23
Erik said nothing at first only shifted closer and set a hand gently along the man's shoulder, so he would not feel alone and to check up on him using his powers.
"Tell me Ivar Volamark" Erik said quietly "How did you end up here in this state?"
The crippled Ironborn smiled. A smile that was eerily wide and calm.
The smile of a man who had long since fallen past pain.
"Well," Ivar rasped. "You want a story. You have the eyes of a man who wants to know what he kills before he kills."
He gave a soft, humorless laugh.
"I like that."
He licked cracked lips.
"I am… was… captain of the Reaver's Mercy. Born Volmark. Fifth son in line of succession for hose Volmark. Salt and iron in my blood since the cradle. I have sailed every cold and warm shore I could find. The North. The Reach. Dorne. Braavos. Qarth. I have made my fortune as a trader when it paid well. As a corsair when it didn't. As pirate when the coin was sweetest."
His eyes drifted away in remembrance somewhere far beyond the tent.
"We Iron born come to the wild north often. These frozen shores are rich when you know where to look with no organized resistance or politics to stop us. Tall trees. Good lumber for ships. Rare Pelts for trading. Ivory. Salt wives, if the Drowned God blesses us."
He smirked faintly.
"We thought ourselves clever. We got away with it. Well almost always got away with it"
He drew a breath that trembled like worn rope.
"A few months ago, we came upon a skirmish. Ice River cannibals against the tundra sled riding nomads. Ugly fight. Bloody. We waited. Watched. Let both bleed each other and weaken the victor"
His jaw clenched.
"When the nomads lay dead or bound… we struck. Quick. Hard. Took their spoils. Took their women. Took their meat. Took what the cannibals had already taken."
He paused.
"They fought like animals. Fierce and unafraid but they had no steel weapons or swords like we did."
His voice fell quieter.
"We killed many. Including… one young man. Young. Fiercer than the rest . Kiled two of my men before I killed him myself."
Ivar swallowed.
"He was Skarkul's favorite son, as it turns out."
The tent seemed to grow colder.
"Skarkul was not there. But he heard from those that fled the skirmish. And when we were loading our ships… he fell upon us like winter itself."
His expression flickered between rage, grief, hollow amusement.
"My men died screaming. They burned the ships. They butchered the crew. They kept me alive and made me watch."
His eyes glistened.
"Not for ransom. Not for slavery. For hate. For revenge"
He lifted one stump slightly, as if showing a prize.
"He said I would learn what it was to be eaten slowly. To feel myself disappear. To watch every friend I had ever had become meat before my eyes. He even force fed me some"
His voice broke, just once then steadied.
"He started with my feet. Laughing. Talking to me like an old friend while he chewed. He would cut. Eat. Then burn the wounds shut so I lived."
Helga covered her mouth.
Skaldi swore under his breath.
Even Korb's eyes hardened like iron.
Ivar continued softly:
"He made certain I didn't die. Not even when I begged him. Not when I cread and my voice grew horse from all the screaming. He said death was a gift, and I was not worthy."
He closed his eyes.
"I don't want to live like this." Skarkul said "If I have to be taken care of like a new born then I rather die"
Silence.
Then Erik leaned forward, voice low, steady.
"Then you are in luck" Erik replied "For I can give back to you what Skarkul has taken away"
He pressed his palm gently over Ivar's chest , warmth spreading, pain easing, fever dimming.
Ivar blinked, confused.
"What… are you doing?"
"Stopping the infection," Erik replied. "Removing the pain. You will sleep. When you wake… you will have a chance to live again. Whole."
For the first time, true emotion cracked Ivar's mask.
Fear. Hope. Disbelief.
"No one can fix this" Ivar grumbled "Why do you torture me with false hope"
Erik nodded.
"I can.I have It will take time. But I promise it." Erik repleid poiting at Skaldi " This is Skaldi. He'd lost his hand in combat. I restored it"
" The life waever speaks true "Skaldi said as he lifted his right arm " for yeas I was an old cripple . then Erik not only give me a new arm, he also restored all of us to our youths so we may serve him/ the old gods sent him to us"
Tears slipped silently from the Ironborn's eyes.
He laughed — soft and broken.
"Then… perhaps your gods are kinder than mine." Ivar said " Heal me then! Make me whole and I'll serve"
Erik squeezed his shoulder.
"Sleep now, Ivar Volmark."
The Ironborn exhaled slowly relieved and slipped into deep, dreamless rest.
Helga whispered:
"The gods send you where you are needed."
Erik looked at the mutilated man, jaw tight.
"No one deserves that fate. Not even an Ironborn raider." Erik replied "But you are right Helga, we needed an experienced sailor and we just got one"
They lifted Ivar carefully, wrapped him, and carried him toward Weirstad.
------------------
The days that followed the fall of the Ice River Clan were filled with celebrations of victory. Not only had they soundly defeated the equally feared and despised ice river cannibals , thye had done so with only a few lives lost on their end.
Erik honored the fallen by carving the names into the trunk of the tree. A tradition that would continue as more people fell in service of Weirstad. A feast was held in th fallen's honor where their life and deeds were remembered and celebrated.
Three days of honoring and celebrating later , everyone went back to work.
Not the frantic, desperate work of survival but something quieter, heavier ,the work of building a future.
Weirstad had swelled almost overnight once again. Former raiders, broken captives, wandering nomads, and those who simply had nowhere else to go drifted toward the caldera like moths toward a hearth fire.
Some came for food.
Some for safety.
Some came because they believed Erik was touched by the Old Gods so the magical valley was a holy site to them
And all of them were told the same thing. They were welcome if they chose peace and obeyed the rules.
The captives, those who had taken the penance parasite lived under its silent, watchful bond. It did not command their thoughts, nor steal their emotions but when murderous intent flared, when treachery sharpened in the back of the mind like a knife, the thing rooted in their body and brain punished them with crippling pain and soon the urge unraveled before it could bloom.
Not forgiveness. Not absolution. But control so they could learn to live differently.
The great weirwood hybrid helped as well.
Its branches stretched like pale veins across the inner walls of the caldera, leaves whispering soft prayers in the wind. Its spores lived in every lung, every breath, every heartbeat inside the folks of Weirstad. A psychic web. A quiet song under the skull.
Not domination — but awareness.
When cruelty stirred, the tree felt it.
When hatred tried to gather itself, the tree listened.
And if something dark began to bloom, Erik or the sherrifs would be informed and they would arrive long before blood ever spilled.
The sherrifs were the ;aw enforcement divison that Erik had created. They had a force of twenty sherrifs whose jon was to maintain peace , enforce the laws and fight crime. Each sheriff was more deeply coneected to the Hybrid tree allowing them to speak telepathically with it so they could do their job better. The hybrid tree in turn had dozens of animals like ravens, wolves and shadowcats that the hybrid tree and the sheriffs used to keep an eye on everything.
Children ran beneath the roots without fear now. Dogs slept at the base of the trunk. Hunters returned from the forests and laid their kills at the offering spots at te tree's trunk, murmuring thanks.
The old ways did not disappear overnight.
But they began to loosen.
Helga and the other priests preached almost every evening , gently, steadily but also relentlessly.
No more wife-stealing.
No more raiding the weak only because they were weak.
Strength was no longer measured in what you could take.
It was measured in what you could do for the society.
Some argued.
Some resisted.
But hunger faded. Safety grew. People slept with doors unbarred, for the first time in their lives.
And slowly… the sermons stopped sounding strange.
Men still sharpened spears. Women still practiced with bows. Warriors still trained in the yards because Weirstad was not naive.
But they did so with a different purpose now.
To protect what they had, not to devour what others had built.
At night, Erik would stand beneath the weirwood hybrid and used its connection to feel the faint hum inside his skull that was the whispers of hundreds of lives, hundreds of minds, not as slaves, not as puppets…
But as threads in something larger.
In a corner of his mind he always wondered not without fear at what he was becoming.
But the wonderful result of what Weirstad was slowly turning into reassured him. Barely.
------
The afternoon light filtered through the carved windows of the great hall, catching dust motes in soft gold. Chalkboards, slates, and scraps of parchment were spread across the long table.
Ainar was already there, sleeves rolled up, tongue poking out slightly as he worked through numbers.
Erik paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment.
Then he sighed.
"Sorry," he said gently. "Again."
Ainar glanced up.
"For what?"
"For this," Erik said, gesturing around. "For always running from meeting to meeting. For research. For everything. I should be here more. Teaching you myself. You deserved better than—"
Ainar snorted.
"Stop."
Erik blinked. "What?"
"You always say that." Ainar shrugged. "And yet… I am learning. And busy. And tired. So" he grinned "it's fine."
Erik's brows lifted, amused. "Busy?"
"Yes," Ainar said proudly. "Helga has me teaching the smaller ones their letters. And Skaldi wants me to help him keep records for training groups. And Bloom wants me to track plant growth." He rolled his eyes. "Apparently that is important now."
"It is," Erik chuckled. "Very important."
Ainar leaned his elbows on the table.
"Besides, you teach me when you can. And when you don't… I practice. And when I don't understand, I ask. That's what students do."
Erik softened.
"You've grown," he murmured.
Ainar smirked. "Yes. I noticed."
They shared a quiet moment.
Then Erik pulled up a stool and sat beside him.
"All right," he said. "Today I want to talk about something different."
Ainar perked up.
"A weapon?"
"No."
"A new bow design?"
"No."
Ainar thought. "…a new kind of grenade?"
Erik laughed despite himself.
"Currency."
Ainar blinked.
"Money?"
"Yes."
Ainar frowned thoughtfully.
"But… we trade with the other large nomadic tribes. Pelts for salt. Leather for tools. Food for work. Why do we need little metal circles to do it for us?"
"Good question," Erik said. "Tell me, what happens when I need a fur cloak from the tanners, but I have nothing they want?"
Ainar squinted.
"You… owe them?"
"Exactly. And they owe someone else. And so on." Erik traced a circle on the table. "It becomes complicated. Slow. Unfair sometimes."
Ainar nodded slowly.
"So money makes trading easier."
"Yes. It is a promise," Erik said. "A small, universal promise: This is worth something no matter who holds it."
Ainar leaned back.
"So… we just make some? And everyone believes us?"
Erik smiled faintly.
"That's the hard part."
They fell quiet.
Ainar tapped the table thoughtfully.
"What would it be made of? Silver? Iron? Bone?"
"Metal is good," Erik said. "Hard to fake. Hard to break. But rare enough that people value it."
Ainar drummed his fingers.
"What if… instead of kings stamping their faces on coins… we stamp the tree?"
Erik's head tilted.
"The weirwood?"
Ainar nodded.
"Everyone here respects it. Fears it. Trusts it. If the coin carries the tree… then it says this coin belongs to all of Weirstad, not just one man."
Erik's eyes warmed.
"That," he said softly, "is very wise."
Ainar pretended not to glow with pride.
"And on the other side of the coin?" Erik asked.
Ainar thought for a long moment.
"You"
"Me?"
"Yes," Ainar said. "You are our leader, our founder. You are the champion"
Erik exhaled slowly.
"That's exactly what many kingdoms have. I'm not comfortable with my face on it"
Ainar smiled faintly.
"So each coin means… food grown. Wood cut. Leather tanned. Something real."
"Yes," Erik said. "And that means we must promise not to create more coins than our work allows. Otherwise… the coins become lies."
Ainar nodded.
"Then we should write rules."
He reached for a slate.
Erik watched him begin scribbling.
rule one: coins only for real work
rule two: tree mark means trust
rule three: no one is above the rules (not even erik)
Ainar slid the slate toward him.
Erik blinked.
Then laughed softly.
"Especially the last one?"
Ainar shrugged.
"You're busy. You might forget."
Erik rested a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Then it's good I have students like you to remind me."
Ainar grinned.
"And teachers like you to explain money."
They went back to work, the hum of voices outside floating into the hall, the future slowly taking shape in chalk, ink, and quiet conversation.
-----
The sea wind rolled in cold and salt-heavy, snapping at cloaks and tugging at hair.
The new docks stretched out over the dark water — timber still pale where the sun hadn't yet kissed it enough times. Men worked along the pilings. Ropes creaked. Gulls screamed.
And beyond everything else…
She waited.
The dromond.
Fifty meters from carved prow to stern. Six meters wide along the beam. Slender. Predatory. The hull gleamed with Erik's black varnish, not quite tar, not quite pitch, something thicker, glossier, more alive.
Water beaded on it and ran off like it feared to stay and marine pests like sea urchin died from it.
Two masts rose skyward: the foremast nearly twelve meters, proud and tall; the second mast standing back amidships, slightly smaller, eight meters, balanced like a hunter's stance.
From each mast hung the long yards where the triangular lateen sails would stretch out like wings, ready to bite the wind from nearly any direction.
Oars rested pulled in fifty on each side, polished and waiting.
A ship built for speed. For maneuver. For war.
Erik let out a slow breath.
"We did it."
Beside him, Ivar Volmark rested on his cane, cloak fluttering, watching the vessel with an expression halfway between reverence and hunger.
He was whole again.
Arms. Legs. Stronger than before, muscles newly grown and trained. But scars traced faint patterns under the skin, pale reminders of the horrors he had endured. His eyes, though….
They were keener now.
And quieter.
"A dromond," Ivar said softly. "It looks like the galleys of the southerners but not like the ones of the south. This one…" He smiled crookedly. "This one is tougher."
Skaldi whistled.
"She looks fast."
"She will be," Ivar replied. "With a good wind and disciplined oars… she'll outrun most longships. Maybe catch some." He tilted his head. "Maybe outrun death itself."
Helga crossed her arms, impressed despite herself.
"And the hull?" she asked, looking at the glossy black surface.
Erik nodded.
"My mixture. Tree resins. Oils. A few… additions. Waterproof. Rot-resistant. And sea-things won't burrow into it."
"Sea urchins," Gonir muttered. "Little bastards."
Ivar chuckled.
"They won't like this. Nothing will. You have built something… very clever."
He said it lightly but he meant it.
The crew moved about the deck with quiet competence. Lines coiled. Knots tied. Commands spoken and obeyed.
Men who had never touched the ocean two months ago moved like seasoned sailors.
Because they were.
Erik's gift had folded itself inside their nerves: Ivar's knowledge, Ivar's instincts, Ivar's memory of storms and reefs and treacherous shoals ,copied and shared among them like lanterns lit one after another.
Then trained again and again and again unitl the fragile transplanted memories took root and became as good as their own.
Ivar watched them, jaw tightening with something like pride and something like loss.
He spoke softly, just for Erik:
"They move like men who have lived at sea all their lives."
"They have your sailing instincts," Erik said. "But not your temper."
Ivar smirked.
"Shame."
He leaned forward on a cane he liked carrying around, eyes narrowing at the way the men tightened the rigging.
"You gave them the skill. I gave them the sea's heart. Together, we made sailors."
A wind shift rippled across the bay. The ship swayed, whispering against the dock.
Gonir ambled up, grinning like a mad prophet, eyes glinting.
"Ohhh, look at her," he murmured. "Big, black, beautiful, like a raven that learned how to swim. She'll glide. She'll stalk. She'll eat ships. Yes, yes… the sea will be jealous."
Runa stood slightly apart, cloak stirring, studying both ship and men. Her voice, smooth and controlled, carried easily.
"You have changed the balance of power, Erik. One month ago, we were land-bound. Now… we look outward."
Korb grunted, arms folded.
"Ships could bring back more war. And trouble."
Ivar laughed softly.
"Everything worth having does."
He turned to Erik, voice lowering again, sincere beneath the sarcasm.
"You rebuilt me. You gave me purpose. You gave me command again even if you keep a leash around my neck."
His hand brushed near his collarbone, where beneath the skin the weirwood parasite nestled , obedient, listening. Protective. Controlling.
He did not resent it.
He acknowledged it.
"I will not betray you," Ivar said simply. "Not because of your seed in my blood, or your whispers in my mind. But because…" He hesitated. Smirk softened. "Because I am interested in building what greatness you will if you are not stopped."
Erik studied him carefully.
"You still have your will."
"Of course." Ivar shrugged. "I just… cannot entertain certain thoughts anymore. Ironborn reavers are opportunist and back stabbers by nature. Not able to think such thought frees up my mind" His voice turned amused. "It is strangely peaceful."
A horn sounded down the docks.
The crew climbed aboard, taking positions hands on oars, lines, blocks and tackles.
"Ready!" a sailor called.
Ivar straightened.
"Good. Then let us see if my ship wants to fly."
Erik nodded.
"Take her out. Half-sails. Quarter-row. Test the hull. No risks. Don't go too far in to the open sea yet"
Ivar's grin flashed like a knife.
"Aye, Lord of Trees."
He walked toward the gangplank cane in hand, moving with authority, voice cracking out like a whip.
"Raise the yard! Set the lateen! Foremast first! Gentle… let the wind flirt before you let it court! You! tighten that line! No slack! If you love your fingers, keep them OUT of the pulleys!"
Men obeyed.
The sail unfurled.
The dromond shuddered , then eased forward as if it had taken a breath.
The oars dipped in unison. Water parted.
Runa watched, eyes calm.
"This," she said, "is the beginning of something larger."
------
The map covered half the table, parchment stretched flat under smooth stones. Rivers, coastlines, and mountain ridges were marked with careful ink strokes. Erik's handwriting ran along the edges, and Ivar's neat notes filled the margins.
The council gathered close, murmuring.
Ivar tapped the coastline with a charcoal stick.
"Here. We're here. The coast runs south to Westeros. From there, every harbor opens the world. We can also go east to Essos"
Erik folded his arms, looking at the council members "We need to decide where to take our dromond's on its maiden voyage"
"We have one voyage," he said quietly. "One first impression. Salt. Pelts. Leather. Carbon-fiber Longbows and compound bows. We need a place that will pay well… but also somewhere that we won't stick out like s sore thumb."
"Closest is safest. White Harbor." Korb advised "Tis the closest. They are Northmen still. We'll stand out less there"
A few heads nodded.
"But White Harbor answers to Winterfell," another councilor added, uneasy. "Banners, taxes, questions. A strange ship arrives with strange goods and stranger armor…" He let the thought hang.
"They'll demand to know where we come from," said Helga, quietly. "Or worse, they'll invite us to feast while they plan how to take everything we've shown them."
Silence followed.
"Pentos, then?" Ivar leaned forward. "Rich city. Spices. Silk. Coin. They love traders."
Erik frowned at the map.
"Pentos is a part of the Valyrian Freehold. If they think we're worth it, they'll try to own us. If they think we're a threat, they'll try to erase us.I'd rather not go there first"
He tapped the parchment gently.
"Too many eyes that look upward for permission." Ivar smiled slightly. "That's why I say Braavos."
He circled it with the charcoal , the dot almost swallowed by the sea.
"Free city. Built by runaways. They don't bow to Valyria. They see everything . Pirates, merchants, princes, beggars, bankers. No one looks strange there… because everyone is strange."
Skaldi grunted.
"And their fleet?"
"Strong," Ivar admitted. "But they respect trade. They respect coin. If we stay humble, we're just another ship."
"And our goods?" asked one of the leatherworkers. "Will they even care?"
Ivar began counting on his fingers.
"Salt is always needed. Pelts from the north are rare in Essos, especially snow-cat and snow bear. Leather is always in demand. Carbon fiber armor… they'll call it sorcery and they'll trade for it eagerly! which is exactly why we don't sell much. We show enough to impress then pull back."
Erik nodded slowly.
"And the carbon fibre bows?"
Helga smiled.
"Let them try them. Let them envy. But never sell the best."
The council murmured in agreement.
Erik placed his palm over Braavos.
"If it goes badly, we run. If it goes well, we return richer and wiser. We learn the currents, the prices, the politics. Then we return home. Then White Harbor. Then Pentos. Then Valyria. One step at a time."
He looked around the table.
"No boasting. No secrets carelessly spilled. We go as traders. Quiet, polite… and ready."
A slow ripple of assent moved around the room.
Ivar rolled up the map and tied it with leather cord.
"Then it's decided," he said softly. "We sail for Bravos."