"Lightbringer is a two-handed greatsword, while my Longclaw is a bastard sword," Mormont said.
"A bastard sword?" Daenerys was taken aback.
Mormont glanced around the ship, unable to find an example. He drew his sword with a *shing*, its length about 1.5 meters from tip to pommel, and explained, "This sword can be wielded with one hand, but gripping it with two hands allows for more powerful strikes. That's why it's classified as a two-handed sword."
Given Mormont's height of nearly two meters, the sword looked quite manageable in his hands.
"Besides two-handed swords, there are also one-handed swords, which are about a quarter to a third shorter. Bastard swords, like this one, fall between the two—they're often called hand-and-a-half swords. We also call them 'bastard swords.'"
"Hahaha! A bastard sword is the offspring of a two-handed and a one-handed sword!" the burly man Boros roared with laughter. "What a fitting name!"
Mormont glanced at him indifferently. "Whether in Westeros or Essos, bastard swords are the most common. One-handed swords lack cutting power, and most people can't wield two-handed swords effectively, let alone use them in combat."
Turning to Daenerys, he explained, "So, you understand? Lightbringer is so valuable because it's heavier than Longclaw and requires more Valyrian steel.
If Ned Stark had sold his ancestral sword, Ice, to Tywin, he probably could have gotten three million gold dragons. Ice stood taller than most knights, a full 1.85 meters.
1.85 meters—the tall, rich, and handsome of Valyrian steel swords!
*What a waste that this handsome hunk ended up cheapening himself for the Lannisters, not even getting one gold dragon,* Daenerys thought bitterly.
But as Mormont said, most people couldn't wield a greatsword. Tywin had melted Ice down to forge Widow's Wail and Oathkeeper—two bastard swords?
*Hmm, Ned Stark brought his ancestral sword to King's Landing, was beheaded, and the sword fell into Tywin's hands.*
Mormont, unaware of her thoughts, continued, "I'm not sure of the market price for Valyrian steel swords. The Lannisters have money, and the world of the rich is different from ours. It's safe to say that when the Mormont ancestors acquired Longclaw 500 years ago, they certainly didn't pay 850,000 gold dragons."
"How much did the Starks pay for Ice?" she asked.
"I don't know," Mormont shook his head. "Perhaps like me, the Starks have long forgotten the true cost of acquiring their ancestral sword."
At this point, Whitebeard interjected, "Your Highness, the classification of greatswords, hand-and-a-half swords, and single-handed swords isn't solely determined by length; the key lies in the balance point of the hilt.
Take the greatsword *Dawn*, for instance. For most, it's a two-handed sword. But Arthur Dayne, with his towering stature and formidable strength, could easily wield it with one hand.
By adjusting the weight of the pommel's ornamentation, Ser Jorah transformed it into a one-handed sword. Yet after his death, the knights of House Dayne reverted it back to a two-handed sword."
Mormont glanced at the old man with a mixture of surprise and respect, nodding. "The old man's right. Every sword should feel like an extension of its wielder's arm. True knights rarely buy ready-made weapons from blacksmiths; they usually have them custom-made after measuring their arm span and strength."
"Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning!" Daenerys exclaimed. "Viserys claimed he was the greatest swordsman in the world, with only Prince Rhaegar able to rival him."
Whitebeard's face grew wistful as he added, "Arthur Dayne's martial prowess was indeed unparalleled. He could eat a skewer with his right hand while wielding *Dawn* with his left, felling all seven current members of the Kingsguard. As for Prince Rhaegar, he..."
Noticing the old man's hesitation, Daenerys waved her hand dismissively. "I know Viserys was boasting. Even Rhaegar wasn't a match for Robert."
"But the Sword of the Morning wasn't a prince," she continued. "Others might sing his praises, but his skill was undeniable. Why did he fall to Eddard Stark, a man not known for his martial prowess?"
The old man pondered for a moment before replying, "Any warrior, no matter how strong, swift, or precise, has his limits. He might win a grueling tournament but lose a simple skirmish."
"I've seen a thousand duels and fought in countless battles. I know how many factors determine the outcome of a duel."
"A small pit in the grass, a tainted meal, could mean defeat. A sudden shift in the wind might grant you victory."
He glanced at Ser Jorah as he spoke. "Perhaps a lady's token on one's arm can awaken a war god."
The Great Bear, surprised that the old man had drawn him into the conversation, frowned darkly. "Watch your tongue, old man!"
During the Lannisport tournament, Mormont had won the joust while wearing a silk scarf given to him by Lynesse.
After that, he never won another match.
The example was vivid, typical, and undeniably a bit harsh.
The conversation ended unpleasantly, and Daenerys left with her handmaidens.
Groleau adjusted their course slightly, sailing northwest for two days until they reached the Doomsday Storm Sea.
The distant, gray sky seemed to collapse, merging with the sea, or perhaps colossal tornado storms formed a barrier, encircling the northern part of the Valyrian Peninsula like a seal—both blocking external ships from entering and preventing the demons in the ancient ruins from escaping.
"We can't go any further! The storm will tear us apart!" Groleau roared at Daenerys, his messy black hair whipping wildly in the gale.
"Then stop here!" Daenerys shouted back.
Shouting was the only way to be heard over the ceaseless, thunderous roar of the storm, which brought swirling winds, thick mist, and the boom of thunder.
Strangely, under normal circumstances, even if a massive sea storm lay ahead, the waters nearby would be turbulent, even without rain.
But the seas around the Valyrian Peninsula were entirely different.
Ahead, the sky was a dark, heavy mass, and the wind and tsunami had almost erased the boundary between heaven and sea, merging them into one.
Yet just a dozen kilometers away, the sun shone brightly, the sea was calm, and aside from the distant roar and occasional gusts of wind, there was almost no sign of the storm.
It was as if a wall separated these two worlds: within the wall lay the inferno of the storm, while beyond it, flowers bloomed in profusion.
After dropping anchor, the three ships hovered temporarily on the sea's surface. Daenerys left Groleau in the bridge to steer the ship while she, Jorah, and Whitebeard descended to the lower cabin to discuss their next move.
"Your Highness, we must act swiftly. The area is calm now, but in a few hours, it could become the eye of the storm. That wall of storms isn't fixed; it can expand or contract, and either way, it will cause violent weather phenomena nearby," Blackbeard warned Daenerys before leaving the bridge.
"I understand," Daenerys called back.
Descending below deck, the roar of the storm grew muffled, allowing them to speak normally.
Upon seeing Daenerys, Whitebeard immediately urged, "Your Highness, let's leave. I never expected the seas near Valyria to be so treacherous. Even dragons can't fly through that wall of storms!"
"I never expected this," Daenerys said with a helpless expression. "It's illogical, unscientific. Such a continuous storm requires immense energy. How could it have persisted for centuries without disappearing?"
Jorah didn't understand the concept of "science," but he grasped her meaning. "Valyria's rise and fall were miracles in themselves," he said. "It's hardly surprising that such wonders still occur here."
"What's the environment like in the Smoking Sea?" Daenerys asked.
Valyria had been built on a peninsula in the Summer Sea. During the Great Cataclysm, a volcanic eruption in the center of the peninsula shattered the landmass, creating a boiling strait—the Smoking Sea.
Valyria was reduced to countless fragments. The northern lands became the Smoking Sea, ablaze with hellish flames, while the southern waters were encircled by an unceasing storm, creating an utterly hostile environment.
Jorah shook his head and sighed. "The Smoking Sea is also dangerous. The underwater volcanoes boil the ocean, and the exposed reefs smoke under the heat. The sky is almost completely obscured by volcanic ash, and the sea is a deep crimson. They say demons and sea monsters live there."
In such a harsh environment created by underwater volcanic eruptions, any creature that survived would either be a demon or become one.
"Dragons aren't afraid of heat," Daenerys said hesitantly.
"But all the dragons of Valyria died in the volcanic eruption," Whitebeard said, dousing her hopes.
The words were harsh, but true.
"Alright, let Great Black charge into the storm," she said resignedly.
*Hiss—*
The bare mast, its sails torn away, trembled slightly in the wind. Three small dragons were folded up on it, their wings tucked close, as still as stone carvings.
Now, at Daenerys's command, Great Black's blood-red eyes snapped open. He plunged downward, his wings flapping wildly as he glided toward the storm.
Daenerys, her soul merged with his, continuously used Great Black's eyes to observe the wall of the storm as they advanced.
"Great Black, climb higher."
The dragon spiraled upward, rising higher and higher as they approached the storm. Gradually, the large ship on the sea became a mere black dot against the blue curtain of the storm.
*Whoosh—*
The view lurched violently, as if a helicopter had lost control. The gale tore at Great Black's fleshy wings, making them slap like wet leather.
"Hold steady, hold steady, follow me—"
Just as Daenerys was about to tell him to fly with the wind, Great Black had already adapted to the storm. He raised his wings to reduce his surface area and subtly wagged his long tail like a stabilizer, keeping his body steady.
Like a paper airplane gliding through the air, Great Black bobbed and swayed in the tempest, yet remained as steady as an old dog.
"Wow, Great Black, you're amazing!" Daenerys cheered excitedly.
*Crack—Boom!*
Within the swirling gray winds, a silver-blue net of lightning, like a branching tree, suddenly flashed. One of its tendrils struck Great Black on the neck.
Daenerys grunted, her vision darkening momentarily. Her ears buzzed, and time seemed to slow to a crawl in her consciousness, a single instant stretching into what felt like hours.
"Khaleesi, are you alright?" a handmaiden cried in alarm.
In the spacious cabin, Daenerys, who had been sitting with her eyes closed and silent, suddenly cried out in pain. Two crimson streams of blood trickled from her nostrils, flowing over her rose-pink lips and pale chin. Her body swayed as if drunk, but Doreah reacted swiftly, catching her before she fell.
"Ah, what bad luck. Great Black was struck by lightning, and I took some of the impact for him," Daenerys said, waving a hand to reassure the anxious crowd.
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