Chapter 42 Forge (Patreon)

The spring air was crisp with the scent of salt and moss as it swept through the training yard of Dragonstone. The grey stone walls echoed with the sharp clatter of metal on metal.

Clang. Clang.

Aegon ducked, parried, then twisted to the side, the worn grip of his training sword slick in his hand. Daemon pressed forward, eyes bright with the thrill of the spar, swinging again in a high arc. 

Aegon blocked it, barely, the blow jarring up his forearms.

Then came another flurry, quick and chaotic. Aegon moved with agility, slipping and weaving, faster than most boys his age had any right to be. But Daemon matched him. Not in grace, but in sheer instinct. 

His strikes came at strange angles, surprising ones, always with a faint smirk curling his lips, as if he were dancing to a rhythm.

"You can’t beat me anymore, brother," Daemon said between breaths, eyes gleaming.

Aegon said nothing, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed a silent acknowledgment. It was true. Daemon had grown fast. He was bulkier than Aegon now, having spent months sparring near daily with the City Watch. His swordplay was rough, sometimes unrefined, but it worked.

Still, Aegon was faster. His footwork more precise. His control more measured. But Daemon's fighting instincts were wild and sharp. He fought like someone who didn’t care whether he won or lost, only that the fight was good.

Aegon exhaled sharply, stepping back after deflecting another forceful blow. “Your swings are getting reckless,” he said, circling. “Must be all that time spent knocking swords with city guards.”

Daemon grinned, unbothered. “They hit harder than half the knights in the Red Keep. And none of them waste time preaching about stance or honor.”

They clashed again, swords whipping through the air. Ser Clement watched quietly from the side, arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was steady and solemn. These were not boys anymore. Their swordsmanship had reached the level of young knights. 

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Sweat glistened on both princes. Their tunics were soaked, boots scraping against the stone floor as they circled.

Then, an opening. Subtle. Barely there. But Daemon saw it.

He lunged.

Aegon could have defended, but he didn’t. He let it happen. Daemon’s dull blade came to rest just against his throat.

A heartbeat passed. Then Aegon gave a small smile. “I lost.”

Daemon grinned, triumphant. “You did.” He was about to gloat, but then his face clouded. The grin faltered, and his body seemed to sag all at once.

He stepped back, tossed his sword away, and dropped flat on the ground, arms spread wide, eyes fixed on the pale sky above.

Aegon frowned. “What is it?”

Daemon didn’t answer right away. A seagull screeched somewhere beyond the wall.

Then he muttered, “Nothing. Just realized… I’d be a burnt piece of meat if that was a real fight.”

Aegon blinked. Then laughed.

Daemon wasn’t wrong. Aegon’s flamecraft had been displayed openly to him a few days ago. He had watched his brother conjure fire with a flick of his hand, shaping it like an artist molds clay. It had both terrified and thrilled him. 

“I wouldn’t roast you too much,” Aegon said with a grin. “Just enough to make you surrender.”

Daemon groaned. “That’s comforting.”

He sat up, tugging off his sweat-soaked gloves, and wiped his face on his sleeve. “You ever think about how insane that is? You can summon fire. I just swing a sword.”

“Fire’s not everything,” Aegon said. “You fight better than most knights I’ve seen.”

“And yet, I’d still end up a blackened lump.” Daemon sighed and leaned back again.

“Where are the two guards you dragged here with you?” Aegon asked, cocking a brow.

Daemon’s face twisted in a grimace. “Don’t remind me.”

The memory was still fresh, and stung.

The plan had been perfect in his mind. Convince, or rather, intimidate, two City Watch guards to sneak him onto a small boat in the dead of night. Sail for Dragonstone. Arrive at dawn. Claim Caraxes. Greet his brother in glory. Perhaps even make the Queen proud.

Instead, the boat had barely docked when they were spotted by the patrols.

They had been dragged, half-soaked and shivering, straight before Queen Alysanne, who was not pleased to be woken from her chambers because of “an intruder.” That intruder being her grandson, dripping saltwater and grinning like a fool.

An intruder. Prince Daemon Targaryen. The indignity.

“She was not pleased,” Daemon muttered. “Her eyes were glowing like Vhagar’s.”

Aegon laughed again, full and honest.

“Those two cowards sold me out the moment she asked!” Daemon barked, voice rising. “Didn’t even try to lie. Just fell to their knees and said, ‘Prince Daemon made us do it! He threatened to tell Ser Rickard we were drunk on duty!’”

Aegon snorted. “Did you?”

“I might have implied it.”

Aegon chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re still here and not halfway back to King’s Landing in chains.”

Daemon threw his hands in the air. “Me too.”

A long pause followed, broken only by the sound of gulls and waves in the distance. 

“When are you planning to bond with Caraxes?” Aegon asked, glancing sideways as he began brushing dust from his sleeves.

Daemon, still lying flat on the warm flagstones, turned his head toward him with a lazy grin. “Soon… as soon as I get the chance. Maybe even tomorrow.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been saying that for three days now.”

Daemon smirked. 

He propped himself up on one elbow. “Why are you so worried about me, little brother? Could it be… that Aegon the studious has finally grown a heart?”

Aegon rolled his eyes and shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Of course. How could I not worry? It is the honor of Caraxes to be bonded with the great Daemon Targaryen, the finest swordsman in King’s Landing, and champion of midnight schemes.”

Daemon gave a mock bow from the ground. “Finally, some respect.”

Aegon laughed and stood, stretching. “Just don’t get yourself eaten. I’d have to create a song about it.”

Daemon grinned as he sat up. “You better be ready to congratulate me properly.”

Aegon dusted off his tunic. “With what?”

“A Valyrian sword,” Daemon said, pointing a finger dramatically. “A fine one. Forged by your magical hands. No less than what I deserve.”

Aegon started to walk off toward the castle steps, waving behind him. “We’ll see. If you survive the fire and fangs, I might consider it.”

“Just make sure it’s sharp!” Daemon shouted after him, grinning.

Aegon looked back once, gave a small smile, then disappeared into the keep. The yard quieted, save for the sea wind and Daemon’s thoughts, already drifting to the dragon waiting for him inside the caves.

Nothing like a good bath after a sweaty spar, Aegon thought as he made his way toward the Black Vault tower, drying the back of his neck with a cloth. 

At the base of the tower stood Ser Clement, ever-stern, and beside him, the old blacksmith Aegon had hired, a weathered man with a wiry beard and a voice like gravel being ground underfoot.

“Is it done?” Aegon asked, pulling the cloth from around his neck.

“Almost, my prince,” the blacksmith said with a respectful nod. “My apprentices are finishing up the hearth now. It’ll hold heat proper, no doubt.”

Aegon nodded, satisfied. A few days earlier, he had quietly commissioned a private forge to be built within one of the tower’s unused rooms, his workspace for experimenting with Valyrian forging techniques.

After all, he couldn’t exactly go around telling people that he could turn ordinary steel into Valyrian steel just by sprinkling his blood on it. He needed it to appear as though he were forging it the traditional way…like a true smith of Valyria.

Aegon went inside the tower followed by Ser Clement and the blacksmith. There were guards present who were overseeing the construction of the forge. They bowed and continued monitoring the blacksmith apprentices, workers who were busy making the forge.

“Good. Make sure the airflow channels are right. I don’t want smoke choking the whole tower,” Aegon said.

“Aye, my prince. You’ll be able to melt godsdamned stone in there once we’re done.” The blacksmith grinned, missing a few teeth.

“I’ll pay extra if it’s solid work,” Aegon added, glancing at the forge where flames were beginning to curl faintly up the chimney.

The old man’s eyes lit up at the mention of more coin, and he turned back to the apprentices with renewed enthusiasm, clapping his hands. “Get that back wall aligned! And double-check the vent!”

Aegon gave a final glance, then turned and walked deeper into the tower, Ser Clement trailing behind like a silent shadow. The blacksmith and the guards at the door gave a short bow as he passed.

As soon as Aegon disappeared into the stone stairwell, one of the younger apprentices, barely older than a squire, nudged the boy next to him. “Why do you think the prince wants a forge? Princes don’t make swords.”

The second boy leaned in with wide eyes. “You don’t know? I heard from my sister’s friend’s mother’s lover’s wife’s daughter—”

“That’s too many people,” the third muttered.

“Shut up! She’s a maid at the castle,” the boy said dramatically, glancing around to be sure no one was listening. “She said… Prince Aegon is a pyromancer. A real one. Fire and all!”

The other two apprentices gawked.

“Swear on your balls?” one whispered.

Before he could reply, WHACK!—a stick smacked the back of his head. Then WHACK WHACK, two more hits rained down.

“Yowch!”

“AH—old man, that hurt!”

The blacksmith loomed behind them like a stormcloud. “You sniveling fools! Gossipin’ like washerwomen. We’re not here to trade tales like old hens—we’re building a forge for a prince!”

“But Master—”

“Not a word! I catch one more whisper about maids and pyromancers and your wages will vanish like piss on hot iron!”

The three boys scattered, scrambling back to their posts.

The guards nearby shared a glance. One of them let out a quiet yawn behind his gauntlet. Fools, he thought.

Aegon stepped into his study, the heavy door shutting quietly behind him.

Time to get back to it, he thought, settling at his cluttered desk and flipping open his notes.

Over the past few days, he’d made progress. Two new elemental runes added to his growing collection: the [Water Rune] and the [Air Rune].

The [Water Rune] functioned similarly to the [Fire Rune], capable of drawing or conjuring water. In contrast, the [Air Rune] resembled the [Earth Rune], it allowed manipulation of air, but not its creation. Movement and shaping, yes; manifestation, no.

Aegon frowned slightly, tapping the quill against his notes. I’ll have to change the plan.

The [Wizard Apprentice] class, while invaluable for long-term growth, wasn’t giving him the immediate power boost he needed. Its benefits were subtle, deep and foundational, but not the kind that could block a bolt mid-flight or sense a poisoned goblet at a glance.

And that was the problem. He didn’t have time. He needed power that worked now, not months from now.

By revealing his pyromancy, he had stepped into dangerous waters, drawn the attention of powerful players across the realm. 

He had hoped to develop a few practical spells before then, defenses against crossbow bolts, poisons, and ambushes.

But the spells weren't ready, he did not have enough runes to craft them.

So much for that, he thought grimly.

For now, he would have to rely on the danger awareness effect from his class. A limited safety net, but better than nothing.

And that means I need to make it stronger.

The effect scaled with class level. If he wanted sharper instincts, earlier warnings, and a greater margin of survival, he had only one real path forward: upgrade. 

As many levels as he could manage before the hunt.