Two months had passed since Robert Baratheon thundered down the mountain road, bound for Storm's End with his gigantic warhammer slung across his back. The yard felt quieter without him—less laughter, fewer bruises. But Edric stayed behind, and he didn't idle.
He rose before dawn most days, often before the coals of the forge had fully died. The smithy was his again—Morden had grown to trust him, even if he still barked like a kennel master urging the isekaied teenager to finish his overdue work. The moment he cleared his backlog—fine blades, horseshoes, even an ornate latch for some noble's chamber pot—he began claiming the mornings for his own craft.
One early morning, the forge still thick with smoke and the scent of hot metal, Morden wandered in, yawning and scratching his beard. Edric was already working—shirt off, sweat rolling down his back as he hammered a fresh blade glowing orange.
Morden grunted. "You finished your quota already?"
"Started rather early," Edric replied, never pausing the rhythm of his hammer. Clang. Hiss. Clang. The steel rang like song.
The blade on the anvil was a dark mirror—smoky, smooth, deeper than black. Another piece of what they were starting to call Dark Steel.
Morden tapped the cooling blade with a knuckle. "That steel. It's strange. Ever since you came here I've seen you making it. Harder than castle-forged, don't chip, don't dull easy, and it never rusted from what I've seen."
Hearing this, Edric stopped.
"Well, to be honest, I don't really know how I make it. All I know is that the fire's hot—overwhelmingly so. I put the steel ingot inside, and it becomes pure, all its impurities having been burned by the heat. Perfectly pure. In pour it out and hammer untill it comes out like this. No paint needed. I like to think the Smith blessed my hands with this incredible gift." he chuckled.
"Hmm, right." Whether the old smith believed him or not he didn't pry any further.
Of course, that was a lie, the truth being the complete opposite. Edric actually did know the intricacies of making dark steel.
It was ninety percent pure iron—completely pure, purged of slag and filth in the fire he coaxed hotter than any forge should go, fire so hot that the stone. The rest was carbon—ten percent, layered and folded until it lived within the iron like billions of hexagonic microcrystals all working together in symphony to absorb and evenly distribute shocks, limit rust or simply never tire. But Edric was right in saying it was Gods gift, just not from the smith of the Seven. Had it been anyone else, so much carbon would've made the metal too hard, too brittle, and heavy worse than even cast iron, it was his hammer and supernatural skill that kept this masterpiece from crumbling apart.
Morden stood watching a while longer, then gave a grunt and shuffled off. He didn't ask questions. Perhaps he knew better.
Edric continued and simply kept hammering. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was skill. Maybe it was both. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." As long as it worked, it simply didn't matter.
Meanwhile, the knights started coming to him for more than swords.
As Edric was finishing up a pair of greaves, brushing off the scale and checking the rivets one last time, when boots echoed on the flagstones behind him.
"Master Edric," came a voice—steady, respectful, worn like old leather. "Got a moment?"
Edric glanced over his shoulder, not noticing himself being called master Harwin stood just inside the forge, helm tucked under one arm, the other resting on a worn leather pauldron.
"Evening, Ser Harwin," Edric said, setting the greaves aside. "How might I help you?"
Harwin stepped closer and set his helm down on the workbench. "Armor's holding together by the Seven's own mercy. It was worn before, sure, but fighting those Mountain bastards lately? It's gone from bad to worse."
He unclasped a strap and let his breastplate slide loose, revealing deep gouges along the side—steel bent in places, cracked near the bottom edge where an axe must've caught.
"Didn't have time to fix it properly before the last skirmish. Paid for that," Harwin muttered, rubbing a bruise along his ribs. "Think you can patch it up before the next time we go out?"
Edric took the plate in hand, turning it over, fingers tracing the damage. "Crack's deep. I know my steel is better than castle-forged, but it takes a lot of wearing down—and a very strong man—to do this much damage. You're lucky it didn't split all the way through."
"Doesn't feel like luck," Harwin said with a tired smile.
Edric smirked faintly. "You will when I'm done."
"Do you need coin?"
"Aye, and a week. Most likely just one. Come back by then."
Harwin nodded once, satisfied. "Understood. And... thank you, Master Edric."
Edric chuckled, brushing soot from his hands. "'Master,' huh? For six years, I worked under a smith in Stonehaven—always the apprentice. I've been here a few moons, and now I'm the one getting called 'Master.'"
Harwin gave a short laugh. "If you aren't a master smith, I don't know who is."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Heard a bit of talk. That hammer of yours knocked a practice dummy clean across the yard."
Edric shrugged. "I've been improving."
"That's what worries me. Last thing we need is another Robert Baratheon breaking bones just for fun." Harwin grinned and stepped back into the fading light.
After he finished his work in the forge, Edric made his way to the training yard, sweat already gathering on his brow, Unmaker in his hands. His size played a vital role in his strength, and he was still growing. Taller, bigger, stronger. The warhammer no longer felt like it was dragging him—he was starting to move with it.
Ned Stark stood off to the side, arms crossed. "Keep your foot behind the swing," he called. "Drive through the hips."
Edric grunted and tried again. Unmaker arced like a storm, crashing into the practice post with a satisfying crunch.
Ser Edwyn let out a low whistle.
He swung again. The post splintered down the middle.
As he reset his stance, Edwyn's squire brought over a bow and quiver.
Ned said, "Robert asked me to train you. By virtue of bein' his friend, I know the warhammer better than anyone—'cept him. So until he returns, I'll teach you what I know. But you'll be learnin' more than just the hammer. Bow included."
Edric raised a brow, eyeing the awkward weapon in his hand. "So... am I a squire now?"
Ned smirked. "Temporarily, yes. But only 'til Robert gets back. Then you'll be under him."
Edric blinked. "Should I be worried?"
"Very."
Ser Edwyn chuckled from the sidelines. "You'll be the perfect squire. Fasten his armor, clean his horse, and when the poor bastard dents his plate, you'll fix it better than new. That's the best deal a knight's ever had."
Edric retorted, "Well, I know whose armor I'm not fixing anytime soon."
The men around shared a small laugh.
He finally took the bow, trying not to look too sour about it.
It was hopeless. The draw felt awkward, the string bit his fingers, and the arrow shot off low, skimming the dirt like a dying fish.
The yard burst into fit of laughter. Even the knights couldn't help themselves. Ned tried to hold it in—managed, mostly.
"Seven hells," the squire who brought the bow, said. "I feel bad for ya."
Edric grimaced. "But practice makes perfect, right?"
The boy chuckled. "Well, with how bad your showin' is, ya might be better off throwin' the damn things by hand."
"Shut it, Harlen," Edwyn muttered.
"Sorry about my squire, he like to run his mouth." he apologized
Ned ran a hand down his face.
This is going to take a while, he thought.