I know a lot of veteran readers and writers of forge will be quick to find inconsistencies, plot holes, logic holes, grammar problems etc in this fic. it was part of why i was weary sharing it here, because despite eagerly wanting o write a fic fpr celestial forge, i knew i would be terrible compared to others. Just look at My anti-ntr fic. i am sure a lot of people will quickly point out flaws there and i wont be surprised if many are found here. the first couple of chapters are weak, i know but please forgive me. It was me trying to get back in the swing of writing normal non smut fics and i was terrible when it came to translations and such, English not being my first language. i actually cringed when i placed it on my discord server, feeling the first chapter was trash but i kept on writing anyway. I do hope you enjoy as others on ao3 have.
Public releases have it at chapter 17 though i posted chapter 20 on my if anyone wants to read ahead. I am also looking forward to help and what powers he should get next. I don't use cp but have capped myself giving the mc powers as a roll every 5 chapters. They are due for a new roll now. actually overdue as i forgot to give them anything new after their last acquisition from the forge.
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Owen stood in his father's forge early in the morning, working slowly on a simple iron blade. He snorted in deep amusement at the thought. Simple was an understatement. He could make simple. Not anymore. Not since he had awakened the power of the celestial forge within him at 15 years - namedays as they called it in Westeros.
The heat from the forge warmed his face as he shaped the metal with practiced, perfect strokes, his abilities working to make a simple blade something of perfection.
That day ten years ago had changed everything. One moment he'd been Jacob Danner, a regular guy living a regular life. The next, he'd opened his eyes as Owen, son of a blacksmith in a world straight out of fantasy novels. The shock had nearly broken him as both sets of memories of two lives lived warred in his head.
His mother Tina had found him that morning, tear tracks dried on his cheeks. She'd held him close, stroking his hair, not understanding why her usually cheerful boy was so distraught. How could he explain that he remembered an entire other life? That he knew things no five-year-old should know?
He sighed at the memory and watched the metal glow and bend under his precise hammering, each strike perfect and measured. His father had praised his skill countless times, saying he was blessed by the old gods, not knowing the true source of his expertise.
"The wheel turns and turns," he muttered to himself, remembering the words from his past life. The books he'd read, the shows he'd watched - they painted a grim picture of what was to come. Winter wasn't just coming; it was bringing ice demons, armies of the dead, and political chaos that would tear the realm apart.
He set the hammer down, wiping sweat from his brow. The heat from the forge couldn't chase away the chill that crept up his spine whenever he thought about it. Dragons would return. The Night King would march. Kings would die, and common folk would suffer most of all.
Owen's plans had been simple once the memories settled. He'd known what was coming - the wars, the walking dead, the dragons. His strategy had been clear: work hard in his father's forge, save every copper he could, and when the time came, grab his parents and flee across the Narrow Sea to Essos. Let the highborn idiots play their game of thrones. He and his family would be safe, far from the coming horrors.
But then it happened. On his fifteenth nameday, as he lay in his bed listening to the distant crash of waves against Longshore's cliffs, something deep within him shifted. The sensation was unlike anything in either of his lives - a resonance that seemed to echo from the stars themselves. In that moment, he felt the turn of cosmic gears, the movement of forces beyond mortal understanding.
The word SKYRIM blazed across his consciousness, burning itself into his very soul. The celestial forge, a power he had thought only appeared in the cheesiest of fanfiction till that moment, turned its great wheel. Knowledge flooded his mind - not just basic smithing techniques, but mastery beyond anything this world had seen. Secrets of metallurgy that even the greatest smiths of westeros and beyond would envy poured into him. He understood steel as if it were an old friend, could feel the way metal wanted to flow and bend.
He sat up in bed, his hands trembling as he stared at them in the dim light filtering through his window. These were still the callused hands of a blacksmith's son, but now they held the potential for so much more. He could forge weapons and armor that would rival the legendary Valyrian steel - perhaps not quite as magical, but crafted with a perfection that few could match.
"Fucking Seven Hells!," he had whispered, then caught himself and glanced wearily at the small weirwood carving his father had made. Old gods, not new, here in the North. He didn't need to make any divine enemies right now.
The surge of knowledge wasn't just about metalworking - he understood materials he'd knew had never even been heard of or existed in this world. Ebony. Moonstone, Malachite, Glass that could hold an edge sharper than steel. Even the theoretical knowledge of how to work with daedric materials, though he knew those couldn't exist here. All this knowledge from a world based on a video game he had played when he was teenager in his last life.
He had slipped out of bed and paced his small room, mind racing. This changed everything. The power he'd received wasn't just skill - it was mastery that went beyond what should be possible. His original plan of flight no longer seemed adequate. With this ability, he could forge weapons and armor that might actually make a difference in the coming conflicts.
The question was did he want to get involved? He didn't care for the Starks or Lannisters. He didn't want anything to do with Jon snow in Winterfell or Daenerys in Essos and he certainly didn't want to deal with any white walkers. He had made his choice then. He'd use his abilities, make a shit ton of gold, grab his family and any from longshore who wished to join him and get the fuck outta dodge. Let Westeros sort itself out! He wasn't made for the hero life.
At least that had been the plan. Owen stared at the blade in his hands, remembering that morning after his awakening. He'd walked into his father's forge before dawn, unable to sleep with the new knowledge burning in his mind. The metal had sung to him, practically begging to be shaped into something extraordinary.
Olyvar had found his son already deep in work, the forge blazing hot, steel folded and refolded with a precision that made the blacksmith's jaw drop. Owen's hands had moved with certainty, each strike of the hammer placed perfectly, each fold of the metal executed with masterful care.
"By the old gods," Olyvar had whispered, watching his fifteen-year-old son craft a sword that looked like it belonged in the hands of Brandon the Builder himself. The blade caught the morning light, its surface so perfectly smooth it seemed to drink in the sun's rays.
Owen had given the sword an experimental twirl, muscle memory from both lives guiding his movements. The blade cut through the air with an audible whisper, leaving what almost looked like traces in the very wind itself. Not a single imperfection marred its surface - no chips, no scratches, just pure perfection in steel form.
"Son?" Olyvar's voice had cracked slightly. "Where did you... how did you learn to forge like this?"
Owen had turned to his father, seeing the mix of awe and concern in the older man's eyes. He'd prepared a story about practicing in secret, about studying the old techniques, but looking at his father's face, he couldn't bring himself to lie.
"The old gods," he'd said simply, knowing how much his father respected the ancient powers of the North. "They blessed me with knowledge, father. Last night, on my nameday."
Olyvar had stepped forward, running a calloused hand along the blade's surface. "This is beyond anything I've ever seen, save perhaps Valyrian steel itself, and i only saw that in passing when i was an apprentice….." His eyes had met Owen's. "A blessing you have been given indeed son. But such gifts often come with great responsibility."
Those words had hit Owen hard, making his carefully laid plans of escape feel suddenly hollow. His father in this new life had always been a practical man, not given to flights of fancy or supernatural speculation. But in that moment, Olyvar's quiet acceptance and wisdom had shaken Owen's resolve more than any prophecy or vision could have.
Owen's blades had quickly become legendary within the small confines of Longshore. The village guards strutted around with their gifted swords, proud as peacocks, often spending their free hours near the forge watching the young smith work. They marveled at how the metal seemed to flow like water under his hammer, taking shape with an ease that defied their understanding of smithing.
"It's like watching magic," Derrick, one of the guards, had said one morning, leaning against the forge's doorframe. His own sword, one of Owen's first masterworks, hung at his hip. The blade caught the sunlight, its surface gleaming with an almost mirror-like finish.
The other guards nodded in agreement, watching as Owen shaped yet another blade. They'd taken to spending their off-duty hours at the forge, bringing ales and sharing stories while the young smith worked. Owen didn't mind the company - their presence helped maintain the illusion that this was all just exceptional skill rather than supernatural ability.
Olyvar had watched from his own workbench with quiet pride, though he knew the truth of his son's gift. He'd taken to handling the more mundane work - horseshoes, plow blades, and tools - leaving the weapons to Owen's extraordinary talents.
It was during one of these impromptu gatherings that Torren first approached Owen about selling his blades beyond Longshore. The merchant had been watching the young smith's work for weeks, his keen trader's eyes noting the exceptional quality of each piece.
"These are worth a fortune in the right markets," Torren had said, his voice low and excited. "The nobles around the north? they'd pay their weight in gold for blades of this quality."
Owen had hesitated initially. The village guards could have his work for free - they were neighbors, friends, people he'd known in this life since childhood. But selling the blades? That meant attention, questions about his methods, his training.
Still, the prospect of gold was too tempting to ignore. Every coin would bring him closer to his goal of escaping the coming chaos. After some negotiation, they struck a deal: Torren would take a selection of blades on his trading routes through the North, selling them at premium prices and taking a reasonable cut of the profits.
The first batch of swords left with Torren as winter's chill began to creep into the air. Owen watched the merchant's wagon disappear down the coastal road, a knot forming in his stomach. He'd been careful to make the blades exceptional but not impossible - nothing that would scream of supernatural origin. Just masterwork steel, crafted with unprecedented skill.
But as he turned back to his forge, Owen couldn't shake the feeling that he'd made a crucial error. The guards of Longshore were one thing - a handful of men in a remote coastal village with great blades weren't likely to draw attention. But now his work would be seen in the great houses of the North, examined by master smiths and warriors who might ask questions about their origin.
He had been so focused on gathering the gold needed for escape that he'd forgotten one of the fundamental rules of survival in Westeros: exceptional things drew exceptional attention, and attention was often fatal in this world.
Six days after Torren's departure, Owen found himself restless at his forge. The celestial forge power within him seemed to pulse with anticipation, like a clock ticking down to something inevitable. He continued his work, crafting blades of exceptional quality, each piece a testament to his supernatural skill, but he could feel the power building.
His father noticed his distraction during their shared meals. "Something troubles you, son?" Olyvar asked one evening, his weathered hands wrapped around a cup of ale.
"Just a feeling," Owen replied, unable to explain the sensation of cosmic gears turning within his soul.
On the sixth day, as Owen worked on tempering a spearhead, the power suddenly surged. His eyes snapped shut as energy coursed through his body. The celestial forge turned its great wheel once more, and knowledge flooded his mind. But this time, it wasn't mere information or skill - it was something far more tangible.
CIDHNA MINE blazed across his consciousness. Images of deep tunnels, rich veins of ore, and the echo of pickaxes filled his mind. Before he could process this new gift, screams erupted from outside the village.
Owen had dropped his tools and rushed out of the forge, his leather apron still tied around his waist. The commotion came from the village's eastern edge, where a crowd had gathered. Guards stood with weapons drawn, pointing at something on the ground.
"By the old gods!" someone shouted.
Owen pushed through the gathering of villagers to see what had caused such alarm. There, where solid ground had existed just moments before, gaped a massive hole. The opening stretched at least thirty feet across, its edges clean-cut as if carved by giant hands. A sturdy wooden ladder descended into the darkness.
From deep within the shaft came the rhythmic sounds of mining - the sharp crack of pickaxes against stone, the scrape of shovels, and the distant rumble of cart wheels. The villagers stood transfixed, many making signs to ward off evil.
"It just appeared!" Derrick shouted as he gripped his gifted sword tightly. "The ground just... opened up. Like someone pulled apart a seam in the earth."
Owen stared down into the mine shaft, recognition dawning in his eyes. He knew this place, or rather, he knew what it was meant to be. The celestial forge had given him more than just knowledge this time - it had created something physical, something real. And it hadn't been exactly subtle about it.
The sounds of mining continued to echo up from the depths, though no miners could be seen on the visible portions of the ladder or shaft walls. The hole seemed to promise riches, but also held an air of mystery that had the villagers keeping their distance.
"Someone needs to go down there," Arlrick, one of the village elders said, though he made no move to volunteer.
Owen stepped forward without hesitation, his boots crunching on loose stones as he approached the mine entrance. The assembled villagers drew back, creating a path for him. He grasped the wooden ladder, testing its strength with a firm tug before beginning his descent.
"Owen, wait!" his father called from the crowd, but Owen had already disappeared into the shaft.
The ladder was sturdy, each rung perfectly spaced and secured. Torchlight flickered from below, casting dancing shadows on the shaft walls. The sounds of mining grew louder as he descended - picks striking stone, the creak of cart wheels, the shuffle of unseen feet.
"Bloody hell," Derrick muttered from above. The guard had followed after a moment's hesitation, his gifted sword catching the torchlight as he climbed down. "Never thought I'd be climbing into a hole that appeared out of nowhere."
Two more sets of boots hit the ladder as Torven and Dorhan, two other guards, joined the descent. The four men climbed down in silence, save for their breathing and the occasional curse when someone's foot slipped.
Owen's boots hit solid ground first. He stepped away from the ladder, taking in the sight before him. The mine tunnel stretched out in multiple directions, well-lit by torches set in iron brackets along the walls. The ceiling rose high enough for even the tallest man to walk comfortably, supported by thick wooden beams.
But it was the walls that drew their attention. Veins of ore glittered everywhere, catching the torchlight like stars in an underground sky. Gold streaked through the rock in thick ribbons, while silver threads wound their way through darker stone. Copper and tin deposits showed their distinctive colors, and iron ore ran in dark bands throughout.
"By the old gods," Dorhan whispered as he reached the bottom. "I've never seen so much wealth in one place."
Owen's trained eye caught sight of other materials - ones he knew didn't exist in this world until now, yet here they were. A deep black vein of ebony ore ran along one wall, its surface seeming to drink in the torchlight. Malachite showed its distinctive green hue in several places, while moonstone's pale blue-white gleam caught his eye from another tunnel. And there, running in thick veins through the darker rock, was the golden-hued orichalcum.
"What are those?" Torven asked, pointing at the unfamiliar ores. "I've never seen their like before."
Owen ran his hand along the ebony ore, feeling its unique resonance through his enhanced understanding of metallurgy. With these materials, he could forge items that would make his previous work look like apprentice efforts. Armor that could turn aside the strongest blows, weapons that would never dull or break.
The sounds of mining continued around them, though they still saw no miners. Cart tracks ran along the tunnel floor, disappearing into the darkness of branching passages. The air was fresh, suggesting some form of ventilation system throughout the complex.
"There's enough ore here to make Longshore richer than Lannisport," Derrick said, his voice filled with awe as he touched a golden vein.
Owen felt a chill run down his spine at Derrick's words. His knowledge from his previous life screamed warnings about the dangers of such wealth becoming known. Tywin Lannister's destruction of House Reyne flashed through his mind - the Old Lion would murder every man, woman, and child in Longshore to claim such riches.
The group pressed deeper into the mine, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The ore veins grew more prominent with each turn, spreading across the tunnel walls like frozen rivers of metal. What had been impressive deposits near the entrance now became staggering in their abundance.
"These veins..." Torven whispered, his hand trailing along a particularly thick strand of silver. "They're getting bigger."
The mining sounds grew louder as they advanced, accompanied now by the rhythmic clang of metal on metal and a strange whirring noise none of them had heard before. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber that made the guards stop dead in their tracks.
Derrick's sword clattered against the stone floor. Dorhan made the sign of the old gods and whispered prayers. Torven simply stood, mouth agape.
Before them stood rows of metal men, their bodies crafted from burnished bronze and steel. Some wielded picks and shovels, methodically extracting ore from the massive veins that covered the chamber walls. Others carried boxes filled with raw ore to a series of large smelting furnaces that glowed with intense heat. More of these mechanical beings stood guard with weapons in hand - spears and swords that gleamed in the chamber's light.
A separate group of automatons worked at the furnaces, transforming the raw ore into neat stacks of ingots, each one perfect in its uniformity. Their movements were precise, efficient, and utterly inhuman.
As Owen and the guards entered the chamber, every mechanical head turned toward them. The mining ceased. The smelting paused. Dozens of gleaming metal faces regarded the group with glowing eyes that seemed to pulse with an inner light.
Then, as one, the automatons bowed to Owen.
One of the mechanical beings, slightly taller than the others and decorated with intricate engravings, stepped forward. Its movements were smooth, almost fluid, despite its metallic construction. When it spoke, its voice was clear and resonant, like a perfectly struck bell.
"Great Smith," it intoned, gesturing to the neatly stacked ingots. "The first shipment is prepared for your use."
The guards turned to stare at Owen, their expressions a mix of awe and uncertainty. He scratched his head, embarrassment coloring his cheeks at being discovered as the source of this miraculous mine. The silence stretched for a moment before he cleared his throat.
"Continue your work," Owen addressed the automatons. "Bring the prepared ingots to the forge in the village."
The chief automaton's metal frame straightened, its luminous eyes flickering briefly. "As you command, Great Smith." It stepped back into the ranks of its mechanical brethren, who resumed their tasks with seamless precision.
Derrick's hand rested on the pommel of his gifted sword as he turned to Owen. "You... you're responsible for this?" His voice held no accusation, only wonder.
Owen nodded slowly, choosing his words carefully. "It's a blessing from the old gods, just as my skill at forging your weapons was. The same power that lets me craft those master-worked blades brought this mine into being."
The guards exchanged glances, their expressions thoughtful. The rhythmic sounds of mining filled the silence as they processed this revelation. Finally, Torven spoke.
"You've never done anything to harm Longshore," he said firmly. "Those blades you gave us? They're worth more than gold, and you asked nothing in return." The other guards nodded in agreement.
Derrick stepped forward. "If this is another gift from the gods through you, then we accept it. We'll explain everything to the villagers and elders. Wont want them running and screaming when these….metal men come to the top."
"They'll understand," Dorhan added. "The old gods work in mysterious ways, and their blessings shouldn't be questioned."
The guards moved toward back towards the path to the ladder, leaving Owen alone with the mechanical workers. He watched as the automatons efficiently packed different ores into wooden boxes - gold, silver, iron, and the exotic materials like ebony and orichalcum. Each box was carefully labeled and stacked, ready for transport to his forge.
As he observed their methodical work, Owen had felt his carefully laid plans for departure slipping away. Each ingot stacked represented another tie binding him to Longshore, another responsibility he couldn't simply abandon. His dreams of escape grew dimmer with each passing moment, replaced by the weight of this new gift and its implications for his adopted home.
Days passed, then a month and the rhythmic presence of the automatons became as familiar to Longshore's residents as the crash of waves against the shore. Children no longer ran screaming when the metal beings emerged from Cidhna Mine, carrying their precious cargo to Owen's forge. Instead, they watched with fascination from behind barrels and crates, making up stories about the mechanical workers.
In the village hall, Olyvar sat with the council of elders, his weathered hands spread across a rough wooden table where ten gleaming gold ingots caught the afternoon light. Each bar was perfectly formed, stamped with precise markings that spoke of their supernatural origin.
"Ten ingots should be enough," Elder Marlene said, running a wrinkled finger along one of the bars. "More than enough, really. Winterfell's never seen such payment from us before."
Olyvar nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Aye, and that's what concerns me. Lord Stark will have questions when his tax collectors return with gold instead of silver and copper."
"Better his questions about our sudden wealth than his fury over unpaid taxes," Elder Tormund growled, his thick beard quivering as he spoke. "The old way is clear - when you profit from the land, you pay your due to your liege lord. Even if that profit comes from..." he gestured vaguely toward the mine entrance visible through the hall's window.
The elders had spent hours debating how to handle this situation. Some argued for hiding the mine's existence entirely, but Olyvar had convinced them of the foolishness of such an attempt. Gold had a way of being noticed, and Lord Eddard Stark was known for his keen sense of justice. Better to pay honestly and weather the questions than risk being accused of deception.
"The boy's mechanical men are efficient," Elder Marlene observed, watching through the window as an automaton carried a crate of processed ore toward Owen's forge. "They work day and night, never tire, never complain. A blessing from the old gods, truly."
"And yet," Elder Tormund muttered, "such blessings often draw unwanted attention. When Lord Stark learns of this..." He left the thought unfinished, but everyone in the room understood his meaning.
Olyvar gathered the gold ingots carefully, placing them in a sturdy oak box that would be presented to Winterfell's tax collectors when they made their rounds. "My son's gift brings both fortune and challenge to Longshore. We must be prepared for both."
As Olyvar grappled with political concerns in the village hall, Owen worked tirelessly at his forge. The new ores from Cidhna Mine transformed his workshop into something otherworldly. Ebony ingots gleamed with their characteristic black sheen beside stacks of ethereal blue Stalhrim and vibrant green Malachite. The automatons had organized everything meticulously, each material sorted and labeled in neat rows.
Owen's hands moved with supernatural precision as he shaped an Ebony sword. The black metal flowed under his hammer like liquid shadow, each strike perfect and purposeful. The blade took shape swiftly, its edge already sharp enough to split a hair before he'd even begun the finishing touches. His enhanced abilities made working with these exotic materials as natural as breathing.
In another corner of his workshop, completed pieces stood on display. A Stalhrim dagger caught the light, its surface reminiscent of ancient glacial ice. Next to it, a Malachite Warhammer's green surface swirled with patterns that seemed to move in the forge's flickering light. Each piece was flawless, bearing the hallmarks of expertise that should have taken centuries to develop.
Outside, the village guards patrolled in their new Stalhrim armor. The ice-blue metal gleamed in the sunlight, making them look like warriors from ancient Northern legends. The armor moved silently despite its apparent weight, and the guards had reported that it felt light as leather while providing protection better than the finest steel. Young women of the village found excuses to linger near their patrol routes, batting their eyes at the newly impressive figures.
A commotion at the village gate drew Owen's attention from his work. Torren had returned, his wagon considerably lighter than when he'd departed a month ago. The merchant's face beamed with excitement as he practically bounced off his seat.
"Three thousand gold dragons!" Torren announced, hefting a heavy chest onto Owen's workbench. The coins clinked satisfyingly as they spilled across the surface. "And I didn't even make it past White Harbor!"
Owen paused in his work, setting aside the nearly-completed Ebony sword. "All hundred blades sold?"
"Sold?" Torren laughed. "They were fighting over them! Lord Manderly's son bought twenty himself. The Karstarks, the Hornwoods - every noble house that caught wind of them wanted one. And when they learned I was the merchant selling them..." He shook his head in amazement. "They wouldn't let me leave until I told them everything about who made them."
Owen's hands had stilled on the coins he'd been counting. "What did you tell them?"
"Only that they came from a gifted smith in a small village near Sea Dragon Point. They wanted more specifics, of course, but I kept things vague." Torren's expression grew serious. "They're talking about your work in White Harbor's halls, Owen. They say these blades rival Valyrian steel in quality, if not in magic. The northern lords are clamoring for more."
Owen sat in silence, fingers tracing the edge of a gold dragon as he absorbed Torren's news. The coin felt heavy with possibility - and danger. "Perhaps... perhaps it would be better to stop production entirely."
Torren's jaw dropped, his face contorting as if Owen had suggested setting fire to the gold itself. "Stop? Have you lost your mind, boy? Do you understand what you're sitting on here?" He gestured wildly at the exotic weapons lining the walls, at the mechanical workers visible through the forge's window. "You could build a second Lannisport right here in Longshore! A White Harbor of the west coast!"
"And draw every greedy lord's attention straight to us," Owen muttered, but Torren pressed on.
"With wealth like this, with skills like yours - gods, Owen, you could transform this entire region! Think of what Longshore could become!"
Owen shook his head, his thoughts drifting to Lord Stark's approaching tax collector. Within a month, that man would ride into Longshore, and Owen wanted his family far across the Narrow Sea when that happened. Braavos beckoned with its promise of anonymity and opportunity. Three thousand dragons would see them settled comfortably there, but...
His eyes swept across his workshop, calculating. A bit more coin wouldn't hurt. Insurance against a hard crossing, funds to establish a new forge in a strange land. He reached beneath his workbench and withdrew a carefully wrapped bundle.
"Here," Owen said, laying out ten weapons before Torren. The Stalhrim ore caught the light, casting ethereal blue reflections across the merchant's awestruck face. "Five blades, two Warhammers, three spears. Sell these in Winterfell and White Harbor only. Nowhere else."
Torren lifted one of the spears, his experienced merchant's eye examining the strange material. "The craftsmanship is extraordinary as always - better than any smith I've ever seen. But this metal... what is it? It's like nothing I've encountered before."
Owen sighed and walked to the forge door. "Derrick!" he called out to the guard who had taken up his post outside, stationed there by the elders and Olyvar despite the relative peace of Longshore. The guard's new Stalhrim armor gleamed as he turned toward Owen's voice.
"Owen, any problems?" Derrick asked, his hand resting on the icy Stalhrim sword at his hip.
Owen shook his head. "No problems. But I need you both to follow me." He gestured to Derrick and Torren, leading them away from the forge and through the village outskirts.
The trio made their way across the rocky shore until they reached a massive boulder that jutted from the landscape. The stone stood nearly twice Owen's height, weathered by centuries of salt spray and storms.
Owen turned to Derrick. "Show him."
A knowing smile spread across Derrick's face as he drew the Stalhrim blade. The sword caught the sunlight, sending ethereal blue reflections dancing across the rocks. Torren watched, curiosity evident in his expression.
The merchant's eyes widened as Derrick raised the sword. Any seasoned trader knew what happened when steel met stone - chipped edges, cracked blades, or worse. But before Torren could voice his concern, Derrick swung.
A gust of frigid wind accompanied the strike, frost crystallizing in the air around the blade's path. The boulder split clean in two, its severed surfaces coated in a thick layer of ice. The cut was perfectly smooth, as if the stone had been divided by some giant's razor.
Torren's jaw dropped. His eyes darted between the frozen halves of the boulder and the pristine blade in Derrick's hand, which showed no sign of damage. The implications of such power left him speechless.
Owen fixed Torren with a stern gaze. "Remember what I said - sell only to Lords Stark and Manderly. No one else. And bring the gold straight back."
Torren nodded vigorously, still staring at the bisected boulder as Owen and Derrick turned to leave. Derrick's chuckle echoed across the shore, amused by the merchant's shocked expression.
As Owen had walked back to his forge, his mind filled with calculations. The sale of these weapons would bring in tens of thousands of gold dragons - more than enough for his family to finally leave this place behind. He stepped through the forge door, closing his eyes for a moment.
In that instant, the Celestial Forge within his soul flared with brilliant light. A new power crystallized in his mind, accompanied by three words that blazed like stars: Behold Haxcalibur.
Owen staggered back against his workbench as the new power flooded his consciousness. The Celestial Forge's gift blazed through him like molten metal, searing its knowledge into his mind. His fingers clutched the edge of the table, knuckles white as he processed the implications of Behold Haxcalibur.
"No, no, no," he muttered, staring at the weapons displayed on his walls. Every piece he'd crafted - already masterworks that had lords fighting over them - could now be made ten times more powerful. The Stalhrim blade that had cleaved through solid rock would slice through castle walls like butter.
His eyes landed on the guards patrolling outside his window, their blue-white armor gleaming. The same armor that had seemed nearly impenetrable yesterday now appeared woefully inadequate compared to what he could create.
"Fuck it all," Owen groaned, running his hands through his hair. He'd have to call them all back, replace every piece of equipment he'd given them. The thought of the work ahead made his head spin.
"Language!"
Tina's stern voice cut through his thoughts. She stood in the doorway, holding a wooden tray laden with fresh bread, cheese, and steaming soup. Her blue eyes held that familiar mix of love and maternal authority that could make even the most powerful craftsman feel like a scolded child.
"Yes, mother," Owen replied, unable to keep the amusement from his voice despite his frustration.
Tina set the tray down on a clear spot of his workbench, carefully avoiding the scattered tools and metal shavings. She reached up - having to stretch slightly now that he'd grown taller than her - and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Don't work too hard," she instructed, smoothing his disheveled hair. "You're still growing, Blessing from the old gods or not."
Owen had watched her leave, then turned to his lunch. The bread was still warm from the ovens, and the soup's aroma made his stomach growl. As he ate, his mind raced through the possibilities and complications his newest gift had created. The Celestial Forge's power thrummed beneath his skin, eager to be put to use crafting items that would make the Gods weep with jealousy.
Owens thoughts returned to the present as he continued his work. Two months had passed since Owen received his latest power from the Celestial Forge. The forge rang with the steady rhythm of his hammer as he worked on another northern-style longsword. Perfectly crafted, but intentionally held back from its true potential. The blade would sell well, fetch a good price, and draw no unwanted attention.
Rows of finished weapons lined the walls of his workshop - axes, spears, swords, and maces. Each one a masterwork that would make most smiths weep with envy, yet still within the realm of mortal craftsmanship. The pile grew daily as Owen prepared his final gift to Longshore's economy.
At his hip hung the only weapon he'd crafted using Behold Haxcalibur's power - an Ebony blade that seemed to drink in the light around it. The sword radiated an otherworldly presence that made even Owen uncomfortable at times. In the corner of his parents' home lay a matching set of Ebony armor and shield, similarly enhanced beyond mortal limits.
The village guards still patrolled in their original Stalhrim armor, powerful enough to protect them but not so overwhelming as to invite disaster. Owen had wrestled with the decision to upgrade their equipment after receiving Behold Haxcalibur, but common sense prevailed. The last thing he needed was tales reaching Essos about Longshore guards cutting down lords with impossible weapons.
Lord Stark's tax collectors had come and gone, their questions about the gold ingots perfunctory. They'd simply stated they would report Longshore's improved fortunes to their lord and let him decide how to proceed. That had been weeks ago.
Owen paused in his work, wiping sweat from his brow as he glanced out the workshop window. Torren should have returned by now. The merchant knew the urgency of their situation, understood the need for speed and discretion. His continued absence gnawed at Owen's thoughts.
The timeline worried him more with each passing day. He knew the Greyjoy Rebellion had been crushed, but beyond that, everything remained uncertain. Had Jon Arryn been poisoned yet? Was Robert Baratheon already planning his fatal journey to Winterfell that would set the ball rolling for the events of the first book? Or were they still years away from those events?
Owen set down his hammer and moved to check on the latest batch of weapons. They would serve their purpose - bringing wealth to Longshore one final time before he convinced his parents they needed to leave. Before the storm he knew was coming broke upon the North.
Owen placed the last forged weapon on the rack, its perfect edge glinting in the forge's light. The wall of weapons represented weeks of careful work - masterful pieces that would sell well. He grabbed a rag to wipe down his workbench, ready to close up for the evening.
The sound of rushing armored feet made him pause. The distinctive crystalline ring of Stalhrim armor grew louder as someone approached at speed. Owen looked up with a raised eyebrow as Derrick burst through the forge door, his ice-blue armor catching the dying sunlight.
"Owen! Torren is back." The guard's face was flushed from running. "Your father calls for you."
Relief flooded through Owen's body. Finally - the gold he needed to get his family safely across the Narrow Sea. His mind already raced ahead to booking passage on a ship, establishing a new forge in Braavos, building a life away from the coming chaos of Westeros...
Derrick's next words stopped his thoughts cold.
"He isn't alone. Lords Stark, Manderly and Glover are with him," the guard said, worry evident in his voice.
Owen stood frozen, the cleaning rag falling forgotten from his suddenly nerveless fingers. The implications hit him like a hammer blow. Three of the North's most powerful lords, here in Longshore. Here at his forge.
The silence stretched for a long moment before Owen found his voice. His first words emerged as a growl.
"SON OF A BITC-"
POWERS GAINED FROM THE FORGE
Master Smith | Ahzidal's Apprentice (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (800CP)
Master Smith (400CP)
So, how many iron daggers did this take to get? Regardless of the answer to that question the results have surely shown themselves to you and everyone else. You're a master of smithing and the working of metal, forging weapons out of Glass and Ebony is well within your capacity, and even Daedric items may be forged with proper equipment and materials. Your craftsmanship is nothing less than perfection and your opportunity to grow is great as well. Given times you may yet forge tools, weapons and armor that rival even the likes of Daedric artifacts.
Behold Haxcalibur (Modded Skyrim) (400CP)
Congrats, you broke the crafting system. Anything and everything you make, build, enchant, or otherwise create is now ten times better than it really ought to be. Make an ordinary dagger that does 12 damage? Now it does 120. Pick up an endgame weapon and enhance it for its supposed max of 200 damage? 2000. Guns that hold more bullets and do more damage, magic staffs that massively amplify your magic, armor that shrugs off OHKO's, potions that let you ignore 110% of fire damage, weapons with ten or twenty enchantments. And if that wasn't enough, you'll learn anything crafting related ten times as fast, just to blow the competition out of the water even more.
Cidhna Mine (Elder Scrolls Skyrim SB) (200CP)
Nobody escapes Cidhna Mine, that's how the saying goes anyways. Cidhna mine is an extensive set of tunnels snaking into Nirn which the Silver-Blood Family uses as a prison and as a source of much wealth. Yours isn't that same dreaded mine, though it's similar in many ways. Placed in a reasonable location of your choosing is a copy of the mine, while the original was predominately used for silver mining yours is much greater. Throughout the mines are extensive reserves of just about all of the ores found in Skyrim at the time, ranging from Ebony to Stalhrim and will produce an incredible amount. These reserves will replenish themselves once they begin to run dry and the mine will be manned by NPC guards and workers, though you could always appoint your own workers and guards if you wished. In future jumps it updates to include new material in the mine.