Robb Storm

Seahorse's Tail, Stepstones

109 AC

Daemon laughed for hours after their breakthrough with bronze, even going so far as to send one of the three swords they forged—made from what they now called Nightsteel—to his wife. "To my bronze bitch," he said with a grin, clearly amused by the irony.

But the very next day, their little triumph was darkened by grave news.

Desmond, the blacksmith who had labored alongside them since the beginning, died in the night, coughing blood. He had been House Velaryon's blacksmith for years, and Laenor suspected his death came from the intense heat their forge reached when blood sacrifice and dragonfire combined. Desmond had to fold steel hundreds, if not thousands, of times. The smoke, the fumes, the heat—it was all too much for a man without the heritage that grants tolerance to these things.

Daemon suggested bringing in a dragonseed—someone whose blood might grant them greater tolerance to the extreme conditions. But Laenor had another idea: one of the bastards from House Baratheon. And so, a moon later, Robb Storm arrived. 

His parentage was uncertain, even to himself, but he bore all the traits of the Storm Lords—raven-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and arms like tree trunks that swung hammers as if they were feathers, with the speed and force of a lightning strike.

Since Nightsteel was not true dragonsteel, Laenor and Daemon resumed their experiments—this time replacing bronze with steel once again. Nightsteel lacked the sharpness that true dragonsteel ought to possess. They concluded that steel was indeed one of the base materials in its forging. That left them with two confirmed ingredients: steel and dragonglass.

The third, they reasoned, had to be a powerful magical conductor. Bronze had been their starting point, but it had proven inadequate. As Laenor mulled over other magical materials, one name rose to his lips: silver.

It had been more than a year since they began their quest to rediscover the lost craft of dragonsteel. Then, on the seventh day of the fourth moon of 109 AC, Laenor, Daemon, and Robb Storm finally succeeded. Together, they forged a sheet of dragonsteel—a feat not accomplished in over two centuries. 

All three were jubilant. Pride was etched into their faces as they strode through the camp, the crude slab of dragonsteel held high in Laenor's hands for all to see. Their destination: the tent of their investor, Lord Corlys Velaryon.

Inside, Laenor's father was deep in conversation with several lords—men who had sent their second sons to fight and now gathered to stake their claims, for the Stepstones had been won. The war was over.

But all that became irrelevant when Laenor laid the dark, rippled plate of dragonsteel atop the map of the Stepstones. At first, confusion filled the tent—then disbelief. Eyes widened, and brows rose into hairlines as the reality of what they saw settled in: dragonsteel, dark as the ash of Dragonmont, forged anew.

It had now been a week since that day.

Daemon had already sent word to his brother, requesting an enormous quantity of silver. Laenor wasn't sure what Daemon planned to do with so much of it—dragonsteel only required a small portion of silver, no more than an eighth of the full mix. But he didn't ask. Daemon had proven himself both imaginative and indispensable when it came to magic.

Now, Laenor waited at the base of Poseidon Tower, near the entrance to the forge. Though they had discovered how to make dragonsteel, they had yet to craft anything beyond that crude plate. That sheet, however, had been gifted to Robb Storm as a reward—for his service, and more importantly, for his silence.

Initially, the plan had been to kill Robb once they succeeded. He was not a man they could afford to trust fully, no matter how loyal he seemed. But that plan had been abandoned the moment they discovered the one thing Robb Storm loved more than anything—his wife and children.

And wasn't that a gift from the gods? Daemon and Laenor could use that. Daemon made sure Robb understood exactly what would happen should any word of their secret escape his lips. The moment that threat was spoken, the Storm bastard's blue eyes filled with fury—but he didn't act on it. Laenor's cold glare, combined with Daemon's cutting stare, was enough to make him understand: one wrong word, and his wife would be widowed, his children orphaned.

What followed was the binding of a magical contract.

Robb had just enough magic in his blood to make it work. The contract stated that no word of dragonsteel—or anything related to the past year and a half—would ever pass his lips. In return, his family would be safe, and both House Targaryen and House Velaryon would offer their protection.

Though he was not a literate man, Robb signed the contract in his own blood, only after the Maester read its contents aloud and confirmed its terms

Laenor came out of his thoughts at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. Soon, the burly figure of Robb Storm entered his vision, wearing his usual broad smile.

"Lord Laenor, you're early. And here I thought I'd be the first, seeing as there's still half an hour before the time we agreed upon," Robb's jovial voice echoed through the nearly empty tower.

"Can you blame me?" Laenor replied, returning a soft smile.

"Not saying I do. Owning a Valyrian steel sword is enough to make any man restless. Prince Daemon said that even I—a bastard—might earn the hand of a noble maiden, should I keep my mouth shut or reveal the make of it." Robb chuckled, but Laenor only raised an amused eyebrow.

"I wouldn't accept, of course. They could tempt me with the fairest whore or courtsen from Lys, and still I'd say no. Even without that contract we signed—I love Elly and my children. You wouldn't believe the shite I had to go through—"

"To win Elly and convince her merchant father to grant you her hand. You nearly bashed his head in but stopped yourself because he was the father of your beloved," Laenor finished with a sigh. "You've told that tale so many times, I wager there's no one in our camp who hasn't heard it."

"Aye, but you could hear it once more. You've reminded me of my wife—and since the prince isn't here yet…" Robb's face lit up as he prepared to dive into his tale once again.

Thankfully, Daemon arrived just in time.

Robb's smile soured the moment he saw him, and Daemon caught it, naturally.

"Ah, Storm. I see you haven't forgotten my warning. Good. It serves you well to remember what will happen if something were to leak." Daemon's smirk was cutting, and Robb's scowl turned savage.

Laenor placed a calming hand on the Baratheon bastard's shoulder.

"Must you provoke him every time?" he asked Daemon. "You and I both know the contract binds him. He even forgave you for that... incident. It was only your unfortunate timing—interrupting his love tale—that soured his face. Isn't that right, Robb?"

Robb nodded, still scowling, but calmer now.

"Well," Daemon shrugged, "no harm in reminding him anyway. Now, let's begin before Caraxes decides to nap."

With that, he moved past them and pushed open the forge doors.

"Arrogant cunt," Robb muttered under his breath, fists clenched.

"You're lucky you're only getting the short end of the stick, Robb. You don't want to know how Daemon treats those who don't bear the name Targaryen or the blood." Robb grunted in reluctant agreement.

"I do have a request," Laenor added as they followed Daemon. "I know you always give your all in the forge, but today—I need more than that. The sword we're making will mean more to House Velaryon than a hundred or a thousand that may follow. And it won't be without price. But give it everything you have, and I swear on my name, you'll find both House Velaryon—and me—at your back when your time of need comes."

Robb, his face grim and determined, nodded. Then he smiled.

"You have my word. I'll pour everything I've got into this sword—for you, for House Velaryon. I swear it on my wife and children. Now let's get started. A long day awaits."

He entered the forge with purpose in every stride.

And the man kept his word.

His hammer was lightning, and the metal was its prey. With each strike, he forged not just steel but soul. The clang of his hammer echoed with effort and resolve, bringing a smile to Laenor's face.

Laenor's task was to enchant the slag pulled from the forge with his runes, binding magic into metal. Daemon controlled the flames by commanding Caraxes, whip in hand. Finally, Laenor offered his own blood to the mix—the blood of kings and gods—hoping it would make this sword unlike any other in the world.

Laenor didn't know whether it was Robb's strength, Daemon's fire, or his own blood that brought the change—but it came.

The sword in his hand looked different. Dragonsteel was typically dark, until tempered—but this blade was a pale grey, streaked with bluish-white ripples that shimmered like thunderclouds before a storm.

Robb slumped against a wall, too exhausted to stand. Daemon had already led Caraxes away, the great dragon wearied from the effort.

Laenor gave Storm a firm pat on the shoulder in gratitude before turning toward the tent of the current Lord Velaryon.

This sword was not his to name.

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