd just been handed a feast. Gaemon rolled his eyes and tossed the longsword at him with open disgust.
"Here, take it already. Seven hells, you look like I was about to change my mind."
"Heh heh!"
Baelon caught the weapon with both hands, grinning like an idiot, completely ignoring the jab. Gaemon just shook his head. He knew that look—pure, helpless love for a new toy.
"Enough gawking. It's yours now. You can stare at it later. Right now we need to test the edge and how it handles."
Gaemon reached for one of the Red Keep's standard-issue longswords from the armory and tossed it to himself. The two brothers faced each other, blades raised. One quick nod, and they swung.
Clang!
Steel met steel with a ringing crack. For half a heartbeat the blades locked—then the royal guardsman's sword snapped clean in two. Baelon stumbled forward from the sudden release of pressure, barely stopping his follow-through in time.
Gaemon had been ready for it; he stepped back the instant the break happened, so Baelon's blade sliced only air. Both brothers lowered their weapons and examined the results.
The broken sword lay in two neat pieces, the fracture clean and smooth, no jagged burrs, just a perfect cross-section. Baelon's new blade? Not a mark. The edge gleamed as if fresh from the quench, the beautiful ripple pattern untouched, no chips, no rolling, nothing.
Baelon cradled the sword like a newborn, eyes shining with pure joy.
"Gods… what a blade. Sharp enough to split iron like butter and hair like silk. A true wonder."
Gaemon allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The test had gone exactly as hoped. House Targaryen might not be forging true Valyrian steel yet, but they now had weapons worthy of their blood.
After a long moment Baelon finally tore his gaze away and turned to his younger brother, voice thick with excitement.
"Gaemon, you've done something huge here. This blade isn't quite Valyrian steel—weight and keenness still fall a little short—but it's already better than almost anything else in Westeros. And only we know how to make them. Every sword we produce will be fought over across the continent. You'll rake in gold and build real power at the same time."
Gaemon nodded, pleased, though his own feelings were more measured. The gap to real Valyrian steel was still obvious. For now these blades would do, but deep down he still wanted the genuine article—one day he would have his own true dragon-forged sword. That had always been the goal.
Still, one step at a time. Right now the important thing was to make a few more of these. At least the last weeks in the forge hadn't been wasted.
Seeing how perfect Baelon's sword looked, Gaemon felt the itch to start his own at once. No prince of House Targaryen should be without a blade like this.
He was already reaching for fresh charcoal when Baelon spoke again, still cradling his prize.
"Gaemon, even if it's not quite Valyrian steel, it's still a legendary weapon. We should give it a proper name. Something that rings out when people speak of it—something that sells itself."
Gaemon paused, hammer halfway to the anvil. Baelon had a point. Calling them "those new steel swords" made the whole thing sound cheap. In this world a blade like this wasn't just a weapon—it was a symbol of a man's strength and status. A grand name would double its value.
He thought for a second, then grinned.
"We're Targaryens. Men call us the Dragonlords. So let's call them Dragonsteel."
Baelon hesitated. "Dragonsteel? That name already exists from the old tales. Won't people get them confused?"
"Exactly," Gaemon said with a sly smile. "Let them mix the two up. The more legends and wild rumors swirl around the name, the more men will crave one. And the more they crave them, the more gold and power we gain by controlling the secret."
Baelon's eyes widened as the politics clicked into place. He gave a slow, understanding nod.
And so the name Dragonsteel returned to the world.
The new Dragonsteel might not shine quite as brightly or strike quite as hard as the steel of legend, but every blade of it belonged completely to Gaemon—and to House Targaryen.
In the years to come, Dragonsteel would bring the family riches and strength like dragons reborn, just as the First Men had conquered with bronze and the Andals had swept the continent with iron.
Better weapons and better production always replaced the old order.
But progress moved one step at a time. For Gaemon right now, the only thing that mattered was forging a blade of his own.
Once the name was settled, he dove straight back into the forge.
While Gaemon sweated over the anvil, word of the new Dragonsteel spread quickly through the rest of the Targaryen family.
King Jaehaerys took the finished longsword from Baelon's hands and ran his fingers along the cold, rippled blade. Even the old king couldn't hide his awe.
"So this… is the Dragonsteel you spoke of?"
He traced the beautiful patterns with a callused thumb, voice soft with wonder.
"Yes, Father," Baelon answered, chest swelling with pride. "This is Dragonsteel. Our family's Dragonsteel."