When Garon saw the black scabbard fitted neatly against the Maiden of Justice, he finally understood why his father had ridden to Sapphire Town and not returned until dawn.
Lord Selwyn Tarth had gone himself.
The Isle of Tarth had no shortage of craftsmen, but only one blacksmith whose skill was trusted without question—Byron of Sapphire Town. Sailors, knights, and merchants alike sought him out, whether to mend battered armor or reforge blades dulled by salt and war.
A holy sword deserved nothing less.
Looking at the faint redness in his father's eyes, Garon knew Lord Selwyn had not slept.
"The scabbard is finished," Selwyn said quietly.
He held the sword with both hands as he passed it to his son, as though afraid it might slip away if he loosened his grip too quickly.
Garon took it easily.
The scabbard was forged of blackened iron, its surface still bearing the honest marks of the hammer. A thin core of pinewood lightened it from within, and a wrap of gray sharkskin near the hilt provided a firm grip. Simple silver lines traced the length of the sheath, understated but elegant.
It was long—nearly four feet from tip to pommel—and designed to be worn across the back rather than at the hip. Lord Selwyn had clearly considered Garon's age.
Even so, it fit him well enough.
Garon drew the blade partway.
A clear, ringing note echoed through the hall as pale light spilled forth, soft as dawn over calm waters.
Every sound stopped.
Servants, guards, even Claude the steward froze where they stood, eyes drawn to the blade as if by instinct. No matter how many times one saw it, the Maiden of Justice never failed to inspire awe.
Garon slid the sword back into its sheath and tested the weight.
Light.
Earlier, he had seen how heavily it rested in his father's hands. In his own, it felt perfectly balanced, as though it belonged there.
It seemed the blade chose its bearer.
"Thank you, Father," Garon said sincerely.
Lord Selwyn smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.
"Brother!"
Brienne came running in from the courtyard, skirts dusty and feet sandy, her maids trailing behind in mild panic. She threw herself into Garon's arms without hesitation.
"Garon," Lord Selwyn said after a moment, "Brienne is already four. Starting tomorrow, she'll begin her lessons with Maester Ronnel."
Brienne's eyes lit up.
"I want to study with my brother!"
Garon laughed softly. "Of course."
He had begun his own education at three. Brienne was more than ready.
Maester Ronnel inclined his head, smiling. "It will be my honor."
The household had barely settled when Maester Ronnel returned, this time holding a sealed letter.
"My lord," he said, unable to hide his excitement, "news from King's Landing."
Lord Selwyn broke the seal and read.
"The queen has given birth to a healthy son."
Garon looked up immediately.
Prince Rhaegar was already sixteen. That meant—
"Viserys Targaryen," Maester Ronnel confirmed. "His Grace named him himself."
Lord Selwyn let out a quiet breath. "After so many losses… perhaps this will bring the king some peace."
Garon doubted that.
"Viserys," he murmured. "The Sleeping Dragon."
Maester Ronnel produced a second letter.
"Lord Tywin intends to sponsor a grand tourney in Lannisport, to celebrate the prince's birth."
"I won't attend," Lord Selwyn said after a brief pause. "But we'll send a proper gift."
The conversation drifted, as such conversations always did, to the affairs of the realm.
They spoke of King's Landing, of succession, of the children being born into the great houses. They spoke of the widening rift between King Aerys and his Hand, and of the king's increasingly strange ideas.
Aerys spoke of rebuilding ancient cities long turned to ash.
Of carving canals through mountains.
Of raising a second Wall beyond the lands of the Night's Watch.
Garon nearly choked on his food.
Now he understood why history would remember Aerys II as the Mad King.
That afternoon, Garon went to the godswood behind Evenfall Hall, the Maiden of Justice resting across his back.
Ser Goodwin was already waiting.
"So," the knight said, eyeing the scabbard, "that's the blade that nearly drowned you."
Garon smiled faintly and drew it just enough for its light to shimmer among the leaves.
Goodwin exhaled slowly. "I'd rather not test my luck against that."
"I only want to test its edge," Garon replied.
Goodwin pointed to an old tree stump, scarred by years of training.
Garon stepped forward and raised the blade.
Dusk lingered in the sky.
And somewhere beyond the sea, the world was already beginning to change.