Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait. School has just started and I've got a new prep, so updates may take a bit longer than in the past. I'll do my best to release a chapter every 2-3 weeks.
Chapter 7 - Destiny
Dozens of women gathered near the mountains of coal piled by Winterfell's eastern gate. They formed a line, waiting for their turn to interview with Tanya. She asked them their name, their capabilities, their preferences for work. Some were awarded silver moons, some were awarded the status of freemen.
Tyrion had sent a crow to his father about his accident. He'd been attacked by bandits on the King's Road. They'd been caught and hung, but he'd need a few weeks to recover in Winterfell. Cersei's foolishness may have actually been a blessing, he'd needed a reason to stay. The North launched the most ambitious sociological experiment of all time. Tyrion fully expected it to fail more spectacularly than the Greyjoy Rebellion. It relied too much on the skill of smallfolk. Tyrion harbored no illusions about inherent noble supremacy. If a smallfolk child were taken from their mother's teats, and raised like a scion of a great house, they'd be no better or worse than any trueborn son. However, these women hadn't been raised to be highlords, or more importantly blacksmiths or maesters. They'd been raised to be housewives. He found it doubtful that they'd become masters of converting coke to coal in a few years, let alone a few weeks. They'd contribute nothing in their new efforts. Meanwhile, he had serious doubts about the ability of the cafeteria or school to feed all the farmers and look after all the children. All the specialization and interdependence was too complex to work in the real world. In a week, the women would be back tending their households, and the young Lord of Winterfell would be very, very embarrassed.
Or it would succeed. That would be much worse for the young Lord Stark. Why would the smallfolk consent to noble rule, to noble taxes, if they had the armor, swords, and the martial training to tell their Lord's army to go fuck themselves? It would be wise to destroy this experiment in its infancy before it spread across Westeros like a plague.
The Blacksmith Mikken, Maester Coleman, and Tanya arranged the women into positions that fit their build, and explained each role, each task for which they were responsible. They were shockingly, brazenly, apocalyptically simple.
His father and the king were both aware of the North's foolish chase for coal-smelted steel. One crow, one word that the salamander swindler hadn't been a swindler, and the entire south would march on Winterfell. Tyrion twirled a gold dragon around his fingers. Unfortunately for the Lannister's legacy, there was only one problem. Tyrion had never been wise.
Fortunately, predictably, boringly, the women made mistakes, grew tired, gossiped instead of worked, and little was accomplished for the majority of the morning. Women near the beginning of the so-called construction line did much, women near the middle and end did nothing. Complaining, bickering, Mikken and Coleman already recreating roles. Such a mess. When the sun was at its height, children set out from Winterfell with steaming carts of soup and bread. About an hour later, a farmer barged into the operations angrily.
"Nera," shouted the peasant. "Nera! Get yer arse out here! I need you in the kitchen!"
"Stay put," Tanya told Nera calmly. "Orwen, you seem to have a problem. Please tell me what is bothering you."
"I ain't got no meal was promised me," said Orwen, spittle landing near Tanya's boots. "Shoulda' known yeh was full of lies! Fools, Winter is Coming, stealing from me is just stealing from yer damn selves! Can't no farmer labor on an empty belly. Yeh clevah' lords think steel is all that matters, we'll see what good it does yeh when yeh ain't got no grain and yer under five feet of ice!"
"Apologies," said Tanya, holding up her hands. "It was a mistake. Nothing more. You can get your food in the Great Hall, it's the building where you were summoned a few days ago. I'll talk to Martha about making sure this doesn't happen again."
"Yes well," said Orwen, shifting uncomfortably. "Good."
Ser Rodric Cassel's training of the young peasant men didn't fare well either. They spent the majority of the day learning how to grip a sword. At least when they weren't goofing off or picking fights with each other. They had all the discipline of a young child. When Ser Cassel had finally tired of the farce, and sparred the largest of them, the large man had yielded with tears in his eyes after the first strike. Jaime could have sent the lot of them running when he was eleven. Hardly a force worth fearing.
When finally the day was over, the sixty women had produced all of two pounds of coke. They retrieved their children from the Library Tower gloomy, sweaty, and exhausted.
"Don't make me go to that mean old lady again," one child said, tears in her eyes. She was hardly the only child having a tantrum.
The project team was assembled in the Great Hall for a debrief.
"Only two pounds of coke," said Mikken. "We need to rework some jobs to make the line run more smoothly. We need a taskmaster to make sure the women keep working."
"The children didn't travel to all the farms," said Martha grimly. "I need to start baking much earlier. We didn't have enough bread for everyone."
"The children were like animals," said Old Nan. "Teaching fifty children is not like teaching one or two. They're all trying to impress one another by how badly they can act, by who can disrespect me the most. I need new rules for the situation, and consequences for breaking them. Before they can learn their figures, they must learn how to act."
Ser Rodric Cassel shrugged. "I was probably too ambitious. Donal Noyle offered to help out, since I don't have much experience training novices."
"Well," said Acting Lord Robb Stark, shrugging. "It's a start."
The second day was only slightly better. Mikken's construction lines were a little more efficient, but only ten pounds of coke were produced. No farmers came to Winterfell complaining about food. The children still seemed sullen when leaving the Library Tower, but there were no tantrums. The men had started to spar with wooden swords, but still didn't show much promise.
"We're improving," said Robb. "That's what's important."
The third day spelled doom. Mikken had fixed the construction lines, and the women put forth a better effort. They still gossiped, but could do so while working. Each of the coke-can furnaces were put to use, and production wrapped in three hours. 200 pounds of coke were produced. The next day proved it was no fluke. Coke preparation wrapped in two hours, when all the coke-can furnaces were filled. The limiting factor in production was no longer the preparation of the coke, but the number of coke-can furnaces. The blacksmiths could create more, and at the end of the day they had orders from Robb Stark to do just that.
Ser Rodric Cassel's peasant soldiers were improving as well.
Kober and Elmar's wooden swords met in a thud. Kober took a step back, and swatted Elmar in the knee while he was off balance.
"Yeh close yer eyes when yeh attack," said Kober.
"...Thanks," said Elmar gruffly. His eyes widened, and he jerked his head at Acting Lord Robb Stark.
Both men, and the rest of the peasants, knelt before their liege. There was no fuss from the freemen this time.
"Winter is Coming," said the young acting lord. "And with it Mance Rayder, and an army of 100,000 wildlings. He plans an assault on the Wall the likes of which we haven't seen in a thousand years. But it's not Mance Rayder keeping me up at night. It's not Mance Rayder that's driven me from all our traditions, which has forced your women into foundries, and you from your fields. My uncle arrived a few days before the king. The white walkers have risen once again, 500 men from the Night's Watch agree. I don't know whether they will march on the Wall in one day, one year, or ten. But they will come, and with them an army of the undead and a never-ending winter. This is not some petty squabble over bending the knee to this southern lord or that one. This isn't even a fight for your land or your freedom. We face a war of extinction. If we are not prepared I will die. You will die. Your wives will die. Your fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters will die. Your children, your neighbors, everyone you've ever loved and everyone you've ever hated. We will all meet the same fate. Ser Rodric Cassel trains you to fight. I will train you to march. To fortify farms, to defend from a fortified position, and function as a unit. I make no false promises. Even together, even prepared, it may not be enough."
The peasants grumbled amongst themselves. Finally, Elmar said, "And what of the southern lords? Where are there men? Where is their sacrifice?"
"My father and mother rode south, to gather support… They just need…" Robb grimaced. "More evidence."
Kober scoffed. "Bah! They'll never listen."
"They've forgotten winter, in their soft southern summers," sneered Elmar.
"They've taken our lord's father," said Kober. "What do they give us in return?"
"Nothing," said Elmar. "They'll just take and take and take. They'll have us fight the white walkers alone, and steal our land from our corpses!"
"Enough," said Robb angrily. "We cannot afford such petty squabbles amongst ourselves."
The two peasants went silent. "My lord," they said, bowing. The men were silent through Robb's lesson. Tyrion was startled by the intensity of their attention, they hung onto their lord's every word. Perhaps 50 men. Yes they were loyal to Robb Stark, and held the king in contempt, but 50 men were too few to be of concern, even if they were well armed and well trained.
But…
These men weren't nobles, they were farmers. 50 could become 100 could become 1000 could become 10000. Not common foot soldiers, but men with the training and arms of knights.
Tyrion wasn't wise, but he did like living, and he had no real desire to see his family crushed by northern rebellion. That night he penned letters to both father and Jaime, detailing all that he'd seen, and pleading for them to ride north immediately.
Ahh, but now that he'd made up his mind, he realized his own naivete. He could tell Father to come north all he liked, Tywin Lannister would ignore his call on principle. And Jaime... Poor, brave, foolish Jaime. The girl, Arya Stark, might expose his sin at any moment. Jaime would attempt to kill the king and flee with his sister and children. He would never leave King's Landing with Cersei in such danger.
Tyrion didn't have the power to crush this little experiment or allow the Lannisters to truly join it. Nor did he see anyway to get Father or Jaime to act either. Who else, besides Jaime might Father listen to? Ahh, but it would have to be someone who would actually listen to Tyrion, that was the tricky part. Who in the seven hells would listen to such an ill-made, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust, and low cunning? Ahh, there was one. Not a man who would ever be written about in history books, but one who might help erase a particularly gruesome passage.
Tyrion let out a breath, and penned a letter to the one man who might save the Lannisters.
ooOoo
"Unless something has gone awry, Conwy should only be a few days ride away," said Catelyn. "We've no time to waste. We should ride to the Crossroads Inn to meet him. Doesn't that sound like fun, Robin?"
"Again, you try to steal my boy from me," Said Lysa, her words separated by manic, almost panicked breaths. She sat atop a weirwood throne, her boy of ten suckling on her right breast. Catelyn had long since numbed to the sight. "First you try to lure him to Winterfell with promises of friendship! Now you try to surround him with rapists and thieves! You plot to ruin me! Whispering such ridiculous tales to my son! Filling him with foolish thoughts! You wish to murder him and take our knights! It won't work! They love him! Every one of them would die for me!"
"I assure you, I would never do you harm," said Catelyn. "We're sisters Lysa."
Again, she reminded herself that not even a year had passed since Lysa's husband had been murdered. How would she fare if Ned had been poisoned? She prayed once more to The Father.
"I know we're sisters," said Lysa, gasping between words. "Nobody loves their family more than me. Have I not shown that? It was I who gave you steel! It was I who warned you of the Lannisters' treachery! It was I who offered to listen to your tales of white walkers, while Edmure threw you out. He was not wrong to do so Catelyn, but my love for you prevented me from doing the same! When have you ever shown me such courtesy!"
"I'm sorry," said Catelyn, bowing slightly. "I'm grateful for all you've done for me, Lysa. I'm lucky to have you as a sister. I merely thought that Robin might enjoy the ride. You must forgive me for spoiling him, he's such a cute boy, he reminds me of mine. Robb and Bran were the same, always seeking adventure, but as mothers we can't help but worry. You wouldn't believe how many times I've told Bran to stop climbing the walls, but he never listens. Still, no matter how much we try to protect you, you boys always seek danger don't you? I suppose that is the way of knights, isn't it? Making your poor mothers worry."
Robin laughed, seeming almost normal.
Lysa's smile deepened. "Yes, I've heard news of Bran's foolishness. I got a raven from Petyr."
Catelyn forced her palms open. They needed the Vale's men. Without them, all her children would be frozen in a neverending winter.
"You mustn't blame yourself," said Lysa. "It must run in the Stark blood. Afterall, who is that bastard your husband sired? What was his name again?"
"Jon," said Catelyn curtly.
Lysa smiled. "Yes. Jon Snow. I remember it now. Named after my husband. Eddard always saw him as a father."
"Yes," said Catelyn. "Lysa, the white walkers could attack at any moment. We cannot properly defend the Wall with the men we have. If Conwy does arrive with ten witnesses, will you truly commit to our effort? Or will there be another errand to run? This is no game, Lysa. My son needs me, I've already been away far longer than planned."
"I've heard that Eddard raised Jon Snow as one of his own," said Lysa. "He must have loved the woman. Is it true he never told you about her? Such secrets are poison to a marriage!"
"It was a war," said Catelyn dully. "Such things happen. Another war approaches. If the white walkers breach the Wall, no force in the world is capable of defeating them. If we're to stop them, it will be at the Wall. If we fail, Lysa, they'll kill everyone. Me, you, and Robin."
"No," said Lysa. "Such things don't happen! They aren't allowed to happen! Not to most girls! Father would have never allowed it! He'd have killed the bastard! But Father was always soft on you, gave you whatever you wanted, gave you whoever you wanted, but things aren't so easy in Winterfell! Are they, Catelyn?"
Her children needed Lysa's men. Catelyn took a breath.
"You're right," Catelyn whispered, each word painful. "I wanted to kill him. When Ned brought back that baby, with the eyes of a brown stranger, I prayed for him to die. And then he got pox, and I knew it was my fault. I'd lived a good life Lysa, Father gave me a good marriage, I knew I was lucky to have Ned for a husband. I was jealous of the babe's mother, a woman he didn't even know, and in my near perfect life, I'd wished for an innocent baby's death. And so I prayed for him to live, and I told the gods that if he lived I would love him, that I'd be a mother to him, that I'd beg my husband to call him a Stark and be done with it. And then he lived. And I… I hate him, Lysa… I can't even look at him… He knew it. I never let him feel welcome. That's why he took the Black.
"That is why the white walkers have awakened. Because I couldn't love a motherless child. It is my fault. But even so, even now that you know the truth, it changes nothing. The white walkers still come. Should they breach the Wall they will kill us all. I do not ask that you give your men to the Watch for me, Lysa. Do it for Robin. Do it for the love you have for your son, because it is the only thing that will keep him among the living."
"Ahh yes," said Lysa. "The great Catelyn Tully, you always know what is for the best. If only I followed your advice, then everything would be better! You'd presume to know what is best for my son! Do you even know what is best for yours? I hear that he's quite taken with the little peasant girl! I hear he follows her around wherever she goes! But of course, you already know that, don't you Catelyn? You and Petyr were always so close!"
Catelyn's smile froze. "What nonsense are you speaking of? Bran is nine!"
"Nine," said Lysa, plopping Robin on her lap. "And yet I hear he can't stop staring at her chest. She must be quite the woman, because while Bran is infatuated with her, it's Robb who she's truly ensnared. He's smitten, foolish, the way one only is with their first love! He does everything to win her affection, he's a tamed wolf! I hear that while Robb has the name of acting Lord of Winterfell, it's Tanya who truly rules the North."
"What?" Asked Catelyn. "Who told you this?"
"Maester Coleman," said Lysa, smiling. "And Petyr as well. I've many sources inside Winterfell."
Oh gods, Catelyn took a step back. Oh gods. If Lysa had received word from the maester she'd sent for the little training project Ned had set up for Robb, then all the most important northern lords would have as well. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Seven hells, it was supposed to be a damned training exercise, and her sons were making fools of themselves! They'd been too young to be left on their own!
"Where are you going?" Asked Lysa joyously. "I thought you were going to wait for Conwy with me?"
"Winterfell," said Catelyn. It had been foolish to leave her boys on their own for so long. This Tanya must have been a great beauty to bewitch them, but she'd slap some sense into her foolish children.
ooOoo
"Do you plan on standing there staring at me all day?" Asked Cersei idly, as she swirled her glass, letting the clear liquid drop down her goblet in tears. "Are you attracted to your queen?"
"It's the king," said Lancel stiffly, blushing, not even daring to look at her. Such a cute little lion. "He suffered a hunting accident."
The wine was far too sweet for her palette, burned her throat when she swallowed, and had always left her with such a headache that she half-suspected she'd been poisoned. Without Robert, she'd never drink another cup of Lannisport Honey, and could freely drink the Arbor Gold she'd loved since she was a girl of ten and two. She took another sip.
Robert's death would be dangerous. It had been necessary, of course, but it would likely mean war with the Starks and Baratheons. The time immediately after Robert's passing would be most dangerous. She would pronounce one king. Eddard Stark would pronounce another. Whose truth would the realm follow?
Father's presence should have helped. Instead, it hindered her. Eddard Stark had investigated her children, gathered evidence using that ugly wildling daughter of his. Littlefinger had grown distant, and with him the gold cloaks. It would be prudent to flee and regroup in Casterly Rock. But Father would ask questions.
"Where is Jaime?" Asked Cersei. As it happened he was outside of the keep, playing salamanderball with dirty peasants, the fool. And yet, because Cersei lacked the right equipment, she'd be forced to hide behind him. If she were a man, she could simply order Littlefinger to seize the Starks and be done with it. Instead she was forced to fuck and beg, and even then she was forced to pray to the whims of lesser men. Foolish men. The gods had always hated her.
In another world she would hold a sword to Littlefinger's throat, and force him to her will. But due to her sex, she'd likely have to offer to swallow his sword with her throat. Neither came to pass. After Robert had passed, Littlefinger ignored her summons, and she wasn't so witless as to go into his territory after he'd all but declared himself an enemy. Jaime did give her his company, but he'd do little good should the three thousand Gold Cloaks side with Lord Stark when he declared her son a bastard. As if having the blood of that fat oaf would make anybody a better king. All Cersei could do was pray to the cruel gods for mercy.
The next morning, Eddard Stark approached her throne, the Hand's pin gleaming on his chest. Littlefinger smirked behind him. Jaime's hand crept to the hilt of his sword, but it would do no good if the Hand controlled the city watch.
"This man," said Eddard, hauling Renly Baratheon to her. "Had designs to take the throne from the rightful heir."
Cersei held her breath. He wouldn't dare. Not with Father here. He couldn't. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He probably wouldn't. An accusation would plunge the realm into civil war. Please don't do it. Please gods, don't let him do it. Cersei shook. She would haunt him. She would curse him forever. Not even death would quell her wrath!
"Joffrey Baratheon," said Lord Eddard Stark, bending the knee. "First of his name, rightful king of Westeros."
Cersei let out a breath. For a moment, she refused to believe what her ears had heard.
He hadn't? How had he not seen? No, he knew, she could see it in his face. What manner of game was he playing? Cersei… She didn't understand. Why? Why? Why?
"You've done well, Lord Stark," said Father, walking in front of Cersei's throne. "I'll see to it that your service to the crown shall not be forgotten. And you, Lord Renly, will not be forgotten either. I'll see to that as well."
"Bring me his head, Hound," said Joffrey joyously.
Varys gasped. "Your grace, you have just come to your rule. Would it not be wise to make a show of an invest-"
"I am the king," said Joffrey, his voice high and furious.
"You are," said Father, not bothering to keep the contempt from his voice. "Renly will be executed tomorrow. After an investigation."
"But I want him dead now," said Joffrey. "I don't want to wait until tomorrow."
Father stared at Joffrey.
"I need the people to know what will happen if they oppose me," said Joffrey, pacing nervously. "The people must fear their king."
Father stared at Joffrey.
"He will be executed first thing in the morning," said Joffrey. "After an investigation has taken place."
"Good," said Father. "Take him to the dungeons."
Renly escaped that night.
ooOoo
"When was the last time you visited these parts?" Asked Littlefinger, spinning a gold dragon through his fingers, watching men haul cuts of meat from the salamander factory into guarded wagons which would be distributed to stalls throughout the city.
"Recently," said Varys. "I've birds in all areas of King's Landing, investigating things the crown would find interesting."
"And what do you find interesting, Lord Varys?" Asked Littlefinger. "What does a man without balls want?"
"Do you spend much time thinking about what I want?" Asked Varys. "Or is it simply a hobby? I hear Lord Redwyne likes his boys very young."
"A desire I'm sure you understand well, Lord Varys," said Littlefinger. "Or do the little birds flocking Arya Stark belong to another?"
Varys' blood ran cold. "Perhaps I've taken after you, then? Your obsession with the Fleabottom girl has always been strange, but I understand the importance of discretion."
"My obsession?" Littlefinger chuckled. "Perhaps I am misremembering, but it was not I who recommended the king to meet her."
"A treasure like her deserves to be admired," said Varys.
"Agreed," said Littlefinger, stroking his beard, smirking. "Her methods must be shared. As I'm sure you know, rather than butchering on site, the Salamander Corporation prepares their meat here, and delivers finished products to various locations. In three days time a package of steaks will be delivered to our new king, long may he reign, marked in a green crate. The normally reliable guards will, on this one occasion, be amenable to allowing a certain girl through if she can recall a strangely unique password: To The Invisible Hand."
"Thank you my friend," said Varys. "You have indeed been helpful."
Littlefinger bowed. "I live to serve." He walked to the factory, leaving Varys alone.
"Good to see you Petyr," said the guard, waving him through.
Varys frowned. With this information, and a false food taster, he could manipulate Arya Stark into poisoning Joffrey Baratheon and frame it on the Salamander Corporation. In one stroke he could turn the Starks and Lannisters against each other, while destroying the growing threat of the Salamander Corporation. It was well within his capabilities to eliminate all the largest obstacles in his plans but one. But Varys knew that Littlefinger served only Littlefinger.
Advancing Littlefinger's plot gave him pause, the millions that would die in the resulting civil war did not. Unsurprising. Varys' humanity had burnt away long ago, when the voice in the fire had first spoken to him and revealed his destiny of ice and fire.
Prophecy demanded he go forward with his plans. Professional experience demanded he refuse any plan put forward by Petyr Baelish, the single most dangerous man in all of Westeros. It was a decision which required careful deliberation, and so it was truly astonishing to find he'd made his decision long ago.
ooOoo
Bran's chalk floated in the air as the boy carefully modulated his mana output. It had taken him a few weeks to master a spell that he could have completed subconsciously with a computation orb. Still, it proved that with the right education, some of the more basic spells of my previous life could be taught to those born with mana in Westeros. I'd need to talk Nan into including maths in the current curriculum. If I could teach a small group of mages a few basic spells my personal safety would be secured. The force of mages wouldn't be able to hold land, but it would be able to escort me to safety. Of course, there were any number of obstacles that might make such a group an impossibility. It may be impossible to learn more advanced spells without the aid of a computation orb to act as initial training wheels. I had the mind of an educated adult, teaching complicated formulas to uneducated children might be impossible, or take so long as to make implementation infeasible. It might also be impossible for political reasons. I had no idea how much political backlash openly wielding magic might cause. I suppose you could call this a pet project. I'd approach this training with no expectation of success.
"Well done," I said. "You're ready for more advanced spells. But first, I've got to make sure they work. I've been… hesitant… to experiment. Do you remember the assassin? It wasn't his blade that hurt me. Whenever I use magic I risk opening an old wound. Our next lesson will take place in my quarters. I'll be demonstrating advanced spells that will be useful in combat. If I get hurt, bandage me, and put me to bed."
We met the next afternoon for the demonstration. The situation was not ideal. The room at the inn I was staying at was hardly secure, and a nine-year-old child didn't make the most reliable partner. However, I needed to test my magical capabilities in this new world, Bran knew my secret already, and I needed someone with me in case I reacted poorly to the magic.
"The first spell you'd be wise to master is the analgesic formula," I said. I prepared the old spell, careful to avoid using my computation orb. My mind cleared, the room brightened, and euphoria exploded within my chest. A wide smile spread across my face, what a glorious day! "It dulls pain! Increases reaction time! WHAT FUN!" I reached down under my heavy oak bed, and lifted it with one hand as if it were a sword. "And makes you STRONG! AHAHAHA! OH HOW I'VE MISSED THIS!"
My own shouting snapped me back to reality. I'd forgotten the formula's psychoactive elements. I sheepishly put down the bed, and released the spell. I gasped, fell to a knee, clutched my chest. The pain hidden by the analgesic flooded in at once. It felt like I'd been shot in the chest. Bad, bad, bad! Oh lord in heaven give me strength! The medical formula came to me at once, and I used the Elenium Type-95 to enhance the spell. The throbbing in my chest ceased quickly enough, as my computation orb had accepted the formula. I stood, and made no mention of my momentary weakness. "The spell also acts as an intracerebral narcotic."
Bran looked at me blankly. Right… Even a nine-year-old in my first world wouldn't have understood that, and this was a world without meth. But how to explain it? Like coffee on steroids. No, no, they didn't have steroids here. Or coffee… Barbaric heathens!
"It makes you go berserk, temporarily, in a way that can be… useful in a fight. It makes even a pacifist like me turn into a warhungry maniac."
Bran nodded. "That's good. My brother always tell me I think too much."
I described the spell in greater detail, and then showed the Active Barrier and Magic Blade spell. Partly because they would be useful for him in a fight, partly because I wanted to see if I could pull them off without my computation orb. I could, but…
It appeared the computation orb wasn't the only problem. The problem was me, my mana. When I cast mana intensive formulas, it reduced the circulation spell Being X had given me in place of a heart and caused my old wound to reopen. Casting spells felt like being stabbed in the heart. It took me two minutes to recover from the Active Barrier, and three to recover from the Magic Blade. I'd been able to stack spells together when I'd fought Tyrion's assassin, but it had nearly killed me. I'd have been defenseless against a second assailant. In the future, I could probably defeat any single combatant and recover fairly easily. With a combination of analgesic formula and Valyrian steel, I'd be able to fight my way out of most situations. However, my days of soloing enemy squadrons were over, and sustained combat was impossible. I was no longer fit for frontline service. Such a shame.
Should I share the information? Risky, risky- ahh risk analysis- how I've missed you my old friend. Bran already knew about my magic, but was it really wise to tell him my exact limits? Robb had proven himself an ideal boss, and given me little reason to distrust him. But leadership could change, organizational goals could change. We were allies, but we did not work for the same team. What if the threat of northern invasion were to disappear? Would he still be so reliable after our joint operations had matured, or would he dispose of me after I'd served my purpose? It seemed wisest to display strength while keeping my weaknesses hidden.
In any case, I'd made an agreement with Bran. I went over all the theory and practical information needed to cast the spells. It would likely be a few years before he managed either. "As you learn these spells Bran, I want you to consider their utility. With mastery, you will become the most powerful knight in all the realm. But how much good can one knight do? Think of why you wanted to become a mage in the first place. Not for glory, not for honor, but to save Winterfell from those who might do it harm. A single mage, no matter how powerful, is inconsequential to our coming war with Mance Rayder. But a battalion of highly maneuverable mages? Sometimes even a small force can change a battle, and sometimes that battle can decide the outcome of a war. Imagine if a portion of the Wall was overrun, you and your men could plug the leak until reinforcements arrive. Suppose a diversion is required to launch a large counter offensive, you could be the one to create it. You'll be tempted to learn these spells by feel. Don't. Rely on the formulas. You can teach a formula, you can't teach a feeling. And eventually, you will need to teach others Bran, if you want to save Winterfell. Mana is a rare skill, and distributed among the population somewhat randomly. You'll need to find others who share your gifts, and train them. It is the best way to utilize your unique talents and position. The world needs leaders who can cooperate with those above and below them, not singular heroes."
"That makes sense," said Bran. "I suppose."
"In general," I said. "When the mana stops, the spell stops. That is the case for not just these formulas, but all of which I'm familiar. However, the magic associated with Valyrian steel works differently. The blade itself supplies the mana for the spell, as if the metal itself has a soul. One mage does not win a war. If we can learn how to mass produce Valyrian steel, we can give all the brave soldiers of the Night's Watch a portion of our power. That is the greatest contribution we can make in our righteous war with the white walkers. Talk to your brother. If I can study the blade the assassin used, perhaps I can discover how to recreate their steel."
ooOoo
"We received another hundred suits of Robb's new munition armor," said Jon, between spoonfuls of watery soup. He wouldn't have known such information if he'd been a ranger, perhaps Sam had been right about being a steward. "A breast plate, a back plate, some tassets to protect the thighs, but it offers little protection to the arms or legs. And he only sent ten men. Why send us half finished work? I don't get it. What is he seeing that I'm not?"
"The tits of a certain blonde southerner," said Grenn, nodding to himself. "I hear our great young lord has been collared like a pup. Wish I could ride south and see them for myself. I'd like to get a look at the lass whose breathy whispers felled the Warden of the North."
"Ser Alliser is full of shite," said Pyp, his voice a bit too loud. "The lord's not like you or me. He doesn't have to impress a woman or please her to get inside her. If he wanted her, he'd just take her."
"Robb would never," said Jon, heat in his voice. "The rumors aren't true. The man my fa- The man Lord Eddard Stark made a deal with was an old soldier named Lother Brune. He had gray in his hair, he'd seen many battles, he knew what he was about. There must be some reason Robb isn't sending us full sets."
"Speed," said Sam. "Have you noticed that all the bits making up each part of the armor are the same? It may not function quite as well as an entire suit of armor, but it comes close enough, and you can build six sets of munitions armor for every full suit. It's revolutionary, in a few years they'll be all you see in a battlefield, you'll see."
"Perhaps," said Jon. "But we don't have the men to wear it. Last I heard, all of the recruitment efforts have failed. Robb must know something we don't."
"Hopefully," said Sam. "Conwy and Yoren's crews were able to convince King Robert to send us a few thousand men. If enough men take the Black they'll have to get rid of some vows, don't you think? As if we can't defend the Wall unless we're celibate. It's ridiculous."
"AYE!"
That drew a stirring round of applause from all the crows in the Common Room.
ooOoo
"I'll not make peace with Renly while he names himself king," said Stannis.
"But many have already declared for him," said Davos, keeping his voice level. "Mace Tyrell, Randyll Tarley-"
"Stannis does not need to beg this lord or that lord for help. The Lord of Light stands behind him," said the Red Woman.
"And how many ships has the Lord of Light got in his fleet?" Asked Davos before he could stop himself.
"He has no need for ships," said the Red Woman, a hint of mockery in her voice. It would be foolish to respond in anger.
"I'm sure he doesn't," said Davos angrily. "But we will if we're going to war."
He needed to calm himself. Save his grace from the madness the Red Woman was spouting. He'd known many smugglers who'd taken risks at odds with good sense, putting their faith in fate or the gods. They never lasted long.
"If not Renly, your grace, join forces with Eddard Stark," said Davos.
"He's a traitor," said Stannis. "He declared Joffrey king."
"Perhaps he did it out of ignorance." Davos said, keeping himself from shaking. "If the Lannisters are to be believed he assassinated the boy not a week after. We don't have the ships, gold, or men to take the Seven Kingdoms alone, and I've heard from old friends in Fleabottom that they've got a new method of smelting steel."
Surprisingly, there were no objections.
"I'd have found it unlikely," Davos admitted. "But rumor has it that the Starks have partnered with the Salamander Corporation. They took over the meat market of King's Landing, dropped prices twelve pennies, and still recorded profits. If anyone could do it, it would be them."
"The Salamander Corporation poisoned their king," said Stannis. "Traitors and murders and what's left of them belong to the Lannisters."
"I've heard…" Davos winced, growing desperate. He'd have to share a portion of the tale that was surely tall. "That the true commander of the salamander is in the north, with Robb Stark. A girl of ten and one, who turns everything she touches to gold."
"Impossible." Stannis snorted. "That's the same age as Shir-"
"Your grace," said the Red Woman, standing suddenly. Her beautiful eyes were wide, staring at a sight beyond, the gem between her large, perfect, swaying breasts sparkling in the candlelight. "The Lord has shown me a girl in the flames. A girl who will be queen. The pretenders fight for the throne, but she is the more important prize. Secure her, and you will become the Warrior of the Light. Nobody will be able to oppose you. Go north. Find your Lightbringer."
Fuck. Stannis believed her. Davos sunk into his chair. Could he go back to fighting a war without ships and gold?
ooOoo
Bran was in a dream again, he was covered in fur, with legs and arms that were not his own, smelling a thousand little things he'd never noticed. But this time, he remembered himself, realized he was in a dream. Bran fought to stay inside Summer, he wasn't ready to wake, he should have never been sent to bed in the first place. He hopped from his bed, got out of his room, ready to explore the night. But as he was making his way to the godswoods, he was distracted by the sound of voices. His older brother Robb was hosting several important lords. Bran wandered close, and Greywind barked. Bran answered the challenge without thought, until the door creaked open.
"Can't hear a damn thing with that beast making a ruckus," said Lord Kartstark.
Lord Hornwood didn't look up from his ale.
"Shall I silence it, my lord?" Asked Lord Bolton calmly, still seated.
"No," said Robb. "He belongs to my brother. Grey Wind, quiet!"
Grey Wind obeyed the command, so did Bran.
"There," said Robb. "That's settled. Now where were we?"
"The white walkers, my lord," said Lord Bolton. "And more unbelievably, your new steel operation and the commoner girl behind it. How you can provide us with swords, armor, and bolts, but we must provide you with trained men. Might I offer you some advice, my lord?"
"You may," said Robb.
"If what you say about the girl is true, she is the key to northern dominance. We must bind her to us," said Lord Bolton. "I've a bastard son. Marry her to him, and I'll legitimize them both. The Dreadfort has more coal and steel than anywhere in all the Seven Kingdoms besides the Iron Islands, and their reserves are underwater and across the sea. My house is a more sensible center of operation than Winterfell and if the girl has any more treasures hidden in that mind of hers, we will uncover them."
Bran growled.
"She is eleven," said Robb. "Perhaps when she is older, if that is her wish."
"Very well," said Lord Bolton. "Then kill her. Imprison the Imp. We hold a temporary advantage, if either of them leave it will be replicated elsewhere."
"They are guests in my house," said Robb, heat in his voice. "I will hear no more of this."
Lord Bolton bowed his head. "As you wish, my lord."
"Aye," said Lord Karstark, slamming down his ale. "Treachery unfit for the North. We're men; let's talk about war. We've enough grain in Karhold, I'll send more serfs to the mines. I get you more iron and coal, you get me swords and armor, and I'll make soldiers of them."
Lord Hornwood sipped his ale.
"You can give farmers armor and swords," said Lord Bolton. "It won't make them soldiers. Most will freeze or flee at first blood. Men are soft creatures Lord Stark, far harder to temper than steel. It takes years of training to gain competence with a sword or bow. You've trained yourself, you know this well."
"Aye," said Robb. "You're right to be concerned. But this is no request. It must be done. You must find a way to make a competent army of the farmers under your protection, or the white walkers will feast on our corpses. Winter is Coming."
"Winter is Coming," said Lord Bolton. "But that does not make the impossible possible. You have the steel. You do not have the armor, swords, and bolts. How will you make them? There are not enough blacksmiths in all the Seven Kingdoms for the task."
Lord Karstark nodded. Lord Hornwood took another drink from his cup.
"That is my burden," said Robb. "It is not your concern. You worry about training the men, I'll worry about arming them."
Lord Bolton tilted his head. "Do not mistake my caution for defiance, my lord. I am intoxicated by your dream, I seek only to make it a reality. An army of ten thousand knights, so loyal they'd face down an army of the dead, it would make the North greater than ever before. Nobody could match us."
Discussion continued, but soon turned more technical, focusing on the actual prices and quantities of things like coal, steel, and the various forms of iron. Quantities, merchants who could ship the goods, boring things like that.
Bran wished to leave the meeting, but the door was closed. If only he could fly, like the crow outside the window. If only he were the crow. If only…
A shift, a flash of mana, a rushing sensation, and he felt his arms pumping as he took to the sky. He was attracted to a light near the top of the window. As he approached, he heard the scratching of quill on parchment. He landed, and eyed the dwarf's letter. It contained all the steps in Robb and Tanya's project in painful detail. But it did contain something of interest.
All these changes have come at the girl's suggestion and oversight. Without her, these changes would have been impossible. She must be wed into our family. Likely to one of your sons. We must forge her a new identity, a new noble background for her, to make the match possible. As for Winterfell, we must determine whether they are friend or foe, and follow that path without shame or mercy. Do you think it likely that Joffrey's betrothal is consummated? Perhaps you might send some men north to aid Winterfell's defenses? I fear that it could be taken with a small force of one hundred experienced soldiers. The white walkers march on the wall, and the honorable Night's Watch needs men. If our force is offered to the Night's Watch, Robb Stark will accept them freely into Winterfell, to aid in his war with the only true enemy. Whatever we choose, we must act soon or we will see our line trampled to dust. I do not ask for you to believe my words. Ride north. Verify them yoursel
Tyrion froze. The flame on the candle froze. For a moment, the world was still and silent. Tyrion's neck turned strangely, as if controlled by unseen strings.
"My child," said Tyrion. "Do not forget your destiny. You are the one who walks in the skin of another. You are the one who sees the past and the future. You are the one who suffers. When your light fades, when all hope is lost, when your beliefs are truly tested, remember that greatness requires sacrifice. Place your faith in prophecy, magic, and the gods themselves. Become more than human, for no human can save the world from the coming winter. My child, your destiny is in Valyrian steel."