Rhaella sat at the long oaken table in the royal solar of the Red Keep, her fork idly pushing a slice of pear around her plate. Around her, the Targaryen family chattered on, their voices a sound that she tuned out like distant waves crashing on the shore. Her father, Jaehaerys, sat at one end, his silver-gold hair neatly combed, while her mother, Shaera, fussed over a napkin beside him. Her brother Aeerys lounged with his usual smirk, picking at a grape cluster, and across from them were her aunts and uncles: Duncan the Small, with his wife Jenny, Aunt Rhaelle and the Baratheons, Steffon, and his sister Oxana. At the head of the table presided at the head of their family and the King, Aegon V, with Grandmother Betha Blackwood beside him.
Duncan was in the middle of a lively discussion with Aegon, his fork gesturing animatedly as he spoke of the upcoming tourney. "Father, the lists are shaping up to be the finest in years. Knights from as far as the Reach and the Stormlands, I've heard even some northerns might cross the neck to join. It'll be a spectacle no doubt."
Aegon chuckled, spearing a piece of sausage with his knife. "Ah yes, the tourney. Reminds me of my squiring days under Dunk. Gods, that felt like yesterday. Once, at a melee in the Riverlands, he tripped over his own lance in the mud and went down like a felled oak, shield and all. But he popped right up, roaring with laughter, and unhorsed a knight right after. Taught me that a true knight laughs at his falls as much as his victories."
Duncan grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Speaking of jousts, I'll be tilting myself this time. Heard a rumour that the Selmy boy's attending. Remember, Father? The lad who called himself the Mystery Knight? Bold as brass."
Jaehaerys snorted from his end of the table, dabbing at his mouth with a silken napkin. "Bold? The boy was a fool, playing at a man's game. He'll get his helm caved in one of these days, mark my words."
Rhaelle wiped her mouth with her own napkin, her eyes narrowing at her brother. "Oh? And should we expect to see you in the lists then, Jaehaerys? Show them how the real men do it?"
Jaehaerys's face flushed, his fork clattering against his plate. "What's that supposed to mean, sister? I've no need to prance about on a horse to prove my worth, I'm a Prince to the throne, not some hedge knight scrabbling for glory!"
Rhaelle arched an eyebrow, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Ah, yes, a prince to the Throne. How convenient. But if the Selmy boy's a fool for tilting, what does that make you for sitting it out?"
Duncan raised his hands placatingly, his easy smile faltering. "Now, now, let's not turn breakfast into a battlefield. Jaehaerys, Rhaelle, we are family remember?"
Shaera nodded vigorously, her hand touching Jaehaerys's arm. "Duncan's right. We've enough tourneys outside these walls without starting one here."
But Jaehaerys leaned forward, ignoring them. "Convenient? You married a Baratheon and popped out whelps like a broodmare, don't lecture me on what's convenient!"
Rhaelle shot to her feet, her chair scraping back. "Whelps? My children have more spine than you'll ever—"
"Enough!" Aegon sighed deeply, his voice lost in the rising voices as arguments overlapped like clashing swords. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his head in hand. The table devolved into chaos, Rhaelle jabbing a finger at Jaehaerys, Duncan pleading for calm, and Shaera whispering furiously to her husband.
Finally, Aegon slammed his fist on the table, the goblets rattling as silence fell. "By the gods, can we not have one meal without bickering like fishwives? Sit down, all of you!" He waited until Rhaelle grudgingly resumed her seat, then turned his gaze to the younger generation, forcing a change of topic. "Aerys, Steffon how goes your training for the melee and joust?"
Steffon piped up first, his voice booming across the table like a warhorn, bits of bread flying from his mouth as he gestured wildly. "Grandfather, it'll be a slaughter! I'll crush every fool who stands against me! No one's unhorsing Steffon Baratheon, mark my words!"
Rhaelle cleared her throat sharply, fixing her son with a stern look. "Manners, Steffon. You're not in the tavern with your squires, eat like a lord, not a boar."
Oxana, seated beside her brother, smirked and swatted his arm hard enough to make him wince. "Aye, and if you fight like you spar, you'll be flat on your arse before the first charge. Remember yesterday? Tripped over your own feet like a newborn fawn!"
Steffon rubbed his arm, glaring at his sister. "Oi, that was the mud! And you weren't even there—"
Duncan laughed heartily, holding up a hand. "Easy now, Rhaelle, Oxana. Don't be so harsh on the lad. Steffon's worked hard this past year, his form's improved, and his seat on a horse is solid. He'll do well in the melee and lists."
Aegon nodded approvingly, then turned to Aerys, who was lounging with a grape between his fingers, popping it into his mouth. "And you, Aerys? Ready to show them the fire of House Targaryen?"
Aerys straightened, his violet eyes gleaming with unshakeable confidence. "Oh, absolutely, Grandfather. Victory's as assured as the dawn. I'll ride through them like a storm. The bards will sing of it for years."
Jaehaerys chuckled from his seat, wiping his hands. "He might even best you in the lists, Duncan. Wouldn't that be a sight?"
Duncan grinned good-naturedly, raising his goblet in mock salute. "I'd welcome the challenge, brother."
Betha who had been observing the conversation in silence then turned to her Granddaughter. "What about you Rhaella? Are you excited for the upcoming tourney."
Rhaella however didn't answer as she seemed to be in a world of her own, playing with the porridge in her bowel while she held her chin with the other hand.
"Rhaella?"
"Rhaella? Rhaella, dear?"
It took a few calls before Rhaella blinked, looking up from where she'd been absentmindedly swirling her porridge into patterns. "Oh sorry Grandmother. I was... lost in my thoughts."
Aerys snickered, leaning over to Steffon. "Lost? sometimes I'm surprised she can find her way out of her chambers in the morning."
Shaera shot her son a soft but pointed look. "Aerys, that's enough. Be kind to your sister."
Aerys rolled his eyes dramatically, popping another grape. "Kind? I'm just saying—"
Betha waved a hand, steering back on course. "Never mind that. Rhaella, who do you think will take the lists or melee? Any favorites among the knights?"
Before Rhaella could open her mouth, Aerys cut in with a smirk. "Oh, come on. Rhaella wouldn't know a lance from a ladle!"
Steffon burst out laughing, nearly choking on his sausage, while Jaehaerys let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "The boy's got a point women and tourneys mix like oil and water, they're only there for when the Queen of Love and Beauty gets crowned."
Shaera frowned deeper. "Aerys, Steffon... that's uncalled for."
Oxana, however, bristled like a storm cloud, her fork clattering down. "I'd thrash both of you with a sword right now, you arrogant pricks. See how funny you find it then!"
Steffon guffawed louder. "You? With a sword? Oxana, you'd trip over your skirts before—"
"Enough of that!" Aegon interjected again, his voice cutting through the budding argument like a blade. "You'd all be surprised how many women are martially inclined. I've met more than a few in my travels, some wielded swords better than half the knights at court. Dornish spearwives, wildling shieldmaidens... underestimating them gets men killed."
Aerys scoffed, crossing his arms. "Women with swords? Sounds like a mummer's farce, Grandfather. No offense, but I'd believe it when I see it."
Rhaella felt a spark of annoyance ignite in her chest, Aerys's casual dismissal grating like sand in a wound. She set her fork down with a soft clink, her voice smug as she leaned forward. "Well, if we're placing bets, I don't think you or Steffon will win the melee. Not even close."
The table fell into a stunned hush, all eyes swiveling to her. Steffon blinked mid-bite, Aerys's grape forgotten in his hand. Even Jaehaerys paused. Aegon tilted his head, intrigued. "Oh? And who do you favor, granddaughter?"
Rhaella hesitated for a beat, then lifted her chin. "One of my friend's husbands. He's a talented swordsman, and he plans to enter the melee. I believe he'll win it all."
Jaehaerys leaned in, curiosity piqued. "A friend's husband? What family does he hail from? Tarth? Perhaps Grandison?"
Aerys jumped in with a guess. "Swann? Or Fossoway?"
Steffon nodded eagerly. "Aye, or maybe a Buckler? They've got some fierce blades in the Stormlands."
Rhaella shook her head to each, her reluctance growing as she toyed with her napkin. "No, none of those."
Oxana's eyes narrowed across the table, her fork pausing mid-air. She studied Rhaella for a long moment, then smirked knowingly. "It's Mira's husband, isn't it? That Arthur fellow."
Confusion rippled around the table. Steffon scratched his head. "Mira? Who's that?"
Aerys frowned. "Sounds familiar... wait, the peasant girl you dragged to court months ago? The one with the funny accent?"
Rhaelle nodded slowly, recognition dawning. "Yes, I remember her, a sweet thing even if lowborn. And her husband... Arthur, you say?"
Oxana leaned back, her voice laced with grit as she pronounced the name through clenched teeth. "Arthur. Some nobody from Flea Bottom, from what I gathered. Mira's his wife, Rhaella's little charity project."
Aerys and Steffon exchanged glances, then erupted into laughter. Aerys slapped the table. "A peasant? In the melee? Gods, he'll be trampled before the first horn blows!"
Steffon howled, wiping tears. "Aye, probably swings a broom better than a blade. Rhaella, you can't be serious some gutter rat beating us? Ridiculous!"
Jaehaerys chuckled dryly. "Indeed. Blood tells, girl. A lowborn couldn't best a fly, let alone a knight."
But not everyone shared the mirth. Duncan's smile faded, Jenny's eyes flashed with quiet indignation and Betha pursed her lips. Aegon, however, fixed his grandsons with a stern gaze, his voice booming. "That's enough! All of you, enough with the mockery."
The laughter died abruptly. Aerys straightened, defensive. "Grandfather, it's just—"
"No," Aegon cut him off, his tone like forged steel. "You forget yourselves. The current Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was born a peasant in Flea Bottom. No noble blood, no ancient house, yet he rose to guard kings and slay foes that would make you quake, Duncan the Tall is as true a Knight as I've ever seen and I will tolerate none mocking his, or those like his origins. Take this as a lesson my Grandsons, Underestimate a man because of his birth, and you'll end up on your back or worse, with a sword in your gut. Talent and heart win fights, not blood or sigils."
Steffon shifted uncomfortably, mumbling, "Sorry, Grandfather."
Aerys flushed, averting his eyes. "... sorry."
Aegon nodded curtly. "Not to me..."
Both turned to Rhaella, Steffon first. "Sorry, Rhaella. Didn't mean to offend."
Aerys grumbled, "Apologies, sister."
Rhaella nodded graciously, though her cheeks burned. Aegon softened, turning back to her. "Now, tell me about this Arthur. What makes you think he'll shine in the melee?"
She hesitated, fiddling with her spoon. "I... haven't seen him wield a sword in person, Grandfather. But I've heard stories from Mira. He's skilled, determined. Survived things that would break most men."
Aegon smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling. "Well, I look forward to seeing him in action. It's not often but a dark horse can win the day."
Duncan winked at her. "Mayhaps you'll give him your favor, niece. Nothing spurs a man like a lady's token."
Jaehaerys sneered softly, but said nothing, returning to his meal.
The breakfast dragged on from there, conversation shifting to safer topics, such as the upcoming feast, the singers from Braavos, the jugglers' tricks. Plates were cleared, fresh fruits brought in, but Rhaella's mind wandered far from the table. She poked at a remaining pear slice, her thoughts drifting to Mira and Arthur, and even to the new girl they'd introduced her to, Cassie.
This hall felt stifling by comparison, all she wanted to do was leave and walk the streets alone without having to worry about a dozen guards escorting her or trying to find her if she slipped away.
'Maybe one day...'
_____________________________________
Down in the grimy depths of Flea Bottom, Arthur slipped back through the orphanage gate, his pack a bit lighter now that he'd handed off those flowers to Mira and Cassie on the way in; they'd lit up like the sun when they saw them, both planting a quick kiss on his cheek before rushing off to help Alys with the kids. He could still feel the warmth of that kiss lingering, but his mind was already racing ahead to the shed.
He pushed open the shed door, the familiar creak greeting him like an old friend. Arthur set his pack down carefully, pulling out the small sacks of gold and silver dust. "Alright," he muttered to himself, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "Time to finish this up."
He knelt down, his knees protesting against the hard floor, and inspected the array one last time. The outer circle was perfect, no smudges; the inner one aligned just right. The triangle pointed upward like the book said, with those three node circles at the corners. Runes were also drawn correctly—purify at the top, bind on the left, stabilize on the right, and that shape rune at the bottom. Connections all linked up without breaks.
He knew he had to do this properly. One wrong line, one misplaced symbol, and... well, the book didn't spell out exactly what could go wrong, but Arthur's gut twisted at the thought. He had no clue about the real dangers, alchemy wasn't exactly common knowledge in Westeros, and he sure as hell wasn't some maester with a chain around his neck. But messing with ancient magics? Yeah, that screamed "disastrous consequences". Better to be paranoid than dead.
"Careful now," he whispered, dipping his fingers into the silver dust sack. It was fine as sand, glittering faintly even in the candle light. He sprinkled a thin ring of it on the left side, between the core and the bind rune, just like the instructions. Not too much. Then the gold dust on the right, between core and stabilize. It shimmered warmer, like tiny flecks of sunlight. Arthur wiped his forehead again, smearing a bit of chalk dust across his skin. His hands were steady, but his heart thumped like a war drum. "If this erupts in my face, at least it'll be quick," he thought, half-joking to himself.
Finally, he reached for the Valyrian steel ingot. It was small, about the size of his fist, but heavy with that weird, rippling pattern in the metal that looked like smoke frozen in ice. He placed it dead center on the core node, right in the middle of the array. "Okay," he said aloud. "Now focus my intent. Focus on what I want this to be." He positioned himself at the array's edge, kneeling so his palms could press flat against the chalk lines. He took a deep breath, staring at the ingot.
What it is: a lump of Valyrian steel.
What it becomes: a small, razor-sharp blade, perfect for the hidden mechanism... long enough to stab deep, thin enough to conceal.
What must not change: its strength, its edge that never dulls, that Valyrian magic woven into the metal.
Nothing happened at first. The array just sat there the same as it was before. Arthur's brow furrowed. "Come on," he muttered, pressing harder. Still nothing. A spark? A glow? Nothing. "Seven hells," he cursed under his breath, closing his eyes tight. 'Focus, focus, focus,' He repeated it like a mantra in his head, blocking out the distant shouts from the orphanage yard.
Visualize it... the ingot melting without heat, reshaping like clay in invisible hands, forming that sleek, deadly point. 'Focus, focus, focus.' His mind strained, sweat trickling down his temple now.
Then it started.
A faint hum at first, like bees in his ears, vibrating up through his palms. Arthur's eyes snapped open. The array was glowing, a soft blue light tracing the runes and lines, growing brighter by the second. "Seven hells," he breathed, but he didn't dare move. The light intensified, pulsing like a heartbeat, and sparks crackled out from the edges, tiny bolts of lightning arcing toward the center, dancing over the ingot.
The ingot began to shimmer, its surface rippling like water disturbed by a stone. The sparks built to a frenzy, white-hot flashes leaping and coiling around the metal, pulling it apart and reshaping it. It stretched, thinned, sharpened, forming a slender blade, about eight inches long. The light peaked in a blinding flare, forcing Arthur to squint, and then... it faded, dying to silence, the sparks winking out like dying stars.
He blinked spots from his eyes, staring at the center. There it was. the blade had cooled and now lay in the centre kf the array, it was perfect and had the swirling pattern of Valyrian steel. "It... it worked," Arthur whispered, awe washing over him. He reached out tentatively picking it up, the metal was warm to the touch, but not hot, and light as a feather despite its hardness. "This would've taken a blacksmith days of hammering, tempering, all that crap. And I did it in seconds. Bloody hell." He turned it in his hand, the edge catching the light so keenly it seemed to cut the air itself.
He set the blade down and grabbed the vambrace contraption from the bench. Leather straps, reinforced with thin steel plates from Garrick, and a spring-loaded mechanism hidden inside. He clicked the blade into place, the tang slotting perfectly into the groove. "There we go," he murmured, holding it up to admire. The whole thing looked innocent, a simple bracer nothing more. But with a flick...
The blade came out.
He'd made this design mostly because of that brutal fight with Lunk way back. The big oaf had lifted him like a ragdoll, tossing him around and hurling him through damn walls, at the time there were moments where a free hand with a blade could've ended it quickly if he had this weapon. He slid it over his arm strapping the vambrace onto his left forearm. It fit snug, the leather molding to his skin. The mechanism was a clever bit of artificing and took a month of late nights to design it and even longer to get the parts made with the help of Garrick.
A pressure pad under his palm triggered it; if you clench your fist just right, the blade shot out from under the wrist, guided by channels and locked in place. Retract with a twist of the forearm. Simple, but the applications of it were many and he had no doubt it would help him in many situations.
[Inventive Genius] was an incredible trait, no denying it. Ideas just... flowed through his mind, especially when he faced real problems or even imagined ones. Like that crossbow reload lever, or the chained caltrops; though unfortunately most of his ideas were too wild, needing materials he couldn't get or tools that didn't exist here. But ones like this? Manageable.
He decided to practice, standing in the middle of the shed. "Alright, easy does it." He clenched his fist, pressing the pad and whoosh, the blade snapped out with a metallic snick.
Though it came out a little too fast, his ring finger hand in the way, and the tip nearly cut his finger off. "Whoa!" He jerked back, heart skipping. "Shit, that was close." Blood welled up from a tiny cut. "I should be more careful with that. Don't want to lop off my own fingers off."
He twisted his forearm, and the blade retracted smoothly, clicking back into hiding. "Good as new." Arthur wiped the blood on his tunic, shaking his head with a chuckle. He gathered his tools, locking the shed behind him as he headed back to the main house.
(AN: Arthur has his hidden blade made of Valyrian steel. It's a pretty useful tool and will serve him well. He's also now on the radar of the royal family who will see him in the melee, let's hope that's a good thing. Anyway hope you enjoyed it.)
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