"Alright," Garon said calmly. "But I advise you not to insist."
Facing Robert Baratheon's impatient gaze, Garon nodded. He untied the Maiden of Justice from his back, placed it on the long table, and slowly drew it from its sheath.
Shing—
A clear, ringing note echoed through the hall.
The moment the blade was revealed, Robert and Eddard Stark froze.
A breathtaking radiance filled their vision.
The sword emitted a faint green-blue glow, fluid like water yet sharp like flame. Along the edge ran a thin line of warm orange light, like the first rays of dawn cutting through the horizon.
The metal guard and ivory-white hilt were elegant and restrained, noble without excess.
Robert's mouth fell open.
Eddard held his breath.
Both of them stared at the Maiden of Justice, unwilling to look away, as if they were witnessing the most beautiful sight they had ever seen.
Robert swallowed hard.
He had heard countless rumors about the holy sword Garon had discovered, yet seeing it with his own eyes left him utterly shaken.
In an age where magic had long faded into legend, this blade felt like undeniable proof that miracles still existed.
For the first time, Robert even questioned whether the Seven Gods—whom he rarely revered—might truly be real.
"Garon… can I try it?" Robert asked, his voice rough with excitement.
For any man, the Maiden of Justice was the ultimate temptation.
Even Eddard, usually reserved and stern, could not hide the spark of eagerness in his eyes.
Garon shook his head with a faint smile.
"I really advise you not to be stubborn."
He left the sword resting on the table and offered no physical resistance—only a verbal warning.
Robert and Eddard leaned closer, examining every inch of the blade. The longer they looked, the more unbearable the envy became.
Seven hells… it's too beautiful.
Robert suddenly felt that the fine steel sword Jon Arryn had commissioned for him last year was no longer worth mentioning.
Eddard likewise felt that Ice, the greatsword his father treasured, seemed inferior by comparison.
But Robert was Robert.
Unable to restrain himself, he reached out and grasped the hilt.
The moment his fingers touched it, he recoiled with a sharp gasp.
A hiss escaped his lips.
Burn marks appeared across his fingertips, red and raw, as though he had touched a branding iron.
Fortunately, he withdrew quickly. The injury was not serious.
Garon shook his head.
Some lessons could not be taught with words.
Robert scratched his head awkwardly.
"I really heard that no one else could touch your sword… but I still wanted to try."
Eddard glanced at the blade again, his fingers itching, but after seeing Robert's hand—and noticing Lord Selwyn watching—he restrained himself.
"Garon," Robert asked incredulously, "did you really find this by chance? Is this truly the holy sword bestowed by the Maiden upon Morning Light Garon?"
"I found it by coincidence," Garon replied with a shrug. "Whether it was given by the Seven Gods or not… who knows? It's sharp. That's enough for me."
Robert clicked his tongue.
Damn it… I'm jealous.
"This doesn't look like Valyrian steel," Eddard observed.
Garon nodded.
Valyrian steel had distinctive traits—dark gray or near-black metal with rippling patterns across the blade.
The Maiden of Justice was entirely different. Its glow alone set it far above Valyrian steel, as if it belonged to an entirely higher tier of craftsmanship.
"Ser Goodwin says it's sharper than Arthur Dayne's Dawn," Garon added casually.
Silence fell instantly.
Robert and Eddard exchanged stunned glances.
Neither of them even owned a Valyrian steel sword.
House Baratheon had risen too late to inherit one, and Ice would one day pass to Brandon Stark, not Eddard.
They were fourteen and fifteen—an age where boys burned for legendary weapons.
And Garon's sword stabbed straight into their hearts.
"How sharp is it?" Robert asked at last.
"It can cut through plate armor," Garon said evenly.
"What?"
Both of them stared at him.
"Are you serious?" Robert demanded.
Garon only smiled.
Two years ago, when his strength was just over three, he had already been close. Now, with his strength nearing nine, a full-powered strike could cleave armor with ease.
"If you don't believe me," he said, "I'll show you after lunch."
Robert's eyes lit up immediately.
"That's perfect!"
Lunch was soon served, lavish and abundant—roasted boar glazed with honey, venison with blackberry sauce, stewed mushrooms, stuffed pigeon, cheese and honeycomb, and wines from across Westeros and Essos.
As the wine flowed, Robert stood and raised his cup.
"Lord Selwyn," he said cheerfully, "my father instructed me to invite you to Storm's End tomorrow to celebrate my brother Renly's nameday. If you don't come, he'll blame me."
Lord Selwyn laughed and accepted.
After the meal, Robert and Eddard rested briefly before eagerly seeking Garon again.
True to his word, Garon led them to the godswood.
With a casual swing, the Maiden of Justice flashed.
A dead tree split cleanly in two.
Robert and Eddard stared in disbelief.
Then Garon approached a wooden training post bound in old plate armor.
With a single diagonal slash—
Clang!
The armor shattered.
The post split apart.
Both boys sucked in sharp breaths.
"Seven Gods…" Robert muttered. "Is this really a holy sword?"
Even Eddard's faith wavered.
Garon examined the result with satisfaction.
With strength like this now… what would happen when he grew stronger still?
Finally, Robert clapped him on the shoulder.
"Garon, you'll become the next Sword of the Dawn."
Garon smiled modestly.
"I still have much to learn."
Robert grinned mischievously.
"Then how about a spar? Wooden swords."
Garon nodded without hesitation.
"Sure. I could use the practice."
Eddard sighed and volunteered to referee.
The wooden swords were drawn.
Garon took his stance, eyes sharp.
This time, he would truly measure himself against the future giants of Westeros.