The plans were drawn. The silver was counted. The meat and ale were packed in barrels, the stones were appearing from the void its just as Levi willed them but still, something was off.
He stood by the edge of the village, watching a group of men stack wood for another barn.
Their movements were clumsy, uncoordinated. One man nearly dropped a beam onto his foot; another held a hammer like he'd never seen one before.
They were willing. But willing wasn't skilled.
And Levi? He couldn't cheat time.
He sat on a half-finished stone block, running his hand across its rough edge. He had summoned the stones in bulk, enough for several homes and even some pathways. But they lay there unused, stacked high in makeshift piles, like offerings for a temple no one knew how to build.
Even if he could bring mountains of resources, it meant little if no one could shape them.
Later that day, Levi made his way toward the old house where the retired maester resided. The man rarely left these days, but his mind was still sharp as ever, a flickering flame not quite ready to die.
Levi stepped into the room, head low.
"You've come again," the old Maester said without looking up, ink-stained fingers scribbling on parchment. "Good. I was wondering how long it would take before the stones overwhelmed your dreams."
Levi sat on the stool across from him. "I need masons," he said plainly. "And carpenters. Bricklayers. Roofers. Anyone with the hands of a builder. Bogwater can't wait years. And I… I'm willing to spend for it. One thousand silver stags if that's what it takes."
The old Maester's hand paused mid-sentence. He slowly placed his quill down.
"You speak like a lord now," the old man said, eyes narrowing. "Throwing coin to chase time. But even lords know silver can't bend a man's spine faster than age will do it naturally."
"I don't care if it costs that much," Levi said. "This place needs more than dirt homes and wooden fences. We need buildings that last. We need defenses. Foundations. Roads. Sewers."
"And who will shape all that?" the maester asked, rising slowly to retrieve a worn scroll from his shelf. "You want builders? There are some in the North currently working for Lords. Closer to White Harbor. Some travel in guilds. But they are few, and they choose their work. Most don't come this far south unless summoned with purpose and protection."
"I can offer both," Levi said.
The old Maester turned and looked at him long and hard.
"You think because you can conjure stone, you can build a kingdom," he said. "But kingdoms are not built of stone. They are built of faith. Of hands. Of time."
Levi didn't reply. He didn't know how to.
The old Maester unrolled the scroll an old, smudged list of guild families and trade routes. "I can send word to White Harbor, maybe even to Barrowton.
If you're serious about this price, some may come. But others will want more than coin they'll want land filled with safety or for themselves and promises most men don't want to make."
"Then I'll give them what I can," Levi said. "I'm done watching days pass while the village waits."
The old Maester gave a dry chuckle. "You've grown, child. You still stumble, but your eyes don't wander as much but know this child in life all we can do is wait."
Then he leaned forward, voice softer now.
"But let me give you a truth something silver can't buy. There's no such thing as a perfect builder. Just like there's no perfect plan. Stones break, walls fall, men fail. You build anyway, because one day, someone will see your work and decide it's worth adding to. That is how villages become towns. And towns become cities."
That night, Levi stared at the map pinned against the storage wall.
White Harbor. Barrowton. Stone fences. Guard towers. A future.
He reached toward his ledger and scribbled down a new heading:
"Foundations worth building."
Then beneath it, one phrase more:
"A place they'll want to return to."