"What? It melted?"
The slap in the face came too quickly, leaving the master blacksmith caught off guard.
However, compared to saving face, Tob was far more concerned with whether the Seven's blacksmith could truly melt Valyrian steel.
Braving the scorching heat, he stepped up to the red-brick furnace, leaned toward the mouth of the smelting chamber, and peered inside. Sure enough—
Within the blazing crimson flames, the smoke-black longsword that had been resting across the rack was melting like wax under fire, liquefying into streams of rune-lit milky-white metal that dripped into the graphite-carved sword mold below.
"By the Black Goat, aren't the Seven just seven lumps of wood? And she didn't even use blood sacrifice!"
Tob couldn't contain himself, blurting out his shock despite the Dragon Queen standing nearby.
Well, he had always believed the Seven were nothing more than wood, but with the Queen's devout faith and all her knights just as zealous, he'd never dared to say it aloud.
"Could it be dragonflame?" he thought again quickly.
Everyone knew the Seven were wood.
Perhaps it was the influence of the half-divine black dragon.
"Hahaha, success at last!" The Dragon Queen laughed freely, exclaiming, "With an army of five thousand clad in Valyrian steel, nothing in this world will ever make me afraid again."
"Congratulations, Your Majesty," Tob offered his praise, then curiously asked, "If I also sang the Song of the Seven, could I invoke the Blacksmith's power?"
"You don't worship the Seven. Singing won't help you." Dany waved him off.
Hearing this, Tyrion raised his hand from four or five meters away and shouted, "I worship the Seven! Would singing work for me?"
"You? Hmph. Only the most devout saints of the Seven can receive the Blacksmith's response. You're far from worthy."
Dany lifted her chin, her face proud, her tone dismissive.
"I see."
Clinton, Aemon, Aegon, and the other honest men all nodded thoughtfully, believing Saint Dany's words without question.
Well, to them, the Queen had founded the Faith of the Seven in Slaver's Bay, spread its teachings even into distant lands. Surely the title "Saint" was deserved.
Tyrion didn't mind. Grinning, he asked, "Does the High Sparrow count as a saint?"
"Barely," Saint Dany replied, clearly reluctant.
That lunatic High Sparrow was far too notorious. Even Saint Dany, whose devotion barely registered, could not deny the man's faith.
Tyrion's eyes glinted as he asked meaningfully, "If he learned your newly revised incantation, could he reforge Valyrian steel?"
"Barely," Saint Dany answered again, with obvious hesitation.
In theory, "Blacksmith" Drogon could respond to a believer's prayers, channeling his divine power across distance to the High Sparrow.
Just as priests of the Black Goat, through sacrifice, could borrow the power of the evil god of Qohor even from far-off Volantis.
But there was a cost.
Here, Drogon needed only a fraction of his power to melt Valyrian steel. Sending it across the sea to Westeros for the High Sparrow would cost ten times as much, while the faith he received in return from those prayers would be only one-thousandth.
A terrible bargain.
Even so, one-thousandth was not negligible. After all, forging took less than half a day.
Half a day of prayer for one-thousandth faith.
Not bad at all.
In this magic-starved world, it was well worth the High Sparrow's lunatic devotion.
"Are you serious?"
Though Dany's answer had been half-hearted, Tyrion was utterly stunned.
Once a mere skeptic, after becoming the General of Wildfire, he had studied magic with the same intensity he once applied to learning about dragons—whether for his craft or for survival.
Thus Tyrion understood one truth deeply: the Seven were only wood. They gave comfort to the faithful, but never power.
He knew this, yet still worshiped the Seven. His devotion even surpassed Aegon's.
For, like Dany, he understood the essence of the Seven: they were the seven virtues of humanity, the seven stages of life, seven identities.
He worshiped not seven logs, but the virtues they embodied.
And so, his devotion actually grew.
"Of course. Unless, are you so blasphemous as to believe the Seven are nothing more than wood?"
The Dragon Queen narrowed her eyes, two blade-sharp gleams flashing from within.
Aren't they wood?
Thinking so inwardly, Tyrion quickly waved his hands. "No, no, no, I believe in the Seven. Why, I'm even a paladin!"
Then, to Dany's astonishment, a thread of faith extended from Tyrion's brow, linking directly to Drogon.
The Imp was praying to the Blacksmith?
And his devotion had risen by 0.2.
Could this man actually have the potential to become a high priest?
But then something even more shocking happened: Aemon, Aegon, Clinton, and even nearby blacksmith apprentices all grew threads of faith that linked to Drogon.
And their devotion too had risen, each by varying degrees.
"What is happening?" Dany murmured in confusion.
In truth, it was simple.
Anyone who personally witnesses a miracle will have their faith strengthened.
Everyone here knew reforging Valyrian steel required divine power and blood sacrifice. Yet the Queen had merely sung the Song of the Blacksmith, and the Blacksmith had manifested.
As for Drogon's flames—everyone knew he couldn't melt Valyrian steel before. Otherwise, the Queen, who long desired such armor, wouldn't have waited until now.
He couldn't do it before. Now he could. What changed?
The Song of the Blacksmith.
What else could it be but a miracle?
"Perhaps I should give the High Sparrow some benefits. After all, he's working for Drogon now, like one of those 007 slaves."
Realizing this, Dany stroked her chin.
Yes, 007—working from midnight to midnight, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, no holidays.
"Aegon, my nephew, you still don't have a Valyrian steel sword, do you? Today, your aunt will gift you one. Tell me what color and style you want, and Tob will forge it for you."
In high spirits, the Dragon Queen began feeding her little nephew candies.
"Uh…" To her surprise, Aegon grew bashful, his eyes flickering as he said, "Thank you, but I already have a sword."
"A Valyrian steel sword?" Dany looked at the fine steel bastard sword hanging at Aegon's waist, her expression puzzled.
"Blackfyre," Aegon muttered.
"What?" Dany hadn't even considered that possibility and looked confused.
Old Aemon's face changed instantly. Gripping Aegon's sleeve, he asked excitedly, "By the Seven, are you saying you have the Targaryen ancestral sword, Blackfyre?"
Aegon glanced at his aunt. Seeing her remain calm, he quietly breathed a sigh of relief. A trace of pride showed on his face as he nodded. "Yes. The Blackfyre once wielded by Aegon the Conqueror."
Hearing Aegon's confirmation, Aemon's pupils contracted. Yet instead of relief, a shadow of doubt flickered in his heart.
Blackfyre had originally been the very symbol of Targaryen kingship, a sword reserved for the king alone. But the feeble-minded King Aegon failed to pass it to his trueborn heir and instead gave it to his bastard son, Daemon Waters.
Judging purely by Daemon Blackfyre's bloodline (both parents being Targaryens) and his abilities, he was fit to inherit Blackfyre. At worst, he could have returned the sword after death.
Yet Daemon launched the Blackfyre Rebellion, attempting to usurp the Iron Throne as a bastard.
After the first Blackfyre Rebellion was ended by Bloodraven Brynden, the ancestral sword was not reclaimed by the Iron Throne but instead fell into Daemon's son's hands.
Thirty years ago, during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Ser Barristan slew the last of the Blackfyres. That ended the rebellions once and for all. But the Blackfyre sword itself was never seen again.
Now it had suddenly appeared in Aegon's possession.
"Where did you get Blackfyre?" Aemon asked.
"Tyrion gave it to me," Aegon replied.
"Me?" Tyrion pointed blankly at the dark hole of his own nose.
"In the chest Illyrio had you deliver to Prince Aegon, there was a Valyrian steel sword. That sword was Blackfyre," Clinton explained.
Tyrion's cheeks twitched. He looked at Aegon, then at the Dragon Queen, before slowly saying, "Illyrio told me it was a gift for the prince. Candied ginger, he said. He claimed Prince Aegon loved it best."
"You like candied ginger?" Dany asked with an odd expression.
"I used to, when I was little," Aegon replied.
Dany did not press further about Blackfyre's origins. Instead, she turned to Tobho. "Forge me a few dragonbone daggers using the Valyrian steel from the furnace."
In a few days, Little White should go to the Red Waste again. Another dragon skeleton still lay there.
"Your Grace, I don't have a Valyrian steel sword either. Perhaps—" Tyrion began with a sheepish grin.
"You? You're a crossbow killer. A hand crossbow is more than enough for you."
"Speaking of crossbows…" Tyrion stroked his chin, grinning. "I've had an idea. What if we made a long-armed crossbow, one that could use the strength of dragons to draw the string?
"For example, when a dragon flies, its wings beat up and down. If we attach two rings to its wing bones and link them to the crossbow mechanism, every wingbeat could pull the string back.
"That way, the dragonrider could fire bolts in rapid succession."
Dany raised an eyebrow. "You could try—with your Shae."
That night, Dany hosted a grand feast in Astapor.
The reforging of Valyrian steel was only one reason. The great victory at the Battle of Torlos, the bombing of New Ghis, and the fall of the Meereenese wyvern were all causes for celebration.
At this feast, Aegon finally drew forth the treasured sword he had kept hidden for so long. Since even his aunt was offering him a Valyrian steel sword, he no longer feared she would seize the Targaryen ancestral blade.
And indeed, Dany had little interest in Blackfyre at this point.
To her, it was nothing more than an ordinary Valyrian steel sword with no magical properties. Once she melted down Gartho's Valyrian steel statue, even the Unsullied guarding the gates would be armed with one.
But someone else, staring at the ruby dragon-headed sword at Aegon's waist, felt deeply unsettled.
When the feast was over and Dany returned to her chambers, she bent over her desk, inscribing runes of the Dragonslayer Horn, when Aemon arrived. He wasted no time, saying bluntly, "Dany, there's something wrong with Aegon's identity!"
"What's wrong with it?" Dany didn't even lift her head, her mind focused on the rune combinations.
The runes of the Dragonbinder Horn had enabled her to create the soul-shaking spell "Soul Strike."
She was eager to see what the runes in the greatest Valyrian dragon horn, the Dragonslayer, might offer her.
She still remembered how, on that day in Torlos, when Benerro blew the horn, it had shaken more than a hundred thousand people in the city.
Even through layers of stone, it had shattered the souls of three skinchangers hiding in the sewers.
"Aegon is very likely not Rhaegar's son. Varys deceived us," Aemon said grimly.
"Just because of that sword?" Dany remained unmoved, her head bent over her work.
"Gods, this concerns the Targaryen bloodline itself. Can't you take it more seriously?" Old Aemon grew so anxious he stamped his feet.
Dany finally set her pen down and sighed. "Fine, speak. I'll listen."
—I'll hear you with one ear and let it out the other, while my mind keeps working on the rune combinations.
Just a few days ago, she had asked Morro to keep an eye on Jacocarys' movements, intending to quietly bring her "cheap son" back.
Until he came of age and gave her a brood of grandchildren, it was unsafe to reveal his identity publicly.
Too dangerous. Better to let Aegon stand as the shield.
So…
(End of chapter)
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