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A few days passed after receiving the news, and the Small Council chamber felt heavier than usual, thick with the scent of parchment, candle wax, and barely contained rage.
Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, sat at the head of the long table, his massive frame hunched forward like a bull ready to charge.
His face was flushed a dangerous shade of red, knuckles white around the stem of his wine cup. The news from Lannisport had reached them like a slap across the face, and every word about the kraken only made the sting worse.
"A fucking kraken," he growled, slamming his cup down hard enough to crack the wood. "Those squid-sucking fuckers somehow drag a sea monster out of nowhere and use it to smash Tywin's fleet like it was made of kindling. Ships that took years and mountains of gold to build, gone. How in the seven hells do we fight a creature that treats war galleys like toys?!"
The council members shifted uncomfortably. Jon Arryn looked grave, Pycelle muttered something about ancient texts, and Littlefinger wore his usual slippery smile. Only Varys remained eerily calm, his soft hands folded neatly in his lap.
Robert's bloodshot eyes locked onto the Master of Whisperers.
"Varys, you supposedly hear everything. Tell me how the Ironborn pulled a gods-damned kraken out of their asses!"
Varys inclined his head, answering the king as best as he could.
"There are many rumors, Your Grace. The most persistent, and the one gaining the most popularity among the smallfolk, is that the Ironborn sacrificed hundreds of peasants and thralls to the Drowned God." The Master of Whispers informed grimly, plummeting the already dark mood. "Mass drownings, blood offerings thrown into the sea, they believe the Drowned God answered their prayers and sent the beast to aid Balon's rebellion."
Robert's face twisted in fury at hearing this.
"Sacrificing smallfolk like cattle? Those reeking cunts dare call that a godly favor?" He surged halfway out of his chair, veins bulging in his neck. "I'll drown every last one of those cunts myself wh—!"
Before he could fully erupt, Varys raised a delicate hand and quickly spoke before Robert could turn his ire to him.
"If I may, Your Grace, perhaps there is another path. Your son, the blessed prince, has already been touched by the gods once. He was returned from death by the Seven themselves. If the Ironborn can call upon their Drowned God with blood and sacrifice. Why not have the prince ask the Seven for their favor as well? Surely the true gods of the realm would answer a child they have already marked so clearly."
Silence slammed down over the chamber like a portcullis.
Jon Arryn's eyebrows shot up while Pycelle's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, and even Littlefinger looked momentarily stunned.
Robert himself froze as the rage on his face shifted into something more thoughtful.
"I-It could work, your grace." The old maester stuttered out.
The king turned to his Hand for his opinion, causing Jon to frown.
"We do not know if the prince is capable of conversing with the Seve-" His Hand was about to say, but Varys cut him off and pressed forward.
"The prince bears the visible blessing of the Seven in his eyes. If the gods intervened once to save his life, they may well grant him, and through him, the realm, further aid against this threat."
The words hung in the air; what he said was more than reasonable. That was the dangerous part. One by one, the council members began to nod, murmuring agreement. Even Robert leaned back, rubbing his beard, clearly turning the idea over in his mind.
But before anyone could speak further, the heavy doors swung open.
Jaime Lannister stepped inside first, his white armor catching the light.
"The Prince of the Seven Kingdoms," he announced, voice carrying its usual mix of dry formality and prideful confidence.
The blessed prince walked in behind him, carrying a long object carefully wrapped in rich red cloth.
For a boy of only seven namedays, he already stood tall and broad, moving with a confidence that made the room feel smaller.
The crimson bandages covered those legendary eyes given to him by the gods.
Robert's entire demeanor changed in an instant. The storm clouds on his face broke apart as he shoved his chair back and rose with a booming laugh.
"There's my boy!" He made his way through the chamber in three long strides and clapped a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, looking him up and down with raw paternal pride. "Seven hells, you're growing like a weed! Come here, lad. I was wondering when you would join us to talk about war!"
The other council members rose and offered respectful greetings, bowing their heads. The prince nodded politely to each of them in turn, every movement regal.
Robert's gaze dropped to the wrapped bundle, his brows rising with curiosity.
"What have you brought us, son? Some new toy from the kitchens?" It wouldn't be the first time; his son loved to cook, so it only made sense
The prince's lips curved into a small, knowing smirk beneath the bandages. He gestured for Jaime to step forward and handed the wrapped sword to his uncle.
"Place it on the table, Uncle. I require you here as well."
Jaime took the bundle with a smirk of his own and laid it gently in the center of the council table.
The prince spoke clearly, his young voice carrying surprising weight.
"While the realm has been preparing for war, I have not been idle, Father. I have recently discovered that my blessing from the Seven extends further than we knew. I have also spent the past few days learning the smith's craft from the finest blacksmith in King's Landing."
A few grumbles rose immediately at this, "Unprincely," "beneath a future king", were said, but one sharp glare from Robert silenced them instantly.
The prince offered his father a grateful nod before continuing. "I made this blade with my own hands, and I have six more like it stored safely in my chambers. I believe they would be of great help in the war efforts."
That got him more than a few raised eyebrows and disbelieving looks from the men in the room. The boy spent a mere few days learning the smith's ways.
What could a sword made by a fresh smith possibly do to help in a war?
His son beckoned to his uncle, and with a flourish, Jaime pulled the red cloth away.
Gasps of awe filled the room from all except the prince.
"Gods be good!"
"Seven hells!"
"B-By the gods!"
The sword resting on the table was breathtaking in ways not even the best sword made by mortal hands could achieve.
Elegant and beautifully crafted, its steel gleamed with an almost unnatural sheen. The lines were clean and deadly, the edge so sharp it seemed to drink the light.
Jaime, the greatest swordsman in the realm, stared with open wonder as his hands twitched as if wanting to hold the beautiful blade.
Even Robert, who performed a warhammer over a sword, reached out with trembling hands and lifted the blade.
Everyone watched in stunned silence as the king held the sword in his hand, looking more regal in that moment than he had ever been before.
A surge of warmth and raw energy flooded through him. For the first time in ages, he felt young again, strong, vital, ready for battle!
"By the gods!" he breathed, voice thick with wonder. "This is magnificent. A-And you made this yourself?"
The prince smiled as he simply nodded
He then gestured for Jaime, who was staring at the king jealously, to hand over his own sword. The Kingslayer hesitated only a moment before passing it over.
His son then beckoned for him to give him back the sword, which he sadly did, feeling the power that was coursing through him disappear as soon as the sword left his hand.
"What are you going to do with two swords, my prince?" Jon asked curiously as the prince was now welded to blades.
Robert watched as his son smiled, testing the weight of the blade in his hand. The sword sang as it sliced cleanly through the air, a sharp, eager note that seemed almost alive.
"I will show you all," he said, voice steady and bright with purpose, "Why my blades will not hang idle at your side when war comes."
The prince took both blades, one in each hand, placed Jaime's sword on the table so the blade extended over the edge, and swung his own new sword down with controlled, gentle force.
The council gasped as one.
The prince's blade sheared straight through Jaime's sword as if it were made of soft cheese, the severed half clattering to the floor.
That alone would have been enough, but before the shock could even settle, the prince smirked again.
He spoke a single word in High Valyrian.
"Jelmāzma."
Lightning erupted around the sword in a sudden, violent bloom, as if the blade itself had torn open a rift to the storm-realm.
Purple arcs of lightning, thin as spider silk yet bright as fresh bruises, danced and snapped along the length of the steel.
They raced from hilt to tip in frantic, branching veins.
The smell hit next, sharp, metallic, the unmistakable tang of a thunderstorm bottled and unleashed. It was ozone and scorched air, like breathing in right after a lightning strike on wet stone, mingled with something deeper.
No smoke rose, but the scent clung to the back of the throat, electric and alive, promising violence.
And the feeling… gods, the feeling was intimate and overwhelming. The hilt vibrated in the grip with a low, thrumming growl that traveled up the arm like a second heartbeat, steady, insistent, hungry.
Every breath tasted of storm, and the chest tightened with the raw knowledge that one wrong twitch could loose the fury trapped in the steel.
The sword no longer felt like a mere weapon. It felt like a caged tempest, awake, eager, and perfectly balanced on the edge of devouring everything it touched.
What the men in the council already considered to be a powerful blade turned into something far more than just a sharp block of metal.
The prince, smirking at their jaws on the floor, swung the blade, and a bolt of lightning flew forward at unimaginable speeds and slammed into the far stone wall with a loud—
CRACK!
Leaving a blackened, smoking crack and a noticeable scorch mark on the stone wall.
Dead silence was all the Small Council was left with. Their jeers and doubts about his son are now completely and utterly gone.
The prince calmly handed the magnificent sword to Jaime, having made his point. "An apology for breaking your sword, Uncle. You may keep this one if you like."
Jaime accepted the blade with both hands, staring at it in open reverence, his usual cocky mask completely shattered.
"T-Think you, my prince. I shall cherish it with all my being."
Robert threw his head back and laughed, a deep, thunderous sound that filled the space with life and warmth.
It was the kind of laughter that came from the chest, unrestrained and utterly genuine.
When his gaze fell upon his son once more, it lingered there, heavy with pride… and something rarer, it was an awe he could not quite put into words.
The way his boy stood, humble yet unbowed, as though he had no need to prove himself to anyone, struck Robert more deeply than any victory he had ever won on the battlefield.
"Gods… he's nothing like me."
The thought came unbidden, but it did not sting the way it once might have. There was no shame in it, only a calming, quiet relief.
Robert had been forged in war, crowned in blood and fury, a king by conquest rather than by nature. He was on the throne because he had simply won the rebellion, because anyone else was better than the Mad King.
And for all his strength, for all his victories, he had never fit the crown he had won.
But his son…
His son did not need to roar to be heard. Did not need to swing a hammer to command respect.
There was something steadier in him, something, right.
Robert exhaled slowly, the remnants of his laughter fading into something softer, almost thoughtful, as he watched the boy.
"A better king than I ever was."
The realization settled in his chest with surprising ease, heavy yet welcome.
"Aye," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. "The realm might actually be in good hands when I'm finally dead."
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No way… Are his eyes deceiving him? Or was this actually happening!?
After days of working on making the best swords the realm has ever seen, was it finally happening!?
[Congratulations! You have awed the men of The Small and made the King believe you're more than worthy of the throne! Plus, making seven swords better than even Valyrian steel swords! Oh, and some snazzy armor!]
Fuck yeah! Give him his damn tickets! He more than earned at least three gold ones! At the very least!
[1x silver ticket!]
…
…
…
Oh, you fucking bitch.
He sighed, accepted the ticket all the same, it was better than nothing at least.
[Catch the Rain]
[When under rainfall, you can stand on raindrops, teleport through them, or grab them and use them as knives. Does not work on falling water but only under actual rain.]
Huh, that was actually useful, if it rained, that is… he was gonna have to work on that.