Celestial Hymn 17 (Patreon)

Celestial Hymn
Chapter 17

-VB-

The plan worked perfectly.

Whereas I had been accused of cruelty and sadism by my peers just this morning, those same peers now talked of my riches, sense of fashion, and overseas connections.

Because, of course, shiny gifts changed their thoughts faster than executing lower class criminals.

“... I want one.”

I looked up from where I sat to the king’s right, where the favored guest of the king usually sat during feasts.

“Your Majesty?” I asked with a “confused” smile.

“I want a cloak of my own just like that,” King Baratheon, my future father-in-law, huffed out. “I’ll pay whatever price you want.”

I leaned towards him, and he did the same in anticipation. “That is a very dangerous phrase to say, Your Majesty,” I whispered quietly so that only he could hear me in the ruckus of the feasting men and women. “The production cost for the prince’s gift alone cost me nearly a thousand dragons.”

He nearly did a double take. A copper counter, the king may not be, but he understood the basics of cost and price. A good cloak made anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms would be five dragons at most.

“You have to be joking,” he glared.

“It required me to acquire quite the quantity of gemstone from across the Narrow Sea for the pigment.” It wasn’t true, but that was what I stuck to. I had no desire to allow anyone else to profit off from my painstakingly recreated Ultramarine Blue. “The base cost for the gemstone alone cost me nearly five hundred dragons, and the transportation with secure guards another two hundred.”

“And the rest?”

“The production cost itself. I had to spend my own time to painstakingly grind down the gemstone for the pigment. It is time I could have used for other projects.”

The king cleared his throat as he looked away.

“... It is a princely gift. I still want something good like that.”

“Oh? If you truly want something, then you can always participate in the coming tournament, Your Majesty. You will certainly like what I prepared for the prize.”

He looked intrigued. “What have you prepared?”

Now, I could be all mysterious like I had done with Princess Myrcella, but this was Robert Baratheon I was talking with; that kind of shit might earn me his ire.

“Would you mind if I made an announcement?” I asked instead. “About the tournament prize.”

His eyes gleamed. “Go for it.”

I stood up with my cup and a spoon, and then delicately began pinging for attention.

The sound quickly caught attention of most of the guests and residents, and those who didn’t quickly learned from their neighbors.

“Thank you all for your attention,” I said with a genial smile. “His Majesty, King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, has granted me leave to speak, and I thank His Majesty for the opportunity.”

There were toasts to that.

“I wish to announce what the Tournament of Royalty -” that was the name for this occasion’s tournament, because it was for the celebration of the twin royalties’ birthdays. “- will offer the winners of the melee and archery, as those two winnings are my responsibilities.”

The hall lost all noise and fell into a pregnant silence as everyone waited.

I gestured, and my servants - awaiting once more - stepped up from the side of the hall.

“For the winner of the archery contest, I present to you the Black Bow.” It was an imitation of Emiya Shirou and Archer’s black bow, but enchanted so that only its owner can draw back the one hundred plus pound longbow. Its sleek and glistening body drew the attention of those who professed themselves master archer.

But this bow, though none would see its uniqueness and worth until later, was not what would get their attention.

“For the winner of the melee!” I shouted with pomp. “I present to you the success of my forges, a Valyrian steel greatsword, Aggamemnon!”

The servant holding the prize swiftly pulled the silk cover away (which got a few lingering gazes on its own) to reveal a rippling patterned greatsword.

Half of the hall rose up with wide eyes.

Even the king rose up from his seat in shock.

This greatsword was, however, not a real Valyrian steel but my variation of Damascus Steel, essentially crucible steel, which had been enchanted by yours truly to achieve not only a technologically superior steel but also a magically reinforced blade.

“My king, if you please…” I asked him as I brought out a warhammer of good quality steel that most blacksmiths would make.

With a flourish I did not expect him to be able to have, Robert got out of his throne with grace and grabbed the warhammer. His eyes sharpened, and I saw the warrior that he once was gleam through.

My servants brought out stone bricks and placed the sword on top of two.

If I was lying, then the blade would bend or even break once Robert struck it.

If I wasn’t…

With a roar, Robert struck down.

And to everyone’s surprise but mine, his own warhammer flung away along with his arms as the warhammer bounced off of the blade and sent him nearly reeling. The king caught himself before he showed himself a fool, and returned the warhammer, which he looked like he liked as well.

I saw all knights and lords eye the blade hungrily. Tywin was no exception.

“It took me a long time to recreate the blade,” I hummed, and I felt the attention of the hall snap back towards me. “It will take me just as long to make another for that is the only successful Valyrian steel recreation I have.”

I ignored the Celestial Forge as it arose from its slumber, grasped at nothing, and subsided once more.

I turned to the audience. My audience.

“Who believes they can beat everyone to lay claim to this sword?” I asked rhetorically with a smirk.

-VB-

As I expected, I found myself with an unasked audience with one Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister. You know, someone who would be grandfather-in-law if my betrothal becomes a marriage.

“Lord Lannister,” I bowed after walking into the room where our meeting took place.

“Lord Marris.”

Though both of us were lords, I was a lower ranking noble and lord, so I bowed.

“... Please have a seat.”

I walked into the opulent room decked out with wealth and prestige, and embedded in every corner with gold lion of Lannister.

“I wish to commission a Valyrian steel sword. I will pay whatever it takes to have it made before anyone else and for you to not make one for the next ten years.”

Ah, he understood where the value of the sword came from.

“I apologize, Lord Lannister. While I will certainly take that commission, I cannot stop myself from producing more Valyrian steel blade.”

He glared at me. Or maybe not? I couldn’t tell.

The Lord Lannister in the flesh was not the TV show actor. The man before me was much more refined and bigger than life. He had wrinkles, but not enough to make him feel old (despite being old). He wore fine clothes, but they did not hang from his body (because as rich as he was, he was a lord and that meant he was a warrior as well). He spoke quietly, but it only added to his authority (because everyone had to fucking quiet down what he was saying, otherwise you could lose your head).

Little things like that all made for a very different Lord Lannister that differed in look and more.

And I just told that very powerful and very proud man no.

I had my reasons, but the foremost was my own pride as an artisan.

A lord he may be, but I too was a lord. Who the fuck was he to tell me what to do? He wasn’t even my liege lord. That might change a huge factor in my decision making but still not enough to make me stop.

“A Valyrian steel, boy,” he spoke as if I was a dumb child. “Derives its value from its rarity. If you make even one a year for the rest of your life, then you would add sixty, maybe eighty, Valyrian steel sword into Westeros and beyond. The value of those steel would fall.”

“But not enough,” I argued. “Sir, would you rather be guarded by personal guards armed with Valyrian swords or regular steel?”

“... are you offering to make me a set of Valyrian steel swords?” he asked me with thinly veiled incredulity.

“If you are willing to pay, yes,” I replied. “However, I like to give all of my customers and clients fair chance at obtaining my art.”

“An art,” he scoffed. “You call that giant monstrosity art?”

“Art is subjective, lord paramount,” I smiled genially. “No Valyrian sword is truly worth a thousand, ten thousand, or even a hundred thousand dragon. At the end of the day, it is rare metal

“... So you do understand the art of economy, supply, and demand,” he hummed.

“How could I not?” I grinned. “I am an artisan, and an artisan who does not know the desires of his clients and customers… They are artists but not quite artisan.”

“You make a distinction between the two.”

“Of course. An artist is someone focused on their expression. An artisan gets paid.”

He snorted.

“And you were paid with a fiefdom in the rocky Stormlands when I offered you something much more here in the Westerlands.” He paused. “How do you intend to forge my Valyrian steel blade?”

“If you will allow me?” I asked while pointing to a blank paper on a desk in the other end of the room.

He nodded. I stood up, walked over, and came back to the seating area with a paper. From within my own cloak, I pulled out a prototype ball point pen and quickly drew out a symbol. I turned the paper towards him, and he took it.

“... This is adequate.”

Adequate?

Adequate?

I’m going to make him eat his words.