Master Mott's smithy stood as a bastion of dignity on the Street of Steel, its storefront far more grand than its neighbors. Yet, stepping into the rear courtyard revealed a familiar scene of labor: several apprentices and two massive, roaring furnaces.
When Caden entered, he found a lean old man with short, snowy hair working the anvil. He held a pair of tongs in one hand and a small hammer in the other, tapping a rhythmic code against a glowing iron bar. Beside him, a brawny apprentice followed the hammer's lead, delivering heavy, bone-jarring blows with a sledge. The yard echoed with a sharp, melodic clink-CLANG that sounded like a song of industry.
"Master, the knight I spoke of is here," the young clerk said, leading the way.
The old smith turned, casting a sharp, appraising glance at Caden. He set down his tools and gave his apprentice a few brief instructions. Wiping his hands on a damp cloth, he gestured toward a modest solar.
The room was spartan, containing only a low table and a few wooden chairs, but the walls were a museum of weaponry. In one corner stood a suit of full plate in the ornate style of the Reach, its steel gleaming like silver.
Once Caden was settled, a junior apprentice brought out a jeweled copper kettle and poured cups of strong black tea. Master Mott took a slow sip, his blue eyes finally settling on Caden.
"Valyrian steel," Mott began, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Born of the Freehold, when dragon-lords soared over the fires of the Doom. Since the day of its forging, it has been the dream of every high-born man to wear it at his hip. But the secrets died with the dragons. Today, only a few thousand blades remain, and most are in the hands of Essosi sellsword captains. In all the Seven Kingdoms, the Great Lords hold barely two hundred pieces."
He looked at Caden, his gaze devoid of expectation. "Over the years, many fools have brought me forged trinkets, seeking an appraisal. In all my time, only one true blade has crossed my anvil recently: Lord Eddard's Ice, which Lord Tywin brought to me for reworking. Every other piece has been a cheap imitation. I hope you aren't here to waste my breath, lad."
Caden felt a prickle of nerves. He knew Wildflower was "false"—it was a two-day creation of Aldric and Gendry. If Mott could spot a fraud at a glance, Caden's mission was over. He considered leaving, but then he realized: feedback on the "fraud" was exactly what Aldric needed to perfect the craft.
"I don't know if it's an original," Caden said, drawing the blade. "I haven't the luck to have seen many Valyrian blades. This one is called Wildflower. It was a trophy taken from a man I bested in the Riverlands. I'd have you look at it. If it's true, well enough. If not... I've heard Lord Tywin is offering a castle for the real thing?"
Mott took the scabbard, his hands steady. "He was. But he has no need now. He gave me Ice to melt into two—"
The Master's voice died in his throat. He had gripped the hilt and pulled the blade free. He felt the weight, traced the thickness, and frowned.
"It truly is... Valyrian? No. The weight is right, but the soul of it... it feels a fraction different from the ancient lineage."
"Perhaps because a different hand forged it?" Caden offered.
Mott shook his head. "You don't understand, Ser... what do I call you?"
"Caden Storm. I've no house name yet."
"Ser Caden, then. Valyrian steel doesn't vary by the smith's hand. Its nature is dictated by the magic woven into the folds during the heat of the forge. This blade... it has the mark of magic, but the flavor is different. Like—" Mott struggled for the words.
"Like wheat-ale versus honey-mead?" Caden suggested.
"Exactly! Both get you drunk, both taste of the earth, but the tongue knows the difference. If I hadn't studied in Qohor for a decade, I might not have caught the nuance."
Mott laid the sword across his lap. "Ser Caden, have you had the fittings replaced? This hilt and crossguard... they are far too clean for an ancient treasure."
"Maybe the man I took it from spent his coin on a new dress for his steel," Caden lied.
"Ser Caden, may I disassemble the hilt? I will be careful. If I mar it, I'll replace the fittings with gold and rubies from my own purse."
"Go ahead," Caden said. He was genuinely curious now.
Under Mott's expert hands, the sword was stripped bare. As he laid the pommel and grip aside, he scoffed. "The materials are common, the design is amateur. It is a peasant's dress on a queen's body. The blade is a miracle; the hilt is rot."
Caden winced with embarrassment. He remembered the rush at the monastery. Master Barlin had assigned an apprentice to fit the blade, and the boy had confused Gendry's spare practice fittings with the "Light-Forged" intended for sale. Caden hadn't noticed the mix-up until he was leagues away.
Mott ignored him, wrapping the naked blade in a cloth and inspecting the steel from tip to tang. His face grew more solemn by the second. Finally, he set it down, his hand trembling as he wiped sweat from his brow.
"Ser Caden... give me the truth. Was this truly a trophy?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Because this blade is new," Mott whispered. "It has the breath of the quench still on it. It hasn't seen three hundred years of oil and blood. In all the Seven Kingdoms, I am the only man who knows how to even rework this metal. Unless I forged this in a fever-dream, someone has discovered the secret of the ancestors. Someone is making Valyrian steel now."
The shock was too much for the old man. He clutched his chest and slumped. His clerk, Jack, rushed in with a ceramic vial, pouring a liquid down his master's throat.
"Master Mott, rest," Caden said, worried the old man might die before he could make the sale. "I'll return tomorrow."
Mott waved him off weakly, gesturing for Jack to bring lunch for the guests. He was led away to rest, leaving Caden and Jasmine to a meal of honeyed rolls and dark ale—the finest food Caden had ever tasted.
After the meal, Caden wandered back into the forge. He watched the apprentices working with a professional eye. Mott's shop was a masterpiece of organization, far beyond Barlin's rural workshop.
When Mott returned an hour later, his color had improved. He found Caden helping an apprentice hammer a bar of common iron.
"Ser Caden?" Mott called out. "You have the hands of a worker."
"Just playing," Caden said, setting the hammer down. They returned to the solar.
"Let us be blunt," Mott said. "The man you took this from... is he alive? What was his name?"
"What does it matter?"
"I must know who forged it. I spent ten years in Qohor chasing the secret of Valyrian steel and came away with only half-truths. I have a shop, I have wealth, I have a name... but I have no work of my own that will outlast my grandchildren. To know the secret of the dragons... I would pay any price."
"How much is 'any price'?" Caden asked.
"High. Very high."
Caden leaned back. "The man was a landed knight of the Trident. I took his sword and his horse, and released him for a ransom of a hundred and fifty dragons. If you trust me, I can seek him out and ask the name of his smith when I return to the Riverlands."
Mott's eyes narrowed. "I don't lack trust, Ser, but the world is full of accidents. I won't let this chance slip. You are here to sell the blade, yes?"
Caden nodded.
"I cannot buy it," Mott admitted. "I haven't the gold to own a king's treasure, nor the rank to hold it safely. But I can find a buyer who will pay what it is worth. I will take thirty percent as a broker's fee. In exchange, you must take me to the Riverlands. I must speak with this lord. If I find the information I seek, I will pay you fifty gold dragons for your trouble."
He saw Caden's eyes twitch and assumed the knight wanted more. "And a full suit of armor in the Reach style. My best work."
Caden struggled to keep his face still. I came to sell a sword and I'm leaving with the greatest smith in the capital as a prisoner of the Order? Aldric will either make me a general or hang me for the trouble.
He extended his hand, his voice forced and heavy. "By the heavens... you have a deal."
Mott's grin was wider than Caden's. "A deal!"
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