Since we got to +10k view i bless you with a bonus chapter
Thanks for reading and give review this is my first story
Peace
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The smoke of war had not yet reached Alitha, but its shadow stretched long across the land. Word of the Ironborn raids carried swiftly, borne on the tongues of frightened travelers, and with those words came people: farmers abandoning their fields near the coast, fishers fleeing burned villages, smallfolk clutching what little they had saved from pillage. They came northward, southward, eastward, all converging on the city by the great river.
Alitha was no longer a secret.
What had once been a strange settlement of new walls and half-formed streets had now taken on the shape of permanence. Its walls stood taller than most towns of the North, though none could agree when they had been raised. Some swore they had seen wooden scaffolding and laborers at work, others insisted the walls had appeared in the span of a single night. The truth no one could tell, for no mason claimed the effort.
Yet the walls stood, and within them life had begun to stir with a rhythm all its own.
The refugees entered through gates manned by guards in steel helms and boiled leather, bearing the sigil of the city: a simple white star upon a field of black, stitched hastily onto cloaks and shields. Those guards asked few questions. So long as a man or woman brought no violence, they were given space to settle within. That alone made Alitha a wonder, for in most strongholds the gates would be shut tight against such an influx.
Inside, the city breathed. Smoke curled from new chimneys, the scent of baking bread mixing with the harsher tang of tanned leather and smelted iron. By the riverbanks, fishers cast nets into waters that teemed with silver. Crops, too, began to sprout in neat plots carved into the fertile soil—though many swore the earth had been tilled too quickly, the rows of barley and beans far straighter than any peasant hand could manage.
It was as though Alitha itself wished to live.
The people whispered of the unseen lord who guided it. Some called him the Starborn. Others said he was no man at all but a spirit bound to the earth. A few spoke his name in hushed tones—Aether—but none could say whence they had learned it. The guards never gave answer. They were men of flesh and blood, they bled when cut, but they served something no one had yet seen.
Still, the city prospered. And as it grew, so too did the stories.
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One evening, as the first autumn chill crept into the air, a voice rose in the market square. It was not the cry of a fishmonger or the barter of a farmer, but the lilting tone of song.
A man stood upon a barrel, hair dark and curling to his shoulders, a harp slung across his back. He had the lean look of one accustomed to travel, his boots worn thin, his cloak patched in three places. Yet when he strummed the first notes, the crowd stilled.
"Gather, gather, good folk of Alitha," he said, voice carrying with practiced ease. "For I have wandered from White Harbor to Winterfell, and in every hall I hear the same question: what city is this that grows where none stood before? I have come seeking the answer, and perhaps, together, we shall find it."
The harp sang beneath his fingers, a tune quick as running water.
"They tell of walls that rise in a night,
Of hearths that blaze without spark,
Of ships that glide on rivers wide,
Bearing strangers through the dark.
O city, O star in the northern sky,
Whose lord is seen by none,
Yet all men know his shadow lies
Where silver waters run."
The people listened, some smiling, others crossing themselves in the manner of the old gods. A child clapped; a woman frowned, muttering that songs made fools of honest folk. But none denied the words had power.
The bard gave his name as Kaelen of the Crossroads, and from that day, his harp became a fixture in the city. He sang in the taverns, in the square, sometimes even before the gates as new arrivals trudged in, weary and hungry. His songs did not answer questions—indeed, they seemed to raise more—but they bound the people together in a shared wonder.
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Alitha did not grow idle as it filled. The river became its lifeblood. Aether—though unseen—shaped the docks by unseen hand, planks fitted as though by a hundred carpenters, stone piers jutting into the current strong enough to bear ships of weight. Fishing vessels were the first, small boats swift and light, and soon they dotted the waters like gnats. Trade followed: barges laden with grain from the riverlands, hides from trappers, barrels of ale from small brewers who had settled inside the walls.
"Ships," said an old trader from Barrowton, stroking his beard as he watched a sloop glide downriver. "Ships built faster than any shipwright could manage. Look at her—straight as a maiden's back, sails cut finer than White Harbor's."
"And who builds them?" asked his companion.
The old man only shrugged.
The people knew, even if they could not speak it plain: their unseen lord did. Some had glimpsed shadowed figures moving by night, shapes bent to labor that vanished at dawn. Others swore they had heard hammering when no hammer rang. But none dared search too closely. The city had given them safety; they would not question the hand that granted it.
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Not all was peace. With the influx of refugees came disputes—over food, over lodging, over insult or old enmity. The guards of Alitha dealt with these swiftly, though always with restraint. Fists were broken apart before they could bloody too many noses; thieves were made to return what they stole rather than lose a hand. It was a justice both stern and merciful, and many remarked it was unlike the North they had known.
"It is the lord's will," one guard would say simply, and no more.
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Kaelen the bard watched all with keen eyes. Where others saw only survival, he saw a tale in the making. In his songs, the starving became pilgrims, the walls a wonder of the age, the river a silver road laid by destiny. He exaggerated, as bards are wont to do, but his exaggerations became the truth most chose to believe.
And so Alitha gained not only substance but story. A city can endure hunger and cold, but when it is given myth, it becomes eternal.
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By winter's first frost, the city had doubled in size. Smoke rose from a hundred hearths. The streets bustled with barter. Children chased one another between stalls where northern furs lay beside riverland spices. Refugees who had arrived with nothing now found work—mending nets, tilling fields, carrying wares along the docks.
At night, from the high walls, the guards looked out over dark forests and snowbound roads. Many of them had once been wanderers themselves, but now they stood straight in their mail and spoke with pride: they belonged to Alitha.
Yet always the question lingered, whispered in the long nights: what does the unseen lord want?
Some said he would reveal himself when the time was right, stepping forth as a king born of the stars. Others feared he was no man but a thing older and darker, binding them to a fate unknown. Still, they stayed. For the walls held strong, the food was plentiful, and the river carried life.
Even Ned Stark, far away in Winterfell, would soon hear the songs of Kaelen drifting northward, tales of a city rising while rebellion raged. And when lords gathered, they would speak of it in low voices, uncertain whether Alitha was boon or bane.
But within the walls, none cared for such politics. They had fled war, and here they found a strange peace. They built their lives upon foundations they did not understand, trusting that whatever power watched over them would not falter.
Alitha was no longer merely a refuge. It was becoming a beacon.
And in the shadows of its streets, as Kaelen's harp sang and the people thrived, Aether moved unseen—building, shaping, preparing for the day when his city would stand not just as a haven, but as a force that could not be ignored.