You know what I'm about to say, right? Leave a comment if you want more!
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Tobho Mott wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a soot-stained forearm, the rhythmic clang of his hammer still echoing in his ears even after he had set it down.
The morning light slanted through the narrow windows of his forge in the Street of Steel, casting long shadows over half-finished blades and glowing coals.
Business had been steady, good enough to feed him and his apprentice and keep the fires burning.
But as he rested, the heavy knock at the door made him start.
Two royal guards in crimson cloaks stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, their armor gleaming and faces impassive.
"Tobho Mott," the elder one said, voice flat with authority. "The queen demands your presence at once."
Tobho's stomach dropped to his feet with a thud.
The queen? Cersei Lannister? What in the seven hells could the Lioness of Casterly Rock possibly want with a simple blacksmith from the city?
His mind raced through every recent commission, every whispered rumor.
Had he offended some highborn customer? Spoken too freely about the king's latest indiscretions? Fear coiled cold in his gut, but he knew better than to refuse.
He turned to his wide-eyed apprentice. "Mind the shop, lad. Keep the fires low and don't touch the masterwork steel. I'll return as soon as I can."
The boy nodded mutely, too nervous to even speak. Tobho wiped his hands on his leather apron, offered a quick prayer to the Smith, and followed the guards into the street.
The journey to the Red Keep passed in tense silence. The city blurred around him, merchants haggling, smallfolk scattering at the sight of royal colors, until the massive gates of the castle loomed.
They led him not to the throne room or the queen's solar, but deeper, through winding passages that smelled of smoke and hot metal, until they reached the royal forges.
One guard opened a heavy iron-bound door.
"Inside, the queen and prince await."
The blessed prince as well?
Tobho swallowed hard and stepped through.
The forge was larger and better equipped than his own, with multiple anvils, racks of tools, and a blazing central hearth.
Two figures waited within as he kept his head low.
The beautiful Queen Cersei sat gracefully in a cushioned chair to one side, her golden hair perfectly arranged, green eyes sharp and cold as she regarded him with open disdain, as though he were something unpleasant tracked in on a boot.
Beside her stood the famous, blessed prince he had heard so many stories and rumors about. There were few who hadn't heard of him.
The boy who came back from death.
The prince blessed by the gods.
For a boy of only seven namedays, he looked nothing like a young child.
He was tall, almost the height of a grown man, broad-shouldered for his age, with a presence that filled the room far beyond his years.
Black hair fell in soft waves, and his face already had a striking handsomeness that would break hearts. Crimson bandages wrapped neatly around his eyes, hiding the divine gaze that the entire realm whispered about.
Tobho dropped to one knee immediately, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched the stone floor.
"Your Grace," he said to the queen, voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. "Your Highness. It is an honor beyond words."
"Rise," Cersei said curtly. "It was not I who summoned you, blacksmith. My son requested the finest smith in King's Landing. That, apparently, is you."
Tobho's chest swelled with pride even as he kept his head respectfully lowered, waiting for permission to speak.
It wasn't the Queen who spoke next. It was the prince, his voice calm and far too mature.
"I want you to teach me how to forge, Master Mott."
Tobho's head snapped up in shock before he could stop himself. Royalty learning to smith, and from him of all peasants?
He had never heard of such a thing!
Kings and princes wielded swords; they did not make them. Yet the prince's tone left no room for argument.
Before Tobho could find words, a heavy chest was placed at his feet with a solid thud.
The prince stepped closer, and with one small hand, he reached up and unwrapped the crimson bandages.
The bandages fell away.
Tobho Mott forgot how to breathe.
The eyes that met him were the most beautiful, most impossible things he had ever seen, deep, luminous blue like chips of living sky, shot through with delicate, shimmering lines that moved like lights caught in crystal.
They seemed to glow with an inner mystery, ancient and divine and far too piercing as if staring straight into his soul.
Stories had not prepared him. No ballad or septon's tale could capture the sheer otherworldly radiance of that gaze.
Tobho forced himself to look away before he made a fool of himself, terrified and awed all at once. He no longer dared to question whether the stories were true; he was now a true believer.
The prince smiled, warm and charming, befitting that of royalty.
"I am more than happy to pay for your lessons, Master Mott, if you will accept me as your student, of course."
Tobho glanced down at the open chest. Gold dragons, silver stags, and jewels glittered back at him, more wealth than he could spend in ten lifetimes.
His mouth went dry at just how much was in there.
He would have taught the prince for free simply for the honor, but he was no fool to refuse money when it was offered.
"I-I would be deeply honored, Your Highness," he managed, voice rough. "It would be my greatest privilege."
The queen watched from her chair with narrowed eyes, her gaze like a blade pressed to his throat, ready to strike at the slightest misstep.
Tobho began the lesson immediately, not wanting to waste their time any more than he already had.
As the lesson began, he was shocked within the first hour. The prince absorbed every word, every demonstration, every subtle technique with frightening speed.
Out of every student he taught and raised, the prince was by far the most talented.
The way his divine eyes followed his every move as if seeing everything that he is with those eyes alone made his spine shiver.
The prince's hands moved with unnatural precision as he forged. When Tobho guided him through shaping his first simple blade, the result looked as though it had been crafted by a journeyman with years of experience, not by a boy who had never touched a hammer before.
As the hours passed, the queen remained seated nearby, silent and watchful, her green eyes never leaving them or specifically her son.
The blacksmith smiled as they finished the lesson with a finely made sword. He was more than impressed by how well the prince's first blade came out.
But it seemed the prince wasn't satisfied, as he asked to try crafting a sword entirely on his own.
"My prince? I…"
The smith hesitated, the words catching in his throat as he glanced from the boy to the blade resting in his hand. His rough hands, scarred by years of labor and flame, tightened around the hilt as uncertainty flickered across his face.
"My prince," he began again, more carefully this time, "this is but your first lesson. The forge is no gentle tutor, and steel is not so easily persuaded. It would be… unwise for you to attempt a blade on your own so soon."
There was no mockery in his tone, only honest caution, the kind earned through burns, failures, and blades that had shattered under the hammer.
The queen seemed ready to rip him to pieces as she glared at him with eyes that promised a painful death.
The prince, however, did not take offense.
Instead, he simply smiled and waved his hand.
It was not the smile of a child being denied, nor one of petulance or wounded pride; it was calm certainty.
He shook his head once, black hair catching the firelight as though it too had been kissed by the forge.
"Have some faith in your student," he said, yet carrying a quiet weight that made the air itself seem still.
The smith frowned, uncertain, but stepped back all the same.
The prince moved forward to the forge without hesitation.
He reached for the tongs as though they belonged in his hand, as though he had done this a hundred times before. The heat did not make him flinch; the roar of the forge did not unsettle him.
It welcomed him or perhaps… He commanded it.
The steel was drawn from the fire, glowing bright as the sun. For a fleeting moment, the smith expected hesitation, a misstep, something, anything, that would mark this as the reckless attempt of a royal child playing at a craftsman's art.
But none came.
The first strike of the hammer rang out.
And the blacksmith's breath caught.
The second followed, then the third, each blow falling with uncanny rhythm, as though guided by something far beyond practice or instruction. There was no wasted motion, no awkward adjustment, only smooth, deliberate action.
The forge crackled, sparks dancing in the air like fireflies as the prince worked, his expression serene, almost… content.
And as the steel began to take shape beneath his hand, the smith felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest.
His skepticism died a horrible death as his jaw fell while watching the blessed prince work.
It took a mere hour for the blessed prince to finish forging; he quenched the blade and presented it to him to check.
It was near perfect, the quality strong, with a clean edge and elegant lines that spoke of both beauty and deadly purpose. No master smith could have done better in twice the time and then some.
Tobho stared, mouth agape, as he stared at his shocked expression reflected off the blade.
"By the Smith himself…" he whispered under his breath. It should have been impossible!
The speed, the quality, the instinctive understanding, it defied everything he knew about the craft.
The queen rose smoothly, seemingly deciding the lesson was over.
"That will be all for today, Smith. You may leave."
Tobho bowed deeply, still reeling. As he turned toward the door, the prince's voice followed him, warm with genuine anticipation.
"I look forward to more lessons, Master Mott."
Tobho turned back to the prince and bowed once more, this time with pure reverence. "As do I, Your Highness. It has been… an honor beyond measure."
He left the forge with a noticeable spring in his step, the heavy chest of riches carried by a guard behind him. His mind buzzed with the impossible events of the afternoon.
He was richer than he had ever dreamed, and he carried a story he needed to tell!
Just as the heavy door began to swing shut behind him, Tobho caught a final glimpse over his shoulder: the sight of the prince standing with the newly forged sword in hand.
For the briefest instant, the blade seemed to glow with a soft, golden light.
Tobho paused, blinking hard as he rubbed his eyes before looking again and found just a regular sword.
He was just exhausted, his eyes were playing tricks on him after such a long, overwhelming day is all.
Shaking his head, he continued down the corridor, already wondering what to spend his new riches on.
The finest whores in all of Westeros, perhaps?
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He couldn't believe that fucking worked.
His head was pounding like a war drum, and his body ached with exhaustion that went bone-deep, but the thrill buzzing through his veins made every ache worth it.
The newly forged sword still rested in his hands, its balance perfect, its edge hungry. For a first solo attempt, it was borderline miraculous.
Tobho Mott had left the forge practically floating on air, and the queen, his ever-watchful mother, had finally dismissed the blacksmith with a curt nod after hours of silent, predatory observation.
She turned to him, the dark colors around her fading and turning a bright red as she smiled at him.
"You've made a truly wonderful blade, my love. There is truly nothing you can't do~" she praised as she observed the sword in his hand with appreciation.
The heat of the coals still licked at his skin as he listened to her words, the heavy scent of smoke and hot metal thick in the air.
A small, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips beneath the faint sheen of sweat.
"Your praise is too much for such a plain sword, mother. I'm afraid I can do much better than this with enough practice." He said, causing her to smile, knowing what he said was true.
It wasn't just because of his eyes, though they helped immensely, or his natural talent that allowed him to be this good at forging.
His lesson with Tobho simply allowed him to better utilize it.
[Cooking Expert]had done far more than simply let him turn medieval slop into food worth crying over.
It was never just about seasoning or timing a roast. The skill had always been deeper, more fundamental.
It let him understand cooking on an instinctive level, how heat interacted with matter, how different temperatures transformed texture, flavor, and structure.
In the kitchens, it meant knowing exactly when bread would rise perfectly or when a sauce would reduce to the ideal consistency without ever needing a thermometer.
Here in the forge, the same principle applied with ruthless efficiency.
He could feel the strength of the flames, the way a master chef senses the heat of an oven.
Every flicker of the coals translated into precise temperature readings in his mind: the exact point where iron began to glow cherry-red and become pliable, the critical range where steel could be shaped without cracking, the perfect quenching temperature that would harden the blade without making it brittle.
The skill translated "cooking" the metal as easily as it translated cooking meat once the smithing lesson began.
Carbon content, alloy behavior, and grain structure, it all clicked into place as naturally as knowing when garlic would burn versus when it would sweeten.
Versatile didn't even begin to cover it.
He had suspected the skill might bleed over into other crafts, but he hadn't tested its full limits yet.
Alchemy? Possibly. Potion-making or poison-brewing could become child's play if he treated reagents like ingredients. Glassblowing? Ceramics? Even basic chemistry experiments might fall under its umbrella.
The system had given him what looked like a simple domestic ability, but it was turning out to be one of the most broadly applicable powers imaginable, essentially granting him an innate mastery over any process that involved controlled application of heat, transformation of materials, or precise timing.
He still hadn't pushed it to the edge, not really.
Today had been the first serious test outside the kitchens, and the results left him buzzing with possibilities. If [Cooking Expert] let him forge a masterwork blade in an hour on his very first independent try, what else could it do?
Could he "cook" glass into perfect lenses? Temper steel in ways that mimicked Valyrian techniques? Even manipulate the strange energy flakes he had discovered if he treated them like exotic spices?
The migraine throbbing behind his eyes reminded him there were still costs. Channeling that much focus while following Tobho's lessons and pushing the skill so hard had drained him.
His body, still only seven years old despite its accelerated growth, was paying the price. But the reward…
He lifted the sword again, watching the faint golden glow that only he seemed to notice reside in the steel.
He pointed it out to his mother, but she simply shook her head and told him that all she saw was a normal sword.
Whether that was residual magic from the flakes that stuck to the metal while he forged or something had awakened in the metal itself, he didn't know.
Another mystery to explore for future him, the sucker.
The prince set the blade carefully on the anvil and rolled his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness.
Cersei moved behind her son with the grace of a lioness, her slender fingers pressing firmly into his surprisingly tense shoulders.
The heat of the forge still clung to him, but she paid it no mind.
Her touch was soothing, and just a touch too intimate, as she began to knead the stiffness from his muscles.
"You worked so hard today, my darling prince," she murmured, her voice low and warm against his ear. "But tell me, why the sudden desire to learn the smith's craft? You are the future king, a simple command to have the finest blade crafted for you, and it shall be done. What need have you to make your own swords?"
The prince leaned slightly into her hands, letting the massage ease the deep ache in his body while his mind remained sharp.
"Because I need to do the fucking impossible just to get a ticket from a bullshit system." But no way he was going to tell her that, that would be insane.
"I want to make a sword worthy of me," he said simply, half-truths for the win! "Something that feels right in my hand, crafted to my exact needs. And… I thought it might be useful to equip Father and his army with better weapons. The Ironborn are fools for rebelling. They should be taught a swift, decisive lesson. Good steel will help our men slaughter those squids and end this nonsense quickly."
There! That should satisfy as an answer. Had to channel his inner medieval prince for it, but hopeful it worked.
Cersei's lips curved into a pleased smile behind him. She approved of the ruthlessness in his answer, even if she sensed he was holding something back.
Her fingers worked deeper, thumbs circling the knots along his spine. "My clever boy, always thinking ahead. Your father will appreciate the gesture… if he notices anything beyond wine and whores."
While her hands continued their work, the prince kept his attention on the sword resting on the anvil.
He reached out with his mind, sensing the floating energy flakes that still drifted lazily through the forge. Experimentally, he began drawing them toward the blade, trying to infuse the metal the same way he infused heat and precision when "cooking."
The results were immediate and varied.
A cluster of red flakes sank into the steel. The sword erupted in bright, hungry flames that licked along the edge without consuming the metal, at least for a few seconds before fading.
The heat was intense, promising devastating power, but it seemed each flake lasted only a mere three seconds before he needed to gather more.
Next came blue flakes; once it was in his hand, it felt as if it were a river running through his hand.
The flames died instantly as the blade became drenched in water that seemed to pour from nowhere, coating the steel in a shimmering, liquid sheen that hissed and steamed against the residual heat.
Then purple flakes, which caused the sword to crackle with arcs of electricity, danced across the surface, the air filling with the sharp scent of ozone as miniature lightning bolts jumped between the fuller and the edge.
Cersei watched every display with rapt attention, her green eyes gleaming with delight and open hunger. Each burst of elemental power made her fingers tighten slightly on his shoulders, her breath catching in quiet awe.
She said nothing, simply enjoying the raw proof of her son's growing divinity, the way the very air bent to his will.
But the sword could not withstand the strain for too long.
With each successful infusion, the metal groaned, micro-fractures spiderwebbing across the surface.
The red flames caused warping, the blue water left pitting, and the purple lightning left burn marks and brittleness. After only a few attempts, the blade gave a final, mournful crack and broke completely, shards pitifully clattering across the anvil.
He exhaled slowly, staring at the broken pieces, deep in thought.
"Better materials will be needed," he muttered, half to himself and to his mother. "Something stronger, Valyrian steel, perhaps… or whatever alloy can hold magic without tearing itself apart. And a way to store the energy, or at least gather and channel the flakes without me feeding them in manually every time."
Cersei's hands never stopped their gentle massage, though her voice carried a note of fierce pride and complete confidence in him.
Her hands reached up to cup his cheek and turned his head to face her.
Her emerald eyes gazed into his endless blue with a fiery passion.
"You will find a way, my perfect boy. The gods would not have given you this power if you were not meant to master it."
He smiled, but before he could reply, a firm knock sounded at the heavy forge door.
Cersei's expression darkened instantly, irritation flashing across her face like summer lightning. She regretfully stepped away from him, the colors around her murderously dark.
"Enter," she snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut.
A guard stepped inside, bowing low but clearly nervous. "Y-Your Grace, forgive the interruption. Urgent news from the west."
The color around the guard was of fear and respect, but mostly fear at the moment.
"Well?" Cersei demanded, her fingers still resting possessively on her son's shoulders. "Speak."
The guard swallowed hard, voice stuttering.
"I-It is your father, Lord Tywin. His fleet at Lannisport… it has been attacked. The Greyjoys struck without warning. Nearly every ship has been destroyed."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"How?" she hissed, voice dangerously quiet. "How did those reeking Ironborn dogs manage to destroy my father's fleet?"
The guard hesitated, shifting uncomfortably, before the final blow fell.
"Witnesses, Your Grace… t-they swear they saw a K-Kraken. A living monster from the depths. It rose from the sea and tore the ships apart with its tentacles. T-The peasants claim the Ironborn's Drowned God sent the monster to aid them in the rebellion."
Both mother and son went cold.
The prince felt ice slide down his spine. His quest window pulsed mockingly in the corner of his vision, the line [Kill the Kraken with your blade] suddenly far too real.
Cersei's fingers dug into her palms, not in comfort but in barely contained fury. Her voice, when it came, was a venomous whisper.
"A Kraken…"
The blessed prince stared at the shattered sword, mind racing.
The war had just become far more dangerous than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms realized.