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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AUTOR NOTE!!!!!!!
Guys, some may like it and others may find it useless, but I added Chapter 0, and in it I included some information and images of the characters. If you think it's relevant, go check it out and leave a comment. Thanks
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Chapter 6
Year 97 BC
POV: Denovan
The sun had barely painted the sky gray when we arrived at the smithy. The air was still, cold, and silent, about to be broken.
Gorn was already there, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking at the stone furnace that had served him for years with the expression of someone saying goodbye to an old friend—or someone about to make a terrible mistake. Beside him, two robust men my father had assigned waited for orders, their breath forming white clouds in the air.
"Boy...", Sigorn said, his deep voice dispersing the silence. "Tell them what to do."
I breathed in the freezing morning air, feeling the adrenaline of an engineer about to start a project, not the anxiety of a child. A smile formed on my face.
I began to remember my furnace; there was no way to replicate it with the current materials, but I could make something similar.
I was going to need space.
"Let's start by knocking down this wall," I pointed to the side of the furnace. "The new furnace is born today."
Gorn grumbled something unintelligible but didn't interfere. Under my guidance, the men began the heavy work. The sound of pickaxes and hammers against stone echoed through the quiet village, waking the neighbors' curiosity.
As they dismantled the old structure, I turned to the blacksmith.
"Gorn, we need iron. Everything you have."
He raised an eyebrow. "Iron? We have little. What we have is rust and trash. Broken spearheads from dead crows or bent nails from wood brought by the sea..."
"It will do," I cut in. "Bring everything. Every piece of rusty metal that is good for nothing. We're going to give them a new life."
The morning dragged on in a blur of dust and effort. It was hard to convince Gorn at every step. He wanted to keep the air intake wide; I made him narrow it. He wanted the chimney low; I made him raise it.
"It will choke the fire!" he shouted at one point, running his hands over his head, irritated at doing it that way.
"Do as the boy says, Gorn," Sigorn's voice intervened, calm but dangerous. The Magnar was sitting on a nearby log, cleaning his nails with a dagger, but his eyes missed nothing.
Gorn swallowed hard and went back to work.
By the end of the day, the furnace was assembled. It was a more enclosed structure, taller, and with internal angles that Gorn found bizarre. There was a small crowd gathered around the forge—entertainment was rare in the far north, and watching the Magnar's son playing builder was the attraction of the day.
"Light it," I ordered.
The fire started shy, fed by dry wood and, later, by generous layers of charcoal. As the temperature rose, the furnace design began to do its job. The chimney pulled the hot air up, creating a vacuum that sucked fresh air from below violently.
Vuuuosh.
The sound changed. It was no longer the crackle of a campfire. It was a low, constant roar.
"By the gods...", murmured one of the men. The air around the forge shimmered, distorting vision. The heat radiating from there was aggressive, forcing the spectators to take steps back.
"It's working," I whispered, feeling my face burn. "Now, the metal."
We had gathered about two kilos of scrap iron—trash, by any normal standard. We threw it all in there, into the heart of the hell we had created.
And then, we waited.
An hour passed. Two.
If it were bronze, it would have already melted and flowed like soup. But iron was stubborn. The crowd began to disperse, bored. The cold of the night was tightening again.
Sigorn approached, his face illuminated by the orange glow escaping the cracks of the furnace.
"How long, son?" he asked, impatience starting to leak out. "To melt?"
I looked at the color of the fire through the inspection opening. It was white, almost blinding.
"The iron won't melt like water, Father," I explained, trying to simplify metallurgy. "We don't have the temperature to make it liquid for molds. But it will soften. It will turn into a glowing paste. Another thirty minutes."
I turned to Gorn. "We can't open it now. If too much cold air gets in, we lose the heat. Prepare the hammers. We're going to have to beat it a lot."
Forty minutes later, the sky was totally dark. Only we remained: Gorn, Sigorn, my mother Valka—who watched everything with eagle eyes—my siblings, and Halgar.
"We can open it," I announced, tying a wet cloth around my face to protect from the steam. "Protect your eyes!"
Gorn opened the furnace door with long tongs.
The heat that came out was like a physical punch. And inside, amidst the glowing charcoal, was the heap of scrap. It wasn't liquid, but it glowed a yellow-almost-white, a pasty and vibrant mass.
"Take it out, Gorn! Now!" I shouted. "Trust me!"
The blacksmith, sweating buckets despite the cold night, stuck the tongs in and pulled out the glowing mass.
"To the anvil! Fast!"
He threw the metal onto the anvil.
"Hit it!" I ordered. "Join it all into one piece!"
Gorn raised the hammer and brought it down with force. CLANG! Sparks flew like fireworks, illuminating the smithy. The iron yielded, soft like hard clay.
"Water!" I shouted to the helpers.
They started the forge welding process. Hit, fold, use flux to clean the dirt, and hit again. We were fusing the scrap with brute force, turning trash into a solid bar.
Gorn worked at a frenetic pace, his eyes wide with fascination. He had never seen a metal that became so hard and so malleable at the same time without breaking.
When the bar finally formed, solid and dense, he stopped, panting. 1.5 kg of iron, the quality wasn't exceptional, but it was better than any bronze; we lost 500 grams of impurities, which had melted in the furnace.
Gorn looked at the ingot, and then at me, and asked, with fascination in his voice.
"What weapon do you want, boy? ... The first steel weapon on this side of the Wall. Decide the shape. I will forge whatever you ask."
I looked at the gray metal that was starting to cool. There was only one weapon that was worthy.
"A tomahawk," I replied, using the word from my past life before correcting myself. "A hand axe. Light, fast, and brutal. It can be used for throwing; I'll use a piece of wood for the handle."
"It shall be done," Gorn nodded, his eyes shining with the challenge. "I don't know the strange name you used, but I know axes."
The night turned into a hypnotic cycle. Fire. Hammer. Water. Fire. Hammer...
The rhythmic sound of metal being shaped was like music. My family watched mesmerized. Sigrid ended up falling asleep on Valka's lap, but Ulfar watched every blow, marveled. Sigorn had a giant smile on his face, a smile of triumph. Doubt had died; belief in the son's "dream" was born.
When the sun began to tear through the horizon, illuminating the snow and pasture outside, the rough work was done.
Gorn dropped the hammer and leaned on the table, exhausted. On the anvil rested the rough shape, dark and menacing, of an axe head. It still needed to be sharpened and polished, but the soul of the weapon was there.
"The base is ready, boy," Gorn panted, wiping sweat and soot from his forehead. "It was a success. The furnace... by the Gods, the fire is a monster."
"Let's rest," said Sigorn, standing up and stretching his stiff muscles. "You and your family too, Gorn. We continue tomorrow."
My eyes weighed tons. The seven-year-old body was exacting its price.
"I worked harder today than in all my previous battles... HOLY SHIT... I'm going to have to rest for a moon before trying to do anything..." said Gorn, arching his back and going inside his house.
My father and I exchanged a slight amused smile and left the forge.
We went to the guest house, staggering with sleep. I don't remember lying down. I passed out as soon as my head touched the pillow. This time, there was no sea, nor any mysterious creature. Just the darkness of rest.
We woke up when the sun had already passed its peak, a few hours after midday.
We ate hurriedly and ran back to the smithy. The news had spread. There were more people watching now, whispering about the "gray metal" and the "roaring furnace."
I entered the workshop. Gorn was already there, focused, running a whetstone on the axe blade.
He had already attached the wooden handle, and he even put some leather strips on the handle to give it a finish. "Gorn was... really committed," I thought.
Upon seeing me, he stopped and raised the weapon. The metal was dark gray, imperfect and rough, but it emanated an aura of danger that bronze would never have.
"Your weapon, little dreamer," he said.
I took the axe. It was heavy for my current size, but the balance... the balance was perfect.
"It's perfect, you woke up early Gorn... should have rested more," I murmured, running my finger along the cold blade.
"Hehe," Gorn chuckled while scratching his nose, looking like a shy child.
"Now...", Gorn crossed his arms, changing the subject, a knowing smile on his face. "You need to teach me how to make more of this. And I need to know... what else did this Odin teach you?" he said with childish enthusiasm.
I smiled back. The game had changed. The Thenns had steel.
"He taught me how we can have iron, how to forge a metal called steel, a metal stronger than iron."
"Stronger than this one in your hand?"
I looked at the beautiful tomahawk in my hand; the blade was rough, the wooden handle was simple. It was good, but compared to what we could do with new steel, and not with a simple re-forging.
It was lacking a bit.
"Stronger, Gorn, but it's impossible to make steel for now; we would need to have more iron."
"We should focus on re-forging for the time being."
He looked at me and nodded. "I understand, now go show this to Sigorn, he must be anxious too... and let me rest for today..."
"Thank you, Gorn... truly..." he looked at me with strange eyes and when he was about to open his mouth to speak I continued, "For trusting me and for the axe... I will make it up to you, I promise you."
He gave an awkward smile and gestured with his hand for me to get going.
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Arriving at our guest house, my parents were standing talking, sitting on the doorstep.
"It's ready," I said when their eyes locked on me.
I approached them and handed the axe into Sigorn's hand.
"It's magnificent, son..." he said while looking at every detail.
"Denovan... grab my sword on the table."
I nodded and went inside the house quickly; the house was empty, I expected to see Sig and Ulfar. I grabbed the sword and ran back to them.
When I reached the door, they were already a bit further ahead, in the yard.
"Here, Father," I said handing him the weapon.
He gave me back the tomahawk and took the sword, and unsheathed it.
"The iron of the two... there's still a difference."
"It's because the metal of your sword is high-quality steel, Father, and the tomahawk is from recycled scrap."
"I understand."
"We'll reach the level of making a sword like that, Father, it's just a matter of time."
He looked at me and said with a tender smile, "I am proud of you, Denovan."
I was about to respond but felt myself being lifted with force from behind and heard my mother's voice.
"My baby is so grown up... you make me proud too, my cub."
Even after two lives, I found myself blushing with shyness "... thank you, Mother... Father."
When she put me on the ground I said, finding myself overcome by a childish anxiety and hurriedly began to ramble.
"We can start collecting iron, Odin showed me how it's done, we won't be able to collect much, but it will be enough to make some high-quality weapons in the coming years, and we can improve even more the bronze weapons and tools."
"We will discuss this later, son... for now, let's rest and tomorrow we will leave for home, and there we will start doing these things you learned... okay?"
"Okay."
"Show this axe to Sig and Ulfar, if you don't show them they'll be upset."
"I'll show them... but... where are they? I didn't see them inside the house."
"They were going to train with Halgar, they must be near the chief's house, there's a spacious place there, some warriors train there."
"I'm going there," I said, already distancing myself from them.
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A battle between Sig and a boy her age was happening, and my dear little sister was massacring the poor boy.
"Sig... Ulfar."
She parried the boy's blow and said quickly, ignoring the young lad.
"Novannnn, Father said you made an iron axe, let me seeeee," she quickly came up to me.
"Don't leave me out, little brother," said Ulfar who started approaching me, accompanied by Halgar and the boy who had just been defeated by Sig.
Halgar, the experienced ranger, looked at the weapon in my hand with skepticism.
"Iron, huh?" he grumbled, crossing his arms. "Looks like gray stone. Are you sure it won't break on the first hit against a crow's shield?"
Ulfar laughed, but his eyes were fixed on the dark blade. "If Father approved, it must be good. But I want to see it cut."
I looked around and saw an old pine log they used for training, full of superficial marks from bronze swords.
"Halgar," I called, extending the axe to the veteran warrior. "Do the honors. Hit that log. Hard."
Halgar weighed the axe in his hand, surprised by the balance. He rotated his shoulder, preparing himself. "If it breaks, it's not my fault, boy."
He advanced and delivered a violent lateral blow.
THUCK!
The sound was dry and deep. There was no vibrant clang of bronze hitting hard wood. The gray blade bit into the log with frightening violence, burying itself deeply, almost disappearing into the wood.
Silence fell over the training field. The boy who was fighting with Sigrid was open-mouthed.
Halgar struggled to pull the weapon back. The wood creaked when he freed it. He ran his thumb along the edge.
"Not a nick...", he whispered, incredulous. "The edge is intact."
Ulfar took the axe from Halgar's hand, his eyes shining with a mixture of envy and pure admiration.
"By the Gods...", my brother murmured, testing the cut in the air. "I just got a sword and you do this, Denovan... Make one for me. I need one of these."
Sigrid jumped on my back, almost knocking me over. "It's unfair, Daddy just gave you one, I want one too! Make one for me first... and... and... I want a spear! No, a sword! No, an axe just like it! Aaaa! I don't know yet, let me think!"
I smiled, patting Sig's head, feeling the weight of success. The Bronze Age of the Thenns was numbered.
"I'll make one for everyone," I promised. "But first... we have to go back home..."
"Do you remember, brother? We have something to get!" I said looking at Ulfar.
He looked at me thoughtfully and as if remembering something, his eyes shone.
"The little ones?"
"Those exact ones," I said looking at him with a lupine smile.
He answered me with the same smile.
Sig and Halgar looked at us confused.
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