Forging a knight's sword was a trivial task for a master craftsman like Aldric; he could finish one in a day or two without breaking a sweat. For Gendry, however, it was a summit yet to be climbed.
To prove his worth to Caden Storm, Gendry had shown him a bull's head helm he had hammered out in his spare hours back in King's Landing. It was the only piece he had ever truly been proud of. Caden was no smith, but a life spent as a hedge knight—wearing whatever steel he could scavenge—had given him a sharp eye for quality. He saw the potential in the boy. The technique was raw, hindered by a lack of practice, but the understanding of form was undeniable.
"It's a fine piece," Caden had said, handing the helm back. "Have you thought of selling it?"
"No," Gendry replied, setting it carefully back on his shelf. "This one is for me."
"Fair enough. Tomorrow afternoon, after the drills, I'll find you."
Caden was a Sunwalker and a veteran; he had no intention of resting while the rest of the monastery worked themselves to the bone. He spent one night in the barracks, the air thick with the scent of fresh pine, and approached Aldric the next morning as the leader was preparing to leave.
Aldric shook his head at Caden's request to join the drills. "Your value isn't in the vanguard, Brother Caden. It's in your eyes and your feet. Barlin suggested we contact Tobho Mott in the capital to act as a silent agent for our Serene-Steel. You've handled the trade once; I want you to lead the mission to King's Landing. What say you?"
The capital was a city of gold and filth, a place where Caden had once spent his last coppers in Littlefinger's pleasure houses only to be tossed into the gutter at dawn. Despite the ignoble end, the memory of those bright, hedonistic days was a rare flash of color in a grey mercenary life. He accepted the mission gladly.
However, since the Serene-Steel required Aldric's personal touch, Caden had to remain at the camp for a few more days.
With Jon Snow and the Staff of Shadows managing the daily drills of the Joint Task Force, Aldric found time to return to the forge. He intended to create a second "Lesser Valyrian" blade.
In the workshop, the sight of the Lightbringer at the anvil was no longer a shock. To the smiths, it was his "divine hobby." Among the smallfolk of St. Maur's, a cult of personality was beginning to crystallize. Aldric brought order, so he was whispered to be an avatar of the Father. He was an undefeated general, so he held the spirit of the Warrior. His foreign looks and mastery over life and death made some think he was the Stranger in a fair mask. And his work at the forge made him the Smith reborn.
If it weren't for his gender, they likely would have found a way to link him to the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone as well. Privately, men joked about when he would wed a "Maiden of Wisdom" to complete his godhood.
Aldric remained blissfully unaware of these heretical whispers. Had he known, he would have initiated a purge of "ideological impurities" immediately. I was nagged about marriage in my old world, he would have thought, am I truly to be nagged as a god in this one?
When he reached the hydraulic hammer, the apprentices were so overawed they could barely hold their tongs. Aldric sighed and moved his work outside, keeping only one strong lad to work the bellows.
He chose the single-handed knightly style—the most versatile of blades. As he drew his hammer—the heavy tool he'd brought from his past—he fell into a trance of creation.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
He was on the third fold when a sharp cry broke his concentration. He turned to find the apprentice cradling a hand; the boy had caught his fingers in the bellows' hinge.
Aldric frowned, his voice stern but not unkind. "Let me see."
The boy was thick-set and strong, but he was only sixteen. He nervously extended his hand. Aldric inspected the injury; the bones were bent but not shattered. He straightened the fingers and let a Light-Flash pulse through the flesh.
"Pay attention, lad," Aldric warned. "A craftsman's fingers are his life. Lose one, and you'll never reach the pinnacle of the trade. Move them. How do they feel?"
The apprentice flexed his hand, his blue eyes wide. "Whole, Lightbringer. Thank you."
"Why the distraction?"
"I... I was watching you work the steel," the boy stammered. "I've seen masters forge in the capital—I was a student of Tobho Mott—but I've never seen a blade folded like that."
"Tobho Mott?" Aldric's interest sharpened. "You're the one Barlin mentioned."
"I am Gendry, Lightbringer. I was raised in a tavern, orphaned young. A Lord I never met paid my apprentice fees. If I hadn't been forced out of the city, I'd have been a journeyman in another year."
Aldric smiled. "Do you want to try what I'm doing?"
Gendry hesitated. "I'm no master, my Lord. And your materials..."
"It's just iron, Gendry. The value is in the hand, not the dirt. Unless, of course, you were exaggerating about your time with Mott?"
The boy's pride flared. "I wasn't! Give me the hammer."
They traded places. Aldric took the bellows; Gendry took the steel.
The boy was strong, but more importantly, he had the endurance of youth. He couldn't dent the red-hot billet with a single blow as Aldric could, but his rhythm was steady. The steel folded once.
"Again," Aldric commanded. "Faster. Harder."
Gendry threw his weight into it. Another fold. By the third, his strength was flagging, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Aldric didn't take the hammer back. Instead, he cast a Blessing of Might and a pulse of Solar Grace to knit the boy's micro-tears as they formed.
"Keep going. One more fold!"
They worked in a blur of heat and light. Neither noticed that as Aldric pumped the bellows, trails of golden energy were bleeding into the forge-fire, seeping into the very pores of the red-hot metal.
By the time the third fold was complete under Gendry's hand, Aldric called a halt. Folding iron wasn't the difficulty; it was doing it at such a speed that the heat stayed uniform. Gendry had performed remarkably.
Aldric looked at the boy, who was nearly collapsing. "Barlin! Fetch some food for the lad!"
A few moments later, Gendry was shoveling boiled potatoes into his mouth, too exhausted for thanks.
"Watch while you eat," Aldric said, taking the hammer back. He began to taper the rectangular bar, drawing the steel out into the unmistakable silhouette of a sword. "Do you see the geometry? The way the spine supports the edge?"
"I see it," Gendry wheezed.
"Don't call me Lord. I am the Lightbringer."
"Yes... Lightbringer."
Aldric folded the nearly finished blade one last time. He looked at the sun; it was late afternoon. He had a political lecture to give to the new recruits at dusk. Jon handled the drills, but the "indoctrination" required his personal touch.
"I have to return to the camp," Aldric said, laying his hammer on the anvil. "Gendry, I'm leaving this blade to you. Finish the shaping. Make it look like the model I just showed you. Can you do it?"
Gendry looked at Master Barlin, who was nodding frantically from the shadows. Gendry turned back to Aldric, his jaw set. "I can do it."
"I'll see the result tomorrow." Aldric mounted his horse and rode out.
Gendry stood over the cooling steel, his muscles aching with a strange, buzzing energy. He looked at the bar of Serene-Steel and frowned. It felt... different.
Why does it feel so light? he wondered.
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