Life Weaver (ASOIAF / WORM-OC SI)

[Hordac]

LW 28

The captain's quarters filled one by one, heavy with lamplight and irritation.

Runa entered first, cloak half-thrown over her shoulders, eyes sharp despite the hour. "If this is about a loose crate or a drunken deckhand," she said coolly, "Ivar, I will curse your hair to fall off."

Hjalti followed, scowling, rubbing a hand over his face. "Hjalti was dreaming of fighting," he muttered. "Fire that behaved. Hjalti was winning! Waking Hjalti for nonsense will make Hjalti mad."

Erik came in last, hair still loose, expression unreadable but distinctly unimpressed. "You don't call meetings in the middle of the night unless there's an emergency," he said. "Is there an emergency?"

Ivar waited until the door was shut before answering. "Not yet."

Runa exhaled sharply. "Then this had better be worth it"

Stigr slipped in behind them, barefoot and grinning, looking far too awake. "Hey, at least the moon's nice tonight."

Runa shot him a look that could curdle milk. "You are the reason people throw others overboard."

Erik rapped his knuckles once against the table. The sound cut through the grumbling cleanly. "Enough."

Silence settled, reluctant but complete.

"Sit," he said. "All of you."

They did, or in Runa's case, leaned with obvious defiance.

Ivar's eyes locked onto Stigr. "Tell them."

Stigr scratched the back of his head, then grinned faintly, the expression jarringly light for the moment. "Right. So. Levi says we've got company."

Runa's eyes narrowed. "Define company."

"Five ships," Stigr said easily. "Far back. They're spread out but all of them have been following us ever since we left Braavos. Moving like they don't want to be seen, but also don't want to lose us."

Hjalti straightened. "How far?"

Stigr tilted his head, listening to something only he could hear. "Levi says far enough that you'd miss them if you weren't looking for trouble. Close enough that they can follow without being spotted easily."

Erik pushed off the wall. "You are sure?"

Stigr's grin faded, replaced by something older and stranger. "Levi know what he's seeing. He smarter than the other beasts"

A brief silence followed.

Runa broke it with a soft, humorless laugh. "Of course," she said. "We leave Braavos rich and intact, and suddenly the sea grows teeth."

Ivar leaned forward, fingers drumming once against the table. "Privateers," he said. "Most likely hired by Braavos"

Hjalti looked to Erik. "Orders?"

Runa spoke before he could. "Running only confirms we're worth chasing. Fighting four unknowns in open water is idiotic. And pretending this is coincidence is insulting."

Her eyes flicked to Ivar. "So what game are they playing?"

Ivar smiled, sharp and joyless. "The same one everyone plays when they smell blood. They want to know where we're going. What we're hiding. And whether we're weak."

Erik exhaled slowly. "Then we assume they're watching and waiting for an opening."

Ivar nodded. "Which means we don't give them one."

Hjalti's hand drifted to the hilt of his weapon. "Or we turn around and take one of them apart. Make an example."

Runa's gaze sharpened. "And announce to the rest that we noticed? No. Let them believe they're ghosts."

Ivar looked between them, eyes gleaming. "Good. Let them follow. Let them learn just enough to keep following us. Then we lure them into a trap they can't escape from and sink them one by one."

Erik shook his head, slow and deliberate.

"No," he said. "We don't sink them"

Runa's eyes flicked to him at once. Ivar's smile thinned.

"Why sink them," Erik continued calmly, "when they're presenting us with the perfect opportunity?"

Hjalti frowned. "Hjalti likes sinking," he said. "Sinking ends problems."

"It ends the opportunity for gathering information," Erik replied. "And wastes resources."

Ivar tilted his head, studying him. "You want prisoners."

"I want ships and prisoners both" Erik said. "Crews. Knowledge. Names. Who hired them. Who they report to. Where they think we're going and what they think we carry."

Runa's expression shifted, interest sharpening. "And when they don't talk?"

"They will," Erik said evenly. "Because we won't treat them like enemies. We'll treat them like men who made a bad calculation."

Ivar let out a low laugh. "You're assuming we can take four ships cleanly."

Erik met his gaze. "I'm assuming they underestimate us. Everyone does."

Hjalti scratched his beard. "Hjalti can board," he said. "Hjalti can take one ship alone."

Runa nodded slowly. "Captured ships mean deniability," she said. "Privateers vanish all the time. Especially incompetent ones."

Ivar's grin returned, wider now, more dangerous. "Fine," he said. "We don't sink them."

He leaned forward, palms on the table. "We take them on. Quietly."

Erik inclined his head once. "Exactly. And then we decide whether we keep the ships, sell them, or send them back carrying a message."

Runa's smile was thin and sharp. "Nothing terrifies the powerful like survivors who owe their lives to restraint."

Stigr beamed. "Levi will like this plan," he said. "It has drama."

Ivar straightened. "Then it's settled. We let them follow. We choose the ground. And when they think they've found their moment…"

He looked at each of them in turn.

"…they discover they were never the hunters."

The ship creaked softly around them, the sea whispering against the hull, already conspiring.

He turned back to Stigr. "Tell Levi to keep his distance and his eyes open."

Stigr's smile returned, wide and unbothered. "Already done."

The lamp flickered as the ship rolled, the sea murmuring against the hull like a held breath.

Four ships followed them through the dark, unaware that they had already been seen and their roles were soon about to be reversed.

------

For three weeks they let the distance hold.

The four ships remained behind them like patient scars on the horizon, never closing, never falling away. It was exactly what Erik wanted. Too far to force a fight, too close to resist temptation. Each day that passed carried them farther from Braavos and closer to home, where every captured hull would matter and every crewman could be spared.

They delayed the strike for a simple reason. Even victory had limits. Taking ships was useless if they lacked the hands to sail them, and Erik would not trade foresight for bravado. Better to wait, to thin the distance, to ensure that when the net closed it would not tear under its own weight.

Midway through the third week, they changed course.

Instead of turning west and then hugging the Westeros' coast northward as planned, Erik and Ivar redrew the route entirely. The Obsidian Leaf angled away from familiar waters, cutting a hard diagonal across the open sea. It shaved days off the journey, but it also carried risk. Deeper water. Fewer ships. Nowhere to hide if the weather turned or the pursuers chose to strike all at once.

The trailing ships followed without hesitation.

That, more than anything, confirmed Erik's suspicions. Sailors tended to fear going into deeper waters. Those who did were either desperate or ordered to continue at any cost.

The nights grew darker. The swells grew longer and heavier. The world narrowed to wind, water, and the thin thread of patience holding the hunt together.

The moon thinned with each passing dusk, shrinking from a pale coin to a ragged sliver, until the sea lay under a lid of darkness so complete it swallowed sound and distance alike. The four shadows behind them remained, patient and confident, never guessing that patience was being measured against them.

At the end of the fourth week when they were close to Weirstad, Ivar gave the word.

Lanterns were shuttered until the Obsidian Leaf became little more than a darker stain against the water. Oars were shipped and muffled, sail eased to a whisper. The ship slid sideways on the tide, silent as breath held in a throat.

Below deck, Erik moved among the crew.

"Eyes," he said simply.

His hand brushed foreheads, one after another. A brief warmth, a pressure behind the eyes, then the world changed. Darkness thinned. Edges sharpened. The sea glimmered faintly, every ripple outlined in ghostly contrast. Faces emerged from shadow, pupils wide, reflecting like those of hunting cats.

A murmur ran through the crew, cut short by Ivar's raised fist.

Ahead, one of the trailing galleys loomed, its silhouette careless, lanterns dim but present, oars resting. They had grown lazy.

"Boarding teams," Ivar whispered. "Go."

Small boats slipped into the water without a splash, oars dipping in perfect unison. Hjalti stood at the prow of the lead skiff, grin pale in the dark.

"Hjalti likes cat eyes," he murmured. "Now Hjalti can smash stupid foes just as well in the dark."

They reached the galley's flank unseen.

The first grenades thrown in didn't release fire, but with stink and smoke.

Clay spheres shattered against the deck, bursting into choking clouds of stench so foul it stole breath and thought alike. Shouts erupted instantly, confused and panicked, followed by retching. Before the crew could rally, a second volley arced in.

Smoke.

Thick, black, clinging smoke poured across the deck, swallowing lantern light, turning the galley into a blind, coughing thing adrift in the dark. Men stumbled, colliding with one another, shouting orders no one could see to follow.

Then the sticky grenades struck.

They slapped wetly against wood, against railings, against armor, hardening in seconds, binding limbs, freezing oars, sealing hatches. One man went down screaming as his feet glued to the deck. Another tore at his hands, only to trap them together.

And then Erik's crew was among them. Their cat eyes allowed them to see n the dark and the wet rags tied in front of thoer mouth prevented them form becoming victims of their own grenades.

They moved like ghosts.

Where the enemy saw nothing but darkness and smoke, Erik's people saw everything. Cat-bright eyes cut through the gloom. Blades struck hilts, not throats. Clubs cracked against shoulders. Men were disarmed, tripped, pinned before they understood they were under attack.

Hjalti vaulted the rail, taking two men down with him in a tangle of limbs and curses. "Hjalti says drop your arms and give up," he growled, planting a knee. "Or Hjalti hacks off your arms."

At the helm, Ivar appeared out of the smoke, grin white and feral. He drove the captain backward with the flat of his blade, kicked his legs from under him, and pressed steel to his throat.

"Quiet," Ivar whispered. "You're already beaten."

Within minutes it was over.

The smoke thinned. The stench lingered. The deck was a chaos of bound men, coughing and groaning, eyes wide with shock. A handful nursed bruises or shallow cuts. Two of Erik's crew sat against the rail, bloodied but grinning, injuries already being tended.

No bodies floated in the water.

No alarm reached the other ships.

The captured galley drifted under new hands as lines were thrown and secured. The Obsidian Leaf slid alongside like a predator reclaiming its kill.

Erik stepped onto the enemy deck and looked around once, calm as ever.

"One," he said quietly.

Far out in the dark, three more ships sailed on, unaware that the tables had been turned and it was the hunters that were being hunted.

The second galley fell much the same way.

Darkness, silence, then filth and smoke. Grenades burst and spread panic faster than flame ever could. Sticky resin locked feet to planks and sealed hatches before a single clear order could be given. Cat-eyed figures moved through the chaos with brutal restraint, breaking resistance without breaking bodies. When it was over, the deck was theirs, the enemy bound and coughing, and not a single corpse marked the water.

Their only cost was a handful of bruises, a cracked rib, a deep cut along one forearm. Erik moved among them without ceremony, light flaring briefly beneath his hands as pain faded and flesh knit. Within minutes, the injured were back on their feet.

Then the light changed.

The horizon paled. Smoke thinned into gray wisps. And too late, the third ship saw.

A horn sounded, harsh and urgent, cutting across the water. The third galley swung hard, oars biting, turning not toward the Obsidian Leaf but toward its remaining ally.

Runa swore softly. "Dawn," she said.

Erik was already moving. "No," he replied. "That was expected."

Orders snapped out fast and clean. Only a skeleton crew remained aboard the second captured ship, just enough to finish binding prisoners and hold the deck. The rest withdrew at once, skiffs racing back to the Obsidian Leaf as the two enemy galleys closed ranks and surged forward together.

They meant to overwhelm the prize before Erik could return.

They did not make it halfway.

"Stigr," Erik said, already gripping the rail. "Now."

Stigr's grin was wild and eager. He planted his feet, eyes rolling back as the sea itself seemed to inhale.

Levi answered.

Far beneath the surface, something vast shifted. The water ahead of the advancing galleys bulged unnaturally, the swell rising too fast, too steep. Sailors shouted warnings. Oars faltered.

Then the wave rose.

It was not a storm surge or a rolling swell, but a single, towering wall of water driven by living force. The sea heaved upward as if punched from below, the crest curling and darkening as it rushed toward the ships.

The first galley barely had time to turn its bow before the wave struck.

The impact was thunderous. The ship reeled sideways, oars snapping, men thrown screaming across the deck. The second ship slammed into the trough behind it, masts groaning, rigging tearing as water poured over the rails. One vessel nearly capsized outright, saved only by frantic ballast dumping and pure luck.

Both ships lost way at once.

They wallowed, decks awash, formations shattered, crews scrambling just to stay upright.

"That buys us time," Ivar said, teeth bared in delight.

"More than time," Erik replied.

The Obsidian Leaf surged forward, sails catching, oars biting deep. Boarding hooks were readied. Grenades were brought up again, fresh and waiting.

Ahead, the enemy ships struggled in the aftermath of the leviathan's passing, broken, disordered, and very suddenly aware that they were no longer advancing.

They were about to be taken.

The Obsidian Leaf cut through the churned water like a blade through flesh.

The enemy crews were still fighting the sea when the first grenades flew.

Stink burst across soaked decks, mixing with salt and bilge until men gagged and slipped on their own panic. Smoke followed, thick and oily, clinging low where the wind could not strip it away. Shouts dissolved into coughing. Orders turned into screams.

"Again," Ivar barked, laughing as another wave of chaos bloomed.

Boarding lines snapped tight. Hooks bit into rail and mast. The Obsidian Leaf slammed alongside the nearer galley, hulls grinding as Erik's crew poured across.

Cat eyes flared in the half-light of dawn, cutting through smoke and spray alike. Wet rags were pulled tight. The enemy, already shaken by the leviathan's strike, broke almost instantly. Men tried to run and found their feet glued fast. Others raised weapons only to have them torn from their hands and hurled aside.

Hjalti hit the deck like a falling hammer. And with a roar, flattened one man with a shield bash and driving another to his knees.

Ivar moved faster than seemed possible, a pale blur between bodies. He struck tendons, wrists, hilts. Pain, not death. Control, not slaughter. Wherever he went, resistance collapsed into submission.

On the second galley, the wave had done even more damage. Waterlogged oars hung uselessly. Men clung to rigging as Erik himself crossed over, boots splashing through pooled seawater. A sailor lunged at him in blind terror.

'Time for some psychological warfare' he thought 'I'll scare them into surrendering'

Erik caught the man's wrist and twisted. Bones cracked. The knife hit the deck along with the sailor.

"Enough," Erik said, his voice calm and carrying even through the smoke.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then something changed.

A low, unfamiliar tension rippled through Erik's frame, subtle at first, like a tightening coil. Muscles thickened beneath skin, cords standing out along his forearms and neck as his biotinkered flesh answered his will. The fatigue of battle vanished from his posture, replaced by effortless, predatory strength that wouldnnot last for long but was perfect for the intimidating show he was about to pull off.

The injured sailor who had lunged at him tried to crawl away.

Erik did not let him.

He reached out, closed one hand around the man's throat, and lifted.

Not a shove. Not a struggle. Just a smooth, casual rise, until the man's boots dangled a full arm's length above the deck. He kicked once, weakly, hands clawing at Erik's wrist, eyes wide with dawning terror.

Erik did not look strained. He did not even look angry.

At the same time, the sea behind him moved.

The water bulged and parted as Levi surfaced, vast and impossible, its blackened bulk rising like a living cliff just off the galley's stern. Wet flesh gleamed in the newborn light. A massive eye broke the surface, fixed on the ship.

Then came the sound.

A deep, echoing click rolled across the water, followed by a long, mournful moan that vibrated through hull and bone alike. The sea itself seemed to recoil from it.

Men froze.

Some dropped to their knees. Others stared over the rail in wordless horror, weapons slipping from numb fingers.

Erik raised the man in his grip a little higher, just enough to be unmistakable, and finally spoke again.

His gaze swept the deck, cold and absolute.

"Surrender. Drop every weapon and lie down flat on the ground. Do it now, and you might walk away from this alive"

His fingers tightened just enough to make the man scramble more desperately making the lesson clear.

"Resist," Erik continued, voice still calm, "and you will learn how small a ship feels when the sea itself decides it doesn't like you."

Behind him, Levi let out another rolling moan, closer this time, the sound reverberating through the planks beneath their feet.

The man in Erik's hand choked once.

Then Erik threw him casually and the man flew a few meters and struck the mast , the cracking sounds of even more bones breaking was heard clearly.

The sailor collapsed in a heap, gasping, alive.

Weapons hit the deck in a clattering rush.

Men dropped flat where they stood, arms spread, faces pressed to wet planks. Others scrambled to do the same, shouting surrender over one another in hoarse, panicked voices.

Within seconds, there was no resistance left to break.

Erik let the strength drain from his body as quietly as it had come. Levi sank back beneath the surface, the sea smoothing over him as if he had never been there at all.

Silence fell, broken only by labored breathing and the creak of timbers. Erik's crew quickly took over , tyring the prisoners and rendering first aid.

Ivar let out a low, appreciative laugh.
"Well," he said. "That was efficient."

Erik turned away, already done with it.

"Bind them," he ordered. "We're finished here."

Minutes later, it was done.

Both ships were secured. Crews bound. Wounded tended on both sides. Erik moved from man to man, sealing gashes, setting breaks, pulling sailors back from the edge of shock whether they wore his colors or not. No one died. No one needed to.

From the rail of the Obsidian Leaf, Runa watched the last prisoners tied off and exhaled slowly. "Four ships," she murmured. "Taken intact."

Ivar laughed outright, sharp and delighted. "Good. Let their masters wonder where their hunters went. They'll think they ran off with our loot"

Erik looked out over the captured vessels, sails slack, decks quiet at last. four prizes. four crews.

"Secure them," he said.

The sea settled behind them, smooth and innocent once more, as if it had not just risen to swallow ships at his command.

Ivar surveyed the captured ships, counting masts, hulls, and men with a veteran's eye. The thrill had faded, replaced by cold arithmetic.

"We can't sail five ships," he said at last, voice sharp with irritation. "Not with this crew. Not even close. It's a fantasy. An impossible one"

Runa folded her arms, expression cool and cutting. "I agree with the madman for once," she said dryly. "Unless you plan to conjure sailors out of seawater. Even stripped to skeleton crews, we're short. Someone will make a mistake."

Ivar turned to Erik. "We take what we can, scuttle the rest, or tow one at best. Anything else is gambling with everything."

Erik didn't reply. He simply watched the water for a moment, his mind processing dozens of ideas before settling on one .He then turned back to them. "It's possible."

Runa arched a brow. "That's not an explanation. That's a provocation."

Erik met her gaze evenly. "You like those."

She smirked despite herself.

He raised his voice, calm but carrying. "Bring everyone we took aboard in Braavos. All of them."

Ivar scoffed. "They're not sailors."

"They're not helpless either," Erik said. "And they'll learn faster than you think when I implant sailor's memories and instincts in them"

Within the hour, they stood assembled. The craftsmen. The dockhands. The down-on-their-luck former citizens of Braavos. Erik moved among them, speaking plainly, dividing them with practiced efficiency all the while implanting sailor memories with a single tap on the forehead

He mixed them deliberately. Veterans from the Obsidian Leaf paired with two or three from Braavos. Knowledge distributed, not concentrated. No ship left without experienced hands. No newcomer left without guidance.

When he was done, the expanded crew was split four ways and sent to the captured galleys.

Barely enough.

Lines were cast. Sails raised cautiously. Each ship moved uncertainly at first, then steadied as shouted orders found rhythm. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't safe.

But it worked.

Ivar studied the result, teeth bared in reluctant admiration. "Barely enough," he said. "If one man slips, the whole thing falls apart."

"That's true of everything worth doing," Erik replied.

"It's crazy" Ivar stated " but crazy enough that it might just work"

Ivar laughed, sharp and pleased. "You planned this back in Braavos."

"I plan for many things," Erik corrected. "and as many contingencies as possible"

Ivar's gaze shifted back to the Obsidian Leaf. "You've stripped us down to bone," he said. "What about our ship?"

Erik turned and pointed.

Stigr stood at the bow, feet planted, grinning like a man about to perform a trick he'd been saving. The sea around the hull was already stirring, currents bending unnaturally, as if something vast was circling just below.

"Levi alone," Erik said evenly, "is more than enough to pull us to Weirstad."

As if summoned by his name, the water surged forward. The Obsidian Leaf lurched not violently, but decisively as an immense force took hold beneath her keel. The ship began to move without oars, without wind, cutting through the sea as if drawn by an invisible chain.

Stigr laughed, wide and unbothered. "He likes helping," he said.

Runa stared at the wake, then shook her head slowly. "We're going to rewrite half the naval assumptions of this world," she murmured.

Ivar laughed, sharp and delighted. "Five ships," he said. "Captured, crewed, and moving."

He clapped Erik once on the shoulder. "Impossible," he admitted. "Apparently."

Erik watched the small fleet align, four captured galleys and the Obsidian Leaf at their heart, drawn forward by something ancient and unseen.

"Set course," he said. "We're going home."

----

Author notes

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[Hordac]

LW 29

The Caldera cliffs of Weirstad rose from the morning mist like something half-remembered from a dream.

When the horns sounded from the watchtowers, the harbor answered at once. Bells rang. Doors burst open. People poured down toward the docks in a tide of motion and disbelief as five ships came into view where only one should have been.

At the head of them all, the Obsidian Leaf glided forward, scarred, proud, and unmistakably hers.

For a long moment there was stunned silence.

Then the cheering began.

It rolled across the water, raw and unrestrained. Men shouted names. Women wept openly. Children ran along the quay pointing at the captured galleys as if afraid they might vanish if they blinked.

Runa stood at the rail, arms folded, lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. "I suppose this is what success looks like," she murmured.

Erik said nothing. He watched faces instead. Recognition. Relief. Hope.

On the docks, Korb was already pushing forward, dark hair tied back, he looked tired and haggard but eyes were sharp despite the emotion he clearly despised showing. He stopped at the water's edge, hands resting on the pommel of his sword, and snorted.

"You go away on a single ship," Korb said dryly, "and come back with a small fleet. Subtle as ever."

Erik stepped down onto the quay. "You look tired."

"I am" Korb grunted. "and you look like trouble found you. And lost."

Behind him, Gonir leapt onto a crate, arms flung wide, laughing like a madman. "Five ships!" he crowed. "Five! I told them the sea likes us. I told them!"

Helga shoved past him, tears streaking freely down her face as she seized Erik in a fierce motherly embrace. "Don't ever do that again," she said, voice breaking.

Skaldi clapped Erik on the shoulder hard enough to make lesser men stagger. "You bring spoils, ships, and stories," he boomed. "The gods are paying attention now."

Halldis approached more quietly, eyes already cataloging hulls, rigging, crews. "Captured intact," she noted. "No burn marks. No blood in the water." She glanced at Erik. "Impressive restraint."

Yrsa laughed as she wiped her eyes. "Restraint or not, the kitchens will be very tonight. Won't they Sigrun?"

"Aye" Sigrun replied happily "We'll cook up a mighty feast in honor your safe return. I've been wanting to try a few new recipes too!"

Helga was last.

She didn't speak at first. She simply stepped forward and placed both hands on Erik's face, studying him as if to make sure he was real. Then she pulled him into a tight embrace.

"You're home," she said softly.

"Yes," Erik replied, and for the first time since Braavos, the word felt heavy with meaning.

The days that followed were a controlled kind of chaos, the sort that only looked unruly to those who did not understand what they were seeing. The Braavosi recruits were settled carefully, not crammed into barracks or cast aside to fend for themselves, but placed with intent and cinsideration. Temporary halls went up first, then permanent workshops as timber and stone were brought in. Existing buildings were expanded, walls knocked through, floors reinforced to bear heavier tools.

Erik had put strict building codes that everyone had to follow. This allowed for ground floor and basements to build wide and strong with large gaps between so that future expansion would happened both outward as well as upward. Fire safety was also considered and appropriate measure were enacted and taught.

Weirstad had never maintained true metalworking on this scale. That changed immediately. Kate and her rejuvenated father, Luca, were given full authority over raising a forge complex near the river, where water, charcoal, and transport met. They chose the site themselves, pacing the ground, testing the wind, arguing loudly over chimney height and draw while Erik listened without interruption.

The forge was built from nothing. A waist-high hearth was laid first, stone stacked and mortared, its surface coated thick with clay mixed with straw until it could drink heat without cracking. Luca oversaw the shaping of the tuyere, a clay-and-stone throat set deep into the hearth to drive air directly into the heart of the fire. "If the breath isn't true," he warned the apprentices, "you'll never reach welding heat."

Bellows came next. Two great wooden frames were carved and jointed, their teardrop shapes sealed with stitched hide that smelled of oil and smoke. They were mounted behind the hearth and tested by hand, each pull forcing a steady stream of air through the tuyere until the charcoal burned white-hot. Kate adjusted the rhythm herself, nodding only when the fire responded properly.

For the anvil, they sank a massive hardwood log deep into the earth to drink the shock of every blow. Into it they drove a heavy iron bickern, its horn polished smooth by years of use, hauled from Braavos and reforged to suit Weirstad's needs. Until more anvils could be made, a flat stone served for the first work, and Luca insisted on it. From that crude surface, they forged their own hammers and tongs, then used those to create better tools, stakes, and swages, each piece improving the next.

The workshop rose around the forge last. High ceilings. Wide doors. Open vents cut into the walls so smoke and heat could escape instead of poisoning the men within. Nothing decorative. Everything purposeful. Charcoal bins lined one wall. Water troughs the other. By the time the roof beams were set, the forge was already alive.

Apprentices were assigned at once, not only as helpers, but students as well. Every artisan was given two or three, sometimes more, placed under sharp-eyed supervision. Mistakes were allowed, but repeated ignorance was not. Warehouses filled quickly. Imported looms from Braavos were assembled piece by piece, then taken apart again under watchful eyes as local craftsmen sketched every joint and tension point. Within days, rough copies began to appear beside the originals, clumsier at first, then steadily improving.

Counting tables were set up in long rows, scribes learning to track materials as carefully as coin. Sailmakers claimed open yards where canvas could be stretched and cut in the wind. Ropeworkers strung long frames along the docks, testing twists and tar blends.

Jewelry makers were given gold and silver along with pearls and some other precious stones to make into expensive jewelry that could be exported.

Everywhere, hands moved with purpose.

Erik walked through it all daily.

"No idle talents," he told Korb as they watched a artisan demonstrate a Braavosi construction trick to three wide-eyed apprentices. "And no wasted knowledge."

A mandatory language hall was established within the week. Newcomers were taught the old tongue of Weirstad, while local apprentices and sailors learned Braavosi alongside them. Commands, measurements, and tools were named in both languages until misunderstanding became rare and silence became suspicious. Laughter carried through the halls as accents clashed and blended.

Each Braavosi was paired deliberately with several locals, never allowed to work alone for long. Skills were shared slowly, intentionally, broken down into steps and reasons rather than secrets. Techniques were questioned, tested, and adapted to Weirstad's materials and climate. What worked was kept. What failed was recorded and discarded.

By the end of the first tenday, it was no longer clear which methods were Braavosi and which were Weirstad's. They had begun to merge and evolve.

And Weirstad learned faster than it ever had before.

Gonir wandered through it all like a delighted ghost, offering advice no one asked for and occasionally brilliant insights no one expected.

"This place is changing," he told Runa one evening, watching sparks rise from the forges. "You can hear it, if you listen."

Runa folded her arms, eyes reflecting firelight. "I know. The question is whether the world will let it."

----

Celebration did not mean mercy.

Once the cheering faded and the ships were secured, the harder work began.

Over six hundred men were marched from the captured galleys and penned in one of the larger caves with a single enterance. Sun-hardened sell sails. Privateers with mismatched armor, scarred hands, and eyes that measured exits by instinct. Most were not even Braavosi. Men loyal to coin, captains, or nothing at all.

Korb stood with Erik before them, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.

"Six hundred mouths," Korb muttered. "And six hundred knives."

Erik nodded once. "Which is why they get the same choice as the raiders. Penance or death. They'll be useful either way"

The crowd quieted as Erik stepped forward, voice carrying without strain.

"You are not prisoners," he said. "Here in Weirstad, we don't believe in prisons that fatten up lazy criminals while other toil"

Murmurs rippled.

The crowd quieted as Erik stepped forward, his presence alone enough to still the restless shuffling. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. When he spoke, his words carried across the square with calm, measured certainty.

"You are not prisoners," he said. "Weirstad does not keep cages to feed idle criminals while others bleed and work to keep them alive."

A low murmur rolled through the assembled sellsails, wary and uncertain.

"You have three paths before you," Erik continued, unhurried. "Choose carefully, because here, choice still matters."

He lifted one hand, extending a single finger.

"First. Trial by combat. You may face me, or one of my chosen, alone. No tricks. No mercy asked. If the gods judge you worthy and you win, you walk out of Weirstad free."

A few men laughed, sharp and uneasy, trying to pretend bravery where none truly lived. No one stepped forward.

Erik raised a second finger.

"Second. Refuse." His tone did not change. "You will be sacrificed. Your blood and life will be given to the weirwood groves that protect this city. You will not be remembered, but you will be useful."

The laughter died as if cut with a blade. Men swallowed. Eyes shifted. The weight of the words settled like frost.

Then Erik lifted his third finger.

"Third. Penance."

He let the silence stretch before continuing.

"You will serve Weirstad for twenty years. You will swallow a weirwood penance seed. It will take root in you. It will spread through your flesh, bind your will to this city, and make you ours."

A ripple of fear passed through the crowd.

"You break your oath," Erik said softly, "and it breaks you. Completely."

He lowered his hand.

"Serve well, and when your years are done, you will have a choice again. Stay, and become citizens of Weirstad. Leave, and go free with coin earned by honest work."

His gaze swept over them, steady and unyielding.

"These are not threats," Erik said. "They are terms. Decide."

A privateer near the front spat. "And why would any of us trust that?"

Erik met his eyes. "Because you're alive to ask. Now choose and choose wisely"

Silence stretched.

One man stepped forward. Big. Confident. Scar across his jaw. "I'll fight," he said. "I've beaten worse than you."

They cleared a ring. Weapons were distributed

It lasted less than a minute.

The second challenger lasted even less.

By the tenth duel, no one was smiling.

By the twentieth, men were looking at the ground.

In the end, only fifty or so still refused to kneel.

They fought. They lost. Every single one.

Those who fell were bound and taken away, marked for later sacrifice. No cheers followed them. Only grim acceptance.

The rest of them that totaled over five hundred men knelt.

One by one, they swallowed the penance seed.

Some trembled. Some cursed. Some stared straight ahead as the weirwood bond settled into their blood, quiet and absolute.

Gonir watched with fascination, head tilted. "Such a polite little monster," he whispered to Skaldi. "Wood that eats lies. Vines that slip in veins and grips the hearts and souls"

Skaldi grunted. "I don't like it but I can't argue with the results. Some of my best soldiers are the penanced"

Korb spoke quietly to Erik as the last of them were processed. "They'll serve. But they won't love this place. Atleast not in the beginning."

"They don't need to," Erik replied. "They need to sail. We lacked veteran sailors. Now we have plenty"

And sail they would.

The new sailors were deliberately mixed, never allowed to form old crews or follow old captains. Obsidian Leaf veterans were seeded among them. Commands split. Loyalties fractured and reforged by design.

Within days, four ships were crewed properly.

Not barely.

Properly.

Ivar reviewed the rosters and allowed herself a rare nod. "Experienced hands. Weather-wise. Battle-tested. Now we have the beginnings of a proper fleet"

Runa glanced toward the harbor where the repainted black ships rocked gently. "You just turned an enemy fleet into a backbone."

Erik watched the sails. "They were never loyal to begin with."

Helga stepped beside him. "And if they try to turn?"

"They won't, They can't" Erik said simply.

ne of the other massive undertakings that accelerated alongside the workshops was timber cutting for export to Braavos, and with it came the quiet, necessary labor of charcoal making for metalworking. The forests west of Weirstad, threaded through by the Antler River, were worked with deliberate restraint. Trees were felled in marked sections, chosen for straight grain and strength rather than speed. Branches were stripped where they fell, bark scored and trimmed, and the green logs slid into the river in controlled releases, never enough to choke the current or foul the flow.

Not all the wood went to the water. Harder cuts and off-length pieces were stacked in covered pits deeper in the forest, where charcoal burners sealed them beneath earth and turf. Slow, smothered fires were lit and watched for days, then weeks, until the wood surrendered everything but its carbon. When the pits were opened, blackened charcoal was bagged and hauled downriver by cart and barge, light in weight but rich in heat, enough to feed the new forges without draining the shipwright's timber.

River Antler Guides took over the floating logs. They rode the moving wood in narrow skiffs, boots wet, poles and hooks always in hand, steering, separating, and recovering strays before jams could form. Shouted signals echoed from bank to bank as the logs were coaxed into the river's deeper channels. After only a few days of steady work, the Antler itself seemed trained, carrying timber westward with a predictability that felt almost unnatural.

At the river's mouth, the flow slowed beneath the curving stone piers that guarded the estuary like the tines of a great antler. There the timber was gathered, counted, and sorted again. Logs were bound into massive sea-rafts, each one a floating lattice of forest, lashed tight with resin-sealed rope and iron clamps driven home by mallet and wedge as the greater timbers were prepared for the long pull toward Braavos.

-------

Two months later

Two months of hard work later, the next shipment for Braavos was ready.

Timber was the heart of it. Most of Weirstad's effort had gone into logging and preparing the great trunks for transport, selecting straight-grained giants and working them down with care rather than haste. The first products to come out of the newly raised forges were not weapons, but tools: steel saws forged long and thin, their teeth cut true and hardened for the lumber crews upriver. With them, the work sped up, cleaner and more precise, each tree yielding more usable wood than before.

Alongside the timber went the goods Weirstad had already become known for. Carbon fibre armor and weapons, light and unnervingly strong, were packed in oiled wrappings. Bundles of rare animal pelts were stacked deep in the holds, each one carefully cured. Chests of gold and silver jewelry followed, worked into clean, deliberate designs and set with pearls taken from cold waters, understated enough to intrigue, valuable enough to command attention.

By the time the cargo was tallied and sealed, the docks were crowded with stacked wealth and quiet confidence. This was no desperate venture or hopeful gamble. It was the measured output of a system that had learned to make trade goods itself and now intended to sell it to one of the richest cities in the world.

The timber sea-rafts waited at the mouth of the Antler, vast floating lattices of forest bound tight with iron and resin. When Stigr Warged with his animal and whispered the call, the sea itself seemed to listen.

Levi rose.

The leviathan did not strain against the rafts. He pulled forward, and the water followed him. Tow-lines fanned out from his harness, drawing the timber islands into his wake as if they belonged there. Waves flattened. Wind lost its voice. What should have been an unwieldy, impossible cargo crossed open water with steady, terrifying inevitability.

From the quarterdeck of the Obsidian Leaf, Ivar watched in open fascination, his grin sharp and restless.
"A forest that walks on water," he said. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd have a difficult time believing it."

Erik stood beside him, hands resting on the rail, eyes on the moving rafts.
"Just be careful in Braavos" Erik advised "Don't take risks. It's not worth it"

Ivar turned his head slowly, studying Erik's profile, amusement flickering into something sharper.
"Me? Careful," he repeated, tasting the word. "You know I've never been very good at that."

"That's exactly why I'm saying it," Erik replied "You're not going there to rile them up. You're going there to sell wood and goods and leave with coin. Nothing more. Remember why you're going."

Ivar laughed under his breath.
"Oh, I remember," he said. "I just enjoy walking close to the edge."

"Not this time Ivar" Erik stated clearly "You'll get the chance to have fun after this. For now, play it safe"

"Fine" Ivar groused "Ruin all my fun"

The Obsidian Leaf, captained by Ivar, sailed alongside the moving forest, close enough to guard and guide, far enough to avoid Levi's churn. Her holds carried finer trade goods, worked materials, tools, and sealed chests from Weirstad's workshops. Stigr stood at the bow, half in the world of men and half elsewhere, his will riding the leviathan's mind. When Levi drifted too shallow or too fast, Stigr corrected him with a thought. When currents shifted, Levi adjusted without command.

From a distance, it looked like a myth unfolding in plain sight. A ship escorting a forest across the sea. A beast older than sail towing wealth no navy could seize.

Author notes

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[Hordac]

LW 30

The weeks that followed were spent not in spectacle or expansion, but in the quieter, harder work of assimilation.

The penanced sailors were deliberately kept ashore, housed within the city rather than sent back to sea. Officially, it was to keep an eye on them. In truth, it was just as much to force familiarity and find the troublemakers. They worked the docks, hauled timber, learned new routes through streets that had once felt hostile, and shared meals in common halls instead of eating apart. Day by day, Weirstad stopped feeling like a sentence and began to feel like a place. The defiant stubborn ones were separated and posted in placed where a more careful eye can be kept on them. Not that the Penance seed symbiote needed it but redundancy was always good to have.

Erik made no speeches about redemption. He didn't need to. The hope was simple and practical: that most of them would change their minds. That they would grow used to the rhythm of the city, to steady work and predictable nights, and perhaps even grow to like it. At the subtle hinting of Helga to her more zealous followers many found themselves invited into households, into shared laughter, into the beginnings of something resembling a future. Those unhappy with their profession were quietly encouraged to apprentice under locals and use this chance to find a career they liked. A few began to speak of staying, of taking partners, of putting down roots where none had been intended.

The same care was taken with the down on their luck Braavosi artisans and skilled workers brought from Braavos. They were not isolated or set apart as foreign specialists. Instead, they were woven deliberately into existing workshops, paired with local hands, their methods observed, questioned, and slowly adopted. Some new workshops that had to be built were given many locals as apprentices. Differences in technique became conversations instead of barriers. Accents softened. Habits blended. Pride gave way to mutual respect.

Erik insisted on it being done this way. No enclaves. No divisions. No guilds. If Weirstad was to grow, it would do so as a single body, not a collection of competing parts that impeded progress.

He wanted every newcomer whether they be sailor, smith, scribe, or weaver to feel that this was not a temporary shelter or an imposed exile. He wanted them to look around, after weeks of shared labor and shared nights, and realize they were no longer guests. They were not treated as captured assets or borrowed hands but equal members of a free society that was trying its best to be above discrimination of any sort. Each craft was given space, materials, and apprentices. Everyone had equally great opportunity to grow and fulfill their dreams.

Painters and sculptors were settled near the river light, where stone dust and pigments could be washed away easily. Goldsmiths worked beside pearl traders, refining techniques that blended Braavosi delicacy with Weirstad's heavier northern aesthetics. Woodcarvers shared long halls with architects, their sketches pinned beside beams and scale models as new districts slowly took shape.

Textile sectors also bloomed. Tailors, spinners, weavers, auroch and yak wool workers, and embroiderers working side by side. New improved looms that were copied, improved, and sometimes broken, filled the air with constant motion. Patterns changed. Styles softened. Weirstad began to look like a city.

Metal rang from dawn to dusk. Blacksmiths, metalworkers, armorers, and tin workers expanded Kate and Luca's forges into a complex of heat and sound. Nearby, stonemasons, bricklayers, and carpenters raised permanent structures instead of temporary sheds, buildings meant to last generations, not seasons.

Apothecaries and pigment makers took over a cluster of stone rooms near the groves, cataloguing plants, resins, and powders. Leatherworkers of every specialization found purpose. Cordwainers crafting fine shoes, shoemakers and cobblers dividing labor cleanly, saddlers and glovers shaping luxury and utility alike. Girdlers, botteliers, scabbard-makers, thongers, and bookbinders turned hides into everything a growing city needed. Even earthenware craftsmen were brought in, their kilns glowing at night like low stars.

And then came the moneyers, the coin makers. The mint was established within the giant hybrid Heart Tree itself, built in one of it its vast hollowed interior chambers to keep it close at hand and secure against theft and tampering. Deep root chambers were hollowed and reinforced with stone and iron, their entrances hidden behind living bark and guarded day and night. The tree's sheer mass shielded the mint from fire, frost, and forced entry, while its living presence discouraged carelessness and corruption alike.

Here, metal was weighed, tested, and struck under constant watch. Every die was accounted for. Every blank counted. Nothing entered or left without record

Gold and silver were brought under heavy guard, carried in locked chests and watched by his most loyal men. Each bar was weighed twice, tested for purity, then broken and fed to the crucibles. The metal flowed bright and clean, poured into molds cut to exact measure. When the blanks cooled, new dies were brought out that were simple in design, deliberate in meaning and difficult to counterfeit.

One face bore the mark of the heartwood with a face in the trunk, unmistakable even when worn thin. The other was etched with runes of durability and attraction, worked subtly into the metal itself. They were not merely decorative. The runes strengthened the coin against wear and corrosion and gave it a faint, almost unconscious pull, something that made the hand reluctant to let it go. Coins meant to last. Coins meant to circulate. Coins meant to be chosen, again and again, over any other measure of worth. So that eventually it would become the preferred currency for international trade.

It was the first large-scale deployment of magic runes Weirstad had ever attempted, and it did not come easily. Eldri Runetongue labored for weeks over wax molds and test blanks, arguing late into the night with Runa, while Bloom of the Children of the Forest corrected them both in soft, patient tones older than their language. The challenge was not power, but restraint. The runic lattice had to be compact enough to fit within the thin skin of a coin, subtle enough not to flare or draw attention, and stable enough to feed on nothing more than the faint ambient energies that permeated the air of Planetos itself.

Dozens of designs failed. Some cracked the metal. Others drank too deeply and warped. A few worked too well, clinging to hands so stubbornly they had to be pried loose with a knife. In the end, they found balance: a nested pattern, shallow but precise, that sipped rather than consumed, reinforcing without dominating. When the first successful coins were struck and cooled, the runes went quiet, settling into the metal like something that had always belonged there.

Weirstad's money was not large-scale showy magic like that of the Valyrians.
It was patient magic that was hidden in plain sight.
And it would travel farther than any spell ever cast in a single night.

"These coins are the first step in creating our economy," Erik said as the first blanks were struck, the sharp ring of metal echoing through the mint. He watched closely, not the coin, but the faces around him. "The free folk are used to barter, meat for grain, labor for shelter. Coin will feel like a trick to them at first."

He picked one up, turning it between his fingers so the light caught the runes.
"So it must never be a trick. Anyone who holds one of these should know exactly where it came from, why it's worth something, and that it will still be worth something centuries from now."

One of the moneyers frowned thoughtfully. "Trust won't come quickly."

"No," Erik agreed calmly. "But consistency builds faster than fear. Fixed weights. Fixed purity. No debasement. No sudden changes." His eyes hardened slightly. "And anyone caught shaving, clipping, or falsifying my coin will wish they'd chosen sacrifice instead."

That earned a few thin smiles.

The accountants exchanged glances, already thinking in columns and ledgers, supply and flow. They understood what Erik was building, not just currency, but control without chains. A system that rewarded honesty, punished greed, and made Weirstad the quiet center of trade whether merchants admitted it or not.

The hammers fell again.
Coin by coin, an economy was born.

For now, they struck only three coins, simple in concept and absolute in clarity. Gold, silver, and bronze. No confusing weights, no shifting ratios, no hidden tricks meant to favor the powerful over the poor. Each denomination followed a strict factor of one hundred. One hundred bronze coins equaled a single silver. One hundred silver coins equaled a single gold.

The simplicity was deliberate.

Bronze was meant for daily life. Wages, food, tools, ferry fares, and drink. Heavy enough in the hand to feel real, common enough that no one feared spending it. Silver was the measure of craft and trade, used for finished goods, contracts, and shipments that crossed borders. Gold was rarer, reserved for ships, land, tribute, and long-distance exchange, a store of value that could travel anywhere and be trusted.

Each coin shared the same language of symbols and runes, scaled carefully so that no matter the metal, the promise remained identical. A bronze coin did not pretend to be a silver one, and silver never masqueraded as gold. Weight, size, and color made deception difficult, while the runes made counterfeiting impossible.

Erik insisted the ratios never change.

"People can learn numbers," he told the moneyers. "We will not let them learn mistrust. Once you break the scale, you break belief."

So Weirstad's economy began not with abundance, but with certainty. A child could count it. A sailor could trust it. A foreign merchant could test it and know its worth without ever hearing Weirstad's name spoken aloud. And as the coins passed from hand to hand, from port to port, they carried more than value with them.

They would carried the idea that this city meant what it made. It would become one of the many ways Weirstad would become known of quality and trust.

Every artisan was given a workshop. Every workshop was given apprentices. No skill remained isolated. No knowledge was hoarded. Weirstad did not grow fast, but it grew wide—interlocked, layered, and stubborn in the way only living things could be.

Painters worked beside sculptors, trading pigments for chisels. Goldsmiths shared space with moneyers, learning the precise weights and alloys that would soon circulate through every hand in the city. Woodcarvers and architects argued over grain and load-bearing curves while stonemasons and bricklayers turned those arguments into walls that would outlast them all. Tailors, spinners, and weavers filled long halls with the whisper of thread, while auroch and yak wool workers and embroiderers transformed imported luxuries into something unmistakably Weirstad.

Blacksmiths and armorers labored near the charcoal pits, where steady columns of smoke marked the slow burning of timber into fuel hot enough to bend steel. Apothecaries ground herbs beside pigment makers. Cordwainers, saddlers, glovers, and girdlers worked fine leather into forms both practical and beautiful, while cobblers repaired the old and bookbinders gave permanence to words that might otherwise fade. Even the earthenware craftsmen found their place, turning local clay into vessels that carried everything from coin to grain to ink.

Each newcomer was paired with locals. Each local was expected to learn as much as they taught. Mistakes were corrected publicly. Success was shared deliberately. Accents clashed. Tempers flared. Old guild habits died hard.

But by the end of those weeks, fewer people spoke of leaving.
More spoke of building.

They argued about expansions, about new kilns and deeper forges, about houses instead of barracks, about who might marry whom once the next winter passed. Children of Weirstad began using foreign words without realizing it, and the newcomers started swearing in the old tongue when they were tired or hurt.

And that, Erik knew, was how a city stopped being a refuge—
and became a home.

--------

A few days later Erik was out on an inspection tour of their newly planted fields. In particular he was interested in the fields planted using grain and vegetable seeds imported from Braavos.

The wind worried at the young fields as Erik walked among the plots, Helga and Sigrun at his sides. The ground was marked with neat rows and careful stones, every effort made to coax life from the soil. Too much of it lay bare, the promise of green reduced to scattered, stubborn survivors clinging to life.

"I had expected them to have a hard time growing here" Eik commented "But this is worse that any of my calculations"

Helga stopped first, crouching to touch a wilted shoot, her fingers gentle despite the calluses earned through honest work.
"They tried," she said quietly. "Some even succeeded us for a while. Grew straight and proud. Then the cold came back. They aren't hardy like ours are"

Sigrun folded her arms against the wind, expression sharp and unsympathetic. She nudged a dead stem with her boot.
"Braavosi seeds are soft," she said. "They expect kindness. This land gives none."

Erik knelt, scooping up a handful of earth and letting it sift slowly through his fingers. The soil was dark, rich, alive. Not the problem.
"The ground is fine," he said. "So is the water. It's the air that kills them. The cold nights. The way the frosty winds returns when it shouldn't, even in summer."

Helga looked up at him, searching his face. "Can you fix it?"

Erik hesitated, just long enough to matter.


"Yes," he said. Then he shook his head. "But not by cutting the plants apart and remaking them into something else."

Sigrun studied him closely. "You could change them," she said. "Make them harder."

"I could," Erik agreed. His mind was already accelerating, opening like a many-petaled flower. "Bioengineer thicker cell walls. Alter frost responses. Change how they store sugars. It would work. It would take time and lots of experimental trails"

Thoughts stacked and collapsed in rapid succession in Erik's enhanced mind. Spliced resilience. Engineered strains. Test beds. Generations of trial. And the cost. Taste altered. Nutrition shifted. Familiar foods becoming something else entirely. Years before stability. Years he did not want to spend.

"But I don't want only engineered crops," Erik continued. "I want the originals too. The foods as they were meant to be eaten. I want both. The originals must also grow here"

"But how?" Helga asked

He rose slowly, gaze sweeping the barren plots as his thoughts leapt again. Stone shelters. Sunken beds. Heat-trapping walls. Smoke-warmed pits. Glass greenhouses—

No.

Myr's monopoly flared in his mind like a warning brand, a political dead end he refused to step into. Imported panes would be costly, fragile, and far too visible. Any large purchase would ripple outward through merchants and spies alike, noticed by eyes he had no interest in drawing this early.

I could make my own glass, he admitted to himself, the idea forming cleanly and then being weighed just as quickly. But it would be a massive undertaking. New furnaces. Purified sand. Controlled temperatures. Skilled glassworkers trained from nothing. Months, perhaps years of diverted labor and attention.

He dismissed it with a quiet breath.

I don't have the time, he thought. And I don't have the surplus yet. Resources were better spent building people, systems, and momentum. Glass would come later, when Weirstad could afford the luxury of patience.

For now, he needed something faster. Cheaper. Quieter.

Something that already lay at his feet.

"leaves" Erik muttered "Of course!"

Protection, not alteration. Green houses made not of glass but something else. Something they could make easily without being on Myr's radar

Shelters that breathed. Light that passed through. Warmth that lingered.

Plastic.

The word surfaced with surprising clarity, dragging a memory behind it. A documentary watched once, long ago. Crude oil. Refineries. Polymer chains. Waste and smoke and poisoned rivers. He discarded most of it instantly. No oil. No refineries. No ruined land.

But not all plastic was born that way.

His thoughts sharpened, reorganized. Cellulose. Leaves. Plant fibers. Binding agents. Plasticizers. Heat and pressure. Films and sheets thin enough to pass light, strong enough to break wind. Structures that trapped warmth without sealing life away.

Bioplastic.

He stopped walking.

Leaves. Bark. Sawdust. Organic waste they already had in abundance from the logging effort. Glycerol from rendered fats. Gelatin from bones. Ash and lime. Water. Heat. Every raw material already within Weirstad's grasp.

His pulse quickened.

Cold frames wrapped in translucent sheets. Layered insulation. Removable coverings for summer and winter. Greenhouses without glass. Cheap, light, replaceable. Subtle enough to draw no attention from foreign eyes.

Sigrun watched him smile, slow and certain. "You've found something," she said.

"Yes," Erik replied softly. "I don't need to change the land. I don't need to change the plants."

Helga followed his gaze back over the fields, the failed rows and stubborn survivors alike. "Then what do you change?"

"We change the space around them," Erik said. "We hide the crops from the cold."

Sigrun frowned, practical as ever. "And hide them from the sun as well?" she asked. "You'd kill them just as surely."

Erik turned to her, a spark of quiet excitement in his eyes. "Not if what we hide them with lets the sunlight through."

Understanding flickered across Helga's face first. "Something clear," she murmured. "Something thin."

"Something we can make ourselves," Erik added.

The wind swept across the empty rows again, tugging at cloaks and snapping at exposed skin, but Erik barely felt it now. His mind was already elsewhere, assembling sheds and frames, imagining molds and presses, sheets stretched tight over growing beds. Waste becoming shelter. Refuse turned into protection. Failure reshaped into advantage.

"Yes," he murmured to himself, rare satisfaction bleeding into his voice. "That will do."

------

Erik refused to let waste exist in Weirstad. Not if said waste could be used to make bioplastic.

Where others saw heaps of stripped branches, leaf piles, bark, and sweepings left behind by the great logging effort for Braavos, he saw a resource waiting to be disciplined. The forests fed the city twice over, once in timber and again in what was discarded. He ordered the organic refuse gathered, not burned or dumped, but sorted. Leaves, small branches, bark shavings, even sawdust too fine for carpentry were pulled aside and carried to a new set of low, steaming sheds downwind of the workshops.

The waste material had become a raw material.

The process began simply. Leaves were washed clean of soil and sap, then spread across drying racks under sun and wind until they crumbled easily between the fingers. Once dry, they were ground into a fine green-brown powder using millstones modified for light material rather than grain. The powder was then soaked and treated, first in alkaline solutions derived from ash and lime to break down unwanted compounds, then in carefully prepared green solvents that Erik devised with the apothecaries, mixtures that separated usable cellulose from lignin and resin without poisoning the workers or the land. What emerged was not waste but pulp, thick, fibrous, and pale.

That pulp became the foundation.

It was blended with natural binders and plasticizers. Gelatin rendered from bones, glycerol refined from fats, and plant oils were added in precise ratios, then heated slowly in large copper vessels while apprentices stirred constantly to prevent scorching. The mixture thickened into something strange and new, neither cloth nor wood nor leather. While still hot, it was poured into molds or spread into thin sheets, pressed flat, and left to cool and cure.

The result was a material that bent without tearing, resisted water for a time, and returned harmlessly to the earth when buried or burned. Biodegradable sheets used for packaging, sacks that replaced costly leather for short-term use, protective wrappings for cargo, liners for baskets and crates, and agricultural films for seed beds and soil protection. It was not meant to last forever. That was the point.

Weirstad's artisans learned quickly. What began as refuse became product. What had once clogged yards and fouled air became another export, another advantage. Even the charcoal burners benefitted, as the extracted lignin and bark residues burned hotter and cleaner than raw wood.

Erik watched the first finished sheets laid out to cool and nodded once.

"Nothing we take should die useless," he said. "If the forest feeds us, we return the favor by wasting nothing."

The skepticism in the workshops was as thick as the steam from the copper vats. The elder artisans, men and women whose hands were calloused by decades of honest timber and stone, poked at the cooling sheets with wary fingers.

"It's a trick of the light, Erik," Gonir muttered, flicking a translucent membrane. "It's too thin for a roof, too weak for a boot, and it rots in a few years. What good is a thing that's born to live only a couple of years?"

Erik didn't look up from the ledger where he was noting the curing times. "The forest dies every autumn, Gonir. Does that make the spring useless?"

He stood and beckoned them toward the eastern slope of the valley, a patch of land that the frost claimed weeks before the rest of the town. There, a skeleton of thin, arched saplings had been erected—a ribcage of wood stripped of its bark.

"Help me," Erik commanded.

They unrolled the long, pale rolls of the cured bioplastic. It was slightly cloudy, catching the morning sun but letting the light pass through in a soft, diffused glow. They stretched it over the wooden ribs, pinning it down with weighted stones and wooden stakes. Within an hour, they had created a series of long, shimmering tunnels.

Erik stepped inside the first tunnel and gestured for the others to follow. The air inside was instantly different. It felt heavy, still and significantly warmer than the cool breeze outside.

"You ask what good it is," Erik said, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. "We live at the mercy of the frost. We eat what the cold allows us to grow and that gets us roots, hardy grains,kale and afew other edible plants. But inside these skins, the sun is trapped. The soil thinks it is summer even when the peaks are white with snow."

"The bioplastic allows for sunlight to enter but prevents long-wave heat from escaping. The physical barrier shields delicate shoots from the "black frost" that usually killed late-season crops. The sheets keep the humidity high, reducing the need for constant watering in the windy area close to the coast." Erik explained

"In these tunnels," Erik continued, pointing to the tilled earth beneath their feet, "we will plant the vegetables Braavos thinks we can only get through trade. Sweet peppers. Vine-ripened tomatoes. Green leafy vegetables Herbs that usually wither the moment the first leaf turns gold."

He looked at Gonir, who was now feeling the warmth of the trapped air with genuine surprise.

"It isn't meant to last forever, Harl. It's meant to last a few seasons. When the harvest is done and the plastic grows brittle, we plow it back into the dirt. It becomes the very soil that feeds the next crop. It's not waste. It's a bridge."

The skepticism began to melt, replaced by the quiet hum of calculation. They weren't just looking at "rotting" sheets anymore; they were looking at the ability to feed Weirstad through the long, lean months.

Author notes

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