As you sleep, you dream.
You are working in a forge, it seems like the one here in the castle, but the dimensions seem grander.
The fire and the coals are burning with an unearthly golden flame, beyond hot, and bright to the point that the light, not the heat, is almost painful.
There is a pot in the fire, as you are smelting raw materials, and you look away from the fire to cut some more ingots from the hunk of metal you have. The Iron you beat does not work easily, and is a jagged, mis-shapen shard.
As you bend and tear the Iron, you feel sadness and resolve. The sadness spins into a memory of the Tower, made of this resplendent Iron, shining in glory over it's city. The resolve brings you back to the moment, watching the ingots melt down and then be poured out to form the long, wide bar of a two-handed sword.
As you beat the first blow on the bar, the sparks fly golden, and your arm stings. The second blow intensifies the pain, and on the third, you wake up - your arm is in agony, which dulls as the pain spreads through your body. In your half-awake state, you feel a golden glow within you as the pain dissapates.