"House Costa? Who exactly are they?" Jon asked, spear-fishing a piece of trout from his bowl. "I'm still finding my bearings with the Southern houses."
"Barely lords at all," John explained, leaning over the table. "Landed knights sworn to the Whents of Harrenhal. Their lands comprise four villages and a single manor—smaller than this monastery's original holdings. But they've been perched on that hill for over a hundred years. They have deep roots and long memories."
Since returning from the riverbank, John had sought out Jon to discuss the logistics of the River-Hammer.
As a son of Winterfell, Jon understood the gravity of armaments. He hated seeing his fellow Sunwalkers going into the fray in thin wool tunics, carrying wooden clubs weighted with stones. Even the strongest Light couldn't protect a man indefinitely if his gear was trash. Moreover, the River-Hammer was a direct command from Aldric.
However, Jon had only forty able-bodied men for the monastery's defense. Most were fresh recruits—men who didn't know a pike-drill from a harvest-dance. To pit them against a knightly family's seasoned men-at-arms was a risk he didn't take lightly.
"Can we find another spot, John?" Jon asked. "It's a bad time to start a blood feud over a stretch of mud."
John drained his bowl of pottage and sighed. "I've walked the banks with Robin and Walter. Other spots exist, but they'd require us to dam the river to get the speed we need. We have neither the hands nor the stone for that. This bend is the only place where the water does the work for us."
"And the gold?" Jon asked. "Aldric left half his dragons with you. Have you sent men for grain?"
John shook his head. "Food is tight, but we can't eat gold. Besides, I don't have anyone I trust to carry that much coin through a war zone. If they vanish, the monastery starves."
Jon pointed to himself. "A Sunwalker can be trusted."
"A Sunwalker doesn't know the grain-merchants in the Reach," John countered. "The Riverlands are hollowed out. Even if someone has grain to sell, the price has reached for the Seven atop the Great Sept. A gold dragon won't buy a sack of flour anymore. We have to rely on what we can grow and what we can forge."
Jon ran through the names of his brothers in his head. "Lennard and Tel should be in the Reach. If we could find them, they might have the connections we need."
"Lennard... it's been a long time since we had word," John mused. He remembered the boy fondly. "He took the Solar Spark but never woke the Light, didn't he? A pity. If he'd been at the Conclave, heard the Master's words... perhaps it would have taken."
John paused, looking at the boy across from him. "And you? Your father is a High Lord. Your Master wants to pull the foundations out from under the nobility. Does it not bother you?"
Jon looked up, his grey eyes steady. "John, what is my name?"
"Jon Snow. What of it?"
"I don't even have a true name," Jon said with a bitter smile. "I am a bastard. The lands, the bloodlines, the 'honor' the lords scream about—not a copper of it belongs to me. If I cared for those things, I would still be at Winterfell, living in the shadow of a father who cannot look me in the eye."
John shrugged. "Fair point."
"Back to the hammer," Jon said, leaning in. "Are we building it or not?"
"We build," John said firmly. "We can't send brothers to fight with bare hands. The site is close to Costa land, yes, but it's still in the wasteland between us. If we build it on the monastery's side of the bend, they shouldn't have a legal leg to stand on. If they complain, we'll talk about 'compensation' once the hammer is already turning."
"So... build first, ask later?" Jon smirked.
"Exactly."
"Should we visit them? Be neighborly?"
"No," John said. "Our true High Septon is in King's Landing, and our local Overseer was butchered by Mummers. I'm an 'acting' authority—a technicality the Church recognizes, but a knight like Costa won't. If I go there, I'm just a monk looking for a handout. Better to present a finished forge."
Jon nodded. "Then I'll keep a rotation of men near the site. Just in case their 'neighborliness' involves steel."
The plans Aldric had left were meticulous, detailing every axle and gear. John had already built a small wooden model to show the carpenters exactly how the trip-lever would function.
But a model wasn't the river. John spent three nights with Robin and Walter, huddled over charcoal sketches on the floor of his cell, calculating the weight of the water-wheel and the thickness of the axle needed to sustain the hammer's strike. They only stopped when Robin's young daughter wandered in, clutching a pillow and looking for her father.
The next morning, as the roosters scavenged from the Fisher carts began to crow, they started.
They used seasoned oak from the monastery's dry stores—timber that wouldn't warp in the spray. John brought in Baryn, the smith who had helped forge the Solar Spark sigils. Baryn was a convert to the Light, enamored by Aldric's metallurgy. He suggested that the core of the wheel and the bearings be cast in iron to withstand the torque.
Within days, a wagon was loaded with the timber frame and the heavy iron hammer-head. They moved to the riverbank and began the grueling work of leveling the ground and setting the foundation.
On the third day of construction, the peace broke.
A middle-aged man in a blue wool surcoat rode up on a sturdy garron, followed by four men-at-arms. He looked down at the workers in the mud. "Who are you, and what are you doing on my land?"
John set down a heavy timber and wiped the muck from his brow. "Ser Charles, I presume? I am Brother John, Acting Overseer of St. Maur's. May the Seven watch over you. As you can see, we are building a forge for the people's tools."
Charles Costa scoffed. "St. Maur's? I heard the Mummers put that place to the torch."
"They tried," John said. "But the Sun did not set. We have hundreds of souls within our walls now, refugees seeking peace."
"John, is it?" Charles looked at the half-finished frame. "If you're truly of the monastery, you know the Costas have held this bank for a century. You don't build so much as a chicken coop here without my leave."
"With respect, Ser," John replied, "this wasteland has been the border between us for generations. Your wheat fields are fifty yards back. This bank serves no one but the crows. Our forge will provide tools for everyone, including your tenants."
Charles let out a cold laugh. "Tools? Give me half the forge's output every year, and perhaps I'll let you stay."
"Half?" John shook his head. "We are rebuilding a house of the gods, Ser. We can offer you two gold dragons a year as a tithe for the land. It's more than this mud has ever produced."
"Two dragons?" Charles leaned forward in his saddle. "That might cover the land, but it doesn't cover my protection. These roads are full of wolves, monk. If I'm to 'protect' this forge, I want twenty dragons a year. Otherwise, it might just find itself accidentally put to the torch before you finish."
It was a blatant threat. John kept his voice steady. "Twenty dragons is the price of five suits of plate. A master smith works a moon for one. You ask for the impossible, Ser."
"Impossible? Is a man's life not worth the coin?" Charles waved a dismissive hand. "Enough. The monks of St. Maur's used to care only for grapes and wine. If you are truly a brother, return to your vines and stop playing at industry. You have one day to clear this lumber."
Jon Snow, who had been watching from the treeline, stepped forward. "The traditions of the monastery aren't as 'peaceful' as you remember, Ser. I've looked at the old records. The Costa lands have been creeping toward the monastery for decades. Perhaps it's you who should be looking at the borders."
"And who are you?" Charles spat. "I am speaking to an Overseer, not a lackey. If your Master hasn't taught you manners, I can teach them with a whip."
Jon smirked. He had been testing Charles, and the knight's immediate aggression confirmed the land-theft.
John stepped between them. "Ser Charles, whatever the past holds, let it be. We only ask to build this small forge. We are downstream; we won't foul your water or your grain."
"One day, monk," Charles said, his face hardening. "If these 'sticks' are still here tomorrow, I'll burn them. And if I see any of your people here... well, I'm a knight of the realm, and I don't take kindly to squatters."
Charles spat on a pile of oak planks, turned his horse, and rode away.
Jon watched them go. "Are we still building, John?"
"We are," John said, looking at the timber. "But Costa won't let it stand. Can your men hold this bank?"
Jon adjusted his sword belt. "From tomorrow, this riverbank is our new drill ground. It's only a half-day's march from the walls. If the Costas want to teach me manners, they're going to have to do it through a shield-wall."
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