The forge blazed hot—thanks in part to Edric's presence—shadows dancing along stone walls as Morden hammered out sparks with slow, practiced rhythm. He didn't flinch when the heavy doors creaked open behind him—though the voice that followed earned a glance.
"Morden!"
Robert Baratheon's voice boomed like a drumbeat, full of life and authority.
The master smith didn't look up right away. "Most folk knock," he muttered.
Robert strolled in without shame. "Do I look like most folk?"
"You look like a headache."
Robert laughed. "You're not wrong!"
Morden finally set his hammer down and turned. "Can't remember the last time you came down here. What is it?"
"Edric," Robert said, stepping closer, a familiar gleam in his eye. "I want him to forge something. For himself. A warhammer."
Morden narrowed his eyes. "Did that boy put you up to it? Why didn't he come himself?"
"More like I put him up to it. He's getting some well-deserved sleep after a good beating—by yours truly." Robert grinned. "Knocked the fight out of him and sparked something else in its place."
"Oh really? And what's that?" The head smith inquired.
"The warrior's spirit."
Morden sneered. "What are you now, his septa? Or just drunk on your own fantasies?"
He crossed his arms. "He's got half a dozen commissions linin' up, so maybe use the Crone's gift to mankind instead of pursuing a fool's errand."
Robert's tone shifted—no longer playful. The air in the room seemed to thicken.
"Careful now, Morden. Careful. Best remind yourself who you're speaking to before I do. You'll put his other work on hold. He'll forge his hammer. That's final."
Morden held his ground, jaw tight. "He's a smith, not a knight."
"You didn't see him today—I did," Robert said, voice firm but tinged with amusement. "He's no swordsman, but with a hammer in hand! That's a different tale! I've never seen a lad more born to wield one. Except maybe me!"
Morden let out a low grunt. "What about Lord Arryn? You think he'll agree to this?"
"Let me worry about Jon," Robert said, flat and firm.
Morden sighed. "Fine. He can forge his hammer tomorrow. Lucky for you, the boy works fast. But he won't step foot in that yard again 'til he finishes every last bit of what he owes me."
"That's fine by me. I leave for Storm's End in two days. You said he was fast, didn't ya? I'd wager that's plenty of time to forge a hammer worthy of its name."
Robert turned to go, tossing one last grin over his shoulder.
"You're not half as grumpy as you pretend."
"And you're twice as loud as anyone needs," Morden called after him.
All he got in return was a boisterous, echoing laugh.
Sunlight poured through the narrow window, warm across Edric's face. His body ached like he'd been trampled by an elephant—though he might as well have been.
Robert had dragged Edric through every kind of sparring the yard could offer: hand-to-hand, a little swordplay, and his favorite of the bunch—"shield drills"—where Robert would take his almost comically large warhammer and smash the smith, whose only protection was a not-so-big shield in comparison. By the time the sun set, Edric, being a victim of Robert's supposed training, had revealed his talent for taking absurd amounts of punishment. He had, after all, taken more hits than a training dummy—and unlike the dummy, he couldn't be replaced with a fresh one.
So when the morning light spilled through the shutters, painting gold across the stone floor, it met a groaning, battered shape beneath the furs.
Every muscle screamed. His ribs felt like they'd been boxed by a bear. Even his fingers ached. He shifted once, groaned, and pulled the blanket higher.
Then came the voice.
"Get up, you lazy fool!"
Edric jerked upright, squinting. Robert stood at the door, arms crossed, already grinning.
"You sleep like a stone and smell like horseshit. Come on—we've a hammer to make."
Edric swung his legs over the bed, still half in a dream. "You're serious?"
Robert tossed a crust of bread at him. "Deadly. I bought you a day. Let's not waste it."
The forge was already roaring by midmorning. Morden wasn't there—likely Robert's doing.
Robert stood with sleeves rolled and sweat already glistening. Edric worked fast, laying out the metal: a billet of his own dark steel, deep and smoky like storm clouds over the sea.
"You ever forged a weapon for yourself before?" Robert asked.
"No," Edric muttered, working the bellows. "Always for others."
"Today, you forge a name."
Edric laid out the tools in careful rows beside the forge. The air was thick with heat and metal tang, but his focus was set—not on the hammering yet, but on the mold.
He began with the shaft. Instead of expensive wax, he'd rendered tallow that morning—boiled down from kitchen scraps he begged off the cooks. There was no shortage of animal fat in the Eyrie, and once the idea struck him, he wasted no time. He stirred in fine ash and a bit of river clay, mixing it into a thick, stiff paste that held shape when pressed. Crude, yes, but better than wasting precious beeswax. He packed it into shape with his hands, firming the taper and curve of the handle until it looked more sculpture than tool. After letting it cool and stiffen, he carved carefully into the surface with a fine chisel and a bone pick, etching clean lines—grooves, curling knots, and near the top, a name.
He didn't speak it aloud. Not yet. But the letters were to be imbued into the shaft, ready to alert any possible wielder of its title.
Clay and damp sand were packed around the hardened tallow model, layer by layer. He shaped the mold directly into a shallow trench on the forge floor. Once dried by the fire, he would melt out the tallow core, leaving the imprint ready to receive molten metal.
Then came the hammering.
He started with the claw. A thick billet of steel, heated until yellow-white, was beaten over the horn of the anvil. Edric worked in steady, brutal rhythm—drawing out the curve, flattening the inner edge, tapering each tine to a cruel point. Sparks flew with every blow. He quenched it partially, then reheated, adding extra carbon and refining the shape until it looked like something those beasts from the Neck would wear on their foot.
Next came the spike. Another billet, smaller, but no less stubborn. He drove the taper down its length, chiseled facets into the sides, then filed it until it gleamed like a fang. He tempered it carefully, letting the heat bleed away slow so the core stayed hard.
The hammer head took the longest. A squat, brutal thing, rectangular but slightly flared. Edric drew out the cheeks with wide-faced hammers, shaped the striking face flat, and punched the hole for the shaft with a long spike. He cooled it in brine, then polished off the scale with a vinegar-soaked rag and a fermented brew he'd "borrowed" from the smithy barrel—sharp as rot, but it stripped the scale clean.
Robert had watched early on, asking questions here and there, but the heat and rhythmless tedium drove him to the yard. He clapped Edric on the shoulder and laughed, saying he'd return when things looked more like a warhammer than a butcher's heap.
By the time twilight settled on the mountains, the forge blazed like a hungry inferno. The hammer parts lay cooling on the anvil, and the shaft had just been freed from the mold—smooth, straight, the carved lettering clear along its length.
Robert returned as Edric was bolting the pieces together, locking them with rivets and black pins. The warhammer gleamed with a dark, oiled sheen.
Robert stepped closer, eyes gleaming. "Let me see this beauty."
Edric handed it over without a word, pride plain on his face.
Robert turned it in his hands, testing the balance, admiring the brutal symmetry. His eyes landed on the shaft where the name was carved.
"Unmaker," he read aloud, voice low, almost reverent.
Then he looked up, grinning.
"You already named it."
Edric gave a slight shrug. "It seemed to name itself."
Robert laughed, full and booming. "A hammer with a name like that? You'd better live up to it."
He stepped back, nodding. "An extraordinary weapon for an extraordinary man. You've outdone yourself! We'll see what this beast will achieve tomorrow." He handed Unmaker back to its creator.
"Aye," Edric said smiling, his hand curling around the grip like it belonged there since the world began.
"Come on, we need to reward your hard work. A barrel of ale and a nice girl. Maybe even visit the brothels! What do ya say!?" he laughed heartily.
"You sure that's not your reward?" Edric laughed himself.
Robert grinned wide. "Tch—'tis the reward of any sane man, my friend. Now tell me—have you ever fucked a fine lass with tits bigger than her head?"
"I can't say I fucked any girl I'm afraid." Not in this life at least, I forgot what it was like. He thought.