Chapter 355

"Can you stop for just one moment?"

Melisandre was on the verge of exploding. Why couldn’t this man act like a proper Azor Ahai and simply wield Lightbringer to slay the White Walkers? First, he wanted to sell it. Now, he wanted to melt it down. Was he incapable of sitting still without stirring up chaos?

Aegor knew he was pushing her limits, but he had to ask.

Crown's Rest had already begun mass-producing obsidian weapons through smelting and molding, confirmed by Melisandre herself: heating, melting, and recasting obsidian didn’t cause its fire-aligned magic to dissipate. The question was whether Valyrian steel—imbued with far greater power than obsidian—shared the same characteristic.

He waited patiently for the seething Red Priestess to calm herself, then repeated his question with utmost seriousness. “I’m asking sincerely—if we melt down Dark Sister and reforge it, will it lose its magic against the White Walkers?”

It took Melisandre a long moment to regain her composure. This man, somehow, could ignite passions in her that she hadn’t felt in years—both of the fiery and infuriating variety. Truly, he was a rare specimen.

“Your question is flawed. Any expert would recognize it immediately: you don’t understand the difference between ‘magic’ and ‘magical power,’ or between ‘enchantment’ and ‘infusion.’” She wanted to simply declare that reforging the blade would nullify its power, just to end this nonsense. But with the enemy looming and the stakes so high, she couldn’t risk spreading falsehoods that might lead Azor Ahai to misjudge the situation. “What I used to make your sword glow, for example, was a spell. A spell involves both magical power and the act of casting, and the process of applying it to your blade is called ‘enchantment.’ But Valyrian steel isn’t what it is because of some external spell. Its power comes from the blood of the Dragonlords, imprinted deep into the steel during its forging in a process called ‘infusion.’ This method is far more costly and complex than enchantment, requiring the highest-quality materials, yet it locks the power into the steel itself, permeating every inch.”

“Spells can be disrupted, countered, or broken,” she continued. “Magical power, however, cannot be destroyed. The advantage of enchantments is their flexibility: they can be applied or removed at will, granting a variety of effects. But they’re unstable. Reforging, or even a single crack, would render them useless. Infusions, on the other hand, bury the magic so deeply within the material that it can’t be easily accessed—without penetrating an enemy’s body, its power remains dormant. But the tradeoff is unparalleled durability. Short of using the proper methods to dispel the magic, it’s nearly impossible to remove. Even if you melted it down and reforged it, or ground it into powder, every fragment would retain its inherent power.”

“That’s good,” Aegor began, “because I plan to reforge Dark Sister into—”

“Don’t be so hasty. I’m not finished.” For the first time, Melisandre interrupted him, perhaps out of vengeance for his earlier interruptions. “Reforging won’t destroy the magic in Valyrian steel—under ideal conditions. While the magic itself is indestructible, the steel is not. Reforging Valyrian steel requires extraordinary skill. Even the slightest misstep in temperature control or contamination could alter its properties. If that happens, the magic will remain, but the steel’s self-repairing resilience and unmatched durability will be severely diminished.”

“Is there anyone alive who can reforge it to the ideal standard?”

Melisandre smiled enigmatically. “There once were. But such master smiths lived on the Valyrian Peninsula, in the very heart of the Freehold.”

“So... they’re all dead.” Aegor couldn’t help but snort in frustration. The Valyrian Peninsula was ground zero for the Doom—this felt like a cruel joke. “What about someone still alive? Who’s the best craftsman left?”

“In the court of Qohor, there are smiths who possess the most complete knowledge of Valyrian steel reforging techniques.”

“That’s too far. By the time someone from across the Narrow Sea arrives in Crown's Rest, I’ll have turned into a wight and be fighting for the Night King beneath Winterfell’s walls,” Aegor dismissed outright. “What about someone closer, in Westeros?”

“Several famous smiths train in Qohor and later return to Westeros. To my knowledge, there is one in King’s Landing who claims to know the incantations and methods for reforging Valyrian steel.” Melisandre didn’t seem offended by his dismissal. Instead, she narrowed her eyes. “What exactly do you intend to reforge it into? I must remind you that if you want weapons to kill White Walkers, obsidian is sufficient. But Valyrian steel’s resistance to ice magic and its unparalleled sharpness cannot be replicated.”

Aegor mulled over her words, his thoughts racing. In the original story, the craftsman who helped Tywin successfully reforge Ice was indeed a renowned smith from King’s Landing. Even if this man wasn’t the world’s best, he was reliable enough to avoid botching the job.

The pieces clicked into place, and Aegor made up his mind. He nodded before suddenly shifting the conversation.

“Lady Melisandre, do you remember the day we first met?”

Melisandre tilted her head in mild confusion. “It wasn’t exactly pleasant. I admit I was rather rash that day. But if I recall correctly, I’ve already apologized, and you’ve forgiven me.”

“I’m not referring to the unpleasant part. I mean our conversation afterward, when we discussed so many topics. You were the first living person I’d met with extraordinary powers. From you, I first learned of the Cold God and the Lord of Light—beings even greater than the White Walkers. But none of that is relevant now. My last question that day, the one you couldn’t answer, has been on my mind ever since: if a White Walker wore armor, how could one kill it?”

Melisandre frowned, recalling that moment. She had responded at the time by claiming that spellcasters should wear as little as possible to avoid hindering their abilities—hence her preference for simple robes with nothing underneath. Aegor had since verified that claim firsthand, but her answer hadn’t addressed the core of his question. What if a White Walker sacrificed some spellcasting capability in exchange for wearing armor impervious to obsidian? How could they be defeated then?

“I didn’t realize you were Azor Ahai at the time, so I didn’t bother giving it much thought,” Melisandre admitted. “But now I can answer you: Lightbringer can slay any White Walker, armored or otherwise.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Aegor replied. “But there’s only one sword, and many White Walkers. If they all donned armor immune to obsidian, what am I supposed to do? Challenge them one by one?”

“So that’s why you want to reforge the sword into many pieces?”

Aegor wasn’t about to admit that he simply didn’t want to risk close combat with White Walkers. But he knew that without a compelling argument, this debate would drag on indefinitely. Judging by Melisandre’s “protect the prophesied sword at all costs” attitude, it might even lead to a rift between them—or worse, cause her to question whether he was truly Azor Ahai.

While Aegor didn’t particularly care about the title, he had undeniably benefited from it. A free, highly skilled magic advisor and companion was not something to squander.

Clearing his throat, Aegor straightened his posture and assumed a rare expression of conviction. “The Lord of Light has shown me a vision in the flames. I’m not only meant to divide the prophesied sword but to turn it into a ranged weapon.”

The usual trust he’d built with Melisandre—through honesty, transparency, and directness—had all been carefully maintained for moments like this, when a big lie needed weight. His previous reluctance to fully embrace his supposed destiny as Azor Ahai had stemmed from the fear of a real chosen one appearing someday. But Bran’s revelations had been a revelation for Aegor too: Azor Ahai wasn’t a preordained figure. It was whoever fulfilled the prophecy.

And if that was the case, why couldn’t it be him?

As he’d hoped, Melisandre’s fierce resistance evaporated in an instant. Her expression shifted from shock to fervent reverence. She didn’t even think to ask when he’d received this vision, or whether he might be lying. Instead, she accepted it without hesitation.

“What else did He say? Did He give any instructions for me?” she asked breathlessly.

“No, this was my first vision in the flames. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, and the message wasn’t clear. I didn’t immediately realize the weapon of prophecy would take this form.” Aegor feigned confusion before his gaze grew resolute. “But now, it’s certain. I will melt down Dark Sister, forge as many arrowheads as possible, pair them with the finest shafts and fletching, and name this set of arrows...”

He paused for dramatic effect, savoring the moment.

“Lightbringer.”