The rain had lessened, but the skies above Bogwater still hung heavy with threat. Mist rolled over the marsh in the early morning, hiding the edges of the path and soaking through boots. The fires burned lower now, not for lack of fuel but because every scrap of dry wood was precious.
Inside his half-finished home—stone foundation set, walls standing firm, roof still waiting for its final layer—Levi sat cross-legged, a crude map and a leather-bound ledger spread across the floor. A quill dipped in half-dried ink hovered above a list he had written and rewritten a dozen times.
"I'm not a lord," he muttered. "But if I don't act like one… this place falls apart."
The house and storage shed were nearly done. Workers—no, neighbors—had helped lift the final beams. Mae had called it a miracle. Harwin called it a risk. And Levi… he just called it tiring.
The first order of business was knowledge.
He found the old man they called Maester Nollin huddled under a sloped roof, his parchment scrolls bound in oiled wraps to keep off the damp.
"Maester," Levi said, crouching down beside him, "how does someone… get a maester? Or become one?"
Nollin chuckled, the sound more breath than voice. "You don't get a maester, boy. They're sent. Chosen by the Citadel, sworn to a lord."
"And what if there's no lord?"
"Then there's no chain." Nollin narrowed his eyes. "But there are children here. Bright ones. Curious. Give me time, parchment, and peace… and I can teach."
That was enough for now.
Second—safety.
Levi had no guards. No trained fighters. Just Harwin, whose back hurt when he moved too quick, and Jory, who thought wrestling pigs counted as combat.
At night, he stared at the dark ceiling and imagined the worst: bandits from the east, slavers from the Neck, rogue sellswords looking for soft targets. Bogwater wasn't ready.
He needed weapons. He needed watchers. He needed a plan.
Third—the rumors.
The stranger's return had stirred something Levi couldn't put out. If stories of his rise reached the wrong ears, a noble might ride down from the Twins or White Harbor demanding answers—or worse, fealty.
Only one person might help him navigate that: Mae.
"Lady Stark won't see you," she told him flatly. "You've no name. No banner."
"I don't want a banner," Levi said. "I just want… breathing room. Permission to do what I'm doing."
She looked at him for a long time before answering. "Then maybe it's not a noble you should talk to first. Try the bannermen. House Tallhart. House Reed. They know the swamps."
"And if they say no?"
"Then you keep building. But keep your blade close."
Fourth—his wares.
Swampberries. Lizard meat. Dried fish. Some cured hides. Stone slabs. Ale, when the barrels held. It wasn't much, and it wasn't special.
"No one crosses the Neck for berries," Levi muttered, staring at his ledger. "I need spice. Luxury. Something."
Ideas stirred. Salt. Tar. Clay for pottery. Herbs from the deeper bogs. All dangerous to collect, but all useful. Maybe even tradeable.
Fifth—the people.
He called a meeting. Not in a hall—they had none—but in the square between houses, beside the fire pit that never died.
Levi stood before the dozen or so villagers, heart pounding in his chest. Faces stared up at him: tired, wary, hopeful.
"I'm not a lord," he said, voice rough. "I'm not a knight. I can't promise you gold or banners or glory."
A pause. Wind stirred smoke into his eyes.
"But I've got work. I've got food. And if we work together, if we protect what we've built… maybe this place can be more than just a refuge. Maybe it can be ours."
Silence followed. Then, one nod. Another. Jory clapped once. Mae said nothing, but her folded arms loosened slightly.
Levi exhaled.
This wasn't his homeland. It never would be. But it could be his.
And that was enough to try.