Chapter 167

Leaping from his warhorse, Drogo drew Dragon’s Soul, the Valyrian arakh at his hip.

The blade never felt quite right to him — too short, too light. He preferred longer, heavier curves of steel. But he had never thought to melt and reforge it.

Every Valyrian steel weapon was said to be etched with ancient spells. If reforged, its sorcery might vanish. Better to keep it whole. If it became just another sharp blade, he would grieve — for with winter coming, he needed this weapon to shatter the White Walkers’ ranks.