Under Aemon's generous hospitality, Gaemon and Baelon enjoyed a lavish lunch inside the castle.
After the meal, the three brothers rested briefly, then set out under Aemon's lead toward the newly built smithy on Dragonstone.
Riding through the bright afternoon sun, Gaemon followed behind Aemon as they galloped toward the valley behind Dragon Mountain.
Dragonstone wasn't just one mountain. Dragon Mountain was simply the most prominent because it was an active volcano.
In this world, volcanoes existed in more places than just Dragonstone and the Fourteen Flames of Valyria. But only these two locations still had living, active volcanoes. Their constant activity released powerful fire magic into the air—the very lifeblood that sustained dragons.
As they rode, Gaemon felt something in the air that he had never sensed anywhere else: vitality.
On Dragonstone, the ambient magic pulsed and burned, as though some force had awakened the normally sluggish, dormant energies and set them dancing.
Gaemon channeled a thread of his own magic into his eyes. Suddenly the air around him came alive with swirling crimson fire elements—jumping, twisting, beautiful and dangerous like living flames.
Nowhere else had Gaemon felt magic so vibrant. The external environment was affecting the magic within his own body, making it more active as well. He estimated that casting fire magic here would be two to three times more powerful than anywhere else.
As a sorcerer, Gaemon loved this place. But more than that, he wanted to understand why the magic behaved this way. If he could unlock the secret, it would be an immense discovery.
Still, there were more pressing matters at hand. He pushed the urge aside for now. Once Dragonsteel production was properly established, he would explore every inch of Dragonstone and uncover its secrets.
With his mind settled, Gaemon withdrew the magic from his eyes and urged his horse to catch up with the others.
Fortunately, the new smithy wasn't far from the castle. They rode quickly, and soon the group arrived at their destination.
The smithy was nestled in a valley behind Dragon Mountain. Three sides were enclosed by steep slopes, with only a single narrow pass leading in from the outside.
Though these mountains were close to Dragon Mountain, they weren't barren rock. Trees grew thick and green, the slopes covered in lush vegetation—a true forest paradise.
Aemon led them along a stream running through the valley until they reached several brick-and-timber buildings already under construction. Workers bustled about, laying foundations and raising walls. From the silver strands mixed into their hair, Gaemon knew these were native islanders—summoned by Aemon to help build the forge.
Aemon dismounted first in front of the largest completed building and waited for the others.
Gaemon and Baelon caught up quickly and swung down from their saddles.
They had barely dismounted when several men emerged from one of the buildings and hurried toward them. The moment they saw Aemon, they broke into a jog.
Aemon clearly knew them. His usually composed face broke into a warm smile as he called out, "Easy there, Master Torrell! No need to rush—we've only just arrived."
The leader of the group—a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair cropped short and a neatly trimmed beard—smiled broadly. He dropped to one knee in a respectful commoner's bow and said loudly, "Welcome, Your Grace. Torrell pays his respects."
Seeing the man kneel, Aemon quickly stepped forward and caught him by the arms, preventing him from fully lowering himself. "Master Torrell, I've told you before—there's no need for such formality every time we meet. You are a man His Grace the King values highly. You don't need to bow like this."
The man—Master Torrell—tried to complete the bow but found Aemon's grip firm as iron. After a few attempts, he gave up and rose with Aemon's help.
Still looking slightly anxious, he said, "Your Grace, you are a member of the royal family and the future heir to the Iron Throne. I am but a humble blacksmith. These courtesies are only proper. And I am no great talent the King values—I am simply fortunate that His Grace has use for my skills. It is an honor for me and my entire family."
Aemon cut him off gently but firmly. "Enough, Master. Let me introduce you."
He turned to Gaemon and Baelon. "This is Master Torrell, one of the finest blacksmiths in King's Landing. His Grace the King personally summoned him to Dragonstone to help forge Dragonsteel weapons. He was previously the royal armorer and has crafted many fine blades and suits of armor for the Crown. His work is among the best in the realm—many knights seek him out specifically for their weapons and harness."
Gaemon and Baelon looked at the unassuming man with renewed respect. No matter the craft, reaching the level of true mastery commanded admiration.
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