[ Glancing up when she speaks, he turns the slender, curved blade into the light. The carvings that run down it are more reminiscent of painted designs than scored filigree. ]

Elvish Gaeilge. A blessing in the language of my people to let the sword know forevermore that it was I who forged and crafted it.

[ That he does not specify anything in particular ought to imply that much isn't for the telling. ]

When Elven blades are made, their steel bears the imprint of their creator just as a baby holds the blood of its parents in its veins. [ A fingertip taps the half-finished words. ] It is more of a map than anything else, leading back to me.

Aye. Elven steel is different to mortal. It is sharper, it never dulls, and each sword is made with great care.

[ Weapons to make legends with. ]

Ice is a good name for a sword. Perhaps one day it will arrive on the ship and you will grow tall enough to wield it.

[ He would help her, maybe. Maybe. The sword he's working on is long and slender, more of a glaive, and he takes his time carving in the language of his people to protect them from it. ]

I see. I would teach Nuala how to use my sword, if she wished to learn.

[ Boo, swords for everyone 24/7. ]

[ That surprise says a lot more than he thinks she knows, so Nuada pauses in his work and nods, solemn-faced. ]

Of course, she is my sister. She knows how to wield a dagger but her strengths lie in the court, in navigating the tiresome, irritating regulations and laws. [ On impulse, Nuada smooths a clean rag down the blade to free it of filaments, and adds, ] Before I could teach her how to defend herself, after I earned these marks — [ tapping a finger to the scar across his nose and the circles by his temples ] — I went into exile.

[ Arya and Bran have something in common when it comes to stories. ]

For a long time there was peace between the aes sidhe — Elves, ogres, goblins and fairies, and everything else in between — and the humans. But the tales say that man was created with a hole in his heart, one that could never be filled with love or honour, and so he decided to place in it greed.

They attacked my people, a peaceful race, and finally when we went to war against them it caused my father great grief to see so many dead. [ This is the first time he has spoken of this to anyone aboard, but it's ... time. He doesn't want to let the past shackle him, let alone shame him. Nuada knows he has always acted in the best interests of his people. ] The leader of the goblin-smiths promised he would build a great Golden Army, seventy times seventy soldiers, undying and relentless. I urged the king to accept this, to end the suffering once and for all.

The next time, we won. It was over within hours, the mortals lay strewn for miles. My father could not bear the sight of so much death, so instead he swore to lock the Golden Army away and he made a truce, that the humans would keep to the cities and we to our forests. I went into exile because I did not want to wait idly by for the next battle; I had my scars by then and had reached maturity, so I went into the world to help others of our kind where they had been forced out of their homes. The humans broke this truce within centuries. My home, Bethmoora, fell under a curse and the court left. Over time, the aes sidhe were forced to live on the fringes of the humans' territories, in filth and waste, in gutters and backalleys.

[ Leaning forward, he rests the sword across his knees and lets his hands drape between his legs. ]

Imagine the family you love more than anything is treated like a stain on the earth to be wiped out, Arya. Your sister is a gentle creature, but she cannot fight and she tells you that you are wrong to want to protect her. What if she and all the rest were chopped into pieces and left at your feet? Would you sit back until every single one of them was dead, or would you call on that Golden Army to destroy your enemies and demand justice? You don't like being angry. It's just what they have done to you.

There is nothing I would not do for my family, you see. That is why I went into exile and have kept these scars that mark me as someone who would rather burn than fade away.

[ He listens sedately, nodding once she is through with her confessional. A trade, of sorts, and one unspoken that none of this shall be shared with anyone currently outside the forge. It's just Nuada and Arya, and their steeled commiseration amongst blades as sharp as their hatred. ]

I know you will.

Perhaps, [ he says thoughtfully, ] we ought to arm you with something else, while we have the chance today. Do you have any armour?

Hm.

[ Setting Loki's sword on a shelf, Nuada heads over to a corner of the forge where he keeps his bits and pieces, bringing back a parcel of clothes to the table. In it is his ceremonial attire, rich in golden threads and fine Elven embroidery.

He places the vest before her, tapping the ridges; the garment bends like fabric, but feels cool as to the touch. Over the left breast is a tear and a golden stain. The red sash is not in the pile, both it and the crest worn regularly and set to one side since he entered the forge today. ]

I arrived in this. These are bone, carved from a great ogre who fell in battle. If you wear two panels under your shirt, that will be better than nothing.

[ Has Gendry been messing around in the Forge again? Because Nuada can't find a sharp knife for the life of him, hmm ... ]

Rarely do Elves make anything without a little beauty to it.

[ Finding a blade sharp enough to help them, he sets it down with a needle and thread, taking the seat on the other side of the table. ]

I wore them once after a few thousand years of leaving them alone in my old wardrobe. I can't miss something I don't intend to wear again. We shall make you a vest of it, there is more than enough fabric to spare.