Game of Thrones White Dragon Rising Chapter 14 14: Dragonflame Steel

Harrenhal, the ironworks district.

It was a brutal, cloudless day. The sun beat down like a hamr, turning the air into shimring waves that distorted the distant hills.

A crowd of blacksmiths had been ordered to gather. Piles of clay and sand sat waiting in the heat.

"What the hell does Lord Roman want with us? It's too damn hot to be playing in the mud."

Roman arrived a few minutes later, dragging a cart loaded with black charcoal. The yard fell silent.

"Gentlen," he said, looking over the group.

Only about eighty blacksmiths remained. Old Jesse had clearly done a thorough screening.

"I brought you here to talk about iron."

The n exchanged confused glances. Westerosi smithing was still stuck in the age of chopping down forests for charcoal—wasteful, slow, and dirty. The realm had plenty of coal, more than enough for the Riverlands, but no one had figured out how to use it properly.

Roman had already solved that problem.

He held up a chunk of the black fuel.

"This is sothing the maester and I cooked up. It burns hotter than wood, lasts longer, and costs less. I need you to build a taller, bigger furnace that can handle it."

The blacksmiths stared at the strange black lumps. A high lord suddenly obsessed with ironworking? Fine. The pay was good. If the young lord wanted to play mad scientist, they'd play along.

They split into teams, pulled out the best kiln-builders, and got to work.

"No, the furnace is too short! Make it taller."

"Give the bottom a slope so the slag and molten iron can run out easier."

"Don't just slap mud on it—use proper bricks!"

Roman quickly learned that building a proper blast furnace was far more complicated than he'd expected. Height, airflow, refractory lining, fuel ratios, ore preparation—every detail mattered. He'd drawn up plans, but turning them into reality was brutal.

For an entire week he worked alongside the n, hauling bricks and sweating under the sun despite the guards' protests about dignity.

"My lord, this isn't fitting for—"

"When this furnace is running you'll understand why I'm in a hurry. And if you've got nothing better to do, grab a brick and help."

The blacksmiths were genuinely moved. Their new lord worked harder than most of them and never raised his voice unless soone was deliberately slacking. A few lazy bastards got the whip, but everyone else received only encouragent.

Failure was allowed. Laziness was not.

When the massive furnace finally stood complete, Roman stood back, covered in dust, and stared up at the towering structure. It was four tis taller than any Westerosi furnace, built beside a fast-flowing stream with a waterwheel and double bellows already in place.

Cheers erupted.

"Seven save us, look at the size of it! We'll slt more iron in a day than most castles do in a week!"

"Lord Roman's a bloody genius!"

They lit the coke.

The flas that rose weren't the usual orange-yellow. They burned pale white with a faint blue edge.

Just as I thought, Roman thought. Dragonfla keeps burning on the fuel.

The blacksmiths quickly discovered the coke produced terrifying heat and lasted far longer than charcoal. Iron lted a third faster. Impurities separated cleanly. Even low-grade scrap ca out as high-quality steel.

They were still celebrating when the furnace exploded.

The top blew open in a shower of sparks and black slag. The n froze, faces pale. The shape of the ruined furnace looked disturbingly like the lted towers of Harrenhal itself.

Roman sighed.

"Forgot the refractory bricks. We start over tomorrow."

While Roman kept working day and night, Lady Shella received a letter from King Robert.

The king greeted her politely, then spent most of the page asking about Roman—his health, his habits, when he might visit again. He even reminded her about the grand feast Roman had promised.

"My lady, this is…?"

Lady Shella handed the letter to Maester Tom.

"That boy has Robert eating out of his hand. The king's actually writing to Harrenhal."

Maester Tom's eyebrows shot up. Since taking the throne, Robert had barely acknowledged the castle's existence unless taxes were late.

"Seems Lord Roman understands the king better than anyone. At least we don't have to worry about the Iron Throne turning hostile anyti soon."

Tom passed her another docunt.

"My lady, this is my report on the white fla. After reviewing every record I could find, I'm certain it is dragonfire—yet clearly different from anything House Targaryen ever produced."

Lady Shella read in silence, her expression growing darker with every page.

"Maester, go warn Roman imdiately. Until Harrenhal is strong enough to stand on its own, this must stay secret. If the Iron Throne learns he commands dragonfla, Robert will co for him with everything he has."

Tom nodded grimly.

For now the realm still believed the white fire that banished ghosts was just another Harrenhal superstition. No one had connected it to actual dragons.

But if that changed, the consequences would be catastrophic.

---

A month passed.

It was now the end of 294 AC, yet the long sumr kept Harrenhal sweltering.

None of that mattered in the ironworks district.

The great furnace was finished.

When the craftsn watched it burn for a full day and night without so much as a crack, the yard erupted in wild cheering.

The blacksmiths had already proven that even small forges using dragonfla coke could produce excellent steel. This monster of a furnace would change everything.

Roman stood at the center of it all, face streaked with sweat and soot, eyes bright with triumph.

"The blast furnace is complete! Every one of you is a hero of Harrenhal. Tonight the cooks are preparing a feast. Wash up, eat your fill, then co see for your bonuses!"

In the glow of pale white fla dancing across the furnace crown, workers and soldiers laughed and slapped each other on the back, singing Roman's praises.

Harrenhal's new age was rising from dragonfla.