Hello. Isn't this odd. Yes, that's right my fanatic fans, A second chapter for Blacksmith of Legends. I know, I said not to expect another chapter, but I got so many people asking for another one, that I had to. So, tadaaaa.
Please leave review after this and tell me how you think I did. I personally feel like I did terrible, but that's not for me to judge.
Previously:
Irik dropped to his knees and was slammed into by little Rhaenys who was crying. Irik wrapped his arms around the little girl and stood up, and smiled sadly at Elia and Rhaella over her shoulder. "Summon the spider" Irik mouthed to the older women, who nodded in reply.
Now:
It was near thirty minutes later that Varys arrived in the blacksmith shop.
"Master Irik" Varys spoke as he sat down in the chair across from Irik, who had a sleeping Rhaenys on his lap.
"Lord Varys. How are you? Little birds chirping?" Irik asked kindly.
Varys returned his smile and responded "Not a lord, Master Irik, but thank you. Yes, my birds chirps forever more. What did you summon me for?" Varys finished curiously.
Frowning slightly, Irik began "I need to get out of Westeros. There is a war coming, as I am sure you have figured, and I will not receive a sword through my throat because my friend was obsessed with his little prophecy. I need to get a small group of people, optimistically six, across the sea and into a safe house in one of the cities there I need to move Rhaella, Rhaenys, Elia, Viserys, Aegon and Myself, but I doubt that Viserys will want to leave Aerys, nor Rhaegar let Elia as she is with child." Irik finished sadly. Varys too was sympathetic, but agreed that it was likely to only be three people moving across the sea.
"Do you have any preferences for cities in Essos?" Varys asked in his usual soft voice.
Irik frowned thoughtfully, and was silent for a few moments before he responded "Not really, I'd prefer one of the free cities, and lots of space for a home. As there will likely be children, that requires space, and I'd like to build myself a forge to continue creating weapons. So perhaps Lorath would work?" He finished thoughtfully.
Varys nodded slightly, "I do have contacts in Lorath so I can keep you up to date on the latest news. Very well, I will begin organising passage for six to Lorath." Varys said.
Irik was standing on the deck of the ship that would take Rhaenys, Rhaella and himself to Lorath, as no one else was able to sneak away to join them. Elia was too close to giving birth to travel by sea, and Viserys as far too loyal to Aerys to want to leave.
As the ship was about to sail, Rhaegar approached Irik.
"Because you so firmly believe that there will be war, when everything blows over you will come back with mother and Rhaenys." Rhaegar spoke firmly. There was no one else he would trust with this. He didn't think there would be war, but Irik did. So, he would humour him.
Irik responded. "And when you get your chest caved in by Robert Baratheons hammer, I'll give your sword to Rhaenys."
As the three of them left port, with Rhaenys sitting on Irik's lap asleep, they all knew that this would be a grand adventure for them.
It had been four years since they had left Kings Landing and the start of the rebellion, and Irik was content. Not happy, not sad, just content.
Four months after they arrived in Lorath in their home that Vary acquired for them, Rhaella died giving birth to a little girl, Daenerys.
Over the next four years, Irik expanded his home and added a forge and training ground to test his forged weapons, and train his skill.
His home had three servants and five guards. They weren't slaves, they got paid and lived with the family in return for their service. He would train his scythe against his five guards, who he created weapons for.
Over the past years they lived in Lorath, he occasionally got paid an obscene amount to create weapons for people, from lords, to magisters, to slavers. His weapons costs more than a small coin, enough to bankrupt some of the poorer families.
His first requisition was a pair of combat axes, of Valyrian Steel, for the Greyjoy heir, Rodrik. His payment was four ships, two built for carrying cargo, and the other two for defending them as well as two hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons.
His second was a highly decorative glaive for Oberyn Martell, the red viper, who became a good friend to Irik and uncle to Rhaenys. He got paid one million dragons, as the blade was a yellow Valyrian Steel, and was the staff. The staff was covered in a decorative dark orange wood, with a vine design wrapping around it to stop his hand from slipping too much.
The third request was a grey bastard sword for the Sealord of Bravos, nothing particularly special, but it earned him seven hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons.
His fourth was a hand and a half sword for House Tyrell, with a pale blue blade, which earned him another million dragons.
His requisitions averaged him around once a year. But not all was good. The new king, Robert Baratheon, had sent assassins to his home, as it was known he had Rhaenys, but no one knew that Rhaella had died giving birth.
After half a dozen assassins, you would think that Robert had figured that no one would get in, but no. Every half a year, as the frequency was increasing, there would be an attempt. Some were subtle, a blade between the ribs at the market, while some were not, such as trying to cave in the roof of his forge when Rhaenys came in.
Irik sighed at the thought of more assassins targeting his strange little family, and pulled out some parchment and a fountain pen. He had a letter to write.
Robert Baratheon was in a bad mood, and wanted wine. His assassins that he was sending after the Dragonspawn kept failing. He had nothing against the legendary blacksmith, far from it as he wanted the man to make him a hammer. Yet, the man was hiding the Dragonspawn, so he had to die.
He was sitting in his office and bedroom reliving the memory of crushing Rhaegar's breastplate when he was interrupted with a knock on his door.
"Come in." He said loudly. The door opened admitting Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard. "What is it, Ser Barristan?" He asked. Despite what people might think, he was quite fond of the old man, he had balls.
"Your grace, you are being summoned to the small council meeting, it seems important." Barristan spoke. He missed Irik, but was glad the he escaped when he could.
Robert sighed deeply and stood up. He may have only been king for four years, but he hated it already. He hated his wife. He hated the little shit, Joffrey. He just wanted a reason to fight.
As Robert and Barristan entered the small council chambers, everyone in the room was silent. The all were looking around awkwardly, avoiding looking at the innocent letter in the middle of the table.
Robert sat down with Barristan sitting next to the door and asked "What is it?" He said gruffly.
Varys cleared his throat and spoke "Your grace, Grand Maester Pycelle received this letter in a small box when a shipment of cloth came in from Lorath, and it would seem to be from the Blacksmith, Irik."
Robert looked at the letter and then at Varys and asked "If the letter came in a box, where is the box?" He asked gruffly.
The grand maester spoke next. "Your grace, the box was kept by the guards as it contained six daggers of higher quality."
Robert reached into the middle of the table and grabbed the letter to read it.
After he finished the letter, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and said "I don't know whether or not to be amused, insulted or both."
"Your grace?" Varys asked.
"Dear King Bobby and the tall council.
This letter is in a box containing the six daggers of the assassins you have sent after me. I hope you understand that your assassins are failing, and will stop trying.
King Bobby, I understand that you killed Rhaegar, and that's understandable and I hold no quarrel with you, but I would ask for his sword back, as it was the first sword I made out of my strange steel that people seem to think is Valyrian Steel. It's quite sentimental.
The master of coin, Middlefinger? Littlepecker? Not that it matters. Please stop sending me letters asking for money, it's not working.
Hand of the King, Don Harry, I'm impressed with your skill at running the seven kingdoms, as it is quite obvious that Bobby isn't doing it. I asked Balon Greyjoy, Oberyn Martell and Mace Tyrell when they came to me for weapons, and they all agreed it was you, even if they were rather sullen about admitting your skill.
Ser Barry Belby, I've missed you my old friend. How is your sword working? Still swinging? If you need anything, send me a raven and I'l help if I can.
Gong Monster Whitebeard, I hope your knees don't get too injured by your balls as they swing into them while you walk.
Master of Whispers, Harris, Your little birds chat both ways.
I hope you enjoyed this letter, and I hope that Bobby will send me back the Black Fang if he has it.
Irik the Badass."
The small council chambers were silent until Robert boomed out a loud laugh, shocking everyone in the room.
Barristan shook his head in amusement. That was pure Irik.
"Varys, send him a letter back telling him that he can buy the sword back for two million gold dragons if he wants it so badly." Robert said, and with that he stood and left the room while chuckling in amusement.
Irik was sitting in his casual living area, talking to Rhaenys and Daenerys about what they had learned that day. Rhaenys, who recently had her ninth name day, was learning her numbers , as well as general information about the free cities.
Daenerys however, was only five name days old, and was learning her letters and how to read in her lessons.
Rhaenys little tangent was interrupted when one of the guards walked in with a raven scroll in his hand for Irik.
Forgemaster Irik.
His grace, King Robert Baratheon, has graciously allowed you to purchase the spoil of war, Valyrian Steel blade 'Black Fang' from himself for a sum of Two Million gold dragons. Upon completion of this purchase, the blade will be send to you by merchant ships.
Hand of the King, Jon Arryn.
Irik narrowed his eyes. They expected him to purchase back what it now the property of Rhaenys as his last surviving child.
Irik rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into his shirt. "Sorry Rhaenys, continue." He said smiling.
He would get the sword back. They were in for a rude awakening if they expected him to buy it back.
Irik sailed into Sunspear on one of his combat ships. He was going to collect Oberyn, go to King's Landing, kick King Bobby's ass and get back the sword. Simple enough, right?
When Irik approached the fighting pits, which is where he assumed Oberyn would be, he saw something that surprised him quite a bit.
Oberyn was there, but he was not fighting. He was teaching two younger girls with the basics of using a spear.
"Oberyn, my friend!" Irik called out, interrupting his lesson.
Oberyn spun on the balls of his feet and grinned at Irik. "Irik, what a surprise. These are my daughters, Obara and Nymeria. Girls, this is Irik, the greatest blacksmith the world has ever seen. He forged my spear." Oberyn proclaimed proudly.
Obara and Nymeria just blushed and looked anywhere but Irik, who was grinning at the pair.
"Oberyn," Irik said with the mirth fading from his eyes and being replaced by a serious demeanour. "I need your help with a slight endeavour of mine."
"Oh?" Oberyn asked curious. "What would that be?"
Irik pulled his scythe from his belt "Would you mind sparring while I explained?" He asked, to receive Oberyn's nod. As the pair started sparring against one another, Irik spoke. "When was eleven, I was experimenting on a sword I was forging, because I had a theory about how to make weapons different colours, similar to the milky pale of Dawn. What I didn't notice, was Rhaegar standing behind me while I forged. When I finished, and succeeded, I tailored Rhaegar's blade to his size and reach. Before we started, I lamented the fact that I had not yet finished my formula for my special steel, and he asked if he could help. He could. His sword was the first blade I forged out of my steel, coloured black and red with rubies at the hilt. When Rhaegar died on the trident, I was unable to reclaim his blade because I was already in Lorath. I recently traced it back to Robert Baratheon. I sent him a letter, politely asking if I could come and reclaim the blade as I was the one who forged it and it held a great sentimental value to me, similar to a child of my own loins." Irik finished as he disarmed Oberyn and held his scythe at the man's throat.
"So what is it that you need from me?" He asked curiously as he picked up his spear.
"They are allowing me to reclaim the sword, but I must buy it back for two million gold dragons." Irik finished.
Oberyn snarled in rage. He understood war spoils, but this was further. If a blade's master was slain, it went to their next of kin, lover, children or siblings. To withhold this blade from Rhaenys was tantamount to Robert proclaiming to all the realm that he didn't care about honour.
"Agreed my friend. We will go and get the blade back. "Oberyn spat in rage.
Robert stood on the balcony watching as two ships sailed into the Blackwater bay. Normally, this is a common occurrence, but these two ships scared him. Not with their appearance, mind you, but their sails.
The first was bearing the spear piercing the sun of House Martell, while the other ship carried a sail that could only mean one thing. It was a scythe crossed with a blacksmith hammer over an anvil. All silver on a black background. This could only be the blacksmith, Irik.
Robert was sitting on his throne with Jon Arryn at his side, waiting for Oberyn Martell and Irik the Blacksmith. He wouldn't lie, he was nervous. Two legendary warriors, who were likely quite mad at him, were about to enter his throne room.
When the doors opened, two men, and three young girls entered the throne room.
The first man was Oberyn Martell. Tanned skin, black hair and strong jaw with his long spear on his back. All three of the girls resembled him, but two were obviously his daughters.
The second man had an appearance that shocked Robert. He was expecting a rather plain man, with brown hair, brown eyes and regular features. He was wrong. The man had smooth black hair down past his shoulders with bright violet eyes. His jaw was strong and his cheeks high. He stood at six foot six with a build of speed and strength, while his eyes showed his creativity and intelligence. The man looked regal and powerful, despite his youthful age of nineteen name days. The man's iconic scythe strapped to his back, looking glorious despite the fact it was not in its full size.
"King Bob." The man he assumed to be the blacksmith Irik spoke with a tilt of his head. In one had he held a scroll of parchment, and the other held the hand of one of the three young girls.
Robert's eyes narrowed at the sign of disrespect. "Blacksmith, Viper. What can I do for you?" He nearly growled.
Oberyn smirked, and Irik smiled slightly, as if Robert was a child. He released the hand of the little girl who was looking around curiously, and opened the scroll.
"Forgemaster Irik.
His grace, King Robert Baratheon, has graciously allowed you to purchase the spoil of war, Valyrian Steel blade 'Black Fang' from himself for a sum of Two Million gold dragons. Upon completion of this purchase, the blade will be send to you by merchant ships.
Hand of the King, Jon Arryn.
It seems that neither of you have any respect for laws, customs of honour. That blade was Rhaegar's blade, and now belongs to his closest family member, his daughter." Irik spoke harshly. It was easy to tell he was enraged, but barely holding it in.
Robert sneered, an ugly expression on his face, and roared "And what are you going to do about it if I don't give it back? I killed that rapist, and I'll keep his fucking sword!" Spit came flying from his mouth and splattered onto the ground.
The little girl that was holding onto Irik's hand gave Robert the strongest glare an eight year old can give.
Oberyn's eyes narrowed at Robert. "You're willing to go against thousands of years' worth of laws and customs for your petty grudge? Kings are not above laws." He spoke softly in his accented voice.
"Oh? And what will you two do if I don't return the sword of the dragoncunt? Are you going to fight me?" Robert snarled in rage, ignoring his hand trying to stop his rage. These cunts dare try to reclaim HIS war spoil? He would crush them with his hammer and take their weapons too.
Robert climbed to his feet and grabbed the handle of the war hammer at the side of his throne. Irik grabbed the scythe attached to his back and slid it out into full size while Oberyn pulled his spear from his back and the two took positions in front of the young girls.
"Enough! This childish is getting us nowhere. I will not give you two million gold dragons, but instead I will craft you a hammer in return for the sword. Do you accept?" Irik began with a roar, and finished calmly.
The heavy hammer thudded onto the ground as Robert sat back into his throne and nodded.
Irik nodded and placed his scythe against his back once more, "I assume you would like it in the colours of House Baratheon?" Irik questioned and received a nod. "Would you like it to have a spike, or both sides to be for bashing and crushing?" Irik asked once more.
Robert rubbed his chin and replied "No spike, just for bashing and crushing."
"Very well. I suppose I will have to reacquaint myself with my old forge, eh?" Irik jokes, causing a laugh from Oberyn.
As the group of Irik, Oberyn, and the three young girls left the room, Jon Arryn wiped the sweat from his head. "Bloody hell." He muttered.
Two days later, Irik and Oberyn were entering the throne room with the war hammer for King Robert in exchange for Rhaegar's sword.
Once again, it was just Robert, Jon, Oberyn and Irik in the throne room. Irik was holding a long wood box, while Jon was holding a black scabbard.
Without a word, Irik approached the throne and opened the box. Inside was the war hammer. The shaft was five feet long, of a wood that had been dyed yellow while the steel wrapping around it and the head of the hammer was black.
Roberts eyes lit up at the sight of the hammer, it was beautiful.
Jon handed the scabbard to Irik, who checked that it was Rhaegar's blade, and left the room. All without saying a word.
Well he intended to leave anyway. A messenger entered the throne room and said to Jon and the King, ignoring Irik and Oberyn "Lannisport is burning!"
Yes, I suppose I left this open for chapter three. I enjoyed writing this, but I felt like I just did terrible. Please tell me i'm good at this.
