The universe of A Song of Ice and Fire and its characters belong exclusively to George R.R. Martin. This is a work of fiction created by a fan for fans, made solely for entertainment and the development of creative writing.
Only the characters created by me, such as the protagonist and some other original characters, as well as the changes to the canonical plot resulting from their actions, are of my own intellectual authorship.
I wish everyone a good read!!
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Chapter 5
Year 97 BC
POV: Denovan
"What did you think, boy? Did you like my forge?... my work?"
Gorn's question hung in the air, mixed with the smell of coal and hot metal.
I looked at the blade in his hands. The firelight danced over the polished bronze, revealing a polishing job that bordered on perfection for current standards.
It was a beautiful sword, with a good size for Ulfar's reach, and seemed to have a balanced weight, though I couldn't confirm without holding it.
I took a deep breath, deciding to be honest, but strategic, seizing the opportunity.
"It is magnificent work, Gorn," I began, keeping my voice steady despite the childish timbre.
"The blade has a promising edge and the curvature is subtle, ideal for deep cuts. By far, it is the best weapon I have seen on this side of the Wall."
The smith's broad chest puffed out slightly, a proud smile tugging at the corner of his lips under the singed beard.
He seemed to have liked my technical assessment.
"You have good eyes, little one," he laughed, a raspy laugh.
"How old are you? You don't look more than ten."
"I'm seven," I replied, and before he could comment on my age or size, I pointed to the back of the workshop.
"But, if I may... the only thing keeping your forge from being even better is that furnace."
Gorn's smile faltered. His thick eyebrows came together.
"What did you say? That furnace was built with the best stones in the valley. It holds heat better than any open fire. There is nothing better than that."
"It's not about the stones, it's about the way they were stacked," I retorted, walking up to the stone structure.
I felt the heat radiate against my face. "It suffocates the fire. The air intake is too small, and the chimney doesn't pull enough. If you modified the structure, forced more air inside... the heat would double. It would melt not just bronze, but metals you can't even imagine."
Gorn let out a huff of disbelief, dropping the sword onto the workbench with a dull thud.
He crossed his thick arms, looking down at me with indignation, but also with undeniable curiosity.
"And how does a seven-year-old boy, son of a Magnar and not a smith, know about the heat of a furnace and melting metals? Who put these ideas in your head?"
It was the cue I needed. I knew technical knowledge wouldn't be accepted coming from a child, but mysticism?
That, the First Men respected.
"I saw it," I said, lowering my voice to something almost conspiratorial.
"In my dreams. A big, strong man. He showed me a forge... immense. The furnace roared like a dragon and metal melted like water. He told me how to build it."
Gorn looked closely and took a step back, his eyes wide and half-doubtful.
Before he could answer, a shadow covered us both.
"Denovan."
My father's voice, Sigorn, cut through the room like an axe. I turned to see the Magnar watching us.
He had heard. His eyes shifted between me and the smith, a mix of irritation and skepticism on his face.
"Are we discussing this again? I already told you, my son will be a warrior, not a..."
"Father," I interrupted, knowing I was treading on thin ice.
After all, he didn't like being contradicted, especially in front of his subordinates. "The man in my dreams... he said that if we build this furnace, our people's weapons will never break again. And that we will conquer much more than just the cold on this side of the Wall. He said it is the will of the Gods."
Sigorn narrowed his eyes.
He remembered the conversation about my dreams with animals, about the frozen sea.
He knew I wasn't an ordinary child; my intelligence and precocious skill with axes had already proved that.
But smithing? That wounded his pride.
"Dreams are wind, boy," Sigorn said, but there was doubt in his voice.
"They could be just childish delusions."
"Then let me prove it," I challenged, looking directly into his eyes.
"Let me guide the construction of the furnace. If it doesn't work, I will never touch the subject again and I will be just the warrior you want. But if it works... you let me follow my visions."
Silence reigned in the smithy for long seconds. The tension was palpable.
Gorn looked from me to my father, waiting for the order.
Sigorn sighed, passing a hand over his face.
Perhaps he saw a chance to end this "phase" of mine as a smith once and for all, proving I was wrong.
"Very well," he said, his voice deep and authoritative. "Gorn, I will order my men to help with whatever the boy asks. Build this damn furnace. But if it is a waste of time, Denovan... you will train with that axe until your hands bleed."
I nodded, "Done." and celebrated internally. "Hell yes! It worked."
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A short time later, Ulfar's sword was finally ready.
We went out to the village courtyard to test it. The bronze blade shone under the weak northern sun.
Ulfar wielded it with a smile that seemed to split his face, spinning it in the air to test the weight.
"Halgar!" my father called our best warrior. "Test my son's arm."
Halgar, an experienced and skilled man, the best we have, drew his own axe and advanced.
The sound of combat filled the courtyard.
*Clang!*
The bronze collided with the low-quality iron of Halgar's axe.
Ulfar was strong for his twelve years, moving with a ferocity that made our father proud.
They fought in a brute manner, blow for blow, no technique involved, just instinct.
The sword held up.
It didn't bend, didn't break, and after a few strong blows, kept its edge.
Gorn, beside me, watched with satisfaction.
"A good weapon," I murmured.
The smith looked down at me. "And you, little dreamer? What weapon do you prefer? Swords?"
I shook my head. "Axes. Big or small. They are impact weapons, savage, versatile. And they work as a tool if needed. I like their brutality."
Gorn let out a genuine laugh. "A practical taste. You know... before I had this belly and this gray beard, I liked swords. Thought them elegant."
He looked at the horizon, his eyes losing focus for a moment.
"But the swords I had... always bent. Bronze is soft. After every battle, I spent more time fixing my weapon than resting. I learned to swing the hammer out of necessity. Fixed mine, then my shield brothers'..." He shrugged.
"Before I knew it, I was better at the hammer than at war. Took a woman, had a son. The forge gave me a very good life."
There was a simple wisdom in that. I looked at him with new respect.
"You said you wanted to learn," Gorn spoke, looking back at me.
"If your magic furnace works... I'll teach what I know."
The word "magic" sounded with a mocking tone, but the rest seemed sincere.
"I already know how to forge," I let slip, the arrogance of my past life leaking out. And well... it was true.
"I just need to grow to have strength."
Gorn frowned, displeasure returning to his face.
He was about to give me a lecture on humility, about how a brat couldn't know the secrets of metal, when I cut him off.
"The man in the dream... he called himself Odin. He taught me how to make weapons of a dark gray metal, hard as ice, called steel. But he didn't show me how bronze works. If you are willing, would you teach me about bronze? Gorn."
The smith froze. "Odin?" he whispered the name, as if it were sacred and dangerous.
"One of the Old Gods presented himself to a brat like you? ... The Old Gods are called that because in all history no one managed to discover the name of any of these spirits of nature, and you say, that one of these, spoke his name to you? A brat?"
I looked at him and thought of any mythological explanation there could be, I was already inventing these lies about visions, lied about the name, and well, I don't like lies, but they were necessary for now, I would improve their living condition, at no cost.
So a lie like that, wasn't evil.
I liked Norse mythology, and it seemed to match this side of the Wall, so I decided to embrace this lie of the Old Gods, and whatever God... ROB wants.
"The Old Gods didn't explain why to me, they just tell and explain what they want and what is necessary. The reason for it being me? That I don't know, and I never had the opportunity to question them nor do I know if I will."
He analyzed me, looking for the lie in my eyes. He found none, because for me, that was my truth, after all ROB gave me my memories, and like it or not, explained what he wanted.
That was my truth now.
"If you are mocking me, boy, or if it is just a delusion...", he grumbled, but the tone was different now.
There was fear. "But if that furnace works... By the Gods, if it works, I will teach you everything I know. And I will learn what you know about this... steel."
"You won't regret believing in me," I promised.
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Night fell over the village, bringing the usual cutting cold. We were lodged in the local leader's guest house.
Earlier, I saw Ulfar "fighting" with Sigrid. He went easy, of course, but my sister attacked with the fury of a she-wolf, swinging from side to side, happy just to be included.
She touched Ulfar's new sword with reverence, promising that one day she would have one just like it.
Even my mother, Valka, took the weapon, testing the balance with silent approval.
After a hearty dinner, where my father seemed strangely thoughtful, we went to retire.
And as we rose from the table his voice boomed.
"Denovan... accompany me."
"Yes father!"
We went towards the door, our steps being followed by the curious eyes of Valka and my siblings.
Valka said "Don't take too long... it is already late."
My father replied "It won't take long."
We left the house, my father taking the torch that was at the door and we started walking aimlessly outside the village until we arrived in front of a large weirwood, its white wood and red leaves brought me a sense of tranquility, even at night, and on it there was a carved face, this face, contrary to what the tree brought, did not calm me a bit.
My father took the torch and stuck it in the ground, and sat in front of the weirwood and signaled for me to sit beside him.
He waited for me to sit and settle before starting to speak, and I waited in silence for his ramblings.
"The Magnars... are seen as figures chosen by the Gods to lead the Thenns..."
"That may be true or not... but I never received any message from them... neither I, nor my father, much less my grandfather... we lead the Thenns because it has always been so... and they let us lead them for the same reason."
"But... if you are really having these dreams... these... visions, and the gods talk to and teach you... the blood of the Magnar really has some substance..."
"If it is not a delusion... you should be the next Magnar... it doesn't matter if Ulfar is stronger, or more skilled, if the gods chose you, there must be some reason."
I felt like arguing, I didn't want to be the Magnar of the Thenns, but I knew that would be a subject for another time.
He looked at me, his honey-colored eyes dissecting me, seeming to analyze my every expression and continued.
"You... Denovan, my son... You swear, by the Old Gods, that you really talked to one of them, that you really had these dreams, that you are not lying to me and to the Thenn people." His voice was heavy, it was the voice of the Magnar and not Sigorn the father.
I looked at him, the lies weighed in my core, but they were for a greater good, everything was going to work out... at least that was what I wanted.
I stand up and kneel in a way that I face him and the weirwood and say, my voice was unshakable in that moment, the childish complexion seemed insignificant.
"I Denovan, son of Valka and Sigorn, the Magnar of the Thenns, swear that I saw and talked to a god, I swear that I do not seek the regression of the Thenn people, I swear that I have dreams with wild creatures, and I swear that they taught me to forge and to build a good forge, I swear that everything I spoke and did was thinking of the betterment of all the free folk and not just the Thenn people and I swear now, before all the Old Gods that all this is true."
I remained with my eyes and head lowered until Sigorn's voice cut the air.
"Good!... I hope you are telling the truth... I don't want to kill my own son for being a liar and lying before the gods," his voice was cold.
"We shall see tomorrow... if everything you are saying is true, I will support you in everything from here on out my son... I promise by the Old Gods..."
"Now... let's go back!"
We stood up, and Sigorn gave a light and welcoming pat on my head and we followed in silence to our house and then to our rooms.
"Good night... father."
"...Good night."
I entered the room reserved for me, rubbing my eyes, tired from the long and thoughtful day.
When I closed the door and turned around, I almost jumped in fright.
My mother was sitting on the edge of my bed.
The light of a small torch illuminated her face, highlighting those intelligent and inquiring eyes.
She looked at me not as a child, but as if trying to decipher a riddle.
"Mother?", I called, approaching slowly.
"You spoke many things today, Denovan," she said softly. "And you are with many secrets... you and your father have been hiding some things from me... tell me everything..."
I sat beside her.
The mattress of straw and furs sank with our weight.
I nodded and began to tell everything.
From breakfast to the conversation in the forge, my dreams with the sea creature, and about the conversation with my father.
"That is all...", I said.
Valka held my chin, turning my face so I couldn't look away.
"Your father sees a talented and slightly rebellious son. But I see more. You were never a little child, Denovan. You learned to talk and walk early, always very curious... You know things you shouldn't. You speak like an elder sometimes."
I swallowed hard. Maternal intuition was the most dangerous, much more than Sigorn's suspicion.
"Swear," she whispered, intense. "Swear by the name of the Old Gods, by the heart trees and the winter that surrounds us, that you are telling me the truth. That these dreams... are real."
I took a deep breath, sustaining her gaze.
"I swear. By the Old Gods. I see things, mother... Things that can help our people."
The tension in her shoulders undid itself. She pulled me into a tight hug, kissing the top of my head.
"Then I believe you," she murmured against my hair.
"And I will support you. If your father tries to block your path, he will have to go through me."
"Thank you, mother," I replied, feeling a weight lift from my back.
She left the room shortly after, leaving me alone with the darkness and the flickering candle.
I extinguished the flame and lay down.
Sleep came quickly, and with it, the sea.
The water was dark, salty and yet, I was seeing very well, felt the cold current, felt the water press my body, it was big, very big.
I didn't feel my breathing, so it probably wasn't a fish, it was some animal that had to return to the surface to breathe.
"A whale maybe..."
I felt my consciousness fading again, it seemed I was waking up, and once again I couldn't discover much, but it was already progress.
I woke up the next morning, sweaty, as was customary in the last few weeks.
The sun still shy on the horizon, but I had a clear mind.
"It is today... many things will change, and even faster than I had predicted..."
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