A.N.: I'm on a roll at the moment. It was about four months since I'd last updated, due to my teaching schedule etc. but I got over the block where I knew where I wanted to get Larra but didn't know how to get her there! So here we are. Enjoy!
Valyrian Steel
39
Ash and Memory
She winced as her skull pounded. Pressure squeezed her temples and she flinched at the raised voices that scraped like nails across slate, shooting spears of lightning through her head. The pounding in her head told her they had been at it too long. She had not been outside all day, had not felt the breeze caressing her face or filled her lungs with sharp cold air. The heat of the chamber, packed with so many bodies, so many candles lit and the fire roaring in the hearth to keep them all comfortable – their Southern guests unused to the biting cold of true winter, clutching at steaming cups of mulled wine and mead or herb tea to keep the chill from their fingers – had her head thundering with pain, stifled and hot and uncomfortable.
Gendry watched her carefully, concern in his dark blue eyes. She stood close beside him, and if anyone noted the hand he rested heavily on her small waist, no-one mentioned it. They never mentioned any hint of intimacy shared between Gendry and Larra, though she knew they had become less and less bothered about veiling their feelings toward each other, the intimate nature of their relationship – not just being lovers, but their partnership. They spent many hours together, and it had been noted even if no-one said anything.
He handed her a cup filled with ice-water from a pitcher, one of many scattered across the long table, and she sipped slowly, willing the thudding in her head to cease.
She knew she was scowling, impatient and uncomfortable, and glanced around the hall. Night's Watchmen, Northern lords, Free Folk, Knights of the Vale had all gathered, once again, to discuss plans, as they did every other week. Not just to update each other on any progresses being made – the glasshouses had been suitably fortified against siege and battle – but to discuss any new strategies they could implement for the defence of the castle. The more time went on and they were not under attack, the more time they had to think of other options. And options were the key, Larra knew. The more options they had, the less likely it was that everything went to shit when Winterfell was laid siege to by the Night King's army. No matter what happened, they would have a plan to handle it. To adjust. Perhaps, to survive.
They had been discussing siege weapons for the last three hours.
Some of the Southern lords championed scorpions, insisting the armourers, smiths and engineers should build them in preparation. Lord Royce turned to glance at Larra, eager to hear her opinion on the matter – she being one of the few present to have ever witnessed the White Walkers or the armies of the dead.
"Scorpions are useful for more than shooting dragons out of the sky," she sighed, after taking a long drink from her cup. "The Others command giants and mammoths. Should they breach the wall, any one of them could decimate our forces in moments."
"Rhaegal burned a good few of them," Gendry muttered.
"Did he?"
"After I pulled Jon out of the water, Rhaegal picked us up and circled over the Night King's army," Gendry said, and she felt his slight shudder. "There were no spears being hurled at us; the army was just waiting. Rhaegal burned a few good holes in the Night King's army."
"But not enough."
"No, not nearly enough," Gendry agreed, sighing heavily as he folded his arms over his chest, his sapphire eyes shrewdly scanning the model of Winterfell – this one far larger and even more detailed than the one in the solar – outfitted with siege weapons for one of any potential battle strategies.
"There should be scorpions all the way around the curtain-wall," one of the Knights of the Vale insisted. "Do we not have steel enough to make them?"
"Getting hold of the steel's not the problem; we've plenty," Gendry shrugged, frowning softly at the accusation in the Knight's expression as he scowled at Lady Sansa. "It's the cold. And the storms. We could build dozens of scorpions and station them all the way around the castle, but they're so big, they'd have to be assembled in place and remain there. A few good storms like we've had, they'd be dashed to pieces. The steel would become too brittle; if someone tried to use them, they'd more likely kill themselves trying to loose a bolt."
"What do you do at the Wall?" Sansa asked gently, peering at Dolorous Edd, but it was the great one-armed blacksmith Donal Noye who spoke up.
"We had mounted, small-scale ballistae and scorpions, but they were only outfitted with skeins during an attack – or, as the lad said, they'd freeze and snap and kill whoever was loading them," Noye said, nodding at Gendry.
"What about that great thing you cut us off the wall with?" grunted Tormund Giantsbane.
"The scythe? You'd need speed and power to make it work – and enough men to crank it back into place for another drop," Donal Noye said, shaking his head. "For the number of wights you'd kill, it's not worth the effort to make it."
Larra sighed and emptied her cup, reaching to refill it. The ring-mail she wore tinkled prettily with the movement, and she frowned, slowly lowering her cup. "What about obsidian?" she asked. She glanced from Donal Noye to Gendry. "It doesn't become brittle in the cold, the way steel does. It can last for millennia."
"If you forge it correctly," Gendry said.
"You can."
"I can – but that's a lot of obsidian," Gendry said fairly. "Obsidian we need for other weapons – even binding obsidian to existing steel rather than forging weapons entirely of dragonglass."
"It is still better to have one working scorpion than none at all," Larra said, and the others murmured. "But it must be kept protected. Not just from storms but from the very creatures we hope to kill with it. We keep banking on the Night King's army having no projectiles – can a giant hurl the weight of a mammoth?" She glanced at Tormund and the Magnar of the Thenns, who muttered to each other. Tormund spoke for them.
"A live one? No more than I could a bull," he grunted, leaning back against the edge of a table, arms folded idly across his chest, his hair wild, his furs wilder still. The Knights of the Vale still did not know what to do with him; the Northmen had accepted him as one of the hardest men they had ever met, a man who could outdrink them, lusted after women yet was gentle and fussed over children and diligent when training them. "The giants used mammoths as mounts. But one that has been dead for months, years…"
"Even a fraction of a mammoth's weight is enough to demolish buildings with enough power behind it," Larra said.
"You're thinking overly much about this," Lord Royce warned, eyeing her shrewdly.
"Should I not?" Larra replied gently.
"I'm glad someone is," Lord Royce said, with a respectful nod, a twinkle in his eye. Larra rather thought he liked her, at least a little.
"What about the Broken Tower?" Sansa mused, her gaze on the model of Winterfell before them. "The builders have not yet reached the uppermost level. We aimed to reconfigure the tower for Bran's personal use – "
"That can wait," Larra interrupted grimly. "He can have use of the tower after we've survived the war. We could construct the topmost chamber to give at least one hundred and eighty degrees of visibility."
"Degrees?" Tormund grunted, looking lost.
"Half a circle," Larra said, indicating what she meant on the model of Winterfell, drawing a line with her finger from one side of the Broken Tower to the other. She glanced up at Gendry. "Which is next to useless if the scorpion is static."
"Static?"
"Has no movement," Larra murmured, frowning, as Gendry leaned his closed fists against the table, hulking over it as he frowned deeply at the model, assessing.
"Cersei's engineers have been experimenting with a new design of scorpion." Bran's voice was softer than the crackle of the fire beside him, into which he gazed thoughtfully. They all turned to stare at him; most had forgotten he was in the room with them. He rarely spoke. "It is fully pivotal, with a seat and a viewfinder for the soldier firing the bolts."
"Well, I'm sure Cersei Lannister will put it to good use," Sansa said waspishly, with an impatient sigh.
"If you could pass me a pencil, so shall we," Bran said patiently, with a tiny smile in his dark eyes. Larra found a pencil and a piece of paper, handing both to Bran after he had wheeled his chair around to the table. He beckoned Gendry and Donal Noye to him and Larra watched, disconcerted, as he started to sketch. Peering over his shoulder, she saw Bran's sketching technique, and her heart dropped to her stomach as she realised the annotations marking the sketch were written in an elegant hand – handwriting Bran had never had chance to master in the schoolroom before they had fled Winterfell.
Bran's voice was soft and low, explaining to Gendry and Donal Noye how the new scorpion was fashioned, all its component parts and measurements. Larra watched Bran's pale fingers, deftly moving the graphite across a scroll of paper as if he had done so a thousand times before; she listened to him explaining the finer details of the scorpion as if he was the most knowledgeable engineer of projectile weapons in the world. If Gendry or Donal Noye were startled by Bran's knowledge, neither of them showed it. They listened attentively, and asked shrewd questions that made Bran's eyes glitter.
"I think it time we take refreshment," Sansa said lightly, smiling to the lords and Free Folk gathered. "We have made much progress in our preparations. I thank you for your time, my lords."
The meeting disbanded, everyone departing to take a meal or return to their training, or, in Samwell's case, return to the library to continue researching the White Walkers. With him went the maesters, including a new one, Maester Arys, a burly man with an enviable golden-brown beard swathing half his face and soft blue eyes that seemed to permanently twinkle. He had a rich voice and paid utmost attention, serious about his new duties within the walls of Winterfell, no matter how absurd or outlandish they seemed to him. He gave Larra and Sansa a courteous bow before following the other maesters out of the chamber, all of them muttering about necessary ratios of obsidian to steel to bind dragonglass to existing weapons of the armies predicted to join Daenerys Targaryen at Winterfell.
"Go, get some rest," Larra told Sansa, as she shuddered, trying to suppress a yawn. "I know you were up well past the hour of the wolf."
"As were you," Sansa said, arching an eyebrow knowingly, but Larra ignored the subtle smirk winking playfully at the corner of her sister's lips.
"Go," she said gently, and Sansa sighed, rubbing her face, then nodded and rose to her feet, striding out of the chamber with one last lingering frown at the model of Winterfell. With each meeting, they adjusted the model to reflect new plans and strategies the other lords had thought up, so they could all consider the benefits and potential hazards of each.
"Larra, Gendry…come and sit with me a moment," Bran said, and for a heartbeat Larra could have sworn Bran was ten years old again, his voice full of life, delight. His eyes glittered as Larra turned to him. Gendry shot Larra a curious look. Bran smiled at them, his eyes twinkling. "We've discussed obsidian." He smiled at Larra. "You want to know about steel."
Larra's eyes narrowed, her lips parting; Gendry blushed delicately and cleared his throat as they both realised the same thing. Bran knew about their conversation, which meant… Bran smirked playfully. "Valyrian steel, yes? You wish to know if it's possible to start forging it once more."
"Yes."
"For Gendry, of course it is!" Bran beamed, a child's delight gleaming from his deep dark eyes, his excitement palpable. "He already has everything he needs."
"Almost everything," Larra corrected.
"Almost," Bran conceded, his smile gentling. He gazed at Gendry with something close to pride. "Spells aside, you already have what you need to forge Valyrian steel. Patience, the utmost attention to detail, fierce nobility of action, passion and care. These things are what have always separated you from all the rest, Gendry. There is no-one in the world but you who could do this…" His gaze was deeply earnest, respectful and…and admiring, Larra thought. Bran gazed with fondness at Gendry. Bran sighed softly, his eyes twinkling, a hint of her little brother in his smile as he said, "When I was a boy, I yearned to be a Kingsguard, wielding a great Valyrian sword into battle to defend what is right and good. Do you remember, Larra?"
"I do," Larra nodded, her voice very small. Her lips twitched miserably, her voice hoarse when she added, "You fashioned yourself Bran the Bright – for your wit, and the gleam of your sword."
For a long moment, Bran was silent. Then he raised his long, sombre face and he looked almost a boy again. He looked the same way he had when Larra had told him about Father. Eyes shining with unshed tears, youthful and devastated – yet in that moment, Bran had become a man, mature, seeking wisdom, setting aside his own wants for the needs of others. "I shall live thousands of lives and yet none. I shall never leave this chair." He sighed heavily, glancing from Gendry to Larra. "None of us shall live the lives we thought we would…" He stared at them long and hard, until Gendry frowned, growing concerned, and Larra shivered.
Bran blinked, his eyes twinkling once more. He asked breathlessly, almost giddily, "Shall we go?"
"Go where?"
"If you wish to learn, you must take lessons from the greatest armourer to ever live," Bran beamed, fidgeting in his chair. He held out his hand to Gendry. "We must journey to Valyria." He glanced at Larra, his eyes gleaming. "Shall you come with us, Larra? You always wished to see the city of a thousand years. Let it be an inspiration to you."
Gendry gave Larra a bewildered look but gentled at the look on Larra's face. She was not afraid or amused by what sounded like madness coming from her strange little brother. She sighed, downed the last of the ice-water from her cup, set it aside and drew up a stool beside Bran's chair. Gendry did the same, frowning. Bran turned a gentle, encouraging smile on Gendry and offered his hand.
Larra took Bran's hand and he smiled.
She blinked, and they were worlds away.
Her breath caught in her throat, staggering where she stood, breathless at the onslaught of incredible beauty and majesty overwhelming her senses. Lilting, exotic music quavered on the air, eerie and seductive; spices tickled her nose, enticing and foreign, spicy and sweet, a heady bouquet of floral perfume dancing with anise and cinnamon and sugar, mingling with the scent of saltwater and smoke rising in vapours from rivers of liquid fire oozing idly like ruby rivers amid great sprawling neighbourhoods of magnificent palaces and towers twisting and spiralling high into the air, precarious bridges hung with great orbs of blown glass arced high above, joining wide open balconies and rooftop gardens where people sprawled on cushioned chaises and sipped apricot wine, enjoying each other or converging in secrecy to enact plots, their silver-gold hair shining brightly in the sunlight, piled high with precious jewels, their bodies draped with sheer fabrics that revealed more than they hid. She was struck by the diversity of the Valyrians – every one among them had the silver-gold hair made famous in Westeros by the Targaryens, and she could see eyes of violet, lilac, icy-lavender, loveliest indigo and vivid amethyst – yet not all of them were pale-skinned. There were men and women with deep olive complexions like the Dornish; children with skin like midnight velvet splashed and played in rooftop fountains with little children with almond-shaped eyes and delicate ivory skin, and chandeliers of orchids trembled as, among them, a woman with gorgeous slanting eyes and full lips writhed in the arms of a golden-haired man with skin the colour of cinnamon.
Everywhere she looked, there were Valyrians. She heard their music, watched their children play, listened to the sound of their voices, and gazed on in awe as they loved and lusted and schemed as if their great empire would last an eternity, never knowing that this tremendous city, with its precarious sky-palaces and twisting towers, all interconnected by sinuous death-defying bridges perilously high in the air, would be consumed. The city spread as far as the eye could see, reaching for the clouds, for the sun and the stars above them, always reaching, always ambitious, striving, yearning for more, for better, spreading toward the Summer Sea. Great monuments of twisted black stone – of obsidian – pierced the air, forged by magic and by dragonfire into the monstrous form of dragons, a great avenue of them guarding the banks of the greatest of the rivers of molten fire, great tiered gardens descending to reach the rich, fertile black earth either side of the river, each tier of the gardens overflowing with giant trees, staggering lush greenery and flowers of unimaginable beauty. Sinuous bridges of twisted obsidian spread out as dainty as Sansa's embroidery, connecting either side of the river, and halfway between were more balconies, urns of greenery and flowers, slaves waiting with downturned gazes and trays laden with refreshments, barely flinching as dragons swooped past. Tangles of tiny hatchlings screeched and cooed and snapped their jaws at each other as they flapped their delicate wings in sheltered hatcheries close to the lava-river, while great monsters soared idly high above the city, casting enormous shadows bathing them in eerie light refracted through colourful wings.
Her breath caught as a slender silver dragon banked and weaved through spindly towers, its movements liquid, elegant, and came to settle at the edge of a balcony, poised and patient, perfectly balanced, while its rider descended, taking a drink of chilled liqueur from a collared slave without a glance of acknowledgement. The dragon seemed to tumble backwards for a heartbeat before its great wings snapped open and expertly caught a breeze, rising swiftly, flapping its tremendous wings once before shooting higher, toward the billowing clouds gilded by a dying sun. The slave melted away, unnoticed, and the Valyrians continued their merrymaking.
This was Valyria in its golden hour. The scent of spices and perfume on the air, their lyrical voices raised in song, their buildings staggering in their beauty and architecture, their gardens mesmerising – to Larra, who had always been fond of flowers and growing things – self-assured in their strength, their power untested. It was magnificent.
It was flawed, too, but its splendour was undeniable.
High in the air dwelled the Valyrians, where they schemed and lusted, and a cluster of Valyrian children laughed and played and ran after a tangle of hatchlings, their eyes bright with delight as the tiny dragons gleamed in the dying sunlight, their vivid scales burning bright, streaking past as the children laid bets on which hatchling would win the race. Soaring past them, bold adolescents did acrobatic tricks on the backs of their dragons, showing off, waving at their friends as they passed, an exquisite beauty with cinnamon skin and pearls and golden chains woven through her shining silver-gold curls walking from the wing of one dragon across a second one's as if she was strolling to her bed, her hips rolling sensuously, at least a hundred feet in the air, to climb into the lap of a lover.
This was the Valyria that Valyrians would have wanted the world to remember.
Down below, where the earth was black and fertile yet hot to the touch in places and pockets of vapour burst and burned alive those unfortunate enough to be near, collared slaves laboured in their thousands, ensuring the ease of the lives enjoyed by those far above.
In between – between the scalding earth and the precarious sky-gardens – were manses, guildhalls and palaces and covered markets, workshops, ateliers, theatres and religious sites, pillowhouses and schools, galleries and wine-sinks, each of them built solidly of melted obsidian twisted by magic and dragonfire with rows of high, arched windows open to the city's great airways and great covered bridges teeming with life, with shops and gardens, with slave-markets and stables and inns. Greenery thrived here, though fewer flowers gave their colour; the high arches were draped with sheer curtains to ward off whatever sunlight not snatched away by the balconies high above, great orbs of coloured glass lit as the sun dipped, casting beautiful soft light across tiled mosaic floors. Dragonlords cavorting high above, slaves labouring far below, and between them, those Valyrians who were freeborn and yet worked for their living.
Larra ached to wander to a theatre, a terraced building raised specifically around a large stage just for the purpose of plays or musical concerts. Audiences rocked, clutching their bellies, laughing raucously, or wept and sniffled and wiped their eyes on delicate scraps of lace, music drifting coaxingly on a breeze that tasted of sulphur, salt and jasmine flowers, and she yearned to stand among the groundlings, treating herself to a pomegranate or some chilled honey-wine as she watched the actors. As Larra watched two lovers casually strolling through a garden groaning with flowers, Bran's voice sounded softly, sorrowfully beside her:
"They held each other close, and turned their backs upon the end,
The hills that split asunder, and the black that ate the skies,
The flames that shot so high and hot that even dragons burned,
Would never be the final sights that fell upon their eyes.
The waves the sea-wind whipped and churned,
The city of a thousand years, and all that men had learned,
The Doom consumed them all alike, and neither of them turned."
She let out a shuddering breath and broke her gaze, glancing at Brandon. It was all ash, now. Ash and memory. Sorrow gripped her: Bran smiled sadly. The knot loosened. She could feel sorrow for the Doom and all those who perished but they had been gone for centuries. And with them, the best of their culture. The worst of it lingered in places where the Empire had once spread its wings – Slavers' Bay, in the Old Blood of Volantis, Lys the Lovely. Everywhere dragon wings once cast a shadow upon the earth, slavery still held its grip.
They were not here for the worst that Valyrians had given the world: They were trying to rejuvenate the best of its artistry. Valyrian steel. Nothing in the world compared to its strength and endurance, its sharpness and beauty. As a stern, sensible Northerner Larra despised the ornamentation of weaponry and armour, taking something harrowing and hiding the horror behind false beauty, spectacle and pageantry. There should be nothing appealing about brutality. Yet the South made an art of it. She scorned tourneys and always had; violence should be relegated to the battlefield, if it had to be endured at all. She acknowledged that without chaos there would never be any progress made, no change, no way to better what had been done before.
She refused to celebrate bloodshed.
"Are you alright?" Gendry asked, and Larra glanced at him. He was wide-eyed but otherwise seemingly unaffected by a stroll through the past in Bran's head.
"I was just thinking, that is all."
"About what?" Gendry asked gently, reaching out to take her hand.
"When the Doom struck, we lost the best of the Valyrians but retained the worst," she said, sighing softly. "Slavery lingers but artistry is lost. Instead of seeking philosophers and artists, we search for a weaponsmith." She clicked her tongue, slightly ashamed. Everything Bran now had to offer, and she sought knowledge to forge weapons.
"I'm sure the weaponsmith we seek would claim they're as much an artist as anyone," Gendry said, giving her a gentle smile full of understanding.
"We don't seek knowledge of how to forge Valyrian steel for the sake of brutality," Bran said gently. His eyes were dark and lustrous in the dying sun as he gazed at her with a strange, heartbroken longing. "You've always sought to better protect those who cannot defend themselves."
Her throat tightened at the look on her little brother's face and nodded sharply, wiping her eyes, and said, "I do not love the sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only what they defend."
"What's that from?" Gendry asked, and she smiled sadly.
"I Túrin i Cormaron," she sighed.
"Words to live by," Gendry muttered, and she nodded.
"Too few people have ever heard them," she said sadly, gazing around them. The wisdom of the Valyrian philosophers was lost. Everything, from their textiles to their jewels and playwrights, dragon-trainers and artists, sculptors and mages, musicians and architects, was lost.
When Bran steered them to an armourer's workshop, Gendry sighed with envy, his eyes widening as he gazed around. His gaze was drawn to the weapons neatly arranged on the walls of the wide, airy chamber, every one of them immaculate and glimmering like liquid smoke, thousands upon thousands of tiny folds exquisitely hammered until the metal shimmered like silk, sharpened to a lethal edge. His eyes drank in the sight of hundreds – perhaps thousands – of Valyrian steel blades, each of them utterly unique, from the length or curve of the blade to the decoration of the hilt and pommel, some set with precious stones, others worked with manipulated obsidian, yet more with gilded steel.
Larra's gaze was snared by the armourer himself. She was taken by how similar he was to Gendry – his shoulders were broad, his arms enormously muscled, yet his skin was a deep burnished bronze, glistening in the firelight, his muscles rippling as he laboured. He wore metal rings around his biceps, a mark of status she had noticed flaunted by some of the adolescent dragon-riders – or perhaps they were the fashion. Unlike Gendry's dark riotous curls, his platinum-silver hair was shorn close to his scalp, shimmering in the firelight, and his eyes were a deep, fiery violet. What made them utterly similar, Larra realised, was the determination in his face, the fiery passion in his eyes, softened only by the lingering smile that seemed utterly unconscious as the armourer hammered and created things of beauty designed to end life. It was the same look of fierce determination, pride and enjoyment that consumed Gendry when he was working. They both adored their craft, were excited by it and proud of their skill.
"He is one of the best Valyrian armourers?" Larra prompted, glancing at Bran.
"If not the best," Bran said, watching the man with an enthusiastic gleam in his eye. "Just watch…"
They watched. Sometimes, though, Larra's gaze drifted to Gendry, a small smile on her lips as she noticed him edging closer and closer, eager to watch, and several times she saw him, about to ask the man a question, only to catch himself. His shoulders would droop a little then, but he kept watching. Kept absorbing everything he could learn from watching, the same way Gendry had learned all his life. Watching, and having a go himself. The armourer, burnished bronze and glimmering like quicksilver, was an artist, they learned, his skills exquisitely honed, and they watched him working on as many as a dozen different projects at once, switching between different weapons.
Larra stepped closer, mesmerised, as he began a new project – Gendry murmured the process to her as he watched, fascinated, his eyes never leaving the armourer, whose movements were so fluid, so sure, that he looked like he was engaged in a dance. The very first step in creating Valyrian steel, and the armourer…started to sing.
It was not a song of the earth, as Larra had learned from the Children, but even she could feel its power, the way her heart tripped and her breath came shallow in her lungs. Valyrians were infamous for their blood magic rituals, but it wasn't all dark. Magic, as with everything, was in perfect balance in the world. Where there was dark, there was also light. Where there was destruction, there was also rebirth and creation. She had heard rumours that Valyrian steel was imbued with magic – that the ancient armourers had imbued every fold of the steel with magic. The spell woven by the armourer was beautiful, sombre, powerful and majestic and made her shiver as she listened. His voice is not as fine as Rhaegar's by far, she found herself thinking, startling herself.
"How long will it take him to forge that sword?" Larra asked quietly, glancing at her brother: Gendry was consumed by the armourer.
"He will forge and fold the steel thousands of times before he is content – you remember the ripples along Ice's blade?" Bran asked, and Larra nodded. "Chicken-scratches compared to the lacework this master creates with his folds. He is the image of the splendour of Valyrian artistry…before the breaking of their world." Bran's eyes lingered on Gendry's broad back, then mused, "Gendry has it in him to surpass him."
Larra gazed at Bran, who turned his gaze from Gendry to Larra. There was deep understanding there, a soft warmth radiating from his smile. He took Larra's hand tenderly in his own – she was startled by how large it was, how long and clever his fingers were – and again almost jumped when he leaned in, taller than she was, and tenderly kissed her brow. In her ear, he murmured, "You have both chosen well." Larra glanced at Bran, and he gave her a soft smile, his eyes warm and encouraging. He squeezed her hand and turned to watch Gendry.
They watched for months, or what felt like it. The sun rose and set over Valyria and the armourer continued his work. They watched a lump of molten ore become something wondrous – and familiar.
Bran smiled richly as Larra's breath caught in her throat and she stepped forward, watching the master armourer carefully set a fat ruby engraved with a three-headed dragon into the cross-guard of a familiar longsword. A woman had provided the ruby, straight-backed and proud, with high cheekbones and shining silver-blonde hair with one large streak of gold at the front that she drew back from her face with leather ties, and violet eyes full of fire: she had arrived on the back of a sleek silver dragon glimmering with palest lilac, and when she returned to claim her longsword, her beautiful haughty face split into a breathless smile of wonder. She sparred with the armourer, testing the weight of the blade in her hand. Larra knew the feel of it intimately. She knew how Dark Sister moved, how perfectly balanced blade and hilt were, how sharp the blade was to this day.
"Who is she?" Larra asked softly, watching the absolute certainty with which the woman moved, her elegance and lethal precision mesmerising.
Bran laughed softly to himself, his eyes twinkling. "She is Aella Targaryen."
Larra choked on a scoff, laughing. "Aella?"
"Yes," Bran smiled, his eyes twinkling. "She is a force of nature. It is through Aella that dragons came to House Targaryen."
Larra stared at the woman. Her ancestress. First wielder of Dark Sister. She remembered all her dreams of Targaryens yet never had she dreamt of this woman, with her sun-streaked silver hair and fierce violet eyes, her lean body, quick feet and impish smile as she tempted and teased the armourer.
"How old is Larra's sword?" Gendry asked, tearing his eyes away from the sparring match.
Bran smiled again. "Oh, just over a thousand years."
Larra's jaw dropped.
"Has it ever been sharpened?" Gendry asked Bran, who smiled and shook his head.
"Not since she was first forged," he said. "The last man to work on her was Aeris the Armourer… And that is why we have been watching him. His craftsmanship has witnessed empires rise and fall. That is true immortality."
For a moment, Gendry looked daunted. Then his eyes seemed to burn, his hands clenching, and those sapphire eyes burned with purpose, with excitement. They had watched Aeris the Armourer for what seemed like months, perhaps years, and his labour had birthed a sword that was as perfect now, wielded by Larra, as it had been a millennium ago when Aella Targaryen first claimed her.
It was strange that Aella Targaryen had first wielded Dark Sister, and after centuries, the blade that had been thought lost had found its way to another Aella Targaryen. Larra appreciated the tragic beauty of it.
Gendry turned to Bran, his eyes gleaming. He grinned breathlessly at Larra.
"When can we get started?" he asked.
Bran chuckled softly, and the dream melted away.
Larra sighed, blinking slowly, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, startled to find herself in a stone chamber, the scent of snow and herbs in the air as a fire crackled in the hearth, meagre silver light beaming half-heartedly through diamond-paned windows. The scents and sounds of Valyria were a long way off. Gendry sighed softly and relaxed on Bran's other side; he blinked around the chamber, looking bemused. He frowned at the model of Winterfell before them, the fire in the hearth, Bran in his wheeled chair, tucked up in his furs. Bran smiled serenely back at him. Larra remembered what Bran had said, "You have both chosen well." He knew, then. So did Sansa, though she had tact enough not to say anything. Yet. Larra was waiting for it; she wondered how many she'd offended by bedding the blacksmith.
She didn't care. He has it in him to surpass him, Bran had said of Gendry's skill.
Gendry worked harder than anyone she knew – he worked almost as hard as she did, and that said a lot. He was impassioned by his craft, considered it an art-form, was dedicated, ambitious yet paid close attention to the details, took care of every aspect of his artistry. He possessed enormous strength yet was incredibly gentle with everyone he met, especially children and the vulnerable. He was shrewd and curious and cautious and eager to learn, to improve himself. And he understood her.
"Larra," Bran said softly, smiling at her. She blinked and turned her gaze on him. "Please pass me some paper. I shall write down the spell Aeris the Armourer used…it is High Valyrian. You must teach it to Gendry exactly. And I shall write down instruction for when the spell must be sung in conjunction with the steps in the forging process. This is important."
Gendry's eyes glowed with excitement and he grinned, watching Bran carefully as he picked up the pencil and began to write. Gendry's lips moved as he carefully decoded the words letter by letter, frowning at the unfamiliar blending of sounds. Larra gently tutored him in the pronunciation of the High Valyrian words and Bran offered inside into their translation and the specificity of the spell.
Hours later, sprawled in bed, Gendry's head against her breast as he traced lazy swirls on her belly, she sighed and picked the scroll up from her bedside cabinet, the firelight illuminating Bran's unfamiliar elegant handwriting, and read the spell once more. She stroked his curls and smiled when he lifted his head, his eyes alight with excitement.
"How long until I shall be able to start?" he asked, for she was ultimately in charge of the forges. Aislin organised the men for her, but she did Larra's bidding. Any alterations to their orders came from Larra. Gendry worked to her orders. She bit the inside of her cheek, thinking. They had engineers and blacksmiths enough to be getting on with the siege weapons and bonding obsidian to steel weapons. But they hadn't the time to waste when it came to forging fresh Valyrian steel. And one Valyrian steel blade was still one more than they had access to now.
"Tomorrow," she said softly, and Gendry grinned. He curled an arm around her waist, and she laughed, the scroll tumbling to the flagstones, as he flipped to his back, pulling her into his lap. She moaned at the feel of his erection already prodding her thigh and shifted her hips. They both cried out as he thrust his hips, entering her in one fierce thrust the way she adored. She gripped his shoulders and laughed softly as he kissed her neck, her collarbones, kneading her breasts and sucking her nipples as she writhed in his lap, slowly sliding her hips back and forth, taking the length of him, building speed, and he met each glide of her hips with a thrust of his own, until there was nothing but their tangled tongues, the soft slap of her thighs against his skin, her whimpers and his deep groans as she rode him, her breasts swaying, heavy and aching, and he reached up to cup and knead them, flicking and pinching her nipples until she pulled his hair, making him chuckle as he sucked on her neck, his other hand free to delve between them and stroke her. She came in a wet rush, gripping him with agonising tightness, and he grasped her hips, thrusting his to meet her as she writhed and whimpered over him, shoving his length deeper as she cried out and whimpered, biting her lip, her head thrown back, the curling end of her braid tickling his thighs as she threw her head back and moaned, her entire body going boneless. He thrust deep inside her once, twice more and leaned in to lick and suck her breast before spilling inside her, pleasure shuddering through his body.
Each time they were together, he lasted longer. They teased and petted each other until they orgasmed – that was the word for the pleasure ripping through his body under her fingers, her tongue, when her body writhed around him and her heat overwhelmed him. Each time they were together, they were bolder, more comfortable, more intimate with each other. More demanding – and more worshipful of each other. Every night – and every morning – they lavished pleasure upon each other, aching to bring each other to ecstasy and desperate to be filled and enflamed. He was learning what she liked, and what she needed; she was doing the same but she was far more intricate, far more intriguing, and he adored every moment he got to spend exploring her.
As she had promised, the next morning Gendry did not smelt obsidian. Donal Noye took point over construction of the obsidian scorpion. And Gendry's hands shook with the magnitude of what he was about to undertake. To be the first to temper Valyrian steel since the Doom…
Then pride at his skill, and ambition – the desire to push himself, to be a worthy successor to Aeris the Armourer – filled him, stoked a fire in his belly, and he stretched his muscles and set to work.
The problem with masters was, of course, that they made everything look easy. Gendry's gift, however, was his ability to observe, to watch and assess. He had learned all he knew by watching the best armourer in Westeros. He had spent what felt like months, possibly years, watching Aeris the Armourer – yet it had only been a few hours in reality – and his memory was sharp. Better than his memory, though, were Lord Brandon's detailed instructions. Larra had taken to singing Aeris' song, humming the tune to herself as she worked at the table in her chamber, writing her letters or updating logs or working on the next chapter of her book. Every opportunity he had, Gendry would unsheathe Dark Sister and examine her. The intricate lacework of the thousands of tiny folds of the steel rippled and shimmered like liquid smoke, dancing and shivering and swirling in the firelight. To think they had witnessed Dark Sister being forged! All knew Dark Sister was a Targaryen sword, but to see its original wielder serenely descend from the silvered-lilac wing of a dragon to claim her was a thing Gendry knew he would never, in all his life, forget. Aeris' song would remain locked in his mind forever.
Larra had once told him he appreciated a thing not just for its beauty but for the work that went into it. And it was true; he was filled with a burning desire to work, to witness each fold appear in the steel as he worked lost magic into it. But, at the end of a day, when he had made little visible progress, it did hearten him to take Dark Sister and see the potential, to know this was what he was working for. One day, he may forge a longsword such as Dark Sister; for now, and in agreement with Larra, he was testing his skills on a hunting knife. Better to start small and discover how he worked with Valyrian steel. He could watch and mimic, but ultimately he was not Aeris the Armourer: Gendry's skill and technique was his own. He could adopt techniques but had to adapt what he was learning to his own skills and experience.
"The wiser course is the hunting-knife," he sighed, almost grumbling, as he curled around Larra, aching and sore from a long day in the forge, where very little progress had been made, yet sate from Larra's urgent lovemaking. She had missed him all day, she'd told him, as she tore his clothes from him.
"Even a Valyrian steel hunting knife is the first of its kind to be forged in nearly half a millennium," Larra sighed gently. "And one Valyrian steel hunting knife is one more blade than we have now." She stroked her fingers across his chest, burrowing deeper into his arms. He had noticed she did that more and more now; tucked herself close to him, almost draped over him in sleep, as if she was more comfortable draped over his hardness than she was the feather mattress, as if she was used to it. He knew better than to ask, yet, whom she had become accustomed to sleeping against.
"Still…a longsword looks more impressive."
A.N.: Valyria transformed as I was trying to describe it. Lava rivers, floating gardens, palaces in the sky, hatchling-racing and mid-air acrobatics? I imagine it as a mixture of Qarth, tropical islands like Fiji and Hawaii, Ancient Egypt and Greece, with hints of the Renaissance in terms of art, philosophy and medicine, and a hint of Shakespeare, but I'll get to him later.