ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

Heat climbed through the sword’s leather grip until Arlan’s palm felt wrapped around fresh-forged iron. He drew the blade instead of dropping it, keeping his wrist steady while the steel began to vibrate.

A dim red sheen moved across the blade, accompanied by a pressure that had nothing to do with weight and a heat that persisted despite the cool morning air. Fear, blood, and the final violence of eight dying men seemed to press backward through the hilt, not as clear memories but as a violent impulse seeking somewhere to go.

Larry’s messages arrived in a rush.

”Are you mad? That sword was newly forged, and you fed it eight lives before the heat of the forge had even settled.”

Another message followed before Arlan answered.

”The second rule is written there for a reason. Its ferocity has awakened, and if you cannot suppress it, the next draw may send you blood-mad.”

Arlan slowed his breathing and tightened his grip. Michael’s old world had contained men who became dependent on violence, men who mistook a weapon for courage, and men who could no longer stop once killing began.

This pressure was more literal than any of those failures. It climbed his arm like heat from a furnace, pushing fear and malice toward thoughts that had survived more than a decade of deliberate killing.

Arlan did not release the sword. He forced his breathing into an even rhythm and let old experience meet whatever remained in the steel until the trembling weakened.

The red sheen faded by degrees. When the blade finally settled, he sent Larry a short reply through the private chat. ”I can handle it.”

Several breaths passed before the dwarf answered. ”You actually suppressed it? I’ve forged for three hundred years and seen thousands of knights, mercenaries, and assassins; most novices would already be swinging at whoever stood nearest.”

Arlan looked across the yard. Morton and two young men were shaving oak for the distillation frame, while old women worked the rye beside a mended iron pot and children watched from behind their mothers.

No one was fleeing from him, and no one had been harmed. Children still watched the blade with curiosity, while the adults kept working on the frame Morton had ordered built; whatever they thought of the weapon’s brief red glow, the previous night’s rescue outweighed their fear. Arlan turned his attention back to the chat and asked, ”Did you forge this sword yourself?”

”Obviously. I don’t sell apprentice scrap under my name.” Larry’s pride filled the next message, which described proper hammering, repeated quenching, and an edge ground by someone who considered even Common-quality work a reflection of his craft.

That explained the balance Arlan had noticed during the fight, especially the way the point returned to line after a thrust without forcing his weakened wrist to correct it. Michael’s old personal weapon had not handled any better, despite years of use and careful adjustment.

”What’s the limit?” Arlan asked.

”Leather armor and ordinary steel are within reason,” Larry replied. ”Do not confuse that with plate, a lance charge, or Valyrian steel; block the wrong thing and this sword will snap before your arm does.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The dwarf immediately turned the warning into another sales pitch. Higher permissions and recognized titles would eventually open better armor, stronger blades, and goods beyond the Common shelf.

Arlan sheathed the sword once the heat had fully disappeared. Whatever Larry’s shifting grade descriptions meant, the practical rule remained simple: present permissions were limited, and better goods required formal progression.

Morton approached with wood shavings caught in his grey hair. ”The frame is ready, my lord, and the rye has been ground.”

”Light the fire.” The apparatus was crude because FireStorm possessed crude materials. An iron pot sat over a stone hearth, and an oak pipe carried vapor toward a barrel of cold water containing cleaned sheep intestine arranged as a condenser.

It was ugly work, but the principle was familiar and required no machinery beyond what FireStorm could improvise. The pot, oak pipe, cooling barrel, and cleaned intestine would have looked ridiculous beside proper equipment from Michael’s old world, yet each piece served the same physical purpose. Fermented drink went into the pot, fire heated it, and vapor began moving through the pipe once the liquid reached the proper temperature.

Morton had the villagers check the joints for leaks while cold water was kept around the condenser. The people gathered at a cautious distance, more curious than frightened now that the strange frame had begun to function.

At first the courtyard smelled only of grain and weak ale, a scent every villager recognized from ordinary brewing. Then warmer vapor filled the pipe, and the smell changed as the apparatus began separating the stronger spirit from the original drink.

Arlan watched the joints rather than the spectators. Morton watched Arlan, plainly wondering how a boy who had nearly died of fever knew how to build something no one in FireStorm had seen before.

***

Outside the village, a scout in ragged clothes watched from the edge of the oak forest. He remained long enough to see the frame, the gathered villagers, and Arlan directing the work, then withdrew toward Nightsong.

Elton Caron received the report in his hall. A border map lay across a carved oak table before him, and a silver wine cup rested in his hand while the scout described what had happened at FireStorm.

Arlan Ashenblade had survived the fever, killed all eight mountain raiders, and brought the villagers firmly behind him. The report transformed a poor landed knight’s son into a problem Elton had not expected to possess. The boy had not merely survived; he had destroyed the men sent to exploit FireStorm’s weakness and, according to the scout, turned the frightened villagers into followers who obeyed him without hesitation.

”A sixteen-year-old boy?” Elton asked. The answer did not change. House Ashenblade had been too small and too weak to matter while its lord remained predictable, but Arlan’s sudden competence altered that calculation.

Elton set the cup down hard enough to spill red wine across the map. ”Send word to the Blacktooth band in the mountains.” The messenger waited for the rest.

”They may take whatever grain, women, and property they can carry from FireStorm.” Elton rested one finger on the holding’s place on the map. ”Bring me Arlan Ashenblade’s head, and they receive fifty silver stags plus three months of tax-free border trade.”

The messenger bowed once and left the great hall.

***

At FireStorm, the first clear drop finally formed at the end of the condenser. It fell into the wooden bowl below, followed by another, while a sharper and richer smell replaced the ordinary scent of ale.

Morton leaned closer and inhaled carefully. His clouded eyes widened almost at once. ”My lord...”

Arlan lifted the bowl and examined the clear liquid. The apparatus needed improvement, and the first yield was small, but the method had worked where it mattered: the spirit leaving the condenser was noticeably stronger than the drink that entered the pot.

Before he could say more, a shout came from the village entrance. One of the young men assigned to watch the approaches ran into the courtyard hard enough to stumble.

”My lord! Men from the mountains.” The sentry fought for breath while everyone around the still fell silent. ”Many of them. They’ve blocked the roads.”

Arlan set the bowl down. ”How many, and what are they carrying?”

”At least forty. Stone axes, rusty blades, some bows.” The young man’s face had gone pale. ”Their leader has black tusks across his face.” Several villagers reacted before the sentry finished. They knew the marks and the band that wore them.

”It’s the Blacktooth band,” he said. ”The same men who killed Ser Edwyn.”