ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

The glass kiln took ten days to build.

FireStorm worked on it in shifts because the rest of the holding could not stop while three potters experimented with a new furnace. Men hauled stone and clay to the chosen site on the back slope; others brought fine sand, burned limestone, and processed wood ash. Children who were too young for heavier work sifted material under supervision until the sand no longer carried pebbles or obvious dirt.

The potters laid the kiln according to Arlan’s drawing and rebuilt several vents when the dimensions drifted too far from the marks; the old blacksmith produced blowing pipes and tools that could survive the heat. Morton moved labor between the kiln, distillery, fields, and wall until he complained that Arlan had found a way to make two hundred people feel like twenty.

The first three test firings failed in different ways. Two crucibles cracked, one batch trapped ash in green bubbles, and another slumped because the cooling was rushed. The potters identified the kiln’s uneven draft; the blacksmith altered the vent plates; workers washed the sand again and changed the ash preparation. Arlan supplied principles and measurements, but the corrections came from craftsmen learning what the actual furnace did.

On the tenth evening, the first carefully measured batch went into a new crucible. Arlan stayed beside the kiln.

The problem was heat and purity, and he could remember the principles Michael had studied, but FireStorm had no thermometer, no standardized chemicals, and no fuel system that obeyed a dial. Every instruction had to be translated into color, airflow, timing, material behavior, and the judgment of craftsmen who understood fire even if they had never melted glass deliberately.

The kiln glowed through the night; Arlan adjusted the vents by small amounts and watched the fire. The potters rotated duty around him; villagers gathered beyond the yard fence despite being ordered not to crowd the working area. Dawn came and went. The fire continued.

By the next morning, Arlan finally ordered it reduced; two potters in heavy layers opened the kiln; heat rolled across the yard hard enough to force the spectators back. Using long iron tools, they drew out the crucible; the material inside no longer resembled sand.

It had become a thick molten mass, translucent in the morning light; the eldest potter forgot to breathe for several seconds.

”Pipe,” Arlan said. The reminder brought him back to work.

He gathered molten glass on the end of the hollow iron tube as Arlan had instructed before the firing; his first breath expanded the material unevenly. He rotated the pipe, corrected, blew again, and slowly turned the glowing mass into the rough body of a cup; the work was not elegant.

It was successful. The cup went into a cooler chamber rather than being left to crack from sudden cooling. Afterward the rim was ground and polished with fine stone; when the finished piece was carried into the yard, conversation stopped. The cup was clear.

Not perfectly invisible, not free of every minute imperfection a modern factory would reject, but clear enough that Morton could raise it in front of his face and see the people standing on the other side. The difference between it and the cloudy colored glass known to most of Westeros was immediate.

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Morton turned it toward the sun; light passed through and scattered at the curved edge.

”The Seven preserve us,” he murmured. ”You made this from river sand.”

”The potters made it.”

The eldest potter looked almost offended. ”After you told us to put sand in a furnace hot enough to melt our eyebrows.” A few workers laughed.

Arlan took the cup and examined the thickness, the seam around the base, and the places where the wall had become uneven during blowing. There was room to improve, which meant the process was not yet finished, but the important question had already been answered, and they could make clear glass deliberately.

Arlan did not order a second display cup. He asked for a narrow bottle with eight shallow ribs around the base, one for every ray in the Ashenblade sun. The first neck sagged and the second cracked during cooling; the third survived. Held to the light, it exposed sediment that a painted clay jug could hide, and its shape was harder to copy than wax alone. Morton entered the mold, batch, and seal beside the distillery records. Clear glass would be sold as a luxury, but its first practical work was proving which liquor had actually left FireStorm.

The kiln remained in operation. Each attempt taught the potters something the parchment could not: how much glass to gather on the pipe, how quickly to rotate before gravity thickened one side, where the annealing chamber cooled too fast, and which impurities survived poor preparation. Broken pieces went into a separate pile rather than being treated as failure without value; the craftsmen could study bubbles, cracks, and cloudy patches before the next firing.

Arlan had them preserve the best cup as a reference piece; if later batches came out worse, they would have something physical to compare against rather than relying on memory or pride.

The potters practiced with cups first, then flagons and small vases; flat pieces required different handling and more waste, but usable panes emerged. One craftsman managed curved pieces capable of magnifying letters when held over parchment; every successful shape created another item that could be sold as a luxury rather than as ordinary household ware.

The raw materials were cheap compared with the finished product. The value came from heat, labor, control of the mixture, and the fact that almost nobody in the region had seen glass so clear.

Even ten silver stags for a cup would dwarf the cost of its ingredients; at Storm’s End, where novelty and status mattered as much as practical use, the price could climb far higher. The local luxury market treated imported glass as a treasure of wealthy households, so a decanter set, flat pane, or clear vessel could earn in one sale what ordinary village crafts required weeks to produce.

Morton understood the arithmetic almost immediately.

”If nobles want it,” he said, ”Gareth cannot threaten every steward who carries a cup.”

”That is the point.” The kiln yard erupted into relieved conversation. Red Sun Flame had given FireStorm cash flow. Clear glass offered something more dangerous to House Caron’s blockade: a luxury whose scarcity could make powerful buyers seek the seller instead of waiting for the seller to come begging.

The celebration lasted less than a minute; hooves came hard through the village gate; two guards supported a man between them. His clothes were soaked dark across the chest and side, and three separate wounds had bled through the cloth; he was one of Harlan’s assistants.

Arlan crossed the yard as they lowered him; the man’s pulse was weak but present.

”Inside the potter’s hut,” Arlan ordered. ”Stop the bleeding. Warm water. No liquor.” The men lifted him again. The assistant caught Arlan’s sleeve before they could carry him away.

”My lord... roads...” Blood touched his lips.

”Nightsong men blocked the mountain roads. Harlan was taken. Houses searched... everyone who traded with FireStorm...” His grip failed. The guards carried him inside, leaving Morton in the yard with the clear cup still in his hand. Nobody looked at it now.