Game of Thrones and all related characters are the property of George R.R. Martin, Bantom House Publishing, and HBO entertainment; the Lost Regiment and its characters belong to William R Forstchen and ROC publishing. No money is being made from their use in this work of fanfiction, so don't sue me. Go sue whoever keeps making those Adam Sandler movies instead.

Jon

"Now is the time for us to part ways, Jon."

Jon Snow was standing outside of Castle Blackfyre, standing with his father and Arya. He was now dressed in what the Yankees called a uniform with the dark blue jacket, light blue pants, and equipment; in his left hand was the blue cap with a slanted crown called a 'kepi.'

Sansa was not there; after Eddard had explained to him about Lady, Jon had gone to her. Unlike his other half siblings Jon had never been particularly close to Sansa; she was usually in the company of Lady Catelyn and his father's wife avoided him like a plague. Yet he wanted to offer her his condolences, nonetheless. Sansa simply said it should have been Ghost their father killed with the Yankee weapon, or Jon himself.

Never had Sansa looked so much like her mother.

"Remember Jon," Eddard continued, "you are to learn everything you can about the Yankees. Not simply how to use their weapons, their organizational ranks and their drills. You are to get to know them as individuals too. From what I've seen of Keane so far he seems a good and honorable man but that may not be so for all of them-remember what those six did to Ser Rodrik and Valon Poole's daughters." Jon nodded as he remembered the fury everyone in Winterfell had felt over the incident; only the fact that the rapists were caught by their own comrades had kept the situation between the people of Winterfell and the Yankees from getting worse. If I had gone to the Wall, those men would have been my Brothers in the Watch, he thought. Could he have accepted that, with the knowledge of what they'd done so fresh in his mind?

Then he's remembered those six had come from the ranks of those he was now joining. They're men like any others; doubtless they have good and bad both among them. Most of the handful he'd gotten to know so far, like Vincent Hawthorne, Bill Webster and the Sadler brothers seemed to fall into the former category. He hoped that would be true for most.

"You are in a good position to watch over their leaders as well." Jon understood that; Keane had been so pleased with the job he'd done looking after Mercury the one-armed man wanted him to continue doing so as well as performing tasks such as helping him get dressed, fetch his meals, and clean his smoking-pipe. He was becoming familiar with the other officers, such as the fussy and precise Captain Mina, Captain Houston who was barely older than Jon, and the hard drinking boisterous Major Pat O'Donald. "I want you to observe them closely, to understand what kind of men they are. With the favor Robert is bestowing on them it is important to see if they can be trusted or not."

Jon nodded. "I understand, Father."

"Good." Now Eddard's expression shifted to one Jon rarely saw behind the stern rectitude the Lord of Winterfell wore like armor. "Remember Jon, Keane will be coming to King's Landing to report to me and His Grace about the progress he and his men are making. I need you to come confirm what he says and show that he can be trusted." He drew Jon closer to him and whispered, "Do this, and when your service with them is done, I will tell you the name of your mother."

Next Jon knelt down beside Arya and embraced her. "Take care of yourself, little sister," he said to her. "And try not to poke Sansa too much." They both smiled at the secret joke over the Bravos-type stabbing sword Jon had given Arya shortly before they set on their journey, and she had called 'Needle.

"Private Snow!" a gruff voice cried out. Jon placed the kepi on his head and stood erect.

"That means I have to go." He gave his father a last embrace, then Arya. Turning on his heels with Ghost by his side, he went over to the column of bluecoats assembled out before the castle. Jon stood before the officer-a lieutenant who looked about twenty-one and gave his best salute. "Private Snow reporting, sir!"

The officer-Jon remembered his name was Jonah Harris- looked at Jon with an air of disdain that he had often seen on Theon Greyjoy. "You ready to fall into line, Lord Snow?"

Jon fought down the urge to tell Lt. Harris that he was no lord; he'd found out that talking back to the lieutenant only brought more of the smug condescension. "Sir."

"Very good," Lt. Harris called out to the rest of the men. "All right now, we've come to our new home-now, march!"

"You said it Jack," added another. "Our rations are close to being depleted; I just hope whatever food we get to replace it's better." Jon chuckled along with the rest; he could live on the hardtack, salt pork, and desiccated vegetables that made up most of his new comrades rations if he had to, but he sure wouldn't want to.

Lieutenant Harris stopped just outside the doorway. "Before any of you get too comfortable, we are to assemble in the courtyard within two hours. And Lord Snow-," Jon stiffened at the name but held his tongue, "the colonel wants to have you come to him before then-he must have been impressed by how well you took care of that horse of his."

"Miserable prick," Chris Sadler muttered after the officer marched off.

His brother Brian nodded. "Think's he's better than not just us but the other officers simply because he'd been to West Point. He only joined the regiment a few weeks after before we shipped off; he hadn't even seen the elephant yet. All our other officers, they had to earn their rank." Seeing the elephant, Jon learned on the journey from Winterfell, meant to have been in combat and struck him as a rather odd expression. West Point, from what he'd heard, was a place in their country that had trained men for war similar to how the Citadel had trained maesters.

And that was the biggest shock that Jon had learned. To his way of thinking, to be a proper warrior required training from a young age; almost since his seventh name-day he, along with his brothers and Theon Greyjoy had been training to use weapons such as swords, spears, bows and crossbows. But the Yankee weapons were not only much more powerful than the ones he was familiar with, but they also took less training as well. Before the war they had been fighting in had broken out most of the Yankees had been tradesmen of a sort or sons of farmers. Bill Webster was the son of a moneylender learning his father's trade while Vincent Hawthorne was an apprentice to a clockmaker, whatever that was. Only Sergeant Major Hans Schuder had been a soldier for most of his life. Even Keane, their leader had been what was called a professor, or teacher, of history at another place similar to but not quite like the Citadel.

He had been pondering these thoughts as he walked down the hallway to the Castle Blackfyre solar. He found Keane there, along with several of the officers waiting there; the one-armed man was sitting at a small table with several stacks of paper before him.

The dwarf Tyrion Lannister was standing beside Keane. "Ah, Jon," he said, smiling wildly. "Keane has this matter he wants to speak to you about; would you rather I interpret or try talking to him yourself?"

By now Jon was confident in his own command of the Yankee tongue. "I can speak for myself, Lannister," he said in English, then turned to Keane and saluted. "Sir.

Keane nodded as he returned the salute. "Thank you, Private." He leaned back in his chair. "Private Snow, you've been trained to fight by Winterfell's master of arms, since you were a boy, am I right?"

"You are correct sir."

"Good. Now I am embarrassed to say this, but most of us have little practical knowledge of fighting hand to hand. In the war we had been fighting our enemies used the same sort of weapons we do and fighting consisted of simply shooting our rifles and blasting cannons at each other. While our men have bayonets to attach to their rifles, they really aren't the best thing to use in a melee. The swords we officers carry are mainly badges of rank used to help direct our men under fire; when we have to fight, we use our revolvers. Once all six shots are used, however it is almost impossible to reload them under the stress of battle.

"Back home it didn't matter because our enemies were almost equally inept in those areas. Here, it may mean a lot more. Would you be willing to help us figure how best to use bayonets against men in armor with sword and shield and even teach the finer points of sword fighting to my officers?"

Jon nodded eagerly. "I would be very much willing to do that sir."

"Oh yes, I'm sure we will all benefit from Lord Snow's experience." Jon didn't see him, but he recognized Lt. Harris's condescending voice.

"You are out of line, Lieutenant." Keane shot back.

"I apologize, Colonel." If Jon read his tone right, the young officer sounded wholly insincere.

If Keane read it the same way, he didn't show it. "Very good." He looked back at Jon. "Tomorrow, I'm going into King's Landing, to discuss what we need with King Robert and your father. You'll have your own duties to perform, such as drill and working in the stables. However, I will start setting aside time next week to have you assist us both in helping your fellow enlisted men with their bayonet drill and instruction to the officer on how to use their swords as weapons. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now you are dismissed."

Jon saluted, then in an about face walked back to his company barracks. While he kept his face straight, he felt his heart race. He understood when he joined the Yankees that he was starting as a common soldier; even his position having to work the stables he understood as most of these Yankees, with a few exceptions had come from towns and knew very little about horses. Here was a chance to put his boyhood training into use and really be more than a lowly stable hand or groom.

He especially looked forward to giving Harris a good thumping at sword practice.

Caitlynn

The voyage from Winterfell to White Harbor, then Duskendale, was the most unusual boat ride Caitlynn Stark had ever taken.

It wasn't simply the steam engine that propelled the Ogunquidt, although that had taken some getting used to. The rumbling noise felt almost like a small earthquake, yet the sailors took it in stride, as if accustomed to it. After a two nights Caitlynn herself barely noticed it.

Most of the time she stayed confined to the small cabin Captain Cromwell had set aside for her after accepting the bag of coins they had found on thew knifeman who had come for Bran. The Yankee captain had asked no questions, seeming to accept the story that Bullfinch had supposedly told him about her and her companion being siblings who had come North with the Royal Party but had to remain behind due to a slight illness. With little else to do, she'd read the Seven-Pointed Star and worked on a stitchery picture of her family. The ship's crew largely ignored her; the only ones she could speak with were Bullfinch whose command of the common tongue kept improving with each day, and the guard Ser Roderick had tasked with watching her, Eager Snow.

No, what made the voyage unusual was that she felt so alone in a way she hadn't since she first came to Winterfell with no one she knew save for a handful of servants and Septa Moraine. Even the guard Eager Snow was largely unknown to her. She wished the Winterfell master of arms could have accompanied her but couldn't have him leave Betha in her demented state.

And like that time, she was accompanied by a bastard. At least he is not Ned's bastard, she thought grimly. The young Winterfell guard had to be in his mid-twenties at the very least; Eddard Stark was still a lad being fostered in the Vale when he had to have been conceived.

Now the ship had just arrived in Duskendale. As expected, the sight of a ship that could move without sails or oars drew an enormous crowd; Caitlynn had decided she and Eager Snow would not leave until dusk, when the crowd had dispersed.

It was nearly the Hour of the Wolf before they finally did so.

Cat and her guard departed the ship after the last of the crowd had dispersed. Cromwell did not bother to see her off but left the matter completely to young Bullfinch. "Good luck to you, Lady Stark," the officer said as he accompanied them to the nearest inn that still had a candle shining through a window.

"And good fortune to you," Caitlynn actually felt herself smile at him. The sailor had been polite and for the most part helpful on their voyage. And he had saved the life of her son. Whatever else, she hoped nothing but the best for him.

Andrew

"And there," said Maester Jaims, "is the skull of Balerion, the dragon of Aegon the Conqueror."

Andrew Keane's eye's widened at what looked like an enormous shortened black lizard skull lined on both sides with boney ridges and a mouth full of sharp teeth the shortest of which were as long as the colonel's legs.

"That thing looks like it could swallow a whole company in one gulp," said Seamus Collins. The dark-skinned Irish captain was exaggerating but not by much.

Keane had come here with a small group of men and officers to discuss what the regiment would need with King Robert-or as it turned out, with Lord Eddard and the King's advisers referred to as the 'Small Council.' Lord Stark, who during the journey south had struck Andrew as a quiet and solemn man now seemed downright gloomy throughout the whole discussion. And the other members unnerved him as well. The short lithe man Petyr Baelish whose title 'Master of Coin' told Andrew he was in charge of the treasury, reminded him of a horse trader before the war that had once tried to sell Andrew a gelding supposed to be 6 years old but a look in the mouth told him was twice that age. Renly, the King's brother and 'Master of Laws, had struck Andrew when they'd met on the way to King's Landing as a frivolous young man who rarely took anything seriously. What he'd saw in the meeting today did nothing to disabuse him of that notion.

Lord Varys the Master of Whisperers-spymaster-reminded Keane of Allen Pinkerton. Oh not in his appearance or manner. The bald man in silk robes bore little outward resemblance to Lincoln's head of intelligence. But when Andrew looked Varys in the eyes, he saw they were cold, calculating, and suspicious-the same look weedy little Scotsman had the handful of times Keane had met him. Tyrion had told Andrew Varys was a eunuch, which made the colonel's own privates want to shrivel up inside him.

The least discomfiting was the elderly Grand Maester Pycelle, a rather doddering old man who like Maesters Jaims and Luwin back at Winterfell wore a chain of many metals around his neck. Each link of a Maester's chain, Jaims had explained to the colonel, represented a different discipline that a maester had mastered. Judging by the ornate links of iron, steel, copper, brass, bronze, zinc, gold, silver and other alloys Pycelle must have been quite the scholar. Someday Andrew decided, he would have to visit this Citadel where the maesters learned their craft and talk with the people there; it would be like visiting the various old universities in Europe. Finally after much talk the colonel decided to take advantage of the late hour to postpone the rest of the meeting until morning so he and the other officers could satisfy their itch about the dragons Tyrion and Jaims had spoken of.

Jaims gestured to eighteen smaller skulls. "This here is the skull of Meraxes, the dragon of Aegon's sister-queen Rhaenys, killed alongside her mistress in her attempt to conquer Dorne. And this other is the skull of Vhagar, the dragon of Visenya, the Conqueror's other queen. She outlived her mistress, only to die less than a century later in the civil war called the 'Dance of the Dragons.'"

"I'm bloody glad they're extinct," murmured Pat. "I don't think I'd want to face the likes of 'em, even with a whole army of the best riflemen and the most powerful artillery behind me back."

Jaims continued pointing out each skull, giving the name of each dragon and its history. Most of the Yankees were entranced; this was so unlike anything in their own world. Andrew wished he could focus all his attention as well, but the leader in him kept his mind too focused on other concerns.

They had given Lords Stark and Baelish a list of most of everything they'd need, including large quantities of charcoal, sulfur, and quicksilver. They left out saltpeter; Chuck Ferguson whom Keane had promoted to Ordinance Sergeant had found an ample quantity in the long dormant dung heaps of the abandoned stables and a large half buried latrine trench that would help to make the first batch of gunpowder. The agreement that gave the regiment the old castle included a clause allowing the Yankees to harvest timber from the neighboring section of what was called the Kingswood, which would enable them to start making their own charcoal and stocks for muskets; already Captain Houston had been talking about making a sawmill that would help in preparing the wood. Not far from the castle was an abandoned grain mill that Ferguson and Mina both said could be refurbished to grind out gunpowder. Tomorrow he and his men would be meeting with the Smiths' Guild for the journeymen and apprentice smiths who would be coming back with them And Pycelle had informed Keane that a raven came bearing a message that the Ogunquidt had come to the harbor town called Duskendale, and in a day or two would arrive at Castle Blackfyre. Keane looked forward to his reunion with Cromwell with even less enthusiasm than he did dealing with the Small Council.

No. Not Castle Blackfyre. At the meeting with the Council, the colonel managed to get permission to have the castle's name changed; the frigate would land at Fort Lincoln.

Bran

It seemed as if he had been falling for years.

Fly, a voice whispered to him, but Bran did not know how to fly so it seemed all he could do was fall.

Maester Luwin made a little boy of clay, baked him till he was hard and brittle, dressed him in Bran's clothes and flung him off a roof. Bran remembered the way he shattered. "But I never fall," he said, falling.

The ground was so far below him that he could barely make it out through the grey mists that whirled around him, but he could feel how fast he was falling and knew what waited for him down there. Even in dreams you could not fall forever. He would wake up the instant before he hit the ground, he knew. You always woke up the instant before you hit the ground.

And if you don't? the voice asked.

The ground was closer now. Still far away, a thousand miles away, but closer than it had been. It was cold here in the darkness. There was no sun, no stars, only the ground below coming up to smash him, and the grey mist and the whispering voice. He wanted to cry.

Not Cry. Fly.

"I can't fly," Bran said. "I can't. I can't…"

How do you know? Have you ever tried?

The voice was high and thin. Bran looked around to see where it was coming from. A crow was spiraling down with him, just out of reach, following him as he fell. "Help me," he said.

I'm trying, said the crow. Say, got any corn?

Bran reached into his pocket as darkness spun around him as golden kernels slid between his fingers and fell with him.

The crow landed on his hand and began to eat.

"Are you really a crow?" Bran asked.

Are you really falling?

"It's just a dream."

Is it?

"I'll wake up when I hit the ground."

You'll die when you hit the ground.

Bran looked at the ground. As he fell closer, he could see a huge field of rolling green hills. Two groups of men, one dressed primarily in blue and the other in grey or light brown seemed to be fighting a battle of unlike any Bran had heard described. Instead of swords, spears or bows they all seemed to be armed with what looked like some odd pole-arm that they held like crossbows. A cloud of flame and smoke would appear with a loud roar and men on the other side would fall as if struck with a very hard blow-sometimes holes would appear in their heads and their brains would splatter over their comrades. There were great metal logs on wheels that roared even louder and knock down entire rows of men.

Bran's attention was drawn to a three of the men in blue. One was tall and slender, another other short and barrel chested, the third roughly the age of Robb or Jon and obviously badly wounded from three red stains on his blue jacket.

The two older men laid their wounded companion down against a tree. "Andrew," the hurt soldier moaned; despite the roar of strange weapons Bran could hear their words clearly. Their speech was not the common tongue, yet he understood them. "Andrew I-,"

The tall man held his hand. "Don't worry Johnny, I'm here. Just like I promised."

"Andrew, I feel-so-so cold-."

"I'll get you to Emil, he'll fix you up. Then we'll ship you home; you be with Ma for a while and then-."

"Andrew I-..." The youth's eyes glazed over as his voice trailed off.

"Johnny!" The tall man let go of his dead companion's hand and somehow as he still fell Bran could see the tears behind the strange wire frames he wore over his face.

His other companion lay a hand on the tall man's shoulder. "Your brother's dead son."

"Dammit Hans, I promised our mother I'd keep him safe. I pro-."

"Major Keane, sir!"

The tall man suddenly stood erect as another soldier in blue came up to him. The newcomer held his hand over his forehead in some form of salute with the tall man returned. "Major Keane, Col. Estes is down. We've got a bunch of rebs headed for our position on Culp's Hill. Lt. Col Hull's badly wounded; you're the senior officer here."

Now the tall man's grief was banished from his face, replaced with a cold grim fury. He gave his fallen brother a final look, then with the two others walked back to line of their comrades. Drawing a curved sword, the tall man shouted, "All right boys. Those Johnny Rebs like to brag that one of them can lick any ten of us. Are they right?"

"NO!" roared the men in blue surrounding him.

Holding his sword high, the tall man cried, "Then let's show them what men from Maine are made of!" With a loud cry of HURRAH! the men followed him into the fray.

The scene vanished, and now Bran saw Winterfell. Maester Luwin was looking at the sun through a bronze tube and writing notes on paper. He saw his brother Robb, tall and stronger than he remembered him, practicing swordplay in the yard with real steel in his hand. He saw Hodor, the slow-witted giant from the stables, carry an anvil to Mikkan's forge, hefting it onto his shoulder as easily as an ordinary man might heft a bale of hay. At the heart of the Godswood, the great white weirwood tree brooded over its reflection in the black pool. It lifted up it's eyes and stared in Bran's direction, as if it knew Bran was watching.

Bran next looked south. He recognized the capitol King's Landing although he had never seen it before. He could see his father in a room at the Red Keep, sitting at a table with a strange group of men, looking gloomy and cold. He saw his sister Sansa, in anther room on a bed sobbing, and in another his other sister Arya was holding what looked like a short thing sword, poking in the air.

A little to the east of King's Landing across a bay he saw a castle. In the courtyard were men dressed in blue like the ones from the battle Bran had previously seen. To his surprise Jon was with them, dressed in blue trousers and jacket like theirs' and holding one of their weapons with a long blade attached to the end. Bran's half-brother was standing before a propped-up suit of plate and seemed to be showing where to find the weak points. Standing next to the Lannister dwarf Tyrion was the man he had seen earlier, although now the left sleeve of his jacket had dangled at his side, with no arm inside.

A little more to the east, in Duskendale Bran saw a ship leave its harbor, with no sails on its mast and no oars but great columns of smoke belching from two erect chimneys on its deck. In Duskendale itself, Bran saw a small room in an inn, with his mother sitting in a small room, looking at a bloodstained knife on a table in front of her.

He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jadesea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where Dragons stirred beneath the sunrise.

Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall, shining like blue crystal, and a group of men clustered in a castle that looked even more rundown than the one he saw Jon and the bluecoats in practicing with swords under the visage of a grim and sour looking man. At a gate leading beyond the wall, he could see his uncle Benjen exit on a horse, his face paler and harder than all the times Bran had seen him at Winterfell, as if the memory of all warmth had fled from him. And he looked far past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked in ice and snow, past the frozen shore and blue rivers of ice, and dead plains where nothing lived or grew. North and north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world and beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned his cheeks.

Now you know the crow whispered in his ear. Now you know why you must live.

"Why?" Bran asked. "Why show me this?"

Because Winter Is Coming.

Bran looked at the crow, and the crow looked back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of terrible knowledge. Bran looked down. There was nothing but snow and cold and frozen death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled on their points. He was desperately afraid.

Can a man be brave if he's afraid?" he heard his own voice say.

That is the only time a man can be brave, his father Eddard Stark's voice answered back.

Now, Bran the crow urged. Choose. Fly or die.

Bran spread his arms and flew. Wings unseen drank up the wind and pulled him upward. The needles of ice receded below, the sky opened up above. "I'm flying!" he cried with real joy.

I've noticed.

Bran wanted to ask the crow more questions. What was his mother doing in Duskendale? How did that ship move without sails or oars? Who were those bluecoats with the strange weapons? Why was Jon among them instead of at the wall with Uncle Benjen?

Before he could ask, the crow opened it's beak and cawed at him, a shrill scream of fear. The grey mists shuddered and swirled around him and ripped away like a veil. He found himself suddenly sitting up in a bed, in a room he recognized at the castle sickroom, and instead of the crow Sir Rodrik was sitting beside him.

An unusual look of exuberant joy came over the master of arms' face. "You're awake!"

"Yes, I-." Before he could say any more, Bran felt himself held tightly in the old knight's embrace. Bran was puzzled; he'd seen Sir Rodrik most of the time stern and other times kindly but never affectionate.

"Oh, Beth," Sir Rodrik said. "My dear, sweet Beth, I thought you were gone, that you were mad."

Bran finally pulled away from Sir Rodrik. "But I'm-…." Suddenly Bran was aware how high his voice sounded. He looked down and saw the nightgown he wore the long hair on his shoulder. He suddenly became aware of a slight weight on his chest and something missing between his legs. Then Bran looked to his left and saw himself in the bed to the left, asleep, still and silent.

And everything went black again.

End of Chapter Eight

I thought I'd add a twist to Bran waking up. Don't worry, it's just his first experience with warging.

Lt. Harris is an original character I thought up of, who will have a major role in the upcoming chapters. Imagine Theon Greyjoy or Jamie Lannister as a nineteenth century American, and that's him.

In the next chapter, Catelyn and Eagar Snow arrive in King's Landing, the Ogunquidt arrives in Blackwater Bay, Bran learns what's been going on while he was unconscious, and while we catch up with the exiled Yankees at the wall when a familiar character arrives. And guess who happens to be among the metalworkers sent to Fort Lincoln?