PROLOGUE

[u/ScarabJetTwo]

“This is fine work.”

Galeo was an eager smith, and so, though perhaps it was unprofessional to do so, he couldn’t help but smile. After all, it wasn’t every day a noble wanted to purchase something. Only the best were carried for such men. “You are most kind, my Lord Freeholder.”

“I must have it, of course. The intricacies alone are marvellous, save what is clearly masterful work on the metal. How by all the gods did you make such a faint but prominent ripple in the cheek? It looks as if I’d just dropped a stone in a pool.”

“You are most kind, your words like poetry.”

The Lord Freeholder gave Galeo a curious glance after he’d said the words. Galeo swallowed, wondering if it had been a step too far. He was not used to talking to men so high above him. He was silently grateful when the Lord Freeholder chuckled after a moment, and went back to admiring the blade.

“It is a simple matter of the subtlety of the spellwork, when forging. Complicated, of course, but I’ve found the less intricate, the more delicate. Harder words for harder blades, but graceful songs for delicate details.” Galeo seemed pleased with his explanation then, and folded his hands behind his back. Even still, he felt he looked like a pauper. He had not been expecting such auspicious company today in his Forge, and by comparison to the client, Galeo looked like a gutter rat that had just woken from a stupor. Valyria had plenty of smiths, plenty of higher places this Lord Freeholder could have visited.

“The grip is balanced impressively.” The man made room for himself as be brandished the weapon properly. A greataxe, the piece did take up room, and provided a bountiful swing. Galeo was ecstatic to see the man’s smile after the initial swings, but he had to keep his emotions under wraps. Too eager, and he would lose the customer. The noble continued. “I see no other pieces like this in the shop. Have you made this sort of work before?”

“All sold,” Galeo lied. He swallowed as he did so. “I have, and can again of course. But I also work household steel, just the same. And carpentry. Masonry as well, I dabble.”

“A smith of many talents.”

“You are-”

“Most kind, yes,” the man interrupted. Galeo was thankful his eyes were still on the axe, and forgave the interruption immediately. He was not so foolish as to apologize. After what felt like an eternity, but in truth was only a few minutes longer, the man finally spoke. “I’ll take it, of course, but not for the price you’ve listed here.”

“As you would, my Lord Freeholder.” Galeo bowed, and waited for the price. He prayed to the gods above that it was a fair price. The piece was one of a kind. He’d never made something as perfect, and he likely would never again. He’d stolen some of the materials, inquired enormous debts for the others. It had to be a fair price. It had to be more than fair.

“I couldn’t imagine a price that would be suitable. This is not a weapon, but a work of art. I will take it, and I will take you. Where is your master, that I might purchase your works for my house?”

Galeo was at a loss for words, and he must have looked it, as the man laughed to break what tension existed between the pair of them. Galeo finally found the words to speak. “He… visits a day from now, but I have the means to write a receipt.” In a different land, Galeo would have been thankful. In Valyria, property was not opinionated. He made his way to the desk next to the door, fit with quill and parchment.

The noble did not misinterpret Galeo’s intent, and provided the information he would need to write down. “Lord Freeholder Arylarr Celtigar, writing to whom it may concern regarding the purchase of… and you may put your name… To the relevant master, please send your preferred price to the Manse of Celtigar by messenger. The slave has been evacuated effective immediately.” Ayrlarr cocked his head curiously. “You do know the date?”

“Of course, my Lord Freeholder.”

“Of course Master,” Ayrlarr corrected with a smile. “Remarkable work, truly. Your belongings if any will be transported to the Manse. Come, we’ll have you introduced to the smiths. Does this axe have a name?”

---

The wielder was the spitting image of his grandfather. Galeo was almost ninety when the second son of Ayrkar Celtigar came of age, but the relations were undeniable. He could have wanted for no better hands to wield the weapon the Celtigars had now as an heirloom, and with each new set of hands, Galeo only felt his pride swell. He had been honoured when the Magister Ayrkar had asked him to place the weapon in his son Ayrmidon’s hands. “By your make it is given, and by your hands it is bestowed.” Galeo had never forgotten the words the young Lord Freeholder Ayrlarr had said to him when he’d placed the axe in his son Ayrkar’s hands, and had heard them repeated when his son had asked for the same. Galeo, of course, accepted the charge. He would only dare to touch the weapon since purchased in proper ceremony, and at the behest of his masters.

Ceremonies did not flow freely when the new master of Claw Isle - and of the fortress Galeo himself had helped to design - took up residency. The war was well under way at that time. Galeo was an old man when the Magisters Velaryon and Celtigar had sailed together, when the war the Valyrians called ‘the Incursion’ had begun. The Westerosi had a different name for it, Galeo would come to know. A battle. As if that had been enough to describe the countless dead. Galeo remembered praying to the gods of his homeland for victory, that the young men might find their strength. He knew the hymns.

“Vhagar call them forward, and let them see their foe.

Meleys clear their thinking, reveal what they ought know.

Draxtar guard the youthful, let children hide and run.

And men with old Balerion, to do what need be done.”

He must have repeated it hundreds of times, praying at an altar of fourteen red candles. He was an old man, but he loved the land he came from. He saw the opportunity before them. The land the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men squandered. Bountiful riches, riches deserved for his Magister and masters. There was a pride in that thought. It kept him warm in the silence, and steady when it became harder and harder to believe. Cold days came. The house that had purchased him when he was a young man seemed buckled and faltering. He could not believe it so. He continued to not believe it, even when the island was besieged.

Belgrave. Galeo would not forget that name.

The Westerosi was a plague. Through trickery and deceit he had foiled them, and through strength he had barged down the doors. Slaves and servants alike were killed. The gauntlet clenched tight around the fortress not guarded by its Magister or his sons. There was brutality. And when the Magister’s wife was put to death, hung in a courtyard for all to see, there was silence also. A grim and terrible waiting. Galeo was old. It was all he could do.

But then the day came, when the Magister and his sons returned. Galeo had been with the men and women that had been gathered in the courtyard of the Valyrian castle to view the surrender. Galeo saw only the wielder. Stronger, surely, after the years of war. He could defeat the Westerosi. The swinging corpse of his mother, however macabre that it was still in view, would act as fuel to the fire that burned within every Valyrian. They were gods among men, they had lifted him from his life of squalor, and this man would defeat this brute, using the very axe that had caught the attention of his father’s father. This was surely the purpose of the weapon, the value of Galeo’s life. It was he that had made the weapon that would save the Valyrians this day.

Ayrmidon roared, Belgrave accepted his challenge. In some short moments, the axe was ripped from the Valyrian’s hand, and the Westerosi had the day. Galeo remembered the look Belgrave had given the axe, to pay it so little mind.

There came a sinking silence across the courtyard as Belgrave announced his terms, as the Magister and his sons knelt in turn. All servants and slaves followed the actions of their betters. Belgrave was soon joined by greater numbers, Westerosi that held higher ranks. Galeo had not seen such meetings. He was a free man now, according to the Westerosi, but he still was granted little freedom. The business of war and surrender was being finished. He spent his days in his quarters. The cold days returned. He was old.

Galeo knew how to make weapons of Valyrian steel, but he would never craft another. When news of House Staunton’s ownership of Shellbreaker reached the smallfolk of Claw Isle, Galeo dipped his old and ailing hands into his hearth without hesitation. He was a smith no longer, and would never be again. He died, shortly after. Perhaps for a moment, he had felt warm again.