ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

By morning the rain had stopped, leaving mist over FireStorm’s low walls and thin bloodstains where the eight bodies had been dragged from the yard. Arlan sat at the threshold of the stone hall with a wooden bowl in one hand and the new sword within reach.

The fight had cost more than it looked. His fever had only just broken, and this sixteen-year-old body was underfed, bruised from the fall, and unused to the precise economy of movement Michael Watson had spent years developing. What the villagers remembered as effortless killing had emptied most of the strength Arlan possessed, leaving an ache in his limbs that the hot food and weak ale only slowly eased.

Every turn pulled at muscles he had pushed beyond their conditioning. Morton stood nearby while Arlan worked through the hard black bread.

The steward kept glancing at the sword without asking again where it came from. Arlan let him wonder and turned his attention inward, calling up the Myriad Realms Forging Group.

The pale blue interface opened immediately. Beneath the [Forging Shack] header, two rules appeared more fully than they had during the emergency activation.

[Quality is bound to the host’s title. Permissions unlock as the title is promoted. Fair trade. Payment on delivery.]

[Weapons originating from the group possess spirit and ferocity. If the host cannot suppress the weapon, backlash may occur.]

Only Larry’s portrait remained active, while more than a dozen other member spaces were greyed out behind insufficient permissions. The locked spaces gave no names, worlds, or specialties, only the blunt fact that Arlan’s present permissions were too low to reach them. Arlan opened the dwarf’s private chat and found a new message waiting.

”Kid, how’s the sword? Three hundred years of Dwarven Hill work went into that steel, and I quenched the edge three times. Two silver stags was cheap.”

Arlan answered in thought. ”Acceptable.”

Larry replied almost immediately. ”Acceptable? The group activated at the right moment and saved your neck. You’re still Titleless, so Common-quality goods are all you can buy until you earn a title the group recognizes.”

The dwarf followed with a merchant’s description of what greater standing supposedly opened, talking less like a mechanical system and more like a blacksmith trying to make a customer imagine shelves he could not yet afford. ”Recognized lordship opens Superior work. Greater authority opens more after that: Fine, Rare, Epic. Worry about the higher shelves when you can actually reach them.”

Arlan noted the sequence without treating it as more certain than it was. The interface itself had confirmed only his present status, No Title and Common-quality trading; the rest came from Larry’s explanation.

The dwarf returned to the other rule before Arlan could ask more. ”Don’t think a bought sword is harmless. Every weapon carries the heat and blood of its forging, and if you cannot suppress its ferocity, the backlash is yours.”

Arlan looked at the hand-and-a-half sword beside him. Nothing about the clean steel suggested danger now, but the warning explained why the interface had bothered placing a second rule beside the first.

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His account balance showed zero. The sword had consumed the two silver stags hidden in his clothes, which had been the last ready silver House Ashenblade possessed.

Better weapons and armor therefore remained theoretical until he found more value to trade. The locked member portraits were no more useful than the expensive goods Larry described, because Arlan could neither reach them through his present permissions nor pay for purchases that were already available. He examined the interface again and noticed a function he had not used during the attack.

[List Item]

He selected it.

[Items from the current world may be listed. After group valuation, listed items may be exchanged for group currency.]

Arlan looked toward an old steel sword leaning against the inner wall. It had belonged to Ser Edwyn Ashenblade, and although rust marked the blade, a stag remained worked into the steel from his father’s service under Robert Baratheon during the wars that ended Targaryen rule.

He picked it up.

[Item Detected: Westeros Standard Steel Sword.]

[Baratheon Royal Bestowal Mark.]

[Quality: Common.]

[Can be listed.]

[Estimated Value: 1 silver stag.]

The function changed the value of the group considerably. It still created nothing for free, because FireStorm had to surrender something worth listing, but objects from Westeros could be converted into purchasing power inside the exchange. That made the interface a market as well as an armory, and meant local materials or possessions might eventually matter beyond their ordinary Westerosi price.

Arlan set the old sword back against the wall rather than listing it immediately. Morton approached before he could inspect anything else, carrying a coarse linen bundle in both hands.

”My lord, the villagers asked me to bring this.” Morton opened the cloth to reveal copper stars and a worn half silver stag. ”Buy grain, iron, men, whatever FireStorm needs. You saved them last night.”

Arlan looked past him toward the courtyard. Some villagers were repairing the broken gate with salvaged timber, while others sorted the poor weapons, clothing, and coins stripped from the dead. The bundle represented the savings of all forty-seven people in FireStorm, gathered after a night in which many of them had expected to lose everything anyway.

He took only the half silver stag. The coin vanished when he submitted it to the group.

[Current Account Balance: 0.5 silver stag.]

Arlan pushed the remaining copper back toward Morton. ”Keep it.”

”My lord?”

”They still need to eat, and this is almost everything they have.” Morton closed the cloth around the coins. He still looked uncertain, but he obeyed without further argument or protest.

Arlan’s gaze moved from the rye stores to the cracked iron pot and the rough courtyard beyond. Michael’s memories contained more than killing, and distillation was simple compared with most technologies that separated his old world from this one.

Strong spirits could be produced with materials FireStorm already possessed, then sold for far more than ordinary ale or raw grain. In a holding with almost no coin and no immediate way to hire craftsmen or soldiers, increasing the value of grain already on hand was one of the few economic moves Arlan could make without first leaving FireStorm. The method needed heat, fermented drink, a vessel, a cooling path, and enough care to keep the vapor contained, none of which required a rich lord’s workshop. The holding needed money, and the first step did not require waiting for another system purchase.

”Bring out the rye,” Arlan said. ”Find two people with steady hands, mend the iron pot, and set a frame in the courtyard.”

Morton blinked. ”For cooking?”

”For making the grain worth more than it is now.” The steward waited, plainly unconvinced.

”I’m going to show you how to make liquor stronger than anything sold around here.” Arlan stood and fastened the hand-and-a-half sword at his side. ”If it works, we have something people will pay for.”

That was enough for Morton. He bowed and went to gather the villagers, tools, grain, and materials. Arlan’s hand settled around the sword hilt as he turned. Heat surged suddenly through the leather-wrapped grip.

He stopped immediately in place, feeling the blade vibrate inside the scabbard as a faint red glow slowly appeared along the exposed steel. The sensation carried more than heat, as though something violent inside the weapon had finally awakened.

Larry’s private chat began filling with messages.

”Kid, what did you do to that sword?” A second message appeared almost on top of the first.

”Eight lives on the first draw?”