Baelon and Helaena stood hooded within the smithy, heat pressing in on them from all sides. The air tasted of iron and coal, thick enough to cling to the tongue.
Shouts rolled back and forth between anvils, half-swallowed by the ceaseless clanging of hammers striking red-hot steel.
Sparks leapt like fireflies, skittering across the stone floor before dying with faint, bitter hisses.
Still, that wasn't the most eye-catching part of the smithy.
Everywhere Baelon looked, the Black Goat watched.
Its likeness had been worked into the place with almost obsessive devotion: etched along the edges of anvils, cast in bronze and iron statues that loomed from corners and alcoves.
Horned heads leered from the walls, their hollow eyes darkened with soot. Even the bellows bore its sigil, stretched hide stamped with curling horns.
Together, the details screamed where they were.
Qohor.
A man broke away from the noise and heat, approaching them with an easy confidence.
He was broad and thickly built, his bare upper body crisscrossed with scars and various symbols.
"Friend," the man boomed, laughter rumbling in his chest. "Your efforts and your patience have not been wasted. Your custom armour is ready."
He gestured, then turned, expecting them to follow.
Without a word, Baelon inclined his head and moved after him, one hand resting lightly at Helaena's back. She followed beside in quiet steps.
They were led deeper into the smithy, past the public forges where common blades were hammered out in brute repetition.
"This is where the real work is done," the man said proudly, spreading his arms. "Steel worthy of blood and legend."
He thumped his chest with a closed fist. "If it weren't for you managing to bring some of those scales, I would never have put so much effort into this. Should you find more dragon scales, I, Drakhar, will forever be in your debt."
Baelon let out a soft sigh upon hearing Drakhar's words.
"Alas, I have no more," he said, shaking his head with practised regret. "I followed the rumours, trying to glimpse a dragon in the Dothraki Sea. Months of searching earned me nothing but sunburn and disappointment… save for that half-broken scale."
Drakhar scratched at his beard, nodding along. "Right you are. You were lucky even to find that. Others couldn't find so much as a shadow of the monster. Truly, you must be watched closely by the Black Goat." His grin widened. "Still, it is only a matter of time before we find those dragons."
Baelon laughed lightly, the sound pleasant but empty. 'Blessed? By a god that demands blood sacrifice? I would rather let you have that honour.'
Drakhar stopped before two shapes resting upright against a rack of darkened oak.
Baelon's eyes narrowed in appreciation.
Two suits of armour stood there. One was shaped for a man, the other for a woman, both wrought in a deep black that drank in the forge-light rather than reflecting it.
They were not heavy. He could tell at a glance.
The pauldrons were slim, the chestplates contoured rather than bulky, the joints articulated with overlapping plates that would move like cloth when worn.
No gaudy ornamentation, no needless flourishes, just precise, lethal craftsmanship.
Baelon allowed himself a genuine smile.
It had been worth the risk, exchanging a dragon scale for these beauties.
Still, a risk was a risk.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed movement. The rhythm of hammers slowed, then stopped altogether. One by one, the other smiths set aside their tools.
The forge seemed to grow quieter, though the furnaces still roared. Men shifted, drifting closer, forming a loose ring around Baelon and Helaena.
'Alas, the greed of man knows no bounds. What is a mere boy like me to do…?' Baelon mused in mock sorrow.
"Say," Drakhar said casually, circling them now. "Have you heard about the Targaryen prince and princess who escaped King's Landing?" He clicked his tongue. "They say they fled with three dragons."
"Oh, really," Baelon replied dryly, rolling his eyes beneath his hood.
'Go on. Keep acting.' Baelon slandered in his heart.
Drakhar stopped in front of him. The smile slid from his face. "Say, prince. Why don't you and your sister stay here as guests? I can forge plenty more things for you."
Baelon sighed upon hearing this, reached up and pulled down his hood.
Helaena did the same.
The effect was immediate.
Shock rippled through the room like a struck bell. Several men froze outright. One took an unconscious step back. Baelon could not blame them.
Helaena had undergone the ritual several months ago, under his careful guidance.
Baelon, already fireproof, had endured her boiling spasms with little more than bruises.
He still remembered the moment she emerged from the flames, smoke curling from her form as she walked out of the flames.
Though he also remembered the day of silence that followed after he let his eyes linger on her a bit too long.
Now, both of them bore the marks of that rebirth. They had grown, not merely taller but fuller, their features sharpened and refined.
Where once they had been merely good-looking, now they were something else entirely, unnerving in their perfection.
Smooth, flawless skin untouched by heat or scar. Eyes of vivid purple, bright as amethysts set into living flesh.
Truly, he began to understand why the Valyrians were known for their inhuman beauty,
Nevertheless, Baelon felt irritation coil in his chest as several gazes lingered on Helaena for too long.
"I don't get it," Baelon said calmly. He met Drakhar's eyes without flinching. "Isn't it better for you to take my dragon scale, then sell my whereabouts to some desperate fool after I leave? Why bother with this?" He tilted his head. "You know I have dragons. You don't strike me as suicidal."
Drakhar laughed, loud and ugly. "What is wealth, when I can capture you both and command three dragons? As for your dragons? They're not here, are they, boy?" His eyes flicked to Helaena. "And with your sister, I could—"
"Alas," Baelon interrupted, clicking his tongue softly, "you have disappointed me. I thought you might offer something interesting."
He glanced around. First, the roaring furnaces, then circling men and finally the proud fool before him.
Even before the ritual, he could have escaped the situation. Though it would not have been clean, as he would have been unable to silence everyone in the room.
But…now?
Baelon turned to Helaena, his expression gentling. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Close your eyes," he said quietly. "I'll handle this."
She nodded once, trusting, and did as he asked. Her eyes closed, her face serene despite the stares and greed that pressed in around her.
Baelon straightened and looked back at Drakhar. "Just to confirm," he said mildly, raising a brow. "Only the people in this room know who I am?"
"Of course," Drakhar barked. "I need you both to myself—"
He never finished the sentence.
This time, it was not just his words that were cut short.
Before anyone could react, Baelon's sword sang through the air and Drakhar's head was severed in an instant, rolling across the stone floor and spattering blood across the nearest walls and benches.
Baelon frowned at the specks that splashed onto him, a twinge of disgust flickering across his otherwise impassive features, before he refocused on the task at hand.
The flames from the numerous forges seemed to sense his will, twisting and writhing, as if alive.
They leapt off the hearths and anvils, twisting through the air in serpentine arcs.
Men screamed as the flames struck them, their shouts high-pitched with panic, voices cracking with terror.
Some lunged toward the door, stumbling over tools and each other, only to halt as a living wall of fire blocked their escape.
Others, realising they were trapped, drew makeshift weapons and made a desperate last stand. The clanging of iron on iron echoed in the chaos as they cried out.
"For Drakhar!"
"Kill the dragon bastard!"
"For the Black Goat! Slay the heretic!"
Baelon watched them charge, unmoved. A year near the Dothraki plains had hardened him to bloodshed.
However, this was his first time taking a human life.
Despite that, while the first swing of steel is always a shock, the leering, greedy eyes of those who had coveted Helaena dissolved much of his hesitation.
Steel flashed, skin sliced, and bones cracked. Within moments, the floor was streaked red, the stench of iron and burnt flesh thick in the air.
When the last blacksmith collapsed, Baelon finally exhaled, stepping over the warm, slick blood toward Helaena, whose eyes were now open.
She had her hand over her nose, scrunching her face at the coppery scent, which made him chuckle.
The expression only deepened the creases in her brow, causing him to smile wider.
He guided her through the haze of smoke and heat to the armour that had been set aside. Quickly, they donned their suits, the black metal sliding comfortably over their bodies.
Their cloaks followed, draping over the dark plates to hide the gleam from prying eyes.
Throughout the process, Baelon split his attention between the roaring flames, ensuring they did not burn down the smithy immediately.
Baelon's hand lingered on Drakhar's body long enough to retrieve the dragon scale, slipping it into his hidden pouch with a quiet satisfaction.
Effectively, the armour had cost him nothing but a risk.
He mused quietly as he checked Helaena's straps: the Ironborn back home would have approved of his actions.
Stealing the fruits of another man's labour. Quick and easy.
Though he personally would have disdained such methods under ordinary circumstances, necessity justified the act.
With a grin, he lifted Helaena into a princess carry, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
Then, the flames responded to his thoughts, twisting and roaring as they spilt beyond the smithy, slithering onto the streets like living serpents.
Screams rang out as they roared through the wide paths of Qohor, catching citizens unprepared as they screamed and ran.
But Baelon's proficiency ensured none were harmed. Still, it gave him a moment of opportunity.
With a thought, the inferno receded, snapping back into the smithy, devouring any trace of their presence, any evidence left behind.
Having emerged onto the street amidst the prior fiery burst, Baelon followed the panicked crowd, raising his voice.
"Fire! There's fire!" He shouted, mingling with the citizens' cries of alarm. Unlike the others, however, he did not linger, nor did he attempt to help.
He had sufficient knowledge of Qohor's layout and the likely response times of the city's forces to know that the situation would soon be contained.
Sure enough, the first wave of Unsullied arrived, marching past him toward the inferno without hesitation.
Using the distraction, Baelon moved toward a side gate, drawing a small pouch from his belt.
A quick toss of silver into the guards' hands, with a few pointed words, allowed him to slip through unnoticed.
In Qohor, meanwhile, the fire was eventually brought under control, flames quelled, smoke dissipated, and the chaos calmed.
However, by then, the evidence of the massacre had long vanished into ash, the smithy nothing more than a ruin.
The perpetrators, Baelon and Helaena, had long disappeared, unlikely to return in the near future.