Chapter Text
THE WEIGHT OF STEEL
Mineria
Two days.
Two entire days had crawled and rushed in equal measure, tangled between fittings, whispered gossip, and the constant, hovering presence of expectation. King’s Landing did not wait for anyone—not for grief, not for joy, not for brides-to-be who wished the world would slow long enough for them to gather their breath.
Minry had endured them.
She had endured the seamstress tugging her bodice tighter and declaring that northern girls must not realize how strong their shoulders were. She had endured a small flock of court ladies who pretended to admire her fur-lined cloaks while subtly assessing whether wolf blood might stain silk. She had endured a priest’s long, droning lecture about devotion and duty, nodding dutifully while Snowdrop dozed under a bench and startled a poor acolyte into dropping a book.
Through it all, she had carried a quiet ember in her chest.
The sword.
The thought of it had followed her like a heartbeat. Each time she caught a glimpse of Aerion across a corridor—each time she saw his sharp gaze sweep a room, each time he smirked at something only he found amusing—she imagined the weight of steel in his hand. Imagined his fingers curling around the hilt she had described. Imagined his face when he realized it had been forged for him.
That alone had made the endless chatter of the court tolerable. And now, at last, the time had come.
The morning dawned pale and humid, the sky washed thin over Blackwater Bay. A soft haze hung over the city beyond the walls, turning the rooftops into shapes half-dissolved in light. The Red Keep stirred slowly—servants moving like ants, guards shifting posts, ravens flapping between towers.
Minry left her chambers quietly. She did not bring Snowdrop this time; the smithy was no place for curious paws. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders and moved with purpose, retracing the path she had taken two days before. The corridors felt slightly less foreign now. She had learned their echoes, their scents, the way one draft of air meant an open courtyard and another meant the kitchens nearby.
Her pulse quickened as she approached the service yard. The sound reached her first again—the steady ring of hammer on metal. Controlled. Rhythmic. Honest.
When she stepped into the courtyard, heat brushed her face like a living thing. The forge glowed, coals breathing orange light into the morning. Apprentices hurried about, carrying tools and buckets, the air thick with smoke and iron.
The master smith stood near a long wooden table this time, not at the anvil.
And on the table—Minry stopped.
Even from several paces away, she could see it. It lay unsheathed, resting on dark cloth as if the steel itself demanded reverence. Long. Narrow. The blade tapered to a lethal, elegant point, its surface polished to a mirrored sheen that caught the light and sliced it into clean lines. It was not broad and boastful like a tourney sword. It was not ornate or delicate.
It was precise and it was dangerous.
Minry stepped closer slowly, as if approaching something sacred.
The master smith watched her, expression unreadable. “Well?” he grunted.
Minry reached the table. Up close, it was even better. The blade ran slender and straight, designed to pierce rather than slash. She could imagine it slipping between rings of mail, sliding through plate gaps with merciless efficiency. There was no wasted weight to it, no decorative flourish along the steel. It was all function.
And then—the hilt.
Her breath caught.
The crossguard curved subtly outward, shaped in a way that suggested wings without being literal. Clean lines, controlled arcs—nothing exaggerated, nothing fragile. Just enough that the silhouette whispered of flight. The grip was wrapped in black leather, tightly bound, textured enough to hold firm even when sweat slicked the hand.
And at the pommel—the rubies. Deep red. Rich as spilled wine. Cut in a shape that caught light like a captured flame. It did not glitter obnoxiously; it smoldered.
Smaller rubies sat set into the ends of the crossguard, subtle but unmistakable, adding sparks of red against the metal like embers in shadow.
It screamed Aerion.
Not because it was ostentatious. But because it was proud.
Minry felt her lips spread into a slow, satisfied smile. “It is perfect,” she said quietly.
The smith folded his arms. “Balance it.”
She did not hesitate. Minry lifted the sword carefully. The weight settled into her palm with surprising ease. Not heavy. Not flimsy. It felt alive, eager to move. She tested it gently, angling the blade through the air in a small, controlled arc.
It hummed faintly as it cut through the space.
Her grin widened. “He will love it,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
The smith snorted softly. “Then it is good.”
She lowered the blade reverently and nodded. “It is better than I imagined.”
He inclined his head once—rare praise for a craftsman. “It will serve.”
Minry swallowed, the magnitude of it settling in her chest. This was not just a gift. It was a promise. She arranged for it to be wrapped carefully, the blade oiled and secured in its dark scabbard. The leather sheath was simple, deep crimson edging into black, stitched cleanly without unnecessary embellishment. It felt right in her hands.
When she finally left the smithy, the sword held carefully in her grasp, her heart felt light and fierce all at once.
She imagined hiding it in her chambers. Imagined the day of the wedding—imagined pressing it into Aerion’s hands and watching his composure fracture for just a heartbeat.
She smiled to herself.
Fate, however, had its own sense of timing.
Minry turned a corner too quickly. And collided with something solid. She did not fall.
Neither did he.
But the impact jolted through her like a struck bell.
She gasped, hands tightening instinctively around the wrapped bundle as she stumbled back half a step.
Aerion.
Of course it was him.
Who else moved through corridors like they belonged to him entirely?
His hands had shot out reflexively, catching her upper arms to steady her. His grip was firm but not rough, fingers pressing into fabric as his sharp gaze flicked down to assess whether she had been hurt.
For a heartbeat, they stood too close.
Minry recovered first.
She stepped back, spine straightening, and slid the wrapped sword behind her back in one smooth motion, pressing it against the stone wall she had bumped into.
Aerion’s eyes narrowed immediately. “What are you hiding?” he asked.
Nosy little shit.
Minry lifted her chin, soft glare sharpening her features. “Nothing,” she said evenly.
His gaze dropped—once—to her hands behind her back. He did not believe her for a second.
“Oh?” Aerion’s mouth curved faintly, that familiar, infuriating smirk tugging at one corner. “And nothing requires such enthusiasm to conceal?”
Minry shifted, pressing her back fully against the wall now, the sword pinned firmly between her spine and stone. Her hands held it steady, fingers gripping the scabbard tight enough to keep it from clattering.
Snowdrop would have been useful right now. Instead, she had only her own stubbornness. “It is none of your concern,” she replied coolly.
Aerion stepped closer. Of course he did. He invaded space the way some men invaded kingdoms—without apology.
The corridor was narrow enough that his presence felt like heat. He stopped just short of touching her again, but close enough that she could see the faint flecks of purple in his periwinkle eyes.
His gaze flicked to her face, then down, then back again. “You are terrible at this,” he murmured.
Minry’s jaw tightened. “And you are unbearably nosy,” she shot back.
His smirk deepened. He leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “What is it?”
Her heart beat harder—not from fear, but from the proximity. The stone at her back felt cool. The sword pressed against her spine, solid and unyielding. His chest was inches from hers, the faint scent of leather and something warmer clinging to him.
“Step away,” she said quietly.
Aerion tilted his head, studying her as if she were a puzzle he meant to solve.
“You know I dislike mysteries,” he replied.
“You will have to endure this one.”
He glanced at the wall behind her. “You cannot possibly think I will not see it.”
“Oh, I can,” she countered smoothly.
He lifted a brow. “And how is that?”
Minry met his gaze head-on. “Because you are going to let me.”
The air between them shifted. For a moment, neither of them moved. There was something electric about it—about the way he stood there, looming slightly, clearly enjoying the challenge. About the way she refused to budge, spine straight, chin lifted, daring him to try.
His hand rose—slowly, deliberately.
Minry’s pulse leapt.
But he did not grab the bundle.
He placed his palm against the wall beside her head instead, caging her without quite touching her. “You assume a great deal,” he said softly.
“I do not assume,” she replied, matching his quiet intensity. “I know.”
His gaze flicked to her lips for half a second—barely noticeable, but she saw it. Her breath caught. The corridor felt too small. Too close.
He leaned in slightly more. “What if I do not wish to be denied?” he murmured.
Minry’s fingers tightened on the sword behind her back. “Then you would ruin your own surprise.”
His eyes sharpened. “Surprise?”
There.
She had slipped.
Minry exhaled slowly. “It is a gift,” she admitted, finally. “For the wedding.”
Aerion froze.
The faintest flicker crossed his face—something unreadable, something quickly masked. “A gift,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He did not step back immediately. Instead, he studied her with an intensity that made her stomach twist. “For me?”
Minry rolled her eyes. “No, for Snowdrop.”
His lips twitched. He shifted slightly, and for a heartbeat Minry thought he might press closer, might test her resolve, might demand the bundle outright.
Instead—he stepped back. Just enough to give her air. “Very well,” he said lightly, though there was something underneath the tone. Something quieter. “I will allow it.”
Minry blinked. “You will allow it.”
He nodded once, faintly amused. “I am generous.”
She scoffed, pushing off the wall carefully, keeping the sword hidden as she straightened. “You are insufferable.”
He shrugged. “And yet.”
They stood there another moment, the tension not entirely dissolved, but reshaped.
Minry adjusted her cloak subtly, ensuring the sword remained concealed. “Please,” she said more softly now. “Let it last until the wedding day.”
He looked at her for a long moment. And then—he nodded. “I will not look,” he said.
It was not a grand promise. But it was sincere.
Minry’s chest eased slightly. “Thank you.”
He tilted his head. “Do not thank me yet,” he replied. “If it is disappointing, I will make certain you know.”
She smirked. “It is not.”
His gaze lingered on her face a second longer than necessary. “I suppose,” he said quietly, “I will have to wait.”
Minry stepped past him carefully, keeping the bundle secure. As she walked away, she felt his eyes on her back. And she smiled. Because she had done it. She had forged something worthy. And she had kept the surprise.
For now.