POV: Ser Harwin Stone
Location: North of Driftspire, old mine roads along the cliffs above the Shivering Sea
Ser Harwin Stone had never trusted the earth. Mountains fell. Rocks cracked. Once, during Robert's Rebellion, he'd seen three men buried alive under a ridge collapse outside the Stoney Sept. Since then, stone walls comforted him, but stone beneath his feet made his sword hand twitch.
Now he was ankle-deep in shale, following Lord Alester's trail toward a mine that hadn't been touched in seventy years.
Behind him trudged a dozen men—miners, pickers, and a few of the hardier smallfolk. Ahead walked the boy-lord, torch in hand, face aglow with the same quiet zeal that unnerved both knight and septon.
The wind blew cold from the north, carrying salt, ruin, and stories. Harwin tightened his cloak. Driftspire was built above a cruel coast. But this far north, past the sea caves, the air felt wrong—older.
They descended at dawn. The mine's mouth had been covered in driftwood and scree. Alester's men had spent the week clearing it, revealing stone doors carved by hands long dead. Not iron-bound doors—no. Smooth, old stone, fitted with precision unnatural for Vale hands.
"Rhoynar," Colmar had whispered. "From before the breaking of the rivers."
"Before even the Andals?" Harwin had asked.
"Long before. This is Dawn Age work."
He'd seen carvings near the entrance—sea serpents curling around ships. Eyes shaped like moons. A spear cast into the waves. Harwin had made the sign of the Seven when he passed.
The chamber they entered first was dry, cold, and vast. Their torches barely reached the carved ceiling.
Then he saw the walls.
Murals. Worn but intact. Depicting ships crossing what must be the Shivering Sea. Longships with arched hulls and lateen sails. Cargo loaded in harbors that resembled Braavos—or something older. Creatures in the water. Men and women bearing baskets of obsidian. One figure—repeated often—held a night-blue spear aloft as though it were a standard.
Alester knelt at the base of the central pillar. Not reverent—calculating.
"Look at this," he murmured. "Stone brackets, like instrument holders. Not ritual. Practical."
Colmar approached a stone box and opened it with a trembling hand.
Inside lay tools.
Sextants. Charts drawn in ink made from crushed pearl and something darker. Arrowheads of black glass. All perfectly preserved.
And in the center of the vault—wrapped in blue-gray cloth that crumbled to the touch—was the spearhead.
It wasn't iron.
It wasn't steel.
It was some metal Harwin had never seen—grey as stormclouds, cold as ice, and edged in blue light when it caught the torchfire. Still sharp.
He stepped back. "This is cursed."
Alester's voice was quiet. "No. It's knowledge. Something the world forgot."
Colmar swallowed. "Do we… report this to the Eyrie?"
Alester stood. "No. Not until we understand it. Not yet."
Harwin watched him wrap the spearhead in linen and place it in a lockbox.
"You're playing with fire, my lord."
"Then I'll build a hearth for it."
Harwin didn't answer. But that night, as the winds howled over the cliffs, he ordered two guards placed at the mine entrance.
Not to protect what was within.
But to make sure it didn't get out.
Chapter Four preview title:
Wood and Iron (POV: Master Shipwright Thorne Shellbay)
Alester summons the best shipbuilders from the Fingers, who scoff at his unnatural hull designs and ship plans. But as timber arrives and blueprints unfold, even the most stubborn saltborn begin to listen. Word of Alester's shipbuilding spreads—to allies and enemies alike.