ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The forge at Winterfell had not moved.

That felt strange.

So much of the world had shifted beneath Arthur’s feet. Kings had died. Lords had betrayed one another. The Westerlands had changed hands. The North bled from too many wounds. Yet the forge still stood beside the stables, behind heavy felt curtains, with fire breathing inside and iron complaining under hammers.

The deep winter wind howled outside. Within, the hearth burned day and night. The place smelled of charcoal, sweat, damp fur, hot metal, and old work. It was one of the few honest smells in the world. Iron did not flatter. It either bent, broke, or cut.

Old Harth stood with his back to the entrance, bare above the waist despite the cold, his skin gleaming bronze in the firelight. His hammer rose and fell with steady power, shaping a red-hot bar with blows that sounded almost like a heart. Only when he set the metal back into the coals and reached for his water did he notice the figure at the door.

He narrowed his eyes.

Arthur stepped forward, letting the fire show his face.

“Uncle Harth,” he said, smiling despite himself. “I came to invite you for a drink.”

The old man froze.

The apprentices stared.

Water spilled from Harth’s jug onto his own foot. He did not seem to notice.

“Arthur?” he said at last. Then louder, rougher, with disbelief cutting through the gravel in his voice. “Arthur from Battania? The same boy who owed me shield money?”

“The same,” Arthur said. “The debt has aged better than I expected.”

Harth looked him over. Dark leather armor dusted from the road. Frost on his cloak. A lord’s sword at his side. Men outside waiting for him. The boy who had once been useless with a bow had returned as the Lord of Casterly Rock with an army at his back. Life did enjoy wasting everyone’s expectations.

Arthur took a wineskin from beneath his cloak and a parcel wrapped in oilcloth. He set both on the old table and sat as if he had never left.

That did what rank could not. It made Harth’s shoulders loosen.

“What are you staring at?” Harth barked at the apprentices. “Work, unless you want the iron to cool while you admire my guests like maidens at a tourney.”

They returned to work quickly.

Harth sat heavily opposite Arthur, took the wineskin, uncorked it, and sniffed.

“Good stuff.”

He drank deeply. Arthur poured himself a small measure and sipped. The fire cracked. The hammers resumed. For a little while, they might have been two ordinary men resting after ordinary work, in a world kind enough to allow such things.

“You’ve changed,” Harth said after eating several pieces of venison. “Back then you could barely ride a horse, and Ena mocked your archery like it had personally offended her. Now men say you broke Bolton and Karstark at Moat Cailin and brought tens of thousands north.”

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“People change.”

“People get taller. Richer. Meaner. They do not usually become lords of the Westerlands.”

“Usually.”

Harth snorted. Then his expression shifted.

“The girl,” he said quietly. “Ena. I heard about the Twins.”

Arthur’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup.

“A good girl,” Harth said. “Stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Better with a bow than most men who bragged about bows. Bad fate.”

“Yes.”

“You came back for her?”

“Partly,” Arthur said. “Blood for blood. But not only that.”

He looked toward the fire.

“There are worse things than Bolton beyond the Wall.”

Harth’s mouth tightened.

“The nonsense the Night’s Watch men mutter about? Dead men walking. Blue eyes.”

“It is not nonsense.”

The hammering slowed.

Arthur did not raise his voice. He did not need to.

“I have seen proof. A letter from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. A dead man’s finger that would not burn. The White Walkers have returned, Uncle Harth. The Wall may not hold.”

For several moments, the forge was too quiet.

Harth’s face looked harder in the firelight.

“So that is why you brought the army. Not just revenge. The Wall.”

“Bolton must die. The North must be united. Then we go north. If we do not, we wait to die at home instead of fighting where death first comes.”

Arthur hesitated. This was the part he disliked.

“You are old. You have forged iron long enough for any man. I have furnaces in the Westerlands, better iron, safer walls. If you wished to come south—”

“No.”

The word fell like a hammer.

Arthur stopped.

Harth stood and placed one rough hand on the blackened furnace wall.

“I was born in Winterfell. Raised here. My father forged for Lord Rickard. His father forged for the Starks before him. My forefathers worked this iron long before me. Nine out of ten blades I made went to northern men. Swords, spearheads, nails, horseshoes. Things that hold when men need them to hold.”

He turned, eyes bright with fire and anger.

“You want me to run south and hide behind warm walls while the North is killed by dead things? You want me to hear that the blades I made cannot cut the bones of ghosts because I was too comfortable to try making better ones?”

Arthur said nothing.

Harth leaned over the table.

“I drank your wine. I ate your meat. Now talk business. What do you need forged? How much? When? As for going south, never mention it again. If I die, I die beside my anvil. That is my place.”

The apprentices stared at him as if seeing their master for the first time.

Arthur bowed his head once.

No more persuasion.

He took out a parchment and spread it across the table. On it were marks and notes gathered by Grey Shadow from old records, Night’s Watch reports, and frightened memories. Arthur pointed to the first mark.

“Black Stone Canyon, southeast of the Fist of the First Men. Old Night’s Watch records mention an abandoned obsidian vein. I have sent men to scout and clear it. The first ore should arrive within half a moon if the road allows.”

His finger moved east.

“Skagos may have volcanic remains and old sources of dragonglass. Too dangerous to mine for now. But Winterfell’s crypts, secret chambers, and several ancient castles may hold old dragonglass artifacts. Enough for study. Enough for emergencies.”

Harth bent close, reading the notes.

“Obsidian and dragonglass are brittle,” Arthur said. “They cannot be forged like steel. I want steel frames, inlaid blades, spearheads set with shards, arrowheads if possible. Bonding, wrapping, reinforcement. Experiments first. Useful weapons after.”

Harth’s eyes sharpened.

The old craftsman had been offered a puzzle. That was often more dangerous than offering a man gold.

“Black stone,” Harth muttered. “Glass that kills ghosts. Steel to hold it. Inlays. Frames.” He grinned suddenly. “Ugly work.”

“Most necessary work is.”

“Aye. Leave it to me. When the ore arrives, I’ll gather every old hand who can still hold a hammer and every boy smart enough not to burn his own fingers. If I cannot make something that kills ghosts, I’ll write my name backward and let the apprentices laugh.”

“I would pay to see that.”

“You already owe me.”

Arthur smiled.

Harth rolled up the parchment. “Drink money. Shield money. Research money. All of it noted. When the war is done, bring me the Night King’s icy head and perhaps I’ll call the debt settled.”

Arthur stood.

At the door, Harth called after him.

“Boy.”

Arthur looked back.

The old man stared down at his scarred hands.

“Ena did not misjudge you. Fight well. For her. For everyone who cannot wait for spring.”

Arthur’s throat tightened once. He nodded and stepped back into the cold.

Behind him, the bellows began again. The hearth roared brighter. Hammers struck iron with a new rhythm, beating against the winter night like a promise made in sparks.