The next few days passed with the kind of purpose Levi had never felt before. Each morning, the makeshift camp near the marsh came alive with motion. Elders and youths from the struggling village gathered with yawns and hunger in their eyes—but there was food, and more importantly, there was work.
Levi made sure the bread was soft, the swampberry loaves plentiful, and that the smoked meat—tough as it was—was cut into manageable pieces. A small fire was always burning by sunrise, thanks to Harwin's careful oversight.
On the fifth day, Harwin approached with a familiar smirk. "Jory's been pestering me nonstop," he said. "Says he wants to help build. Wants to learn."
Levi blinked, then smiled. "Let him. If he's willing to work, he's welcome."
Harwin nodded his thanks, clapping Levi on the shoulder. "Just don't let him slack. His mother would have my head."
Jory arrived not long after, proudly holding a borrowed hammer. He didn't know a thing about carpentry, but he listened. Levi had him shadow Old Bran, who had arrived grumbling two days prior and had since taken up the role of master builder, barking orders and muttering about proper angles and roofing beams.
Days stretched into weeks. The outline of the house began to take shape—foundation stones set, wooden beams raised one by one with the creaking effort of a dozen hands. Levi worked too, surprising himself. His arms ached, his palms blistered, and his back groaned by the end of each day, but there was something honest about the pain.
In the evenings, Levi updated his records. The papyrus grew thick with names and tasks completed: who moved stone, who placed the beams, who fetched water, who twisted rope. He had asked for new ink and more paper from Mae's stores, and she obliged with a grunt, muttering something about not wasting good supplies on a boy's dream.
But Levi's dream was becoming real. A proper storage room was being framed behind the main hall, its walls reinforced with salvaged iron nails and planks. Some from Bogwater even came to look—curious or skeptical, it didn't matter. They saw something being built, and that was enough for some to start asking about work.
One night, as the stars blinked over a finished wall frame, Levi and Harwin sat beside the fire. Jory had already fallen asleep beside the others.
"You thinking of heading out again?" Levi asked.
Harwin poked the fire with a stick. "Aye. Winterfell sends its caravans soon. Could be good for trade. I'll speak with some merchants, see if they'll carry word about your project."
"You think they'd be interested?"
Harwin shrugged. "You've got food, cloth, and lumber. Maybe even stone if we shape it right. You keep this up, and Bogwater might be more than a name folks forget."
Levi stared into the flames. More than a name. That idea clung to him.
By the third month, the house stood taller than any other building nearby. The roof was half-laid, and the interior still needed work, but it was real. Rain slid off the pitched shingles instead of soaking through, and inside, they'd begun storing food properly—off the ground, in sealed crates Levi had bartered from a passing tanner.
Work was far from done. More hands were needed. But now, people came to him.
And for the first time in his new life, Levi didn't feel like a burden.
He felt like someone building something that mattered.