The clang of hammer on steel sang from Winterfell's forge, a rhythm of labor shattering the silence of the snow-blanketed courtyard. An orange blaze spilled from the doorway, a warm invitation painting the frozen expanse.
Jon hesitated at the threshold. His small, slender shadow stretched across the snow, a dark, uncertain smear.
An old habit from his past life gripped him: the fear of intrusion, the reluctance to interrupt. He remembered lost opportunities, moments squandered by waiting instead of daring to step forward. Since his arrival, he had fallen back into that pattern, avoiding interaction beyond the safe circle of the Stark family and Maester Luwin—a comfortable cage.
No more, he thought. His small fist clenched, knuckles white. The pattern stopped tonight.
With newfound resolve, Jon crossed the threshold. A thick wave of heat washed over him, thick with the scent of burning charcoal, sweat, and hot metal. It was a vibrant symphony of labor, the castle's powerful, beating heart.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light as he searched for Mikken, the master blacksmith. He found the man near the main furnace, brawny arms glistening with sweat in the firelight, his hammer swinging with controlled force. He and an assistant forged a glowing piece of steel, each blow shaping the metal with practiced precision.
Jon activated his {Sneak} skill and moved to a corner of the forge, unnoticed. He leaned against the rough, warm stone, waiting for them to finish. He watched every movement, every spark that flew like a hellish firefly, every angry hiss of steam.
With a final hiss, the hot metal plunged into a barrel of water. The work was done. Mikken, a burly man with a soot-blackened face and arms thicker than Jon's thighs, straightened. He wiped sweat from his brow with a calloused hand, and his sharp eyes finally caught Jon's waiting figure.
"This is no place for a boy," Mikken's voice, hoarse from smoke, was rough and suspicious.
Jon stepped forward, unintimidated. "I was observing," he replied, then explained what he had seen with surprising technical detail. "You pulled the steel from the furnace at a bright orange, the right forging temperature. Your first blows were strong, setting the foundation, while your assistant rotated it to keep the heat even. A clear rhythm: three strikes, a pause, then two to flatten. You controlled the power in each swing—stronger at the base, lighter at the tip. A quick quench to harden it."
Mikken's eyebrows rose. The hammer in his hand lowered. He glanced at his assistant, whose mouth hung open, his gaze shifting from Mikken to the boy in confusion.
Before Mikken could find words, Jon looked straight at him. "I want to apprentice here."
Mikken's booming laugh echoed in the forge, turning a few heads. "Words on a page don't forge steel, boy." He pointed to his assistant, who hid his hand, but not before Jon saw a finger missing at the second knuckle. "This is dangerous work. You could lose a hand."
"I'll take the risk." Jon's tone was flat, devoid of doubt.
Mikken snorted. "Get him out of my forge. Now. I'll not have highborns playing at being common folk."
The towering assistant reached for Jon's arm. Jon did not retreat. He stepped in, a swift, unexpected movement that left the large hand grasping air. Before the man could react, Jon was inside his reach, his small hand catching a finger and twisting it back.
The man screamed, a sharp cry that cut through the clang of metal. Jon delivered a quick kick to the back of the man's knee, sending him to the ground with a thud.
Jon gripped the man's finger and stared into Mikken's wide eyes. The forge fell silent. Hammers froze mid-swing. The fire's hiss became the only sound. All eyes fixed on the small boy who had incapacitated a grown man.
"Ever hear the story of an underestimated child?" Jon began, his voice calm, yet holding a strange authority. "There's a story of a brilliant little girl. Her parents were foolish and cruel, hating her for being different. Her headmistress was worse. A tyrant who enjoyed torturing children."
Jon paused, his dark eyes locked with Mikken's. He applied enough pressure to the finger to make the man wince. "The little girl endured," Jon continued, his voice steady, "until one day, she discovered a power. Something no one else had. She used that power to destroy her teacher, to prove herself. To prove that being underestimated doesn't mean you're powerless. Sometimes, it means you hold a power no one has seen."
Jon's gaze swept the forge, a challenge to every eye upon him. "I will learn, with or without your guidance. The only difference is whether you are remembered as the mentor who discovered a genius, or a forgotten footnote when I change the world."
A tense silence enveloped the forge. The workers, men of fire and steel, took an involuntary step back. They tightened their grips on their hammers, their faces a mixture of anger and awe.
Mikken stared at Jon, his breath held. "Let him go," he finally growled.
Jon released the man's finger. The assistant scrambled back, his face pale with shock and pain.
"Fine," Mikken said, his voice still hoarse with disbelief. He pointed to a massive coal pile in the corner, enough for a week's worth of fuel. "You want to work? Work. Move that coal. All of it. We'll see if your back is as strong as your mouth."
Jon turned to the pile, then back to Mikken. He gave a short nod and walked to the corner.
He worked without rest, moving the coal with a speed and efficiency that made the others stare. Hours passed, yet Jon's rhythm never slowed. Where other blacksmiths would be drenched in sweat, Jon's forehead remained dry. His breathing was even, calm.
Annoyed whispers turned to murmurs of disbelief. The workers exchanged glances as the boy did the work of three men without a sign of fatigue.
When Jon moved the last lump of coal, Mikken approached. He scanned Jon from his dust-covered hair to his erect posture. The boy did not breathe hard. Not a muscle trembled with exhaustion. Mikken swallowed, his throat dry. "Gods..." he whispered.
"Be here at dawn," Mikken conceded, his tone still rough but now holding a hint of respect. "And I'm still telling your father."
Jon, covered in coal dust but his spirit undiminished, nodded. He had won his first battle. His apprenticeship began.
Two days later, a stranger scene in the forge drew every passing worker's attention.
Jon, a six-year-old, swung a blacksmith's hammer too heavy for most men to lift. In his hands, it felt like a toy. He struck hot metal with a steady, precise rhythm, each blow shaping it to his will. The furnace's searing heat had no effect on him; his {Heat Resistance} skill kept his forehead free of sweat, even as he stood closer to the flames than anyone else dared.
He made no sword or armor. His project was stranger. With knowledge from his old world, he crafted a 'Pot Still'—a distillation apparatus. He shaped a copper sheet into a large, rounded vessel, each hammer blow flowing into the next. He formed the 'swan neck,' a curved pipe to direct the vapor, and finally, the condenser—a long copper coil wound with a precision that made the other workers shake their heads.
Every movement was measured, wasting no energy. The way he positioned his body to leverage the hammer's weight, the way he rotated the metal at the perfect moment to maintain its heat—it all demonstrated an understanding that surpassed his age. The sight was both terrifying and awe-inspiring to the other workers.
From a corner, Mikken watched, chin on his hand, eyes narrowed. "Blessed by the Old Gods... or something else," he muttered. Rumors spread like wildfire, whispers not just of Jon's strength, but of his strange knowledge, as if he carried secrets from a lost age.
After several hours of muted, focused work, Jon completed his first Pot Still. He lifted it with ease and brought it to Mikken's workbench, setting it down with a soft clink.
The master blacksmith circled the object, his gaze critical. He ran a calloused thumb along the smooth seams and checked every rivet. Testing its balance, he lifted it, then turned it under firelight, eyes seeking flaws. He found none. The shape was perfect. He gave a slow nod, a rare admission from a master to a child.
"And what in the seven hells is this contraption?" Mikken asked, curiosity overcoming his pride.
"An experiment," Jon replied. "May I use the forge after hours for a personal project?"
Mikken stared at the boy, trying to read his calm expression. This boy was not just strong; he had a plan. "Do as you please," he said at last, his tone still rough. "Just don't burn the place down."
That night, Ned Stark waited for Jon in his room. Unlike the rooms of his siblings, filled with toy soldiers and thick furs, Jon's room was quiet and tidy. The furniture was sparse: a narrow bed with a thin, folded blanket, a small table, a simple wooden wardrobe. It lacked personal touches, the usual clutter of childhood. The air felt icy, as if the great hall's warmth never reached it.
Ned sat in the room's only chair, elbows on his knees, his normally calm face creased with worry. The door opened. Jon entered, smelling of charcoal and metal, and stopped, surprised to find his father.
Ned's smile did not reach his eyes. "Jon. I spoke with Mikken. He tells me you're working in the forge." He paused, his tone serious. "He says you have the strength of two men. There are whispers."
Jon had expected this. He offered his prepared explanation, demonstrating with a heavy chair how leverage and 'clever techniques'—not raw strength—did the work. "I found a better way to lift, Father. And I don't tire. That's all."
Ned sighed, a sound heavy with burden. The explanation was a thin veil over something more complex, but he did not press. He leaned forward. "Luwin tells me you've been... muted. That you feel out of place."
Jon did not answer. He looked at his own hands, at the lines on his palms and the new calluses forming. The hand felt foreign.
Ned's voice was soft, hesitant. "Is it... Catelyn? I know she can be... cold." He paused, wrestling with words—a harder battle than leading an army. "Or the other children? I know this isn't easy for you, Jon."
The admission made Jon lift his head. His dark eyes met his father's tired gaze. "It's not your fault." Jon's voice was muted but sincere. "I feel as if I am playing a role, wearing a mask. I smile when I should, practice my swordplay as expected, but inside... I am empty. As if the real Jon Snow vanished long ago, and I am just an echo left behind, mimicking the voice of a boy I never knew."
The words left Ned speechless. He saw a strange maturity and a deep sadness in his six-year-old son's eyes. His heart ached.
"Jon." Ned's voice was hoarse. He rose and knelt before Jon, their eyes level. "Listen to me. You are not a ghost. You are my blood. You have a place here."
Ned placed a heavy, calloused hand on Jon's thin shoulder. The touch was an anchor. "Never doubt that. Your home is here."
Warmth from Ned's hand seeped through Jon's thin shirt. For a moment, the mask he wore cracked. Behind it, a sharp longing for a father clashed with a cold guilt. I'm a thief, he thought.
"You are my son." Ned's voice grew stronger, full of conviction. "If being a blacksmith is the path you choose, so be it. If you want to be a knight, I will train you myself. But do not feel invisible. You are not invisible to me."
Ned pulled Jon into a tight, awkward hug. The man's arms were strong, protective. Jon stood rigid, his body a knot of internal conflict. Then, he returned the embrace, burying his face in his father's cloak, breathing in the scent of leather and cold Northern air.
"Thank you, Father," he whispered into the cloak, his voice almost inaudible. Like ReplyReport Reactions:LudocielTheFlash, DahakStaz, Uday Sra and 23 othersNoerSyToday at 5:19 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 7: Spirit of the North View contentNoerSyNot too sore, are you?Today at 5:20 AMAdd bookmark#7A heavy silence cloaked Lord Eddard Stark's solar. Only the hearth's soft crackle broke the quiet, its warmth a lone comfort against the cold stone. The firelight cast dancing shadows into corners thick with the scent of old parchment and beeswax.
A month of labor, a costly gamble, and one crucial failure led him to this moment. His plan to forge a still from iron had failed; Winterfell's forge lacked the necessary tools. He had switched to copper—a rare, expensive metal in the North. The unforeseen cost now rested on the oak table.
Jon held his breath, pinned by three powerful gazes.
Across the table sat Lord Eddard Stark. Faint lines around his eyes betrayed the sleepless burden of command, yet his grim, bearded face was an impenetrable mask. His expression, still as a winter pond, radiated an authority that needed no announcement.
Beside him stood Maester Luwin, hands tucked into the sleeves of his grey robes, his own grey hair thinning in the firelight. The maester's chain—silver, iron, gold, each link a testament to mastered knowledge—coiled snugly around his neck, a collar of scholarship gleaming in the firelight. His sharp, ancient eyes watched Jon with a scholar's insatiable curiosity.
On the other side, Mikken, the master blacksmith, stood with arms crossed. His muscles strained his leather tunic, and his soot-stained face held a look of reluctant curiosity. He looked as if he belonged before a forge's fire, not a lord's hearth.
Between them, three wooden cups held the liquid Jon had served. It was clear as spring water but carried the sweet aroma of honey and harvested grain.
Mikken, a man of no patience, broke the silence. He snatched the cup like a hammer and downed its contents in a brutish gulp. A moment later, his face flushed crimson. His eyes bulged as explosive coughs wracked his burly frame. He slammed a fist on the table.
"Seven Hells," he growled, his voice raspy. "What in the blazes did you make us drink, boy?"
Lord Stark showed no reaction to the outburst, his silence a sharper rebuke than any shout. He waited for the coughing to subside before lifting his own cup. He took a small, deliberate sip. His grey eyes widened for a fraction of a second—a ripple on a frozen lake—before his calm mask resettled. He set the cup down with deliberate slowness, his gaze shifting from Jon to the liquid, his mind deep in thought.
Luwin, as Jon expected, did not drink. The maester brought the cup to his nose, inhaling the aroma like an apothecary analyzing a rare potion. He swirled the liquid, observing its viscosity, how light passed through it without distortion. His eyes gleamed with the interest of a scholar who had stumbled upon a new puzzle.
"You've... separated the 'spirit' from the grain," he murmured, his voice holding the quiet certainty of a scholar solving a puzzle. He looked at Jon, his curiosity overriding his skepticism. "I have seen little to rival this. You have, it would seem, isolated the very essence of the grain. A fascinating process. By what method did you achieve it?"
Jon took a deep breath, setting the technical question aside. "Maester Luwin is correct. This is the 'spirit' of the grain," he began, his voice calm and steady. "And it is a new way to preserve our harvest."
He looked at Lord Stark. "Grain rots or feeds rats. In this form, it lasts forever."
"It is a new trade commodity," Jon continued, "more valuable than raw grain, and easier to transport."
A frown creased Luwin's brow, his mind racing. His finger found a link on his chain. "A commodity?" He glanced at Lord Stark, then back at Jon. "There are significant considerations with this idea."
"First, the local economy. What would this do to the brewers in Winter Town? You could destroy their livelihoods."
"But it wouldn't compete with—" Jon started.
"And second," Luwin continued, raising a finger to command attention. His tone permitted no interruption. "House Manderly." He paused, letting the name hang in the air. "They control all trade in White Harbor. To create such a profitable new product without them would be a slight, or worse, a threat."
Each point was a sword aimed at his plan's heart. I considered this, Jon thought, suppressing his impatience while admiring the maester's framing of the problem. He was ready.
"First," Jon replied, his voice now calm and measured. "House Stark's control guarantees its quality. This is not a cheap spirit. This is the 'Spirit of the North,' a luxury good. A Stark monopoly is a mark of quality, not disgrace."
"As for the brewers," he continued, with a placating gesture, "this product does not compete with ale. Its price will be far higher, aimed at a different market—nobles, wealthy merchants, and for export. Ale will remain the drink of the common folk."
Jon then turned to Lord Stark, his posture focused. "And as for House Manderly... Maester Luwin is right. I never intended to exclude them."
This was his plan. "From the beginning, I intended them as partners."
"House Stark will control production, ensuring quality and secrecy. House Manderly, with their ships and networks, will be the sole distributor."
"We are not creating a rival, Maester," Jon concluded. "We are forging an alliance. I want to bind the Manderlys closer to Winterfell. Their profit is our profit."
Silence returned, but it felt different. Mikken scratched his beard, trying to comprehend a game beyond his ken. Awe replaced curiosity in Luwin's gaze. Behind that childish face, the maester saw a flash of sharp, unexpected political acumen.
"That is..." Luwin murmured, at a loss for words. He glanced at Lord Stark, who remained silent, his eyes never leaving Jon. "... a line of thinking with merit." The maester nodded. "Lord Stark, this proposal is worthy of consideration."
Praise from Luwin was a victory, but the final decision rested with one man. Jon looked at Lord Eddard Stark. His father's face remained grim, but his eyes had shifted from scrutiny to sharp assessment.
After a heavy silence, Ned finally spoke. "How much do you need?"
Jon's heart hammered his ribs.
He kept his voice steady. "Copper for five full-sized pot stills. Access to the grain stores, and a separate building to mitigate fire risk."
Ned leaned back, his fingers drumming on the table. "That is a significant request," he said softly. "The North is not rich. An investment of this size..." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "You have not yet reached your tenth nameday. Can you handle this responsibility?"
"I can." Jon clenched his fists, a slight gesture to contain the tremor of anticipation. "If we succeed, the North will offer more than timber and wool. This is the first step toward the North's independence from the South."
The word future hung in the air, heavy with promise and peril. Lord Stark looked at his son. The conviction in Jon's eyes reminded him of Brandon, and the hope there stirred the ghost of Lyanna. An old wound throbbed in his heart. Broken promises and long winters were cruel counterweights to a boy's hope. For a moment, the image of a bastard in the shadows faded, replaced by the vision of a leader who might build a different future.
After an eternity, Ned made his decision. "I will not fund five," he said, his tone final.
Jon's hopes plummeted.
"You will have the copper for one large pot still," Ned continued. "Limited access to the granary and the old storehouse near the west wall. Consider this your test."
Ned's gaze locked onto Jon's. "Show me results. If you succeed, we will speak of this again."
Though not a total victory, it was a chance.
It's more than enough.
Determination hardened Jon's face. He gave a respectful nod. "I understand, Father," he said, the title feeling earned. "I will not disappoint you."
Three months passed in a haze of hot steam and fermenting grain. The old storehouse near the west wall became the operation's heart. In its center stood the gleaming copper pot still, the fruit of Jon and Mikken's labor. Dozens of barrels of the 'Spirit of the North' now stood sealed, waiting.
Lord Stark handled the negotiations with Lord Manderly. Jon kept his distance, letting his name remain behind the scenes. It was safer if the world thought this Lord Stark's innovation.
Jon was in the quiet workshop, contemplating his next move, when transparent blue notifications appeared in his vision.
{ System Update!
- New attributes added: Spirit & Point.
- Points can now be used to increase stats.
- EXP can now be gained from activities (unreliable).
}
Jon stared at the message, his heart pounding. Another notification popped up.
{ EXP Gained!
You gained 100 EXP from the System Update!
}
And another...
{ Level Up!
Level 1 --> Level 2
You gained 1 Stat Point!
}
Jon froze, his breath catching. I... leveled up? Without killing? The weight on his mind—the belief he had to become a killer to survive—lifted. A wave of relief washed over him, so potent it weakened his knees. He didn't have to become a monster to be strong.
With a trembling hand, he opened his status panel. Level 2. A single unallocated point glowed. His eyes fixed on the four choices: Body, Mind, Soul, Spirit. Spirit was new, unknown. Mind and Soul felt abstract. But Body... that was tangible. Strength, speed, endurance. Without hesitation, he focused his will and allocated the point to Body.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, heat exploded from his core. His blood felt like it was boiling, every muscle and bone searing from within. His vision blurred, sounds dimming to a low hum. He staggered, gripping the workbench for support, but his strength vanished. Darkness consumed him as he collapsed.
Jon opened his eyes. He felt as if he had slept for a century. A thick wool blanket covered him, and the calming, herbal scent of his room greeted him.
Soft afternoon light filtered through the window. He tried to sit up and felt it. The movement was effortless. No weight, no stiffness. His body felt lighter, yet more solid.
"Rest, Jon. Do not exert yourself." Maester Luwin's calm voice broke the silence. The maester sat in a chair nearby, a book open on his lap, his sharp eyes on Jon.
Jon pushed himself up, his voice hoarse. "Maester Luwin... what happened?"
Looking at Luwin, Jon glanced at his hands. The thick calluses and small burns from the forge were gone. His skin was now pale and smooth, like porcelain.
Luwin closed his book. "That is what I was about to ask you," he replied, his tone sharp with the bewilderment of a scholar whose world had been upended. "You collapsed in the workshop this morning. Mikken found you and brought you here."
"Fainting is not unusual for a boy who works too hard," he continued. "But what happened after..."
The maester stood and walked closer, his gaze shifting from a doctor's to an anatomist's discovering an impossible new species. "Your fever climbed to a height I have never witnessed, Jon. Higher than any I have seen in a living person. Hot enough to boil the brain."
"I gave you every potion I knew—milk of the poppy for the pain, nightshade to lower the heat—but nothing worked. We were preparing for the worst."
He paused, his finger hovering over Jon's skin before he drew it back. "And then, just as suddenly, the fever vanished. Without a trace. And you..." Luwin trailed off, tugging at his chain collar. "...you have recovered in a way I cannot explain. It is as if you were reborn."
He pointed a stiff finger at a silver mirror. "See for yourself."
Jon walked to the mirror. His heart stopped. The face that stared back was both familiar and alien. His dark grey eyes seemed sharper, with a new depth. His skin was flawless. The sheen was more noticeable on his messy black hair. The rough-hewn look of the bastard had faded, replaced by a strange, refined quality.
"I don't understand," Luwin murmured from behind him, his voice laced with academic wonder. "I have checked every book in the library, even the most absurd records. There are ancient accounts of transformative fevers, but I always dismissed them as fables—metaphorical tales of spiritual enlightenment, not literal physical changes."
His tone turned serious, cautionary. "Jon, I do not know what has happened to you. This could be old magic or a blessing from the gods."
He looked at Jon, his professional grip slipping to reveal genuine concern. "And such things, Jon, often exact a heavy price. Tread carefully."
Jon could only stare at his reflection, his mind racing. He hadn't expected a stat increase to be so transformative.
After Luwin left, the notification log in the corner of his eye glowed.
{ Skill Acquired!
- Magic Resistance Lv.1
*Your body now has a natural defense against magical effects.*
}
Shit, resistance only appears if it's injurious me. Did someone attack me with magic? He thought, recalling Luwin's comments.
{ Skill Zenith!
- Magic Resistance Lv.1 --> Lv.max
*Your body now has a natural defense against magical effects.*
}
{ Skill Acquired!
- Divination Resistance Lv.1
*Your fate is now harder to be seen by others.*
}
{ Skill Zenith!
- Divination Resistance Lv.1 --> Lv.max
*Your fate is now harder to be seen by others.*
}
Divination Resistance. The skill sent a chill down his spine. Someone might have tried to scry his future. The most likely culprits were the Three-Eyed Raven or Melisandre, the red priestess.
There were two possibilities. A seer had learned of him and tried to divine his future, or they were scrying the future and his significant role drew their gaze.
If the former, no immediate problem existed. If the latter, he had far less time than he thought.
Knowing his fate was now harder to see—by red priests or any other seer—gave him an unexpected security. It was a cloak of invisibility on a cosmic scale, a priceless advantage in a world of intrigue and prophecy.
Finally alone, he called up his status screen.
The transparent blue screen appeared, its data updated.
Name: Jon Snow
Level: Lv2 (XP: 0/200)
Stat: Body 2 | Mind 1 | Soul 1 | Spirit 1
Point: 0
Skill: {
- Archery Lv.Max
- Basic Etiquette: North Lv.Max
- Blindness Resistance Lv.Max
- Blunt Damage Resistance Lv.Max
- Climbing Lv.Max
- Cold Resistance Lv.Max
- Common Language Literacy Lv.Max
- Cooking Lv.Max
- Crafting Lv.Max
- Dagger Mastery Lv.Max
- Dash Lv.Max
- Disease Resistance Lv.Max
- Divination Resistance Lv.Max
- Drowned Resistance Lv.Max
- Emotional Insight Lv.Max
- Exercise Lv.Max
- Fire Resistance Lv.Max
- First Aid Lv.Max
- Footwork Lv.Max
- Gamer's Mind Lv.Max
- Germ Resistance Lv.Max
- Hand-to-Hand Combat Lv.Max
- Heat Resistance Lv.Max
- Hiding Lv.Max
- High Valyrian Language Lv.Max
- Inexhaustible Lv.Max
- Infection Resistance Lv.Max
- Laceration Resistance Lv.Max
- Magic Resistance Lv.Max
- Mathematics Lv.Max
- Metallurgy Lv.Max
- Night Vision Lv.Max
- One-Handed Sword Mastery Lv.Max
- Poison Resistance Lv.Max
- Running Lv.Max
- Scratch Resistance Lv.Max
- Sculpting Lv.Max
- Skill Zenith Lv.Max
- Sleeping Lv.Max
- Social Perception Lv.Max
- Tailoring Lv.Max
- Two-Handed Sword Mastery Lv.Max
- Valyrian Language Lv.Max
- Water Breathing Lv.Max
- Wound Resistance Lv.Max
}
His eyes were glued to the 'Stat' line. The '2' next to 'Body' seemed simple, but he now knew the incredible impact. His physical transformation, the unexpected fever—it all stemmed from that single point.
The stat points weren't a reflection of his base abilities, he realized, but a direct, potent boost. No matter how hard he had trained or studied, his stats had never budged. Yet, with a single point, he felt twice as strong.
He contemplated his new status. If one point in Body could change him, what would happen if he increased Mind, or the mysterious Soul and Spirit? The potential was both terrifying and tantalizing. Like ReplyReport Reactions:LudocielTheFlash, DahakStaz, Jonathan Sternberg and 22 othersNoerSyToday at 5:20 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 8: Ice Steel and Iron Price View contentNoerSyNot too sore, are you?Today at 5:21 AMAdd bookmark#8Winter's grip tightened on the North, yet a novel warmth blossomed in Winterfell. Jon's "Winter's Spirit" distillery hummed with activity. Five copper stills toiled without rest, transmuting grain into liquid gold that fortified the coffers of House Stark.
Its success was immediate. Lord Eddard Stark, witnessing the initial returns, sanctioned the construction of a second distillery. Through House Manderly's trade network, dozens of barrels found buyers, delivering profits unprecedented for such an enterprise in the North.
The distillery remade the face of Winter Town. Its steaming chimneys rose as beacons of industry, creating scores of jobs for the populace.
For Jon, however, the distillery was a mere stepping stone. The wealth it generated was a tool for a far grander vision.
On a tract of open land beyond Winter Town, Jon Snow stood observant. His once-boyish features had sharpened, and his grey eyes held maturity that belied his years. He was clad in practical work attire of leather and rough wool, a stark contrast to a nobleman's finery.
Before him, two new ventures funded by "Winter's Spirit" took form: a Charcoal Kiln and the foundation for a more sophisticated furnace.
Mikken, Winterfell's master blacksmith, stood at his side. He crossed his thick arms, his brow furrowed above his bushy beard as he eyed the woodpile. "I still don't grasp it, lad," he rumbled. "Why this fuss? We've charcoal aplenty."
"Standard charcoal won't suffice," Jon stated, his gaze fixed on the laborers. "I require a fuel that burns hotter. Cleaner."
He turned to the blacksmith. "That intense heat is the key to our next advance. We will forge a steel superior to anything the North has ever produced. I call it… 'Ice Steel.'"
Mikken's expression was skeptical. "A new steel? From charcoal?"
Jon indicated the second foundation. "That is a Crucible Furnace," he explained, "engineered to achieve temperatures your open forge cannot. This new charcoal will allow us to liquefy the iron within these ceramic crucibles."
His voice resonated with conviction. "Inside the crucible, we command the process. We will purge impurities and introduce additional elements. The result is a steel that is purer, lighter, and stronger."
Mikken glanced from the diagram Jon had sketched in the dirt to the young man's determined face. "Sounds like Smith's magic, lad," he conceded, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.
"Not magic," Jon countered. "Science."
The blacksmith grunted. "Alright," he muttered, more to himself. "I'll attempt it. But if my beard is singed, the cost is yours."
A faint smile touched Jon's lips. "A fair bargain."
Weeks later, the first charcoal kiln stood complete. Hardwood from the Wolfswood was rendered into pure, light, energy-rich charcoal.
Jon and Mikken stood before their second creation: the Crucible Furnace. The brick and clay structure radiated potential.
In the chamber's heart, the furnace roared. Fed by the refined charcoal, the fire within blazed with a blinding white intensity. The heat was immense, yet Jon felt only a pleasant warmth, a benefit of his 'Heat Resistance' skill.
Mikken, his face flushed and beaded with sweat, appeared far less comfortable. "By the Gods, Jon! What manner of heat is this?"
Following Jon's directions, Mikken placed a sealed ceramic crucible into the furnace. It contained a blend of iron ore, charcoal, and other "secret ingredients" known only to Jon.
They waited. Time seemed to stretch as the furnace performed its alchemy.
With a great heave, they retrieved the incandescent crucible and poured its molten contents into a small ingot mold. The liquid metal shimmered like quicksilver.
Once cooled, the process yielded a small, clean-grey ingot. Mikken lifted it, testing its weight. He tapped it with a hammer; the sound was a clear, high-pitched ring.
"It's… light," he breathed, his eyes wide with astonishment.
With held breath, Mikken set the ingot upon the anvil. Under his hammer, a marvel unfolded. The metal seemed to dance beneath his strikes, yielding yet unbreakable.
Hours later, Mikken held an unfinished short-sword, his expression one of awe. The blade possessed a strange luster, as if it drank the light.
"I've never worked a metal like this," Mikken whispered. "It's strong, yet not brittle. It's…"
"Ice Steel," Jon finished for him. "And this is only the beginning."
The workshop door swung open, admitting a blast of frigid air. Two Winterfell guards entered, their leather armor appearing rigid in the oppressive heat.
"Jon Snow," one announced. "Lord Stark summons you."
Jon's heart quickened. A summons from his father during his work was a rare event.
"Mikken," Jon's tone refocused. "Cool the remaining ingots slowly. Document the charcoal consumption. I need precise metrics."
Mikken nodded, his gaze still fixed on the blade in his hand.
Jon cast a last look over the workshop before following the guards. The abrupt temperature shift was a shock. His mind raced, searching for the reason behind the summons.
The solar was thick with tension when Jon arrived. Lord Eddard Stark stood at the window, his gaze lost in the snowy courtyard. Ser Rodrik Cassel stood beside him, his posture rigid, his expression grim.
"Lord Stark," Jon greeted with a slight bow.
Ned turned. His face was etched with a weariness Jon had never witnessed. "Jon. There is news. I have informed Robb and the others."
"What is it?"
Ned's eyes fell to a letter on his desk. "King Robert has called the banners," he stated, direct and somber. "House Greyjoy has rebelled. They burned the Lannister fleet at Lannisport."
Jon's world stilled. The Greyjoy Rebellion. He knew of it, but its arrival was a different reality.
"I sail with the King," Ned continued, his voice unwavering. "We depart at dawn."
Dawn? Jon's heart plunged. So soon? His plan to re-arm the Northern forces with 'Ice Steel' was in its infancy. There is not enough time.
As if sensing Jon's dismay, Ned's look sharpened. "Continue your work in my absence," he commanded. "The North requires your strength now more than ever. Press on with your projects. Maester Luwin will provide for your needs."
It was not a request. It was an order. An acknowledgment.
Jon stood in silence, wrestling with a storm of emotions. He did not fear for his father's life. Still, a cold unease settled in him, a whisper that his presence had altered the course of events.
"I understand, Father," Jon replied, his voice firmer than he felt.
Sleep eluded Jon that night. He paced the castle walls, the cold air a sharp bite against his cheeks.
He discovered Robb on a stone balcony overlooking a deserted training yard. His brother stood alone, his typically straight shoulders slumped.
"Robb?"
Robb started, then turned, his face a pale mask in the moonlight. "Jon. I did not hear you approach."
"I could not sleep either," Jon said, moving to stand beside him.
A quiet settled between them, punctuated by the wind's mournful howl.
"He leaves tomorrow," Robb said, his voice low and hoarse. He stared into the darkness below. "And I… I am left to be the 'Lord of Winterfell'."
Jon remained quiet, allowing him the space to speak.
Robb let out a bitter snort, a sound alien to his usual character. "I am meant to be honored, am I not? To rule Winterfell." He spoke the title like a curse.
He met Jon's eyes, his own usually confident gaze now clouded with doubt. "Father entrusts me with the North's safety. With everyone's protection." His voice fell to a whisper. "What if I fail him, Jon? What if I am not as strong as he believes?"
Jon studied his brother. The heir of Winterfell vanished, replaced by a vulnerable boy, his young shoulders trembling beneath an invisible burden.
"No one expects you to be him," Jon said gently. "Your duty is to hold Winterfell and keep our family safe until his return."
He paused. "You are his heir. You will command the guards. That is your charge." Jon's gaze drifted toward his darkened workshop. "I will manage the rest. I will ensure 'Winter's Spirit' continues to flow and the furnaces remain lit. We will make the North so strong that none will dare threaten us again."
Robb regarded Jon, truly seeing him for perhaps the first time that night—not as the awkward half-brother, but as the one person who understood the crushing weight on his shoulders.
"Together," Robb stated, more a realization than a question.
"Together," Jon affirmed with a nod.
They stood in shared silence, two boys forced into manhood too soon. Like ReplyReport Reactions:DahakStaz, LudocielTheFlash, Direfox and 19 othersNoerSyToday at 5:21 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks 9: Young Wolf's Reign View contentNoerSyNot too sore, are you?Today at 5:21 AMAdd bookmark#9Dawn fractured over Winterfell's grey towers in a cold, pale blue spectrum. Morning light ghosted across the frost-covered courtyard, transforming stone and grass into a crystalline tapestry. The air, sharp in the lungs, carried the scent of damp Wolfswood pine and the promise of a coming winter.
On the granite walls, torches that had burned through the night flickered, their orange flames pale against the dawn. A giant direwolf banner hung, majestic, its thick wool displaying a snarling wolf's head in menacing detail. Restless whinnies and the clink of armor fractured the silence—a somber soundtrack for departure.
In the middle of this cold stage, Lord Eddard Stark sat tall on his warhorse, the lines around his eyes etched deeper than usual. Beside him, Ser Rodrik Cassel surveyed the surroundings, his eyes wary, his thick white beard stiff with frost. Behind them, a small group of hard-faced Northern soldiers gathered, an embodiment of their land: tough, uncompromising, and deadly silent.
Catelyn Stark stood, a stiff figure near the tower stairs, holding a sleeping Bran. Her face was a mask of composure, but her knuckles were white where she gripped her son's blanket. At her side, seven-year-old Robb struggled to imitate his father's stoicism, his chin lifted with a shaky resolve. Sansa stood beside her mother, posture perfect, containing her tears with a future lady's grace. Arya, in contrast, stood with a pouting lip and folded arms, her grey Stark eyes watery as she stared at her father.
Further off, cloaked in the gate's shadows, Jon Snow watched. His dark wool cloak merged with the dawn, rendering him almost invisible. His posture radiated a measured calm, a strategist analyzing a battlefield.
A sharp surrealism enveloped him. I should not be here. He was an ordinary man from the 21st century. Now, he occupied a child's body in a fantasy novel, a witness to a scene that should only exist on paper.
Lord Stark rode to war. The project now rested entirely in his hands.
He glanced at Catelyn; he could feel her distant gaze even from a distance. A different obstacle was presented by the woman's frozen hostility, not steel or steam. He had to forge the North's future under the eye of a woman who saw living proof of her husband's infidelity in his face.
Ned dismounted, a steady movement, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet courtyard. He placed a leather-gloved hand on his son's shoulder.
"From this day forth," his voice was grave, "you are the Lord of Winterfell in my stead." He paused, his grey eyes locked with Robb's, burning with intensity. "Heed Maester Luwin. Trust your council, but the final judgment must be yours. Keep the peace. And protect our family."
He paused, his voice quieter but still firm. "You are a Stark of Winterfell. You will not fail."
Robb swallowed and could only nod. "Yes, Father."
Ned's gaze crossed the courtyard to find Jon's. Their brief nod held more than acknowledgment. Jon returned it with equal firmness.
After that, Ned approached his family. He knelt to hug Arya, whose tears finally broke free. "Be good, little one," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. A brief touch to Sansa's cheek, a kiss on sleeping Bran's forehead, and he rose to face Catelyn. Their farewell kiss was formal.
Goodbyes exchanged, Ned mounted his horse. He led his retinue through the main gate without a backward glance. The sound of hooves faded, leaving the courtyard vast, empty, and cold.
The moment his father vanished, Robb's mask of strength crumbled. His lips trembled, a failed attempt to contain his emotions.
Before she turned inside, Catelyn's gaze fell on Jon. The sorrow in her eyes hardened into ice shards. She narrowed her eyes, analyzing his calm posture, the significant nod from her husband. The bastard, she thought, a bitter taste in her mouth, what project are he and Ned planning behind my back? Wordlessly, she pulled a sniffling Arya closer and herded her into the castle's warmth, abandoning Jon to the biting cold.
The guards dispersed. The once-bustling courtyard fell silent, deserted but for Robb and Jon. Robb stared at the empty gate, his small shoulders slumped. Jon approached him, his steps measured.
Jon waited, patient, before breaking the silence. "As I said last night," his voice was calm but firm, "we do this together."
He paused. "So, what is our first move, My Lord?"
The title made Robb flinch. "First move? Jon, I... I do not know where to begin!" Robb exclaimed, his voice cracking. "Mother and Maester Luwin and Poole are waiting in Father's solar now. They will look to me for orders."
Jon stepped closer, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor. "They will not look down on you," he said, his tone firm. "You are a Stark. You are the Lord of Winterfell. That title flows in your blood, brother."
He looked straight into his brother's eyes. "Yes, you are young. Your youth is a fact, not a weakness. Use it. Listen to all their opinions. Maester Luwin has served Winterfell for decades. Vayon Poole knows every penny in the treasury. Your mother... she understands politics better than most men in the North."
Jon clapped Robb on the shoulder, a steady, firm touch. "Consider their advice, then decide. The last word is yours. Do not be afraid to ask questions." Jon leaned in, his voice softening. "And remember, I will always have your back. Always."
A small notification flickered in his vision.
{ Skill Acquired!
- Persuasion
*Your words now carry greater weight, making it easier to inspire and guide others.*
}
A few days later, Robb faced his first test. Two farmers, faces flushed with anger, stood before the great oak table in his father's solar. The room felt stuffy with tension.
"That land's been Blackwood land for five generations, m'lord!" the tall one declared. "The marker stone is plain as day!"
"He moved the stone himself, is what he did!" the stocky one shot back. "The river changed its course. That makes the new soil common land!"
Robb sat in his father's oversized chair, his hands sweating. He glanced at his mother, who sat in the corner. Her sharp eyes were assessing, offering no help, only observation.
That night, Robb stormed into the library. Jon was bent over a thick architectural tome.
"I do not know what to do," Robb confessed, the words rushing out. "The law is the law, but... it does not feel just. Whichever way I rule, one will name me their enemy."
Jon marked his page, his movements calm. "Forget the law for a moment," he said, his voice low. "And forget about being hated. A lord cannot please everyone." He leaned forward. "What does the land itself say? Which part is more fertile? Who depends more on the disputed plot?"
Robb frowned. "I... do not know."
"Then find out," Jon said. "A Lord does not just dispense law from a chair, Robb. He tends to his people. Send someone to inspect the land."
Amidst the bustle of calculations and plans, Jon never forgot Arya. He sought her out on a cold afternoon and found her in the ancient silence of the Godswood. The air there was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a silence broken only by the rustle of wind through the branches.
She was there, near the giant roots of the old weirwood tree, her tiny figure a stark contrast to the tree's majesty. The tree's face seemed to watch her with its red, sappy eyes. Two-year-old Arya tapped a twig against a protruding root. "Tap, tap, tap," she muttered, lost in her own world.
A faint, genuine smile touched Jon's lips. The little wolf cub, already trying to sharpen her claws. Beneath the innocence, he saw the seeds of the formidable woman she would become. A profound, heartwarming responsibility settled in his heart. He had to protect her.
He stepped forward, his boots a faint rustle on the dead leaves. "Arya?" he called, his voice soft.
The little girl turned, her grey eyes—the same Stark eyes as his—shining with delight. "Jon!" she squealed, her high-pitched voice shattering the silence. She dropped her twig and held up her small hands. "Up! Up!"
A small laugh escaped Jon, a rare sound. He knelt on the cold ground, heedless of the dirt on his trousers. "And what are you doing, little wolf? Fighting a tree?"
Arya giggled, her laughter like a small bell. She pointed at the root she had been attacking. "Mean!"
"Oh, a very mean root," Jon agreed with a mock-serious tone. He reached out and lifted her. She felt so light. He pulled Arya into his arms, and her flailing hand caught his cheek. The touch was light, but it startled them both.
The little girl's eyes widened, and her lower lip began to tremble. A small, heartbreaking sob escaped her throat.
"Shh, it's okay, sweetling. It was nothing," Jon whispered, his heart sinking. He began a slow walk, circling the black pool that mirrored the grey sky. He needed to calm her, and a melody from his lost world surfaced in his mind. A song full of nostalgia.
He began to hum, and then the words flowed, a soft whisper in the cold air.
"♪ Whatever the truth or lies... Tell me some reason why... Logic for adults can't sway me... ♪"
Arya's frantic sobs subsided into small, curious hiccups. She rested her head on Jon's shoulder, her small ear attentive. The warmth of her body was a contrast to the cold air around them.
Jon continued to walk and sing, his voice growing steadier as he remembered more of the lyrics. The song was about a promise, about being there for someone no matter how chaotic things got. A promise he was making to himself, for this child.
"♪ When you flip out... I'll calm you down by your side... As always we feel it the same... ♪"
Arya's breathing deepened, becoming regular. The tension bled from her small body as she fell asleep on his shoulder, leaving a damp trail of tears on his cloak. Jon stopped before the weirwood, enveloped in the ancient silence of the Godswood. He looked at Arya's peaceful face, the weight of his knowledge a heavy burden.
{ Skill Acquired!
- Singing
*Grants the ability to sing soothing melodies that can move other emotion.*
}
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgvZhjAcvwYClick to expand...
Weeks passed. Morning frost yielded to a thin blanket of snow. The days shortened, and long nights filled with a new industry. In his father's solar, Robb navigated a sea of parchments and petitions. Elsewhere, Jon stoked the fires of his own revolution.
Mikken's forge expanded into a small complex behind the barracks. The new Crucible Furnace and Charcoal Kiln rose, their thick black smoke a constant plume against the grey sky.
One afternoon, Jon stood with Mikken in the hot, noisy forge. The air was thick with the acrid smell of charcoal, hot metal, and sweat. They observed one of the first Ice Steel swords, just finished, its greyish blade gleamed, a menace in the dim light.
"By the Gods," Mikken muttered, his voice a hoarse sound barely audible over the hiss of embers and the clang of hammers. "This thing... it's too light. Yet so strong." His experienced eyes widened in amazement as he tested the blade. "It feels like Valyrian steel."
A faint smile touched Jon's lips, the heat beading sweat on his forehead. "Science, Mikken. Carbon and the right temperature."
Initial skepticism in Winter Town melted as profits from "Winter's Spirit" funneled back to the people. Through a trusted agent, Larence, Jon offered interest-free loans for home improvements and small businesses. This trust, purchased with action, proved more valuable than gold.
Such activity could not go unnoticed. One day, Lady Catelyn summoned Vayon Poole to solar.
"I note a significant increase in expenditures in the ledgers, Master Poole," Catelyn said, her calm tone a shard of ice. Her knitting needles stopped. "Large quantities of charcoal. Iron ore. Wages for more workers... Explain what this is all for."
Vayon Poole bowed, his face a calm, unreadable mask. "Preparations for a long winter, My Lady. Lord Stark gave specific orders before he left."
Catelyn's eyes narrowed. The answer was too neat. She did not press, but gave a slow nod.
Night fell. When Jon returned to his cold room, he found he missed the feeling of exhaustion; even sleep had lost its appeal. He stared through the window at the dark expanse of the Wolfswood. The wheels of his plan turned, but the satisfaction was a hollow thing, replaced by the chill of knowledge he carried alone.
The Greyjoy war was a mere ripple on the surface. The veritable storm gathered beyond the Wall, and only he could hear its whispers.
{ Gain Exp!
You gain 25xp form [Get loyal subordinates]!
}
{ Player Level Up!
- Level: 2 --> 3
- You have gained 1 stat points.
} Like ReplyReport Reactions:DahakStaz, Omega_Endbringer, LudocielTheFlash and 27 othersNoerSyToday at 5:21 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarksView content