A Song of Steam and Gunpowder

by Dragonsquire

X-over w/the Lost Regiement Series. They were swept from Civil War America to a medival world of dark trechary and deadly intrigue. How will the Game of Thrones be played with Civil War Yankees on the board?

3. Chapter 3

Game of Thrones and all related characters are the property of HBO and George R. R. Martin. The Lost Regiment series and characters likewise belong to William R. Forstchen and ROC publishing. No money is being made from their use in this work of fanfiction.

Arya

BOOM! Despite covering her ears, the combined thunder of the bluecoats'-Yankees, she heard they were called- fire-rods rang inside Arya Stark's head. Opening her eyes, she saw the strangers stand erect and place the butts of their weapons on the ground, while their one-armed leader spoke in their language. The twenty Yankees who had fired returned to their comrades.

Several of Arya's father's men walked over to the straw dummies set up set up at the very end of the training ground. After taking down the breastplates, mail shirts, and quilted gambeson jackets placed on the dummies, they brought them back for Arya and the other Westerosi assembled outside Winterfell to see.

Each of the breastplates had at least four holes, or in one instance, a single big hole, near their center. Likewise the ringmail and quilted cloth had been torn through.

And at nearly one hundred yards.

Arya could hear Ser Roderick, Winterfell's master at arms. "How do they manage this? The most powerful bows can't damage castle-forged plate at that distance."

"Evil magic." Ser Bryain Sterling's mouth tightened up. "These bluecoats come from the seven hells for sure."

The Hound snorted. "They're men, like any others." He gave a low cackle; the only sort of laugh Arya heard from Sandor Clegane the few times she'd been around him. "One even quailed when I rode up to him."

"And then that one," spoke up one of her father's guards "killed a bird with his fire-rod, and you galloped away." The speaker was a big man, nearly as large as the simple-minded stable boy Hodor, with dark hair and eyes; Arya recalled his name was Eagar Snow. The Hound said nothing, but simply glared at him. Right beside him, Prince Joffrey tittered.

The Yankee that Eagar had mentioned, a short barrel-chested man with a bushy beard and whose blue jacket had chevrons patterned like a shield embroidered on his sleeves, cried out in his own strange language. Another Yankee came up and stood at attention, the butt of his weapon planted firmly on the ground. Meanwhile, more of Eddard Stark's men walked to the strawmen, lifted and moved them fifty yards further.

Maester Jaims stepped up and address the assembled throng. "What we just saw," he said, "was not sorcery, simply a means of the chemical arts, much like the wildfire made by the pyromancers of the Alchemist's Guild in King's Landing, which this soldier here will demonstrate to you."

"Thank you, maester," said Tyrion. "What this man O'Quinn is holding," and the man in question took out something from a pouch slung over his right shoulder, "is what they call a cartridge." O'Quinn showed between his thumb and forefinger an object wrapped in paper about the length and width of half a finger. "Contained inside is a lead projectile similar to a sling bullet and a measure of a black powder."

Next the Yankee bit into the cartridge, spat out the small bit of paper, and placed at the open end of his weapon. "He is pouring the powder down," the Imp explained, "and now he is ramming the bullet home." Arya saw the bluecoat pull out a rod stored into the weapon and use it to tamp the load down.

After sticking the rod into the ground, the man next pulled up the weapon and moved a piece of metal near the wooden grip. "Now he takes out what is called a percussion cap", said the dwarf, and O'Quinn removed a tiny object that looked made of copper from a small pouch on his belt. "It will ignite the powder."

After the servants placed a pumpkin roughly the size of a human head on top of each dummy them a helmet over each pumpkin, they moved back to join the onlookers. The man in blue gazed at the dummies, then holding his weapon like a crossbow, took aim at the one in the center.

CRACK! The mounted pumpkin fell over and O'Quinn repeated the process of loading his weapon. CRACK! Another pumpkin fell. Crack! Crack! Crack!

The Yankee stowed the rod into his weapon and walked back to his companions along with man with the chevroned sleeves. Arya's father's men came back onto the yard, picked up the fallen pumpkins and helmets; as they came back Arya saw that the bullets had driven straight through both steel and vegetable matter.

She could easily imagine what these weapons would do to a human head.

"I'd hate to be in the host charging against these men," Eagar Snow said.

"Such weapons would make men soft," added the Hound. "Men should look their enemies in the eyes when they kill them."

"And they wear no armor," mused Ser Sterling. "Get to close quarters with them and they'll be easy meat."

"But how will you get to close quarters with them?" Although she didn't like what she heard about him, Arya had to agree with Jamie Lannister. Before Ser Sterling could answer, however, five more Yankees detached from a wagon what looked like a big metal log strapped to two wheels and moved it over to the front end of the practice yard, pointing at the propped strawmen. One of them, a big, burly man with hair as red as that of Arya's mother and siblings, stood right behind the big metal tube and turned like looked like a screw that made the end of the tube rise a little. "This here, is called a cannon," said the Imp, then continued, "Cover your ears." Arya along with the others did so and watched the big redheaded Yankee look down the tube. Nodding, he then took a hold of a lanyard at the very end, took a step back, yanked on the cord-

BOOM! The noise was far louder than the earlier volley fired by the first group of Yankees as an enormous flame appeared for a brief second, then a gust of wind blew the smoke towards the onlookers.

Arya's sister Sansa and her circle of friends screwed up their noses at the sulfurous odor. "Just one more stink to add to a battlefield," Ser Roderick chimed.

"Smells like a dragon just farted," chuckled Jon Snow. Arya grinned, but decided not to ask how her half-brother how he knew what a dragon fart smelled like.

As the blackish smoke cleared, Arya could see all that remained of straw men was a few floating wisps of straw floating to the ground. Along with the others she stood there in awe. If these strangers' weapons could do this to imitations, what would they do to actual men?

Varys

Lord Varys-he was only called 'Lord' as a courtesy; the eunuch who served as Master of Whisperers for King Robert Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms owned no lands, had no family connections to any of the great Houses of Westeros or any loyal bannermen to call on, just 'little birds' to whisper into his ears-was sitting in his personal chambers at the Red Keep, pondering what to do with this latest piece of information.

That the strangers had powerful weapons was obvious. But why were they here? How did they land in the North, alongside the White Knife River of all places? What did their coming mean for Westeros?

Those were questions that would have to be answered later, Varys realized. He took out pen and ink and wrote down on paper the message he would give to his little birds in Winterfell.

He read what he had written, pleased with himself. A test was needed, and Ser Bryain Sterling would be the perfect candidate to give it. Fanatics like the knight from the Sisters were so easy to manipulate.

Andrew

"My hand to God, I will never drink again."

Andrew grinned as he imagined what sort of penance Father Casmir would impose on Pat when the big Irishman broke that vow. And Pat would; he could no more stay away from the bottle than a fish away from water.

"That's what you get for entering into a drinking contest with the king," he chuckled wryly. Robert Baratheon, who proved to be the very epitome of a fat, jolly man, was a prodigious drinker and O'Donald seeing it as a challenge, soon began drinking with His Grace, matching him drought for drought.

Andrew himself hadn't drunk so much at the banquet that was presented the night before, right after the 35th and 44th's demonstration of their weapons. Partly because of the melancholy air that seemed to surround the castle, another was so that he could learn.

First he had been introduced to the Royal Family, then to Lord Eddard's. The Queen, a strikingly beautiful woman in her mid-thirties named Cersei happened to Tyrion's own older sister while one of the King's guards, Jaimie, was their brother. The three Royal children all took after their mother in appearance with her golden blonde hair and green eyes. Likewise, all of Eddard Stark's children save for his younger daughter, a precocious seeming girl named Arya, had the red hair and blue eyes of their mother, Catelyn. The older Stark girl, a red-haired beauty named Sansa, was betrothed to Joffrey the Crown Prince.

Winterfell, it turned out was not King Robert Baratheon's castle, it was Eddard Stark's. The King and his family lived far to the south, in the capital city that as best as Tyrion could translate was called 'King's Landing.' After much back and forth conversation with Tyrion, Andrew learned the reason King Robert was here in Winterfell was to appoint Eddard Stark, apparently old friend of his, to an office called 'Hand of the King,' which meant something like prime minister. In fact they had been set to leave for the capital the very day after they had stumbled across the Yankees. And the main reason for the gloomy atmosphere was, it turned out, one of Lord Eddard's sons, a ten year old boy named Brandon, had fallen from a tower he'd been climbing, and was now unconscious in his bedroom.

When he learned about Eddard's son, Emil explained as best he could through Tyrion that he was a healer and asked as if he could look at the boy. Eddard granted his request; the Jewish doctor had then gone upstairs and hadn't returned to them for the rest of the banquet.

Using more gestures than words, Andrew had asked to see a map. One was brought out, and the colonel learned why Tyrion kept saying 'seven' before mentioning Westeros.

Westeros was made up of seven Kingdoms. Not counties, not provinces as Andrew understood them, but seven kingdoms, all under Robert's rule. They were called the North, which Eddard ruled as Warden; the Riverlands, and the Aery, both directly to the south of the North; the Stormlands, what sounded like either the Metal or Steel Islands; the Reach; the Westlands; and finally the one kingdom that didn't exactly have a translation called simply Dorne.

Most of the Westerosi had seemed friendly enough, if a bit wary. But Andrew couldn't help but notice some sending him looks of suspicion is not outright loathing, like one knight that Tyrion named as Bryain Sterling. That wouldn't have worried him much, save for the way the knight seemed to keep whispering into the ears of the Queen and Crown Prince.

Across the room, Captain Cromwell was rising out of bed. "God it smells awful."

You obviously weren't at Gettysburg, Andrew thought, and then realized that was unfair. To him, the castle smelled a lot better than a typical army camp and certainly just after a battle with the smell of blood and rotten meat everywhere. There was a faint whiff of sulfur-Emil had told him he thought the castle was built over a hot spring bed. As they had marched from their camp much of the landscape and the climate reminded Keane of Maine; if their winters were anything like his home state's than the idea struck the colonel as ingenious.

Keane walked over to the window and looked out. He could see in the village behind Winterfell's first wall, and the folk going about their business-merchants shouting their wares, prospective customers eyeing the goods for sale and muttering in their own language, a blacksmith pounding on an anvil; fullers dipping and bleaching bundles of wool while tanners were scrapping hides.

And here and there his men were mingling with the locals. The latter seemed with eye the Yankees with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension; one young woman, however, walked up to a small group of soldiers. From the way she was swishing her hips Andrew could guess what she intended.

And he was right. One Yankee went to her, and then showed what looked like a silver dollar coin which she promptly took and they walked in one of the small uninhabited houses together.

Andrew looked down directly below the window, where on his insistence Hans and twenty other men were camped. "Sergeant Schuder, everything in order?"

Turning from the task of chewing out a private, Schuder looked up and saluted.

"Still quiet sir, but some of the boys are grumbling because they aren't allowed to eat anything other than hardtack and salt pork."

"Can't be helped," Andrew replied, loud enough for the men to hear. "I don't want us to impose on the locals' hospitality any more than necessary; and until we are sure of these people, a little poisoning could eliminate us rather easily."

"And they might poison us even if they don't mean to." Andrew turned to see Emil Weiss had just entered the room. "The way they serve their food-they seem to do as best they can, but those wooden troughs showed an accumulation of grease that nauseated me, and their plates looked like they were just recently rinsed." The Jewish doctor sighed. "I gave up kosher when I came to America, but now that's the least of my worries.

"I will say this, however-when I went to see Lord Eddard's son, I saw they kept his room as clean as possible, and I asked as best they could to look at that man Sadler had wounded-his name is Woron by the way. I was impressed, especially since they have no experience with bullet wounds. These healers they've got-maesters, I think they call themselves-they're a damn sight better than those butchers they had in the Middle Ages, and maybe even most of the clods back home in the Army." He gave a short laugh. "I might even be able to learn a thing or two from them."

That last was something for Emil to admit; Andrew remembered how his opinion of the usual surgeons with the Army of the Potomac bordered on profanity. "Is there anything you could do for the Stark boy?"

The old doctor shook his head. "Nothing that hasn't already been done for him." He let out a sigh. "If that boy wakes, he'll likely never be able to walk again. It does look like he will, though, thank God."

"All right then," Tobias interjected, "what are we going to do about our situation? We gave that fat oaf of a king a show of what our muskets and cannons can do; what do you think he's going to want with us now?"

"Very likely he'll want us to serve as soldiers for him," replied Andrew. He did worry about the ammunition supply but only a little. Chuck Ferguson, a private in company D who had been a chemistry and engineering student, knew how to make gunpowder and even had a copy of Scientific American that showed how to refine quicksilver into fulminate for percussion caps.

"Think he'll want us to make more guns and cannons and show how to use them?" asked O'Donald, who then shook his head, weary from his hangover.

"We'll have to make spare parts for our muskets in any case," said Andrew. "If we can do that, it wouldn't be a great stretch to manufacture new guns. And according to both Mina and Private Ferguson, cannons can be cast with the same techniques used to make bronze statues."

"And if we are going to this capitol-King's Landing, you say that dwarf called it-," said Tobias, "then we must repair the Ogunquit and get it afloat. I'm not leaving it behind."

"Can the ship be repaired?" asked Emil. "And even if it can, could you get it from the river to the ocean?"

"I've seen the map," replied the captain. "The White Knife empties out into what that dwarf said was called the Narrow Sea, at a place called White Harbor. As for repairs, we have spare parts for the engine, and the hull could be fixed by any competent blacksmith." Tobias then sneered. "Of course it remains to be seen if this place has any competent blacksmiths."

And you don't want to walk or ride a horse all the way down south, Andrew thought. He remembered how badly Cromwell rode on his borrowed mount, and how getting off the horse he looked about as green as Andrew had felt when at sea. And Keane, who was an excellent horseman, had enjoyed every moment of Tobias's discomfiture.

Hans called out from the window, "Another thing is a lot of the men aren't happy about the idea of taking service with a foreign king."

Andrew understood that attitude; his own grandfather had fought against the British in the Revolution. But he said, "I'm afraid we don't have much choice. Unless we can find a way back to America I'm afraid we're stuck here and do our best to find a place for ourselves here."

Before they could say anything more, there was a knock on the door. Emil opened it, and in walked Tyrion. "How you this morning? Sleep well, yes?"

Andrew nodded in reply, as did Emil and Tobias. Pat just groaned. Tyrion approached him, with the merriment that a drinker feels at the sight of a hungover comrade.

With exaggerated gestures, the dwarf placed his fingers to his temples and groaned in imitation of the big Irishman.

"Shut the bloody hell up," O'Donald snapped.

Tyrion stepped back through the door, beckoned, and then reentered the room. Behind him a servant girl was holding a tray laden with tankards and what looked like a steaming teapot. Andrew recognized by the smell it was a tea brewed from barley and wheat that the locals drank in place of tea or coffee; he'd had some at the banquet last night. Reaching up, Tyrion pour a drink for each of the men, then, smiling as he held out a tankard to Pat, he produced a small ceramic flask.

"Hair of the dog, is it?" Emil chuckled. Seeing Tyrion and the girl frown he quickly added, "An expression in our language."

Tyrion nodded, spoke to the serving girl, and then poured a few drops into the tankard which he offered to Pat.

O'Donald sipped at the hot drink, and then blinked in surprise. "I feel a lot better," he said, then drained the tankard dry. Smacking his lips he said, "That's the real juice in there, but something else too. By St. Brigid of Kildare, it's cleared the cobwebs from me head."

Andrew tried a cup too. It was the same drink he'd had last night , but underneath the taste of barley, mint and honey he noticed whatever it was Tyrion put into the tea. While not quite as effective as leaf tea or coffee it had a kick that banished the last remains of drowsiness from him.

With Pat and Emil's help, Andrew got on his jacket and had his sword buckled on. Pat and Tobias had their swords strapped on as well and each of them had a loaded revolver strapped to their wrists. Those weapons they hadn't demonstrated; Andrew only hoped they wouldn't need them. Walking over to the window, he called down, "Sergeant Schuder, we're going to the meeting now."

"Be careful sir," Hans said, lowering his voice. "If it starts to look like trouble, just fire off a shot, and the boys and I will be after you."

"We'll be all right Hans."

This was a different type of combat and he could see that Hans was uneasy about it, wishing to be alongside his colonel with his Sharps carbine ready at hand.

"Take care Colonel."

Andrew could not help but smile at the concern in Hans' voice, something he had not heard since tough old sergeant found him in the hospital at Gettysburg and Hans burst into tears at the sight of Andrew's amputated arm.

"All right Tyrion, let's get on with it," Andrew said, turning back to the dwarf. He tipped his kepi to the serving girl, who blushed at the formality he'd shown to one of her class, and with Pat Emil and Tobias, walked out the door.

Sterling

"Oh my pardon," Lady Stark said as Bryain Sterling stepped out of the small sept in Winterfell's courtyard. "Usually no one but me and sometimes my daughters and a few servants I brought with me from Riverrun come here; my sons mostly worship as their father does. I was just surprised."

"Not a problem, Lady Stark," Ser Bryain replied, keeping the disapproval from his voice. True, Catelyn Stark had no choice but to marry a heathen northerner but she should have done more to influence her sons. The Targaryens themselves should have burned all the rotten weirwoods while their dragons were still around for them to do so, instead of allowing the lords and smallfolk of the North to continue praying to the demons and evil spirits that made those trees.

Remembering his courtesies he asked, "How is your son?"

"Maester Luwin says he'll live if he wakes." and Sterling could hear the anxiousness in her voice.

"May the Mother Above grant that it may be soon."

Lady Stark smiled at him then went inside the sept. The knight walked several steps away from the sept to a dark, shadowy corner just behind.

"They are at the solar, discussing with His Grace and Lord Eddard," a low voice said from the shadows.

"Seducing the King and ingratiating themselves to him." Ser Bryain did not even bother to keep the disgust from his voice.

"It is good to know there are men like you who can see these bluecoats for what they are."

"It is an evil," Ser Bryain muttered. "Most likely they come from Yi Ti, as servants of the Red Priests and that fire-demon they worship."

"Indeed." After a brief pause the one in the shadows said, "No harm must come to His Grace."

Ser Bryain snorted. "You mistake me for Jamie Lannister," he said. "I am no Kingslayer."

"Of course, of course." Another pause. "Are your men ready?"

"They are," Ser Sterling affirmed.

"Good. For now is the time to strike, for such a chance to have their leader away from protection might not come again. Cut of the head of the snake and the body will die soon after. For all their weapons' power they are only a few. Once they are defeated, the Yankee weapons can be taken and their secrets learned." Ser Bryain nodded. "Then go, with the blessing of the Warrior upon you."

Ser Bryain turned away and walked back across the courtyard. As he neared the castle, his eyes chanced upon Winterfell's Godswood, with its white weirwood standing in the center. The knight resisted the urge to spit; such trees were the work of evil beings called by the deceptively innocuous name Children of the Forest. Although Bryain Sterling was from the Sisters his mother was descended from Errreg the Kinslayer, who attacked the children of the forest's stronghold of High Heart, slaughtered them and reduced the grove of weirwoods to stumps.

He entered the castle, and walked down a hallway to several other men were waiting. He nodded to them.

Ser Cedrick Rightrayn, a knight who had squired with Ser Bryain at Cider Hall, nodded to his old friend. "The Warrior is with us today."

"The Warrior is with us today," Ser Bryain said in return. Like himself, all the men were clad in a padded gambeson jerkin and a jacket of ringmail, with a sword strapped to their side-casual wear for a knight who was guest in a castle. Anything more would attract too much notice. Bryain had also seen the Yankees go to meet with the King and Lord Stark; they wore no armor and they had only slender slightly curved swords for weapons. Gambeson and mail should provide enough protection.

The knights walked up the stairs and down the hallway leading to Eddard Starks solar; standing outside was the fat Kingsguard Ser Boros Blount. Sterling grinned as he felt the dagger slide down his sleeve and into his hand. This would go even easier than expected.

Eddard

"Tell them," said King Robert, before taking a long pull at his winecup, "that they are to swear allegiance to me and to the Iron Throne, to serve as my soldiers in time of war, and to help uphold my laws in time of peace."

The King was seated to Eddard Stark's left at the table in Eddard's solar; at the side of the King and his hand were maesters Jaims and Luwin while behind them stood the Kingsguard Knights Jaimie and Ser Meryn Trent. Sitting across from them were the four Yankee leaders they'd met last night, and the Lannister dwarf.

Tyrion translated the King's words to the Yankees; he had to repeat himself several times to make sure his words got across. Eddard didn't mind that; the dwarf only had a week to learn the alien tongue after all. And it gave him a chance to study the strangers.

Keane, the one armed man sitting right next to Tyrion did most of the talking. He was a tall, thin man who at first glance looked almost too frail to be a soldier-until Eddard looked into the cold gray eyes behind the wire-framed lenses. Those were the eyes of a man who had seen and done great and terrible things; a look Ned Stark knew that his own eyes showed. And the empty sleeve below Keane's left shoulder-a man with that disability would need great steel in him to lead troops into battle.

Eddard idly wondered what battle the Yankee leader lost his arm in.

Finally Tyrion had a reply. "He says that he and his men are willing to do so."

"Now ask them," Robert said, "if they can make more of their weapons, and are willing to train others in their use."

That translation took longer, and required a great many gestures- one point O'Donald, –a big red-haired man who reminded Eddard of Robert when he was young-seemed to be miming a blacksmith at his forge. After a few more exchanges Tyrion turned back to Eddard and the King.

"They say that will take time-they need to gather together raw materials and to set up what they call a 'rifle-works.' It is not quick work, and will require the assistance of several metal-workers-preferably apprentices and journeymen, who are highly skilled yet willing to learn new ways of doing things.

"They say, however, that the cannons-," the dwarf pronounced the alien words carefully-"will be the easiest to make-they are simple metal tubes that are fitted to wooden carriages. In fact, they can even be made with the same methods used to cast bronze statues."

Eddard looked at Maester Luwin. "Do you think they are telling the truth?"

"I can't say for certain," said the elderly maester, "but it does seem likely; the details they are giving sound too specific for sudden fabrication."

The younger maester concurred. "If they'd made sudden promises I'd be suspicious." Eddard felt the same way.

O'Donald spoke again; Tyrian turned his words into the common tongue, "Cannons, he says also have many uses besides mowing down men in the field-much larger cannons, made of iron, are excellent for both attacking and defending fortifications, and are also used on ships. Again, however, it will take some time before they are able to make those."

"Still," Robert whispered to Ned, "think of what we could do, with just the cannons alone."

Eddard nodded in agreement.

Robert smiled. "I agree. Very well," he said, looking straight at the dwarf. "Tell them they are to come with us to King's Landing, where they will be quartered at the Red Keep's barracks. King's Landing has the finest smiths in the entire realm; it shouldn't be hard to find ones who'll fit their need."

Tyrion spoke back to the bluecoats; this time they seemed to repeat the translation several times to get the point across-the healer Weiss seemed to be pantomiming pulling a bucket from a well then grabbed his throat as if choking.

Finally Tyrion tuned back to Ned and Robert. "They say for this they need land of their own."

That one took both Ned and Robert aback. Land was the property of the Crown and Lords, to be bequeathed to retainers and bannermen at their disposal; it was not something to be demanded.

Tyrion went on, "It is the powder, and the percussion caps, Your Grace. Making the powder alone, they say is extremely dangerous-one spark and it can create an explosion powerful enough to set a city on fire. And the percussion caps used to ignite their rifles-if I understand them right, they're saying if something goes wrong the local water supply could be poisoned somehow. For those reasons, it is best done away from a populated area."

Maester Luwin spoke up, "Dangerous things usually are dangerous to make."

"So they are," Eddard agreed. "Still, make them know they are asking for a lot."

As Tyrion spoke to the Yankees, Robert took another pull at his wine cup. "Perhaps that's not a bad idea."

"Say that again, Your Grace?"

"Giving them land. What they're offering could be as great a boon to us as the dragons were for the Targaryons." The King emptied his winecup, and then refilled it from a nearby pitcher. He turned to Maester Jaims. "Who was that Gardener King in the Reach, when the Andals came?"

"Garth IX, Your Grace," the young maester replied.

Ned recalled from his own history lessons as a boy. Instead of armed resistance, Garth IX Gardener had offered several Andal warlords descending on the Reach lands and lordships in exchange for pledges of fealty. Garth's new vassals had brought smiths and other craftsmen to show new ways of making armor, weapons and improving fortifications; when later Andals tried to invade the Reach, these new retainers helped drive them back.

Garth would on his deathbed boast that he had turned the wolves into his sheepdogs.

And these Yankees certainly had more to offer the realm than those Andals did the Gardener King. Eddard Stark was not an imaginative man, but he could picture the fortresses and keeps of the North outfitted with cannons like Tyrion described -Baelon Greyjoy would certainly think twice before rebelling and raiding the North's shores that was certain.

Robert added to Tyrion, "We can work out the details on this matter later. For now, let them know that they have to be ready to march down with us to King's Landing within two days. It is a long journey, and we've been here at Winterfell too long."

But when Tyrion spoke, Cromwell, who Ned understood was captain of the ship the Yankees had arrived on, angrily stood up and shouted. The other three Yankees looked at him with consternation as Tyrion translated, "He says they need to repair their ship, and that he and his men won't be leaving it behind."

"And how long will that take?" Eddard asked.

After several back and forth discussions, Tyrion said, "I think he's saying about 6 to eight weeks."

"Preposterous!" Robert roared. "We've been here long enough as it is; we need to get back to King's Landing as soon as possible.

"Indeed," Ned nodded. So far, the Yankees had been reasonable and for unexpected guests seemed to be trying hard not to make nuisances of them. But Winterfell's storehouses could not keep feeding them and Robert's own royal party for that long without being seriously depleted.

And winter was coming.

He was say as much, when all of a sudden there was a loud THUNK at the door.

Keane and the other Yankees looked at Eddard and Robert with what had to be alarm. Keane shouted something what Eddard guessed meant "What is the meaning of this?!"

"Tell him I don't know," Ned shouted to Tyrion, and prayed that the Yankees would believe him. With a soldier's reflexes, he kicked back his chair, drew the longsword at his belt, and rushed to the door. The two Kingsguard knights rushed beside Eddard with their own swords drawn. There were sounds of more axes chopping through the door-and one right through the beam holding it shut.

About eight men, wearing mail and holding a drawn sword or axe burst through. One, snarling at Eddard, rushed right at the Lord of Winterfell, his axe raised high-and suddenly a thunderous explosion sounded in the solar. A large hole in the middle of his forehead appeared, and Ned's would be attacker dropped his axe, and crumbled to the ground.

Eddard glanced back and saw Keane standing, holding a short metal tube with smoke pouring out. Another of their smoke powder weapons, he realized.

Robert himself stood up from his chair. "Stop this madness, in the name of your king!"

Eddard recognized Ser Bryain Sterling standing right next to the man Keane had killed; his fallen comrade's blood and brains splattered over his face. "Your Grace, it is madness that has seized you!" he cried. "These bluecoats have somehow bewitched you, and this heathen Northman has to be in league with them!"

Sterling said no more but with the other attackers rushed straight at Keane. Keane's weapon roared twice again, and the other three Yankees had drawn and fired their own sidearms. Sterling fell, blood coming from his chest and his mouth. Two other knights fell as well, while another dropped his sword and clutched at his arm.

And that seemed to break the heart of the rest; one by one they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees.

"Mercy, Your Grace!" one cried.

"We yield!" said another.

Shouts and footsteps sounded from the hallways, and now Ned saw his son Robb, with Theon Greyjoy, Jon, Ser Roderick, and several of his own household guards with drawn swords appear in the doorway.

"Father, what happened?" Eddard's oldest son asked. "We heard the sounds of the Yankee weapons and came rushing-and then we saw Ser Boros outside the door with his throat cut-," he eyed the dead bodies and the four Yankee leaders with the smoke-powder rods in their hands.

"These men," Eddard indicated the attackers living, dead, and wounded, "tried to attack us during our discussions. Take the living to the dungeons-." He was interrupted by more shouts from the hallway, in what sounded like the Yankees' language. Stepping out, he saw a large column of Yankees surging up toward the solar, with long shining blades attached to the ends of their weapons.

Coming up from behind Eddard, Keane held up his hand and shouted in his language. Whatever the one-armed man said seemed to mollify his men, who placed the butts of the fire-rods on the ground-although they still seemed wary.

Eddard didn't blame them; things could have gone so much worse. Turning back to his son and Ser Roderick, he said, "The Yankees did no more than defend themselves-and me and Robert as well. Remove the bodies, and take the rest down to the dungeon. Oh, and Maester Jaims," he said to the young maester, "Do what you can for the wounded man."

Weiss spoke up. Tyrion-who apparently had been hiding under table-walked up to Eddard as fast as his short legs could carry him. "He says he wants to look at him to; as the Yankees' healer he has considerable experience treating the wounds their weapons can cause."

Eddard nodded. "Very well." As the surviving attackers were led away and the bodies of Ser Bryain, Ser Boros, and the other dead man removed he looked at Keane. "Tell him to please accept my humblest apologies; I have given him and his men guest right and this attack was a grievous breach of it."

As usual, Tyrion had to go back and forth with the Yankee leader several times before he got his meaning across. "He says he understands, and that neither you nor the King is to blame."

"Good," said Eddard; they walked back into the solar. "Now tell him if he wishes, we can continue with our talks."

This exchange took considerably less time. Keane simply nodded, and Tyrion translated his words. "He says he's been through worse."

Robert, who had gotten up from his seat but due to his girth had only moved a few steps from the table, burst into one of his booming laughs. "This man is a soldier indeed!"

Ned smiled. "So he is."

Tyrion

Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell, a wolf howled. The sound hung over the castle like a flag of mourning.

Tyrion Lannister looked up from his books and shivered, though the library was snug and warm. Something about the howling of a wolf took a man right out of his here and now and left him in a dark forest of the mind, running naked before the pack.

When the direwolf howled again, Tyrion shut the heavy leatherbound cover on the book he was reading, a hundred-year-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. Tyrion had come here to the Winterfell library after an agreement between King Robert and the Yankees had finally been reached. It had been the Hour of the Wolf, and all the other parties have gone to bed. He covered a yawn with the back of his hand. His reading lamp was flickering, its oil all but gone, as dawn light leaked through the high windows. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing new. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping.

His legs were stiff and sore as he eased down off the bench. He massaged some life back into them and limped heavily to the table where the septon was snoring softly, his head pillowed on an open book in front of him. Tyrion glanced at the title. A life of the Grand Maester Aethelmure, no wonder. "Chayle," he said softly. The young man jerked up, blinking, confused, the crystal of his order swinging wildly on its silver chain. "I'm off to break my fast. See that you return the books to the shelves. Be gentle with the Valyrian scrolls, the parchment is very dry. Ayrmidon's Engines of War is quite rare, and yours is the only complete copy I've ever seen." Chayle gaped at him, still half-asleep. Patiently, Tyrion repeated his instructions, then clapped the septon on the shoulder and left him to his tasks.

Outside, Tyrion swallowed a lungful of the cold morning air and began his laborious descent of the steep stone steps that corkscrewed around the exterior of the library tower. It was slow going; the steps were cut high and narrow, while his legs were short and twisted. The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below. Sandor Clegane's rasping voice drifted up to him. "The boy is a long time dying. I wish he would be quicker about it."

Tyrion glanced down and saw the Hound standing with young Joffrey as squires swarmed around them. "At least he dies quietly," the prince replied. "It's the wolf that makes the noise. I could scarce sleep last night."

Clegane cast a long shadow across the hard-packed earth as his squire lowered the black helm over his head. "I could silence the creature, if it please you," he said through his open visor. His boy placed a longsword in his hand. He tested the weight of it, slicing at the cold morning air. Behind him, the yard rang to the clangor of steel on steel.

The notion seemed to delight the prince. "Send a dog to kill a dog!" he exclaimed. "Winterfell is so infested with wolves, the Starks would never miss one."

Tyrion hopped off the last step onto the yard. "I beg to differ, nephew," he said. "The Starks can count past six. Unlike some princes I might name."

Joffrey had the grace at least to blush.

"A voice from nowhere," Sandor said. He peered through his helm, looking this way and that. "Spirits of the air!"

The prince laughed, as he always laughed when his bodyguard did this mummer's farce. Tyrion was used to it. "Down here."

The tall man peered down at the ground, and pretended to notice him. "The little lord Tyrion," he said. "My pardons. I did not see you standing there."

"I am in no mood for your insolence today." Tyrion turned to his nephew. "Joffrey, it is past time you called on Lord Eddard and his lady, to offer them your comfort."

Joffrey looked as petulant as only a boy prince can look. "What good will my comfort do them?"

"None," Tyrion said. "Yet it is expected of you. Your absence has been noted."

"The Stark boy is nothing to me," Joffrey said. "I cannot abide the wailing of women."

Tyrion Lannister reached up and slapped his nephew hard across the face. The boy's cheek began to redden.

"One word," Tyrion said, "and I will hit you again."

"I'm going to tell Mother!" Joffrey exclaimed.

Tyrion hit him again. Now both cheeks flamed.

"You tell your mother," Tyrion told him. "But first you get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall to your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with them. Do you understand? Do you?"

The boy looked as though he was going to cry. Instead, he managed a weak nod. Then he turned and fled headlong from the yard, holding his cheek. Tyrion watched him run.

A shadow fell across his face. He turned to find Clegane looming overhead like a cliff. His soot-dark armor seemed to blot out the sun. He had lowered the visor on his helm. It was fashioned in the likeness of a snarling black hound, fearsome to behold, but Tyrion had always thought it a great improvement over Clegane's hideously burned face.

"The prince will remember that, little lord," the Hound warned him. The helm turned his laugh into a hollow rumble.

"I pray he does," Tyrion Lannister replied. "If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him." He glanced around the courtyard. "Do you know where I might find my brother?"

"Breaking fast with the queen."

"Ah," Tyrion said. He gave Sandor Clegane a perfunctory nod and walked away as briskly as his stunted legs would carry him, whistling. He pitied the first knight to try the Hound today. The man did have a temper.

A cold, cheerless meal had been laid out in the morning room of the Guest House. Jaime sat at table with Cersei and the children, talking in low, hushed voices.

"Is Robert still abed?" Tyrion asked as he seated himself, uninvited, at the table.

His sister peered at him with the same expression of faint distaste she had worn since the day he was born. "The king has not slept at all," she told him. "He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart."

"He has a large heart, our Robert," Jaime said with a lazy smile. There was very little that Jaime took seriously. Tyrion knew that about his brother, and forgave it. During all the terrible long years of his childhood, only Jaime had ever shown him the smallest measure of affection or respect, and for that Tyrion was willing to forgive him most anything.

A servant approached. "Bread," Tyrion told him, "and two of those little fish, and a mug of that good dark beer to wash them down. Oh, and some bacon. Burn it until it turns black." The man bowed and moved off. Tyrion turned back to his siblings. Twins, male and female. They looked very much the part this morning. Both had chosen a deep green that matched their eyes. Their blond curls were all a fashionable tumble, and gold ornaments shone at wrists and fingers and throats. "I only had a chunk of bread and cheese after the talks were done, and negotiations, I'm finding, is hungry work."

Tyrion wondered what it would be like to have a twin, and decided that he would rather not know. Bad enough to face himself in a looking glass every day. Another him was a thought too dreadful to contemplate.

"Ah, yes," said Jamie. "How did they go? I'm afraid I was bored, standing out there in place of poor Ser Boros, and it made me too sleepy to really pay attention."

"The Yankees are to be given Castle Blackfyre," said Tyrion. "There, they will work on making more of their strange powder and weapons with the help of metal workers and other craftsmen that Robert will send to them, and present to the Lords of the realm their power. They hope to build on that, and hopefully it will make the entire realm a lot stronger."

The Older Lannister brother smirked. "About time someone got some use out of that place," said Jaimie. "I never understood why Daeron the Good didn't just give that castle to someone else after his bastard half-brother's rebellion failed, or have it torn down."

"It's a good enough location," replied Tyrion. "On the other side of Blackwater Bay, half a day's ride from King's Landing, closer to go by ship. Close enough to be accessible but far enough to minimize any potential danger they say making their weapons can cause."

"So they'll be leaving with us tomorrow?"

"Keane and most of the Yankees will." Tyrion bit into a piece of bacon, and swigged from his mug of beer. "Captain Cromwell and his sailors will be remaining behind, so they can repair their ship. There are less than a hundred sailors; Winterfell should be able to accommodate them for as long as it's supposed to take."

Now Cersei seemed rather interested. "Why would it take so long to repair that ship? And why couldn't they just get another one?"

Tyrion looked at his sister with frank curiosity. "Cromwell says the ship is not like any other. Somehow it uses the power of steam to be able to move without sails or oars, and much swifter than any other ship can."

"A ship that moves without sails?" Cersei's expression was one of disbelief. For once Tyrion actually agreed with her; it had taken several exchanges between him and the Yankees for him to see they really meant that. "Surely they must be telling ale stories."

"Maester Jaims thinks it's probable," Tyrion said however. "He told of how one Maester Nerhos was able to make a hollow spheroid rotate on an axis by connecting it through copper tubes to a lid and placing it on a kettle of boiling water, and Luwin confirmed what he said. While it's nothing but a toy of the Citadel, they think whatever powers the Yankees' ship may work on the same principle."

Tyrion decided not to tell his siblings the two maesters' other theory, the one they had suggested to Him, Lord Eddard, and His Grace-that the Yankees were from another world, brought to Westeros by magic or some other unexplainable means. Strange as it was it seemed all too likely to him; while he had never gone to Essos or anywhere beyond the Seven Kingdoms Tyrion had read much of what maesters and other chroniclers who have traveled wrote about the known world-and in none of their records mentioned anything like these bluecoats.

Deciding to continue with the topic at hand, the dwarf said, "Keane himself has sent one of his men back on his horse to their encampment; the whole lot of them will be coming here to Winterfell. They will be bringing a priest of theirs and swear allegiance to Robert on their holy book." Tyrion took another swig, this time emptying his tankard. "His Grace has ordered me to stay with the Yankees, to act as his eyes and ears among them. Maester Jaims will too; he will help teach their officers how to read and write the common tongue, and Keane, if I understand him right, has expressed a desire to learn the realm's history as well."

"A sellsword who is also a scholar," Jaime muttered. "What strange times we live in."

"Do they have any women with them?" Cersei asked.

"One," replied Tyrion. "A comely lass named Kathleen O'Rielly, I think. She acts as an assistant to their healer, the man called Weiss."

"And probably provides another service as well." The amused look, with a hint of lechery on the older Lannister brother's face that told his dwarf sibling what he was thinking.

"Oh no, no, it's not like that," said Tyrion. "She doesn't move or act like a whore, and the men all seem to treat her with a special deference, like an older sister or highborn lady. And trust me brother, I know whores."

"You certainly do," Jaime replied, the expression still on his face.

Cersei looked scandalized, but said, "When I meet with her, I will have to offer to have her accompany me and my other ladies in the wheelhouse."

"You won't be able to talk with her," Tyrion interjected.

"Yes," said Jaimie but he looked at Tyrion. "And how will the Yankee sailors under-Cromwell, is that his name?-be able to communicate when you're gone?"

"Maester Luwin has spent much of the evening trying to, and has already picked up several words of their language," said Tyrion. "It's also amazing how far you can get with gestures."

"You see?" Cersei said smugly. "Given some time with her, and we shouldn't have much trouble understanding each other. She and the other Yankees are going to have to learn our language in any case, if they are to remain in the Seven Kingdoms."

Tyrion didn't like the idea of that. His sister had a mind like a snake, twisted and slithering. She would certainly try to use the Yankee woman in some scheme to gain influence over them or to learn things that could endanger them.

Before he could say anything, Prince Tommen spoke up. "Do you have news of Bran, Uncle?"

"I stopped by the sickroom last night," Tyrion announced. "There was no change. The maesters thought that a hopeful sign."

"I don't want Brandon to die," Tommen said timorously. He was a sweet boy. Not like his brother, but then Jaime and Tyrion were somewhat less than peas in a pod themselves.

"Lord Eddard had a brother named Brandon as well," Jaime mused. "One of the hostages murdered by Aerys Targaryen. It seems to be an unlucky name."

"Oh, not so unlucky as all that, surely," Tyrion said. The servant brought his plate. He ripped off a chunk of black bread.

Cersei was studying him warily. "What do you mean?"

Tyrion gave her a crooked smile. "Why, only that Tommen may get his wish. The maester thinks the boy may yet live." He took a sip of beer.

Myrcella gave a happy gasp, and Tommen smiled nervously, but it was not the children Tyrion was watching. The glance that passed between Jaime and Cersei lasted no more than a second, but he did not miss it. Then his sister dropped her gaze to the table. "That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the child linger in such pain."

"What were the maester's words?" Jaime asked.

The bacon crunched when he bit into it. Tyrion chewed thoughtfully for a moment and said, "He thinks that if the boy were going to die, he would have done so already. It has been four days with no change."

"Will Bran get better, Uncle?" little Myrcella asked. She had all of her mother's beauty, and none of her nature.

"His back is broken, little one," Tyrion told her. "The fall shattered his legs as well. They keep him alive with honey and water, or he would starve to death. Perhaps, if he wakes, he will be able to eat real food, but he will never walk again."

"If he wakes," Cersei repeated. "Is that likely?"

"The gods alone know," Tyrion told her. "The maester only hopes." He chewed some more bread. "I would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase it away, it returns. The maester said they closed the window once, to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened it again, his heart beat stronger."

The queen shuddered. "There is something unnatural about those animals," she said. "They are dangerous. I will not have any of them coming south with us."

Jaime said, "You'll have a hard time stopping them, sister. They follow those girls everywhere."

"If the Yankee's language is so easy to learn," Jaime brought the conversation back to the strangers, "how likely will they need you around?"

"Some will learn faster than others," Tyrion said. "And they will certainly need someone to guide them around King's Landing and help familiarize them with the court-who better than me?"

"You have a gift for diplomacy, it seems," Jamie grinned. "Perhaps the next time Robert sends an embassy to one of the free cities, perhaps he should send you."

"Oh yes," Tyrion sighed. "To see Braavos, Pentosh, Volantis, or Lys-ooh how well I would represent the Realm at their pleasure houses!"

Cersei stood abruptly. "The children don't need to hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come." She strode briskly from the morning room, her train and her pups trailing behind her.

Jaime Lannister regarded his brother thoughtfully with those cool green eyes. "Stark will never consent to leave Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of death."

"He will if Robert commands it," Tyrion said. "And Robert will command it. There is nothing Lord Eddard can do for the boy in any case."

"He could end his torment," Jaime said. "I would, if it were my son. It would be a mercy."

"I advise against putting that suggestion to Lord Eddard, sweet brother," Tyrion said. "He would not take it kindly."

"Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death."

Tyrion replied with a shrug that accentuated the twist of his shoulders. "Speaking for the grotesques," he said, "I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life, as the Yankees' coming shows, is full of possibilities."

Jaime smiled. "You are a perverse little imp, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes," Tyrion admitted. "I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say."

His brother's smile curdled like sour milk. "Tyrion, my sweet brother," he said darkly, "there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on."

Tyrion's mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up wolfishly at Jaime, "Why, Jaime, my sweet brother," he said, "you wound me. You know how much I love my family."

Jon

The Starks, the Winterfell staff and guards, the Royal party, and as many of the winter town's residents as possible were here before the Godswood.

The Yankees, including the from the sailors from the ship were all assembled in neat rows in front of the king, the soldiers standing erect with glistening spear-points attached to the ends of their fire-rods; the ones who attended the cannons likewise stood beside their wheeled tubes. There were just over 600 of them, Jon could count.

He himself was not standing with his father and half-siblings; it would not be proper for a bastard like him to be in the direct presence of the King in an important matter like this-and if he had forgotten that, he was sure Lady Stark would have reminded him.

Instead, Jon was with the servants and staff of Winterfell, his albino direwolf Ghost at his side. He didn't mind in truth, for it enabled him to observe both parties.

King Robert and Queen Cersei stood ahead of the rest, dressed in their most resplendent robes and their crowns on their heads. Robert for once was actually sober, and his girth actually seemed to help give dignity to his expression. The Lannister dwarf Tyrion was right beside them, dressed in a fine red doublet with the golden lion of House Lannister emblazoned across his chest.

Among the Yankees was a youth with a small drum. As he began beating on it, a slow, steady rhythm, the bluecoats' one-armed leader Keane came into yard upon a dark grey gelding.

As their leader passed, the Yankees all raised their right hands across their brows in what seemed to be a form of salute. In a remarkable display of horsemanship, Keane dropped his reins and, while controlling his mount with only his spurs and knees, returned the gesture.

As he neared the King, Keane dismounted from his horse. After handing the reigns to a nearby soldier, he walked up where Robert was standing, while a an middle aged man wearing a white and cloth of gold robe and carrying a large leatherbound book walked up beside the Yankee leader.

Keane stood directly in front of Robert; they were the same towering height or near enough to look each other squarely in the eyes. In contrast to Robert however Keane was nearly as lean as a spear shaft.

Keane placed his hand on the book his companion held out before him and spoke. "Before Almighty God," Tyrion turned the Yankee's words into the common tongue, "I, Andrew Lawrence Keane, solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to his Grace Robert of House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Royhnar, the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, and that I will serve him and the Iron Throne faithfully and honestly, to fight against his and the realm's enemies in time of war, and to abide by and uphold his laws in time of peace."

Behind Keane, all of his men spoke in unison. Jon couldn't understand their words but figured they were simply repeating their commander. As they finished, nearly all of the men who served the cannons, as well as several in the main ranks touched themselves from forehead to waist then right shoulder to left.

After they finished, the Yankee priest returned to the bluecoats' ranks, and the septon of Winterfell-Jon always thought of him as Lady Catelyn's septon, for only Lady Stark, a handful of others, and occasionally his half-sisters Sansa and Arya worshipped the Seven-came next to Robert with a large ornate Seven Pointed Star. He held out the book before the King, who placed his right hand on it and spoke.

"Andrew Lawrence Keane," Robert's voice was surprisingly regal and serious, "I Robert of House Baratheon, the first of my name, King of the Andals, the Royhnar, the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, accept you and your men as my leal bannermen. Before Gods and Men, I swear that you and yours shall always have a place by my hearth, that you shall always have meat and mead at my table, and that I shall ask no service of you that will bring you shame."

Tyrion Lannister turned the King's words into the Yankee's language. Keane dipped his head to Robert, then to Queen Cersei. With a look of what Jon saw as disdainful condescension, the Queen held out her hand; which the Yankee leader took in his own and kissed.

King Robert raised his hand. Keane stood erect and gave him their salute; behind him the other Yankee officers and cannon attendees saluted as well, while the rest held out their fire-rods in the same manner as men with pole-arms did when acknowledging a leader.

In his booming voice the king said, "Now that business is done-let's get ready to depart tomorrow!"

Tyrion spoke again in the Yankee's language. The short barrel chested man with the chevrons on his sleeves that Jon had seen at the demonstration yesterday barked something that seemed to mean what it sounded like in the common tongue: "DISMISSED!"

The Yankees, the royal party, and the people of Winterfell broke from their formations. Jon saw Lady Catelyn along with his two half-sisters walk back to Winterfell; his father and his uncle Benjen Stark were walking toward him.

Eddard Stark looked Jon in the eyes. "Are you ready Jon?"

"Yes I am," Jon answered. He had been surprised at first when his father and uncle came to him that morning with their proposal. But Eddard had also told Jon that the decision would be his, and he made it.

Jon and his father made their way to the Yankees where their one-armed leader was walking his horse, with the Lannister dwarf close beside him.

"Keane," Eddard called out. Keane turned as Jon and Eddard approached him. "If I may, I wish to have a word."

Keane spoke to Tyrion, who said, "Very well. He says that given the gracious hospitality you have shown him and his men, the least he can do is hear what you have to say."

"Good." Eddard took a deep breath, then looked Keane directly in the eyes and said, "If you wish to repay me, there is a way. This here," and he motioned for Jon to come forward, "is Jon Snow."

Tyrion repeated Eddard's words in the Yankee language. He and Keane spoke back and forth several times before the dwarf turned back to Eddard and Jon. "I explained to him that Jon is your bastard son," he told Eddard. "Keane says that doesn't matter, not to him."

"Thank you." Eddard spoke as if directly to Keane. "You will eventually be training other in how to use weapons such as yours. It would be a great pleasure to me if you allowed Jon to be the first, to join your ranks."

After hearing Tyrion translate his father's words, Keane now looked at Jon. Jon wasn't sure what to make of the man's expression; the wire framed lenses Keane wore over his eyes seemed to give him an inquisitive look like that of a maester rather than a soldier.

Finally he spoke to Jon through Tyrion. "If you join us, it will be as a common soldier-a private-and you will have to obey the orders of the officers and the noncoms-the men with the chevrons on their sleeves-set over you, and that any additional rank you attain among us you will have to earn. Are you willing to do that?"

"Yes my lord," Jon answered automatically.

Keane held up his hand. "He says to not call him lord," Tyrion translated. "Call him colonel, it's a title in their language that refers to someone who commands a unit of soldiers this size. Or sir. Its sounds similar to the knightly Ser, and that you are to refer to all officers by that, or their specific title."

Jon nodded. "I understand, my lor-colonel, uh, sir." He could feel his cheeks get red as he stumbled over the foreign words.

Keane actually smiled. "You'll get used to it. Now, how good are you at taking care of horses?"

Jon blinked when Tyrion translated that question. Like all of Lord Eddard's children almost as soon as he could walk Jon had been taught not just how to ride but to trim and care for a horse's hooves, to maintain tack and bridle, and to look for signs of injury or illness. "I'm quite good at that, sir."

Keane nodded, then brought his horse forward. "This is Mercury," Tyrion translated. "While we travel to King's Landing, would you be willing to tend to him while you spend become accustomed to us and learn our language?"

At those words Jon began to feel a small contempt like he did for southron lords who supposedly needed a body servant for every little task. Eddard had told him that a lord should rely on servants only for things his duties prevented him from doing himself; whenever he traveled with his father and Jon they all tended to their own mounts. Then Jon saw the empty sleeve dangling from Keane's left shoulder, and his scorn vanished. Maimed as he was the Yankee leader probably needed assistance with a variety of tasks that a man with all his limbs would take for granted.

Finally, he said, "It would be an honor and privilege, sir." He looked out at Mercury. "That is an excellent animal." Then he remembered something he had to bring up.

Jon glanced to the shadow of the weirwood tree where Ghost was waiting. Without a word, just a gesture with his left eyebrow the albino direwolf walked over to the four men.

"This is Ghost, my direwolf," Jon said. Tyrion spoke to Keane, going back and forth several times. When they stopped, Keane stepped toward Ghost, holding out his hand. Ghost bristled initially, then sniffed Keane's hand and let the one-armed man stroke him.

Keane spoke and Tyrion translated, "Make sure he doesn't become a nuisance."

"I won't, sir."

Keane turned back to Jon. "Very good. Now make sure you are ready when we leave tomorrow."

"I will. Thank you sir." Jon started to bow, but Tyrion stopped him.

"He says you should not bow, not to him," the dwarf explained. "If you are to be under his command, you must salute him, like you saw the others do."

"Oh." Now Jon stood erect, and in imitation of what he saw earlier, copied the Yankee salute, which Keane returned.

After parting with Keane and Tyrion, Jon and Eddard were joined by Benjen. "I'm not sure how to say this, but I'm glad you made this decision, Jon," Benjen told his nephew.

"I am too." Jon had been ready ,even eager, to depart for the Wall that separated the far north from the realms of men, when his father and uncle had come to him that morning. At first it seemed that Benjen was trying to dissuade him from taking the black, but Eddard assured Jon that the decision would be his.

And he decided. He couldn't deny that these strangers fascinated him, and to learn about them and perhaps even get to use these strange weapons of theirs was something he decided would be impossible to pass up.

He felt Eddard's hand on his shoulder. "Remember Jon, you are to be my eyes and ears among these people. Learn their language, talk to them, get to know them-and learn everything you can about them."

"And the Wall will still be waiting for you, if you still decide to take the black after this duty is finished," Uncle Benjen said. "In a few years' time, enough of these strange weapons may be made they will be sending some to the Wall to arm us. Who knows, you may even be the one to teach the Black Brothers how to use them." He gave a small chuckle. "And don't worry about me; I won't lack for company on my way back." That last one brought a small smile from all of them. The surviving men who attacked Jon's father and the King while they negotiating with the Yankees had all agreed to take

The black to atone for their crime, and several of Winterfell's own soldiers would be escorting them and Benjen to the Wall.

Eddard and Benjen both glanced at the weirwood tree. Jon did as well; whenever he saw that white tree with its wooden face it was if he felt the Old Gods of the Forest staring at him and into his soul.

Ned Stark continued, "However the Yankees came here, by whatever means, it was for a reason, of that I am certain. What that reason is only the Gods themselves know. They may reveal it in time or they may not. But I am certain the Yankees coming will mean great things for the Realm, for good or for ill. So remember, Tyrion Lannister may help you learn the language, but be careful around the man. I do not trust him."

His father's last statement puzzled Jon. "Father, I know what people say about dwarfs but I never thought that you would feel-,"

Eddard cut off Jon. "His being a dwarf has nothing to do with my mistrust for him."

Vincent

It was the first roast chicken he had eaten since he joined the army. And Vincent Hawthorne enjoyed every bite.

"It really makes me homesick for my Ma's cooking," Gerald Bainbridge, who was seated next to Hawthorne on his right.

"Not mine," said Bill Webster. The banker's son from Portland still wore his kepi even at the dinner table, probably to hide that even though he was nineteen he was nearly bald. "We had a housekeeper who did the cooking for us. One time she got sick and Ma had to do the cooking for a week, it was so bad we should have loaded it into a cannon and shot it at the Rebs."

"Nothing like my mother's," said another private that Vincent didn't know, who was also from Portland. "If we shot her cooking from a cannon, them Rebs would have fought even harder, for fear of having to eat like that all the time."

Howls of laughter spread among the dinner table; Vincent himself joined in. Jokes about food were one thing he didn't mind; a lot of other things his companions found funny still made his ears turn red.

Vincent and all the other enlisted men were seated at several rows of tables set in the square of the village behind Winterfell's first wall called "Winter Town' for some reason. Torches were set up all round them, giving great illumination to the early evening sky. In addition to the chicken there was fresh brown bread, salty smoked ham and salmon poached in a syrup similar to maple, buttered turnips, something similar but not quite like potatoes roasted and peppered, and a strong smelling white cheese. It was much better than Army food and plenty of it. The officers were inside Winterfell, enjoying probably even better fare than spread out here.

"Enjoy it while you can boys," Sergeant Barry called out. "Starting tomorrow it's back to salt pork, hardtack, and desecrated vegetables." A good natured groan sounded across the tables, especially about the term used to describe the desiccated produce that made up much of the Army's food supply. Colonel Keane had made it clear that while they traveled to the capital of this kingdom that they'd be mainly living on the rations that had been brought on the Ogunquit and impose as little as possible on the Westerosi.

A short walk away from the tables, a small musical battle was going on. Several in the regiment had musical instruments among the personal effects they'd brought back from the ship, and were playing the familiar camp songs; Vincent found himself whispering along to the words of 'Camptown Races.'

A group of locals had come out with musical instruments of their own, and began playing what were their own people's songs. Soon, the Yankee and Winterfell bands were trying to pick up and imitate each other's tunes; it was really funny to see a band with medieval instruments try to play Stephen Foster.

To Vincent's surprise, he saw Tyrion Lannister the dwarf who had become their translator, among the locals watching the two band play. Seeing a chance to satisfy a gnawing curiosity, he got up from his chair. With Bill Webster beside him, the two privates walked over to the little man.

He recognized them both immediately. "Ah, Vincent, Bill," Tyrion said. "So good to see you."

"Good to see you too," Vincent replied. "Why'd you come out here?"

"Most inside too busy with feast or drink," Tyrion replied. "Leaders mostly drink or talk among themselves. Little need for translating."

"Oh. Well, Bill and I were wondering something." They walked away from the crowd into the village where they were surrounded by a large number of well-kept but empty houses.

"All these houses," Bill Webster held up his hands, indicating the rows of vacant buildings. "Why are there so many of them when nobody lives in them."

"Winter town," Tyrion said. "When winter come-farmer and others come from miles around, wait out winter."

"Are winters-bad here?" Coming from Maine, Vincent had seen some plenty nasty winters in his young life but couldn't imagine one that would make so many people leave their homes for just a few months.

"Here in North? Very bad." Tyrion shrugged. "South of Neck, where we go? Not so bad, last one only a little dusting of snow for three years."

That last sentence had to be a mistake in translating. Vincent started to ask Tyrion more, when suddenly he heard from one of the supposedly empty houses a voice in unmistakable English, "I don't know why they've got so many empty houses, but it sure makes these easy."

"Sure does," another voice agreed. "After we're done with these two pussies, we'll cut their throats. Any luck and we'll be long gone when they find their bodies."

Realizing what those men were saying, Vincent, Bill, and Tyrion all looked at each other in blank horror. Finally Vincent whispered, "You two stay here. I'm going to get Sergeant Barry."

As quickly and quietly as he could, Vincent ran back to the square, and to his surprise he saw not just Sgt. Barry but Sgt. Major Schuder next to each other, laughingly singing along to the Westerosi band trying to play 'Oh Susanna.'

"Sgt. Barry!" he cried. "Sgt. Schuder!"

The two noncoms turned to the young Quaker. Both had been drinking, Vincent could tell, but neither was intoxicated.

"What's this about, private?" Schuder asked.

As Vincent told them what he'd heard by the empty houses, the look on both sergeants' faces went from mild annoyance to cold fury. "You, you, you, and you," Schuder said, pointing to at least a dozen men. "Grab a rifle and come with us." Upset at having their revelry interrupted but unwilling to obey the sergeant major, the men did as he said. "Jezt! Schnell, schnell, schnell!" That last got the men hopping; Schuder only reverted to German when he was truly indignant.

Along with the others Vincent grabbed a Springfield from one of the stacks piled near the table. This time he made no effort to quiet his footsteps as he led his comrades down to the house where Tyrion and Bill Webster were waiting outside.

Apparently the men inside still didn't know what was going on. They hadn't even bothered to bar the door as Schuder kicked his way in with Vincent and the others following him.

Inside were six Yankees, three of whom were holding down a young girl with the top of her dress torn off and her bare breasts exposed. Three others held another girl down on the floor, two pinning down her arms as another was on top of her, his hand over his mouth his pants down, her skirt rolled up-as soon as he realized what the man was doing, Vincent immediately brought the butt of his rifle down on the rapist's head.

The other miscreants were quickly subdued by the men Vincent brought. One of them even took off his jacket and placed it around the shoulders of the girl Vincent saw when he came in. He looked down at the other girl, the one whom the rapist had been taken off. She lay there as if comatose, her bare legs spread apart and blood spreading from them-Vincent felt his stomach churn as he realized she couldn't be much older than his sister Emily, who was eleven.

Suddenly the girl blinked, looked at Vincent and screamed. Tyrion appeared right at Vincent's side and spoke to her in their tongue. The girl quieted but still looked at Vincent and the others warily, the fear she felt still apparent.

"This girl, she think you want to force her too," Tyrian said. "I tell her no. Tell her that you angry with these men of yours, that you take them to Lord Stark. To punish."

"He's right," muttered Schuder. "The locals are going to have to know about this." The gruff old noncom gave a wistful sigh. "This really throws the shit into the soup-pot."

Vincent helped the rape victim to her feet, and like his comrade, took off his jacket and placed it around her. The other one, who hadn't been raped but came close spoke up.

"She say she Jeyne Pool," Tyrion translated. "Daughter of Lord Eddard's steward. Other girl, Betha Caswellher father Ser Roderick. Master of Arms. They come out here, curious to see you, when these men grab when no on looking and take here."

And we just happened to stumble upon them." Vincent thought bitterly.

"Hawthorne?" Vincent turned and could see the man who'd been raping the poor girl was none other the one who he hated most in the entire regiment. Dale Hinsen.

Hinsen was drunk, as were all his companions, and talking as if just waking up. "Hawthorne, you come here to sport with these gals too? Who'd a thought, you Quaker sissy?"

One thing that Vincent's parents and the church elders had taught him was that he should never take pleasure in the misfortune of others, even when it was earned. But somehow, he couldn't suppress the glee he felt when Schuder punched Hinsen in the stomach and spat tobacco juice in his face.

The Condemned

When he first woke up from his hangover, Jack Fredericks thought that his joining the Union Army and getting sent to this strange medieval world was all part of some whiskey fueled dream, and he was pack in that jail cell. But then he saw how dark the cell he was in, the five other men wearing blue uniforms as well as himself, and how they were all sitting on the floor and shackled to the wall of the cell by their wrists and ankles, and the chamber pot that stood at the very center of the room and smelled like it hadn't been emptied recently, he knew it was no dream.

His head hurt from the hangover; while the soldiers coming into that house had grabbed a hold of Jack hadn't struck him like they did Hinsen, who was now seated next to Fredericks and shackled like the rest them.

"God, does it smell in here," James Ferny, the only one of them not from the 35th but the 44th, grumbled.

"Probably just smelling yourself, you stupid Irishman," chortled Louis Ferron.

Colin Floyd spoke, "What do you think will happen? Do you think the rest just up and left us here?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," grumbled Hinsen. "Bastards, that's all them officers and sergeants are. We was just sporting with some sluts, and they lock us up here for it. Bastards, just bastards."

Now Fredericks recalled fully what they'd done the night before. After eating and drinking, the six of them had deciding to find some other amusement-and found those two girls near the empty houses.

What Fredericks recalled next made his blood run cold.

He had actually been one of the men holding down that one girl while Hinsen was on top of her, with his pants down-.

Why was he recalling this? Most of the things he'd done when drunk, like steal or get into barroom fights, he'd barely remember when sober. He couldn't even remember the look of the man he'd knifed in that last one, the one for which the judge later gave him the choice of prison or the army.

Then he remembered the short talk his father had given him, after he'd made that choice. Daniel Fredericks's voice never sounded so clear to him before: "Jack, your mother's praying to God that somehow, you'll come back from the war a better man. But not me. I've tried my best to raise you right but evidentially I failed. And God forgive me for saying this but there is only one hope I have for you now.

"I hope the Rebs kill you."

After hearing that Jack had laughed in his father's face and told him to expect to be disappointed yet again. But now it seemed the elder Fredericks would get his wish, even if it didn't come at the hands of the Confederates.

"What'll these people do us, you think?" Charlie Baxter, the youngest of the six here in this dungeon wondered out loud.

Jack could only imagine all too well. He'd read The Pit and the Pendulum and other stories about medieval torture. It was about the only type of thing he'd ever enjoyed reading as a child but now he wished he hadn't images of being drawn and quartered, boiled alive, or having his head cut off and stuck on a pike flooded through his head.

Quietly, in a voice so low that he could barely hear himself, Jack said, "Lord, I don't know if You are out there, and even if You are You have no reason to listen to a wretched wastrel like me but please. If You can show me a way out of this, I swear I will never touch another drop of spirituous liquor, I will never use profane language, and I will never go to whorehouses or steal or lie again. I will BE the kind of man my parents would want me to be, if only You show me the way. Please, Lord, oh please."

Almost as soon as he'd finished, the sounds of boots on the stone floor reached Federicks's ears. They got nearer, and light from torches filled the dungeon, until finally the prisoners saw Colonel Keane standing in front of the cells bars. The colonel was accompanied the dwarf translator Tyrion, Captain Peter Kindred of Company C, and several locals, some of them carrying torches.

One of the locals unlocked the barred door, and Keane walked in with the dwarf, the captain, and another man, a local dressed all in black.

Keane looked at all of them; the torchlight reflecting of his glasses somehow made his expression of contempt even more intimidating.

Finally he spoke. "I know all of you," he said, his tone similar to Jack's father's in their last conversation. "I knew you all were drunkards, petty thieves, shirkers, layabouts, even potential deserters or bounty jumpers. Just about every unit in the army has some such. But I never would have figured any of you for THIS.

"Have you even thought about the kind of position this puts us in? Have you?" Fredericks had seen the colonel angry before, sometimes even at him, but never in this frightening fury. He cringed, dreading what his commanding officer would say next.

"You know what they do to rapists here?" Keane cried. "Tyrion told me: they CASTRATE them. And' in case you haven't notice we aren't in America anymore; there's no Eighth Amendment here to protect you from cruel and unusual punishment."

Dale Hinson stood up, and glared defiantly at the colonel. "So you're just gonna let these heathens cut our manhood for sporting with some hookers?"

Keane belted Hinson across the face; he may have had only one arm but he knew how to punch with it. He kicked his left foot across Dale's shin, sending the shackled private down on his rear. "THEY WEREN'T WHORES!" the colonel roared so loud that his voice made Fredericks ears ring. "One of them, the older one, she's the daughter of Lord Stark's steward. And the younger one, the one you," and he spat at Hinson who was now cringing, "stuck your cock in, her father happens to master of arms at this castle. She's only twelve years old; right now her father's trying to comfort her. Even whores deserve better than what you six were planning to do; Hawthorne told me the lot of you were planning to kill and leave them while we left for the capitol today-which thanks to you, got delayed while I had to spend the day talking and sorting everything out."

Keane took a deep breath before continuing, "We don't have time for a trial; The King is most anxious to leave, and you six are plainly guilty. That girl's father wants to geld the lot of you himself-and I'm tempted to let him. However, Tyrion informed me about a way they might spare your sorry lives and get some use out of you."

Keane looked back and the dark haired man in black stepped forward. "This here is Benjen Stark," Keane said. "He's Lord Eddard's brother, and an officer in what's called the Night's Watch. They're like a military unit that guards an enormous wall far to the north of here, from what I could tell that wall is like the long one they have in China and its purpose is to keep out the savage folk who live beyond it. They commonly take criminals; if you agree to join them, your crime will be erased like it never happened."

"Join them?" Feeny said incredulously. "We can't even talk to them."

"Learn the language," Keane replied. "We'll all have to eventually; this way you'll be getting a baptism in total immersion. You can't take any rifles with you either; you'll have to fight with the kind of weapons they use here-swords, spears, axes or bows."

"And if you do this," Captain Kindred spoke up, "I'll be coming with you."

"Why?" Charlie said with snide curiosity. "So you can still lord it over us?"

"Not at all. I promised your sister," and Jack remember that Charlie and the captain were brothers-in-law, "when you joined the regiment that I'd keep that worthless ass of yours out of trouble. Evidently I failed; this will be my way of making it up to her."

"And if you join," Keane continued, "it's for life. You're not allowed to marry, and if you desert and get caught, they cut off your head. The choice is yours; I can't do anything more for you."

All six prisoners were silent for about a minute. Finally Feeny spoke up. "Better than losing me willy. I'm in."

"Me too," said Floyd.

"Same with me," put in Charlie.

"And me," added Ferron.

"And you two?" Keane looked at Fredericks and Hinsen.

"Sure, said Hinson, his voice surly.

Jack gave his own affirmation, and the dwarf spoke to the man Benjen, presumably translating their consent. And Fredericks strangely felt elated as he realized something.

God had answered his prayer.

End of Chapter Three

Whew, this chapter took such a long time to write. Mainly I wanted this to be the one that sets the 'ripple effect' that will really start to change the overall plotline of a Song of Ice and Fire.

About Castle Blackfyre, you can learn about it-or more specifically about its builder and sole lord, Daemon Blackfyre and the Blackfyre Rebellion in the World of Ice and Fire or simply on any IaF or GoT related website.

Now I know most readers are more familiar with GoT than the Lost Regiment series, so I thought I'd need to point out a few things. Jack Fredericks and most of his compadres except for Dale Hinson are OC's I created because I realized with Jon not at the Wall we would still need to see what's happening there. And for Fredericks, this is the beginning of a road to redemption from the kind of life he's lived before and he does become a different person. You could even say this is God's way of saving him-but the Almighty's full answer is 'Alright, but you're not getting off scot-free.'

Some readers might object here about Jon going down to King's Landing and near Robert. But remember, most of the time he'll be in the Yankees' company, and at Castle Blackfyre-which itself will be getting a new name. Whenever he comes into the capitol he'll be reporting directly to Eddard and Robert will hardly ever see him.

The next chapters I post won't be so long and hopefully won't take so long to post. I actually wanted to include some more scenes like Benjen and Eddard discussing Jon's situation and future but I wanted to get this chapter posted before the TV series ended. I don't want to give away to many spoilers, but in the upcoming chapters you will see Theon along with Robb and Maester Luwin look at the Ogunquit's steam engine, at the Trident Jon learns how to load and fire a rifle musket, Kathleen O'Rielly becomes acquainted with Sansa and Arya-and regretfully Cersei, the Lords Paramount all receive news of the stranger's arrival and of some great event at the capital, Keane and the other Yankees learn it's more than just culture and technology that make this new world different from the one they left behind-and the Citadel has proof that this is not the first time people from our world have been in Westeros.

Send in your reviews and tell me what you'd like to see. I'll also be happy to answer whatever questions you may have.

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