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297 AC
From dawn until long after sunset, the air above the Weeping River rang with the sound of iron on iron, wood on stone and mallets striking pegs, saws biting into timber, and the low, constant groan of ropes pulled taut under enormous strain.
Gulls wheeled overhead in screaming clouds, competing with the shouts of foremen and the creaks of cranes whose arms towered over a many things within the vicinity.
A mile upriver from the estuary where the Weeping River spilled into the cold grey sea, Redport had risen. It was a place planned before it was born, marked out by bravosi and northern surveyor's, with lines and chalked measurements creating expansive symmetries before the first stone was laid.
This place was to be a symbol of diversity and modern architectural techniques wrought from bravos and developed here within bolton lands.
It wasn't gonna be reminiscent of older towns which grew around wells or keeps, no. Redport grew around slipways, dry docks, and quays.
It was not a town that happened to come into existence overnight, surely not. For it was a town already yet surely turning into a city.
The riverbank had been carved back and reinforced with stone revetments, each block quarried inland and hauled down newly laid roads wide enough for two wagons abreast.
Timber pilings were driven deep into the riverbed just as they always did to soft soil to build upon, before being capped with iron collars forged in Bolton smithies.
Upon these rested the first great docks, already crowded with hulls in every stage of completion.
Ships lay everywhere.
Some were nothing more than skeletal frames, ribs arcing skyward like the bones of beached leviathans. Others were half-planked, their hulls bristling with scaffolds as carpenters swarmed over them like ants. A few, freshly tarred and caulked, sat ready for launching, their prows carved with simple but purposeful designs, no wastage on gilded lions or dragons, but clean points meant for speed, cargo, and endurance.
Above it all rose the cranes.
Massive wooden structures, their towers built from layered oak beams bound with iron straps and pegged joints. Each stood taller than the tallest mast, anchored by stone bases sunk deep into the earth. Counterweights with great boxes filled with stone hung from their rears, allowing a single team of men to lift loads that would have taken hundreds by hand.
They swung slowly, deliberately, lifting masts, keels, prefabricated hull sections, even entire wagons of supplies, depositing them exactly where they were needed.
Their pulleys were maintained daily, their ropes inspected by guild-certified hands and specialists, their arms replaced piece by piece rather than allowed to fail.
And with this show of construction going on in the town scaffolding had also made it obvious, with it wrapping around every major structure like a second skin.
Warehouses rose along the banks , long and rectangular, built of stone foundations and wooden frames, their interiors vast enough to swallow entire ships. Inside, grain, sugar beets, furs, steel ingots, tar barrels, rope coils, and crates of Essosi spices were stacked in orderly rows, each marked with painted symbols denoting ownership, destination, and tax status.
Nothing was left to chance.
Beyond the shipyards lay the workers' quarters, already more organized than many ancient towns. Streets were laid out in grids rather than winding paths, wide enough for carts and foot traffic alike. Drainage channels ran along their edges, carrying runoff into covered sewers that emptied downstream from the docks. Wells were evenly spaced, capped with stone housings to prevent contamination.
Aqueducts even, a simple but effective solution , also brought fresh water from higher ground, feeding public fountains and bathhouses still under construction.
The topic of waste and sewage was carried away, not dumped into the river as so many coastal towns did. Disease, Lord Bolton believed was not something he would like to imagine sprouting up in his lands.
Housing also rose quickly. Not shanties, but sturdy wooden apartments, two and three stories tall, their lower levels often given over to workshops or storage.
Above, families lived shipwrights, rope-makers, sail weavers, blacksmiths, clerks, merchants, scholars, fishermen and laborers. Rent was standardized, posted publicly, and maintained by charter.
No man could double prices simply because demand had risen. And that alone drew people. They came from across the North, second sons with no inheritance, widows seeking stability, farmers whose surplus crops were now worth hauling west rather than east.
And more came yet from further still, Braavosi craftsmen, Myrish engineers, Pentoshi accountants, even a few Summer Islanders skilled in rigging and sail design.
And they came freed.
Men and women once enslaved in Essos worked alongside northerners, their terms of service clearly defined, their wages recorded, their future not owned by another. They were watched, certainly, and bound by law, but they were not property.
And in time, many took apprentices of their own. The guild charter only formalized what Redport had already become.
Under the Guild of the Redport, trades were categorized and regulated. Shipwrights certified shipwrights. Masons inspected stonework. Blacksmiths stamped marks onto finished goods, marks that meant something—marks that carried liability. Fraud became punishable not by a lord's whim but by fines, loss of certification, or expulsion from the guild entirely.
For Lord Domeric Bolton, it was control without micromanagement , and it was orderly.
Even the shipbuilding yards themselves were divided by functionality. One stretch of river was reserved for rivercraft—shallow-draft barges and patrol vessels meant to move goods inland.
Further downstream lay the ocean yards, where deep-keel merchant cogs, carracks and armed traders took shape. And at the far end, closest to the estuary, were the military slips, fenced and guarded, where the warships were assembled under stricter oversight.
Each yard had its own cranes, its own storehouses, its own foremen. Timber arrived pre-cut from inland forests, floated downstream in controlled rafts, sorted by type and cure. Oak for keels. Pine for masts. Ash for oars. Every piece logged, every loss accounted for.
Tar pits smoked day and night, their black fumes drifting over the water. Ropewalks stretched long and straight along the outskirts of the city, where hemp fibers were twisted into cables thick enough to moor ships against storms.
Sail lofts bustled with weavers stitching canvas treated with new oils that resisted rot better than anything previously used in the North.
Innovation was not only encouraged it was expected by all of those under Domeric Bolton's banner.
Beyond the industrial heart, civic buildings also rose. A guildhall of stone and timber, its great doors reinforced with iron bands.
Administrative offices where contracts were registered and disputes settled. AA modest sept, built not at the city's center but off to one side, acknowledging faith without allowing its dominance.
Training yards lay near the docks, where dockhands learned to do their tasks as well as lift, trained to defend the city if raiders ever came. Watchtowers overlooked both river and road, their signals tied into a wider network stretching back toward Acanon and inland settlements.
Redport and Acanon were not rivals.
They were complements.
Acanon, larger and older by a few months, handled the bulk of storage and international trade. Its harbors were deeper, its markets more diverse. Redport was its engine—the place where ships were born, repaired, and improved. Together, they formed a loop of production and distribution unlike anything the North had ever seen.
Already, the effects rippled outward.
Merchants planned routes around Redport's launch schedules. Ship captains waited months in advance for hull slots. Contracts were signed seasons ahead. The Iron Bank's agents walked the docks quietly, taking notes and writing letters.
But even they could not deny the results.
Coin flowed west. Steel flowed out. Roads connected places once separated by weeks of travel. And for the first time, since the burning of the the Northern fleet and House Manderly's coming, the north possessed not just ships but a new shipbuilding culture.
Redport was still unfinished. Half its streets were mud between stones. Half its buildings stood wrapped in scaffolding. Cranes still rose on the horizon like wooden forests. But it was already more than a port.
It was a statement.
That the North would no longer rely on others to make their wealth for them. Neither would they rely on them to help them in their times of need.
They would work hard and rely on the strength of their community, land and lord.
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