The playful scuffle between the three brothers felt just like their childhood days—full of silly laughter and the kind of easy affection that only siblings who truly love one another can share.
After horsing around with his brothers, Gaemon returned to the forge. He worked without pause for another full week before finally setting his tools aside and lifting the finished blade. Even with his magically strengthened body, he let out a long, satisfied breath.
The moment Gaemon raised the longsword, a cold flash of light cut through the dim forge.
Ding!
He tapped the blade lightly with his finger. A clear, ringing note echoed off the stone walls. The sword was magnificent. The blade alone measured nearly four feet, wide as a man's palm, its iron-gray surface etched with flowing golden patterns that resembled twisting vines or ancient runes stretching almost to the tip.
Those golden runes stood in sharp contrast to the cold steel, making the weapon look more like a ceremonial blade fit for a king than a tool of war.
Moving down the sword, the golden crossguard flared like angel wings, its curved edges carved with intricate designs that echoed the patterns on the blade, lending the whole weapon an air of noble grandeur.
Golden wire wrapped the black grip, connecting seamlessly to the gem-shaped pommel at the end and giving the sword a unified, regal appearance.
Gaemon examined his creation with deep satisfaction and muttered to himself, "Not bad at all, if I do say so myself."
He raised the blade into a ready stance and began to move—first one-handed, then two-handed—testing the balance and feel of each grip.
Once he had grown familiar with the sword's weight and flow, he stopped. Though the workout had cost him a fair amount of stamina, his eyes still shone with unmistakable pride.
"Light and nimble in one hand, smooth and powerful in both. Effortless to wield. Not bad for my first true blade."
He lowered the sword and spoke softly in the quiet forge, giving voice to thoughts he rarely shared.
"What should I name you…? Hmm… Broken Steel it is—the Sword of Justice and Power."
"In my old world, Excalibur was the legendary blade of King Arthur, symbol of royal authority and strength. It was granted to him by the Lady of the Lake, its crossguard forged of gold and its hilt set with jewels. Its edge could cut through iron like paper and helped Arthur win countless battles, allowing him to found his own dynasty."
"I hope you will do the same for me—help me win many victories and build a dynasty that is truly my own."
In the dim light of the empty forge, Gaemon held his newly forged Broken Steel Sword and, for the first time in a long while, spoke his deepest ambitions aloud.
While Gaemon remained lost in his work at the forge, Prince Aemon had already departed. He mounted the Blood Wyrm Caraxes and flew straight toward Dragonstone on his father's orders.
Although Dragonstone was the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, the family had moved most of its wealth and power to King's Landing more than a century ago, after Aegon made the city his capital. Only a small contingent remained on the island to guard the castle and tend the dragon caves.
As a result, the once-mighty Dragonstone felt almost empty. A handful of small fishing villages dotted the shores, supplying the castle with basic provisions.
In truth, the Targaryens had never neglected Dragonstone out of disinterest. The island housed living dragons and their nesting grounds. To prevent any dragon from escaping or being stolen, the family had long kept the island and its surrounding waters strictly sealed. No outsiders were allowed near.
The precaution was not paranoia. Every year the Dragonstone garrison captured countless spies and would-be dragonseeds, most of them from Essos. In the Black Wall of Volantis, several noble families still claimed distant Valyrian descent and dreamed of taming a dragon to restore their lost glory. Dragonstone was the only place in the known world where living dragons could still be found.
Aemon flew hard on Caraxes, heading directly for the Gullet. Dragonstone lay just beyond those dangerous waters.
Less than two hours after leaving King's Landing, the Blood Wyrm reached the waters near the island.
Dragonstone was no small rock. It covered several thousand square miles, dominated by an active volcano that constantly belched smoke and heat into the sky.
From afar, Aemon could already see thick white plumes rising where the volcano's heat turned seawater to steam—a signature sight of the island.
Hisss-gah!
Caraxes let out a sharp, piercing cry the moment he caught the scent of the volcano. The sound was thin and terrifying, perfectly matching the dragon's long, serpentine form.
Aemon patted the Blood Wyrm's flexible neck. Caraxes responded by beating his wings even faster, his flight now resembling a great crimson worm writhing through the sky—exactly why he had earned the name Bloodwyrm.
As they drew closer, the first thing to appear was the smoking crater of the volcano, its orange glow visible even from the air as molten rock churned within.
Aemon paid the volcano no mind. He guided Caraxes toward the eastern side of the island, where the only major structure stood: Dragonstone Castle, the ancient seat of his house.
As the dragon passed over the island, the few inhabitants below spotted the massive shadow and began to cheer. Dragonstone's people were fiercely loyal. For over two centuries the Targaryens had exercised the right of the first night here, and many islanders proudly carried Valyrian blood in their veins.
To the people of Dragonstone, bearing a child for the dragonlords was considered the highest honor.
Most of the current Dragonkeepers had also been chosen from these loyal island families, for only those with dragon blood could safely approach the beasts.
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