Life Weaver (ASOIAF / WORM-OC SI)

[Hordac]

No problem, I was just pointing it out. Didn't mean it offensively.

But that creates an issue. The whole reason the north is divided at the wall is that the wildlings refuse to kneel and hate the customs of the southerners. By changing them so they're basically the same it creates a massive plot hole and sort of ruins the point of making the mc start up there. Its just a generic medieval village instead of a tribal village, those are two entirely different things. Even if they're not nomadic they should still have the same tribal culture and mindset. Uniting a bunch of savage tribals is a lot harder and requires a significantly different approach compared to your average medieval peasants.

Honestly, if you aren't even going to try to use the setting then why set it in the universe? At least mark it as au and explain the au when you have the mc combine with the other personalities.

Click to shrink...

You're right. I'll mark it au
I just felt there was a lot of details missing in the books and tv series like how do they make bronze if they're nomadic. And the thenns are definitely not nomadic.
In the wiki 2 clans are mentioned but I've not seen much tribal stuff mentioned in the books and tv. Let me know where is it the tribal influence you have seen?

 

[BoredKing98]

You're right. I'll mark it au
I just felt there was a lot of details missing in the books and tv series like how do they make bronze if they're nomadic. And the thenns are definitely not nomadic.
In the wiki 2 clans are mentioned but I've not seen much tribal stuff mentioned in the books and tv. Let me know where is it the tribal influence you have seen?

Click to shrink...

https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Free_Folk

 

[Hordac]

hy set it in th

Click to shrink...

https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Free_Folk

Click to shrink...

Alright alright. I get it. I didn't so a very deep and thorough redearch into the whole clan and nomadic thing. I thought there were missing elements that the author George R. Martin didn't elaborate on. So its an AU.
Thank you for guiding me, I'll shift a few things so the story become very minimal AU.
Please keep reading and commenting. It is very useful and encoriging

 

[Hordac]

Ch 7

Having received Chief Frode's and the elder's approval, Erik knew that before the first lesson could begin, he had problems to tackle.
I need a place of my own — somewhere to sleep, to think, to work, he thought. And I need a place to teach.

Even with the chief's roof over his head and bread always waiting at the table, unease settled in his chest. Guest right was sacred… until it wasn't. Stay too long, and generosity turned into obligation, and obligation into silent resentment.

Time to stand on my own feet again, he thought. I can't live on their generosity forever. Food's not an issue with by Warg beasts hunting better than any man, what I need is a place of my own – a home. A place where I can teach as well.

Every house in the village was tiny, cramped, and drafty — perfectly adequate for people used to them, but not for someone raised in a world of insulation, plumbing, and privacy. Erik wanted something different, and more importantly, he needed a workspace that would impress and inspire and a place with much needed privacy.

So he decided to build his own home using his enhanced memory and powers to the extreme.

'This way I get to practice and improve my bio tinkering while trying to build the near equivalent of a modern house here.' He thought as exciting crazy ideas started popping into his head.' Let's see if I can make the medieval world a little more… modern.'

The perfect location already waited: an old, massive chestnut tree near the outskirts of the village but still within the wooden palisade. Hardy, cold-resistant, but no longer bearing nuts.

Above the ground it looked like two separate tree that was at least 30 feet apart but he had discovered that it was actually a single tree with a single enormous root that spread wider than both trees combined. Both the trunks were thick and angled away from each other to get better sunlight. The crown's radius was around 60 feet each.

"Reminds me of the famous hundred horse chestnut in Sicily" he muttered "This is apparently a smaller version of it"

'It's not producing chestnuts to eat so I can do with it whatever I want with it' He thought as he walked around the tree planting a tree house in his mind.

Sitting down next to the tree he closed his eyes and put both palms on its trunk and concentrated.

The tree was slower to respond than flesh but it did start to shift. Slowly over the course of the day a tree house began to be formed made entirely from the tree's own branches.

Hours passed. Villagers gathered. Whispers spread.

By sunset, something extraordinary rose from the canopy.

The treehouse was mostly hidden in the canopy with a dozen windows visible among the leaves, each shaped from curved wooden ribs, poked through the foliage for light and ventilation. A broad terrace faced westward, catching the dying sun. The walls were a single living structure, two feet thick in places. Doors were latticed weaving of small branches, flexible but sturdy, swinging on hinges of living fibers.

The total covered area was around 3000 square feet. He's converted most of it into a large hall with a few rooms to one side along with a kitchen and washroom. The plumbing was made of hollow wood coated with resin to make them water resistant. A large hollowed area above the treehouse but still in the canopy was made into a water tank that was filled by the tree itself using modified xylem that transported purified water to the water tank. The sewage plumbing from the kitchen was hidden in one of the trunks which led down to the deepest roots to one side where he had used the roots to create a septic tank.

The tree's health was boosted as much as possible. He had poured energy into the tree as he worked, boosting its health and vitality to ensure the house would endure.

Its canopy was spread further outwards a few meters in all directions to provide more sunlight. Carbon fibers was woven into the trunk and main branches to make it tougher without adding weight.

Finally, a set of revolving stairs was made to come out of one the trunks which lead into his tree house

'I think I overdid it.' He thought at the end of the day. He was tired and feeling drained but very happy with his creation. His muscles had shrunk visibly and he got leaner as his fit body's limited fat stores were used up.

The villagers marveled at his house.

Old Gonir, the carpenter and boat builder, marched forward with an exaggerated pout, arms flapping.

"This—this—this is cheating!" he declared, voice climbing an octave. "I've been carving planks and beams my entire life, and you— you just grow a house out of thin air!"
He poked a branch wall accusingly. "Do you know how much work it takes to make a door that doesn't creak? And you— you whisper to a tree and it obeys you like an eager puppy!"

Some villagers laughed under their breath.

Gonir spun around dramatically, eyes wide and wild.
"Oh yes, laugh! Laugh! The poor carpenter has been replaced by magic roots and whispering madness!"
He leaned close to Erik, squinting. "You're going to drive me out of business, you know. Completely, utterly, spectacularly out!"

Erik smirked. "Or you could help me with the interior."

Gonir blinked. Then he blinked again.

"Oooooh. Interior." Gonir facial expression shifted quickly from angry to happy.

His head tilted like a curious raven. "Fine! But I'm charging you extra for being a tree-wizard."

"Fair." Erik agreed smiling at the old man's antics.

Gonir clapped sharply. "Good! Now let me see what insanity you've built in there."

He scampered up the spiral staircase like a child. His long legs, thin frame and swaying beard made him look like a ridiculous cartoon character as he skipped every other stair in his hurry.

The villagers marveled. Some whispered prayers. Others touched the trunk, unsure if it was a blessing or something far stranger. Erik gestured at them to come inside and have a look at the newest addition to their village.

Let them see for themselves. Curiosity will soften their fear — and I'll shape the rest with my explanations, Erik thought as a few brave souls approached the stairs, prompting the others to follow. He was about to follow behind when Helga's voice interrupted him.

Helga's voice drifted from behind them, dry as wind through leaves. "So the green man takes root. The Old Gods will be watching that."

Erik smiled faintly. "Then I'll give them something worth watching."

Helga chuckled, her eyes glinting like flint. "Careful, boy. The gods have a cruel sense of humor."

"They do indeed" Erik agreed as breathed deeply, feeling more grounded than he had since arriving.

He finally had a home.
And in a few days, he would begin building a school in it.

'For now I need to rest' he thought groaning 'But I have show the villagers around first to sate their curiosity. 'No rest for wicked I guess'

----

A few days later, Erik was bent over a half-finished frame of living wood, coaxing the branches to grow into the shape of school furniture under his hands. The living wood shifted slowly beneath his touch, responding to his will as the it curved and twisted to form a table.

To appease Gonir he'd commissioned some furniture from the eccentric builder who'd promptly dumped the workload on his lazy apprentices. Still, he needed the something done sooner like this school furniture which he was building by himself

He paused, wiping the sweat from his brow, when the sound of shouting drifted up from the village gate — raised voices, hurried footsteps followed by the shrill cry of a woman.

He frowned but kept working. Villagers shouted often enough — over fish, over wood, over pride. But then he heard his name being called out.

"Life-weaver! Master Erik!"

A young boy came sprinting up the path, breathless, eyes wide as saucers. "Master Erik — Helga says come quick! The hunters have returned — Henrik among them! They're hurt bad!"

Erik straightened at once, his pulse quickening. "How many?"

"Four! They just came through the gate. They looked in bad shape. Helga's trying to stop it, but she said— she said they won't last long!"

"Come with me," Erik said, already moving.

The boy turned and ran, Erik following in long strides.

When Erik reached Helga's hut, a small crowd had gathered. Gertrude stood near the doorway, white-faced, clutching her sons. Her voice broke when she saw him. "Erik— please— it's Henrik! They found him— gods, he's dying!"

Inside, the air stank of blood, sweat, and old herbs. Four men lay on the rushes, leather armor torn and dark with gore. One was missing an arm below the wrist while another had a bandaged headwound that smelled bad. Both were unconscious. The third and youngest among them had blood all over him but no visible injury apart from a shoulder wound. Henrik was among them — his skin gray, his breathing shallow. A wooden shaft jutted from his side, the wound pulsing sluggishly with dark blood and pus.

'Injuries are at least a day old if not more' he observed 'salvageable'

Helga knelt beside him, her hands red, muttering prayers to the old gods as she applied smelly poultices. She glanced up at Erik as he entered, her face lined with strain. "They were ambushed — Ice River men again. Two dead already before they made it back. If you can heal them green man, now's the time to do it."

Erik dropped to his knees beside Henrik, eyes scanning the wound. "Hold him steady."

Gertrude moved forward, trembling. "Please — please, don't let him die."

"I'll do what I can, don't worry" Erik said calmly. He rested a hand on Henrik's chest; the man's heartbeat was weak but still there.

He closed his eyes, letting his power flow. His powers spreading through Henrik's torn flesh.

"Two Broken ribs, torn muscles, severe blood loss, internal bleeding in chest cavity, Arrow nicked intestines. Infected wound" he reported. Gertrude gasped and her crying intensified

"He's strong to have this much injury and still be alive" he said "and lucky that I got to him in time"

Over the next few minutes Bone knit, muscle reformed, the arrow shaft pushed itself out as if rejected by the body. The bleeding stopped; some color returned to the man's cheeks. His muscles shrunk visibly and he got leaner as his fit body's limited fat stores were used up instantly.

Gasps filled the room.

One of the other hunters groaned, clutching his injured arm. "Gods... by the gods… he healed him…"

Helga's voice was low, reverent. "He weaves the flesh like thread through a loom…"

Erik opened his eyes, breathing heavily. "The worst is gone. He'll sleep for a day or two, but he'll live." He said turning to Gertrude "Give him lots to eat when he wakes up. I've used all the extra muscles and fat stores his body had to offer"

Gertrude fell to her knees beside her husband, tears streaking her face. "Thank you… oh gods, thank you."

Erik touched her shoulder gently. "He's strong. He just needed a chance."

He quickly turned to the others injured and over the next hour finished healing most of their injuries.

Erik turned to the man with the head wound, finding a skull fracture and a festering infection beneath the bandages. He was the oldest and most well equipped of this lot. His body also had many old scars so he theorized he was the leader and most experienced warrior. He used his power to wake him up from his unconscious state seeing he was out of danger.

"I'll fix the missing hand once he gets better and has had some food and rest" he told Helga gesturing to the only crippled patient. "His body can't handle this much healing in one go"

Helga stood slowly, wiping her hands. "Three of them saved — when I'd have buried them by nightfall. I've seen many healers in my years, boy, but none like you."

One of the older hunters stared at him in awe. "You are blessed by the gods, life-weaver. No man can do what I just saw. I'm Ullar. Captain of our militia"

"Well met Ullar. I'm just using what nature allows," Erik said softly. "The body knows how to mend itself — I just remind it and help it along."

Gonir burst in then, panting, covered in sawdust. "The whole village's talkin', lad! Said you pulled a man back from the door of death itself!"

Helga gave him a sharp look. "And maybe he did. So, mind your tongue — show respect when the gods' work is near."

"The gods had little to do with it," Erik muttered.

But the others were no longer listening. Outside, the crowd had begun to chant softly — a murmured prayer to the old gods. Their voice and face conveying genuine gratitude and awe.

"Green Man," Gonir whispered. "You're one of the Old Gods' chosen. Their messenger"

Erik looked around the small hut — the men breathing again, Gertrude weeping over her husband, Helga studying him as though he were some ancient riddle.

He sighed. This is how myths begin, he thought. And there's no stopping them now.

-------

The next day after healing the returning injured hunters was the first day of school for the children of the village.

He had decided to use the large empty hall of his newly built home as a temporary school. It wasn't much of a school yet — just long benches, rough-hewn tables, a black board and the echo of a space too large for its purpose — but to the little ones of the cliffside village, it might as well have been a hall of wonders. With a touch of his hand, he had shaped a section of the wall into a smooth, flat blackboard, the stone bending and darkening under his will like a living thing.

By dawn, Erik was already at work, crouched beside a bucket of sap and charcoal dust. His bio-tinker powers coaxed the mixture into smooth, uniform sticks — simple pencils, hardened just enough to keep tiny hands from snapping them. Next came the pages: thin shavings of treated bark pressed together into crude but durable books. Not perfect, but in a land where writing was a rarity, they were treasures.

He laid them neatly in rows on a long bench.
Good. If they have something to hold, something to claim as theirs, they'll come, he thought.

When the village bell tolled for midday, the first children trickled in. Some peeked around the doorway shyly, others marched straight inside, eyes bright. Word had spread fast: Anyone who came to Erik's class would get a sweet treat at the end.

Dan and Sven stood proudly near him now, as if they were his personal assistants. Sven kept repeating, far too loudly, "You did say you'll give us sweets after the lesson. Real ones. Not the bitter root-candies!"

This alone had apparently mobilized half the children in the village.

A boy no older than seven whispered to his friend, "Do you think he has honey cakes today?"
Another girl, barefoot and bold, replied, "I don't care. I want one of those writing sticks."

Erik smiled and clapped his hands. "All right, everyone. Find a seat — yes, anywhere. That's good."

The murmur quieted as he picked up a piece of chalk, he'd made using powdered bones and drew a single line on the board.

"Today," he began, "we start with something new. The common tongue spoken in the lands south of the Wall. Your old tongue is beautiful, but it is mostly spoken, not written. Its runes aren't made for long words or detailed records."

'I have reviewed the native runic script which unfortunately is pictographic and syllabic, ill-suited for the scientific and administrative revolution I plan to bring here, whereas the phonetic alphabet is more flexible and powerful.' Erik thought 'Switching is simply more strategically necessary rather than just convenient. And since no one here knows it's written form they can't complain I'm teaching their kids southern kneeler language'

He tapped the chalk against the board, drawing a neat A. Surprisingly the common tongue was mostly the same as English.

"This," he said, "is the first letter. There are twenty-six more."

Gasps rippled through the room.
"Twenty-six letters?"
"That's too many!"
"Shh! Let him talk!"

He wrote the numbers next — 1 through 10, each one crisp, each one foreign to their eyes.

"These symbols," he said, "allow you to write anything. Names. Stories. Even the things your elders fear to forget. They let you read of people's stories that are long gone or lived faraway"

Some of the children leaned forward, fascinated. Others glanced toward the basket of wrapped sweet rolls resting on the corner table, their motivation far more immediate.

Erik chuckled. "And if you try your best today…" — he lifted the basket in one hand — "you'll earn one of these."

Cheers erupted. Even the shy ones edged closer, determination sparked by sugary treats.

As class began, small hands clutched clumsy pencils, tongues poked out in concentration, and the first uneven letters scratched across the bark-paper pages.

For the first time, the village echoed not with shouts or chores — but with the soft, hopeful sound of children learning to write.

When the lesson ended, the children erupted into excited chatter—and that was when Erik pulled out the small cloth bundle from his satchel.

A collective gasp rippled through the group.

Inside were sugar drops—hard, amber-colored sweets he had made from sugar he had extracted from plants. Simple, but to these children, miraculous.

Erik held the bundle high. "One each. After you line up."

The children stampeded into a line so orderly even the chief would have been proud.

He watched as each little hand accepted a sweet with reverence, eyes wide, mouths already watering.

Days turned to a week and patterns emerged. A mousy orphan thirteen-year-old boy Einar, a quiet, sharp-eyed youth named Einar — grasped numbers faster than the rest. He even solved harder questions Erik gave as exercises after learning them only once.

Einar's mother had passed at birth and he had barely survived. As his father married another who had little interest in looking after a scrawny weak child who need constant attention, Helga had taken the boy in and raised him later making him one of her apprentices. He still had a thin weak frame that was usually hidden under extra layers of clothing and his eyesight was weak.

Erik simply fixed the eyesight and performed minor tweaks to his metabolism and growth hormones so that he would eat more and start growing taller.

Erik decided to teach him separately and began training him privately to ensure his genius level potential in math was fully realized.

"You see this?" Erik said one afternoon, pointing to a charcoal-marked journal. "This isn't just counting coin. It's the language of power as math is the language of the universe. Learn it, and no man can cheat you — or rule you."

"I will." Einar nodded; eyes gleaming. "Um .. what is coin?"

Erik groaned internally. One of the things he hated about this area was the utter lack of economy.

'Everything is bartered. It makes everything so much more difficult' he groused 'I guess I'll have to introduce currency as well'

"it is a better way than barter" he answered resisting the urge to simply upgrade his brain.

'I could enhance him and the other's with NZT upgrade that I did to myself' Erik thought 'But in the Limitless movie it was strongly implied that the smarter the original brain was, the better were the result of the enhancement. I will teach them and allow them to reach their natural potential then I'll give a select few the boost. This period will also increase their trust and loyalty towards me so in their enhanced state they don't betray me'

Another pupil stood out for entirely different reasons — Sven, Gertrude's eldest son. He could barely stay still during lessons staring out toward the paddocks where his horse and elks stayed but he endured for the promised treats he got.

Erik followed the boy's gaze to the paddocks. Restless energy, good with a slingshot... the pieces clicked together in his mind. This one wouldn't be a clerk; he would be a project of a different kind.

Erik knew that Sven was a good shot with his slingshot meaning he had good hand-eye co-ordination and he loved riding his horse or elks. Seeing this Erik decided to carve a new path for Sven and see what he could do.

One day after class, Erik did not hand him the usual treat. Instead, he presented a small bow and a target made of tightly bound straw. The boy's eyes lit up with a fierce excitement, and Erik knew without a doubt he had chosen well.

The very next day, Erik began teaching him to control a mount with nothing but his feet. He guided the boy's movements carefully, planting subtle muscle memories that would grow into instinct with every passing ride. Each day, Sven became more fluid, more attuned to the rhythm of horse and body as one.

From that day forward, Erik took on the task of shaping Sven into something this world had never seen: a cavalry archer. Not even the Dothraki—whose legends had yet to be born in this land—could claim such mastery. Here, in this quiet corner of the world, a new kind of warrior was taking shape.

The other children — not as gifted, perhaps — still learned to read and write, to track and to calculate. They too would become useful as they would become clerks, aides, assistants — pieces in a design only Erik could fully see.

If only they knew of the horror of the modern world I am bringing to their simple world, Erik thought, watching the children scratch letters on their notebooks. Here I am, quietly inventing red tape in a world untouched by paperwork. Gods help them the day they realize I've also created the job of "clerk." They'll think it's sorcery that turns simple tasks into week-long quests and infinite frustrations.
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