Chapter 8 - Deus Vult

Bran woke. He ran. Find Robb, he had to find Robb. He ran down the Great Keep's steps so quickly it almost felt like he was gliding, and was greeted by Winterfell's gray skies, darkened by the ever present clouds of soot billowing from the dozens of furnaces. Theon led thirty farmers through the morning archery exercises, but Robb wasn't among them, so Bran rammed his way through. Where was Robb? Where was he?! A line of men and women waited in line for a freshly dug latrine, but Robb wasn't among them. Bran shoved them aside, ignoring their offended cries. Women rushed beside him, hauling carts of coal along various worn paths. Bran outran them, he had to find Robb, he had to find him. Maybe he was with the smiths? The sound of hammer connecting with steel filled his ears, dozens of men tempering steel into swords at Donal Noyle's instruction, but Robb wasn't among them. Maybe he was planning the next step of northern mobilization with the salamanders. Bran ran to the Library Tower and found Tanya, Maester Luwin, and the dozen experts which had come from the Citadel. They were planning something big, but Robb wasn't with them, so Bran was back out the door. Children hurried about with carts of food, passing out soup to soldiers. Robb wasn't eating either. Finally, finally Bran remembered what he'd seen before being visited by the god, so small and insignificant in comparison. Robb was in the Great Hall, hosting his bannermen. Bran was where he needed to be in moments.

"The merchants complain of muddy roads," said Robb. "Especially with such heavy loads, we're losing a third of our coal in transport. Even if an expedition doesn't get stuck, the disrepair of our roads slows down travel considerably. They tell me the problem will only grow with increased use."

"Roads get wet," said Lord Karstark impatiently. "It rains. What of it?"

"In Valyria, they made roads of concrete that lasted for decades and made trade much easier," said Robb.

"As well as the transport of troops," said Lord Bolton, as close to a smile as he'd ever get. "A good idea, Lord Stark. However, concrete requires volcanic ash. We do not have it. Quarth does. We'll need to fin-

"Robb," said Bran. "I need to see the dagger. Please, it's importan-"

"Fine," said Robb, handing Bran the Valyrian steel dagger impatiently. "Just don't let Tanya melt it down. If she discovers anything, come to my quarters and let me know."

Bran left to find Tanya. She was still in the Library Tower, drawing up diagrams for the maesters.

ooOoo

"The layers will have to be much thicker as we increase the size of the furnace. If we're to make it six times as tall and six times as wide, it stands to reason that it'll be 216 times heavier. That means that the base should be 216 times thicker as well," I said. Maester Luwin had returned from the citadel with the sharpest minds this world had to offer. It was finally time to create some heavy machinery, and ensure salamander steel was superior to any haphazard backyard operations. "That doesn't seem feasible."

Maester Coleman recorded my words, responsible for the meeting minutes. I'd been pleasantly surprised that the role hadn't fallen to me. At least in Japan, minutes had typically been given to the youngest member of the project team. Maester Qyburn had insisted that I lead the meeting, and Maester Coleman, who had once objected to my very presence, had volunteered for the responsibility. A small gesture, but a meaningful one. I'd gone a lifetime where my hard work was only acknowledged with empty awards and more danger. For once a job well done didn't lead to more work, but what seemed from my perspective to be a fair reward for the serviced rendered.

"You're assuming it's a cylinder," said Maester Norrin. "It's hollow, and most large furnace's slant inward almost conically. The calculations won't be that simple."

"And our current furnace may not operate at its limits," said Maester Theobald. "We should test how thin we can make a smaller furnace, and use that to extrapolate. We've no idea what our current factor of safety is. It seems to me we're calculating a conservative estimate of a conservative estimate. We may be overestimating the required thickness by an order of magnitude. We need hard evidence, or we're engaging in little more than blind guesswork."

"I fear the heat will prove our undoing rather than the weight," said Maester Qyburn. "So much fuel in one place… The temperatures may double, they may triple… The very energy that makes the smelting of steels at greater quantities and qualities possible will also melt our furnace's own foundations if we're not careful. Does it not seem wise to be as conservative as possible? Should we pinch pennies when we stand at the precipice of history?"

"Perhaps," said Maester Luwin. "Perhaps not. There are any number of factors that could cause our prototype to fail. Some which we'll inevitably overlook. Would it not be better to save on the initial prototype, so we might have the resources to build a second?"

"No," said Maester Qyburn harshly. "The attachment of the water wheel and other infrastructure is a critical component, it is what allows this blast furnace to change the course of history. Anything less, and I'd be better off continuing my research instead."

I gave a contented sigh. Was there anything better than watching the efficient use of human resources? The right people in the right places. After a lifetime and a half, I'd at last earned a comfy but respectable job in the rear, and it was all I would ever ask for.

Well, a proper black roast would be nice as well. Coffea plants only grew in tropical environments, so it seemed unlikely that that particular wish would be coming true for a long while. Perhaps I could settle for a substitute. Tragically, the Empire's reserves of coffee beans had eventually dwindled to nothing, but there had been rumors of substitutes. Sweet potato, rye, chico-

"Tanya," said Bran. "I need to show you something."

It must have been related to magic. Ahh well, that wasn't too bad either. Training my meat shields had been my favorite part of my second life, even if it couldn't compare to a business meeting. In any case, it would be bad form to keep the young lord waiting, and I needed to establish my business etiquette and professionalism to the new team members. I asked Maester Coleman to read me my action items, recorded them on my chalk slate, thanked them each by name for their time, and returned to the inn I was staying at with Bran.

Once we'd gotten to my room, we set Summer to guard the door.

"Is the area secure?" I asked.

"Summer seems calm," he said. "If there were anyone he didn't recognize hiding outside the door he'd be making a fuss."

I wasn't so sure, but I couldn't see any feet under the door. Of course, any decent spy could just listen in through the walls that were far from the door. I chuckled at my own antics. I was probably just being paranoid. In the days when I'd been forced by my superiors to engage in illegal activities, I'd found myself paranoid as well. But the truth was, the gold cloaks weren't waiting outside the door. A spy wasn't waiting outside the door. My nervousness was merely human nature, natural irrationality caused by the fear of having a detrimental secret exposed. In this case, my magic. Thinking logically, I was far too unimportant to ever be spied on. Sure I was helping Robb Stark revolutionize the steel industry, and allowing him to mobilize in far greater numbers than previously possible, but in the end I was no more important than any ambitious maester. It would be pure megalomania to act as if I were doing anything important enough to attract the attention of any of the powerful lords. In the end, I was merely a peasant, below such dangerous games.

Bran showed me the Valyrian steel dagger that the miscast nerd had tried to use on me. A shame I'd had to kill him, the Salamander Corporation was always open to brilliant men like him. Or perhaps he'd not recreated Valyrian steel, and merely talked a highlord into allowing him to use a dagger worth a kingdom. In that case he was a fool, and it was a shame I'd had to kill him, because the Salamander Corporation was always open to silver-tongued men like him.

I took the blade, and ran my hands along it. Cold and hard, physically, it felt no different than any other metal, and yet it cut through steel like a Magic Blade. There had to be some kind of formula on it. I applied a basic spell.

"An Observation Formula," I said, a halo appearing over my head. "It allows you to sense mana signatures…" My weave of mana had shattered as soon as it touched the dagger. Strange, such a thing had never happened to me. I wasn't some greenhorn, I was the White Silver. I didn't make such mistakes. Rather than try another spell, I tried to force some mana into it. But my mana couldn't penetrate the blade, there was some kind of barrier on it that disrupted its flow. "The spell was torn apart as soon as it contacted the blade. It felt like some kind of Passive Shell or Active Barrier, only even stronger. I couldn't push any mana into it. Perhaps it was created to disrupt magic. I'd wager that this steel was made for the strategic purpose of countering mages. I've little doubt that this could destroy an optical formula or…"

Me. It could destroy someone like me, who survived only through the use of magic. Even a minor scratch from the magic dagger would cause me cardiac arrest, and I very much doubted I could recast the spell that had repurposed the Type-95 into a makeshift heart. My heart spell had all the signs of being a one-time miracle courtesy of old magic and the accursed Being X. The proliferation of Valyrian steel no longer interested me. I had little desire to be killed by some bent nail I accidentally stepped on or some such accident.

"...Mana in general," I said, smoothly changing course. "There are some things that are better left in the past, Bran. Some secrets are better left undiscovered."

"...Yeah," said Bran. He didn't look convinced in the least.

"I'd thought I might recognize the magical formulas but I don't," I said, perfectly honestly. "I'm no researcher, and this magic is beyond my expertise. Valyrian steel is a dead end."

Even though it served my own ends, I wasn't lying. Sure there was a prize, but it would be like if my old company had spent all their money trying to develop a self-driving car. It may be possible, but even success didn't necessarily mean cornering the market.

"In the case of Valyrian steel, there were so many unknowns and potential setbacks, even if we were to discover the method," I said. In both my first life, and my second, I'd been a master at managing up. How do you politely tell your boss they're making a mistake? I'd been able to convince Mister Yoichi and General Zettour away from bad decisions in my first and second life, so convincing a nine-year-old child would be all too easy. The key was to lay out a rational case, while maintaining proper respect for their station. "Can it be mass produced? Can it be ethically produced? How expensive is the process? What of the potential religious blowback of revealing that we were using magic? My lord, would your time not be better spent mastering the spells I've shown you, and learning how to explain it to others?"

"...Maybe," said Bran. "But… I'd like to make a weapon. I want to build things."

"Alright," I said, smiling. I'd developed a skill for coming up with ambitious military proposals on the fly in my second life. "There are several areas of weaponry unknown to us that would be far more useful than Valyrian steel in a war effort. You must be familiar with Targaryen wildfire. It burns as hot as dragon flame, and cannot be put out with water. With it, we could create underground stockpiles near the Wall that would burn any invading force alive."

"...Hmm…" said Bran, still skeptical. Honestly, he should have been. Wildfire was supposed to be extremely unstable, which would make transport difficult, and would likely lead to more damage to our own forces than the enemy.

"...You're probably right," said Bran. He took the dagger from me, a manic look in his eyes. "But Valyrian steel is my destiny. I know it."

I scoffed. "How could you possibly know something like that?"

"I was told it in a dream," Bran said, the very image of Adelheid von Schugel. "In order to save the world I must discover the secrets of Valyrian steel. Nothing else matters."

…Well shit…

…I'd been wondering when he would show up…

…And there he was…

Trying to convince Bran to investigate Valyrian steel? I wouldn't let him.

It appeared time to bring out the big gun. My biggest gun. The most powerful invention I could create in this world.

"I've heard of a type of powder the Yi Ti use to make grand displays of fire in the sky," I said dryly, as I shared the most deadly discovery in human history with the boy. "It's extremely stable in comparison to wildfire, and could be transported in barrels with relative safety. It's made from sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter, but I'm unsure of the exact ratios. If we were to recreate the recipe, we could use it to launch iron shells at high velocities, creating weapons of unparalleled destructive capability. Be reasonable. Consider things rationally. Whatever the threat to The North, it's ultimately a large invading force. Improving our metal will not change our position substantially. Yes, Valyrian steel will provide an advantage, but consider the advantages to the alternative powder I propose instead. It can be mass produced. It can be easily transported. If used to propel large projectiles, it has the potential to fell castles. Miniaturize it, give it to a soldier, and in less than a year they'll be more effective than Ser Arthur Dayne. A force of one hundred barely trained gunners could send a thousand armed knights to flight. Forget all this magic nonsense. You'll have to train ten years, and even then you'd be far better off with a gun. In a world without dragons, industry determines wars. You said you wanted to save Winterfell, this is how you do it."

"I'm sorry," said Bran, bowing his head. "You've shared treasures with us we've never imagined. You've improved our lives. You're as good as a person can be. Your words are likely true. But I've been chosen by a god. Uncovering the secrets of Valyrian steel is my destiny."

"Oh?" I asked calmly. "And how do you know this voice was god? What has he done to prove his credibility? All you know about this being is that he's powerful. How do you know he gives a damn about your best interests? You don't! What does he want? What does he fucking want? Why is he doing this?"

"He wants what's best," said Bran.

"And what does best mean?" I asked, too loudly. "What the fuck does best mean? Best for who?"

"I cannot know the will of God," said Bran. "Neither can you."

"If you refuse to think," I said, slashing the air with my hands. "If you refuse to act rationally, then you're nothing more than an animal. When he slaughters you, you'll deserve it."

"You don't know," said Bran, shaking. "This is my destiny! He's good! I can feel it!"

"And what is good?" I asked. "What is a good god? It's a system! A good god is a system that efficiently aligns self-interest with the good of society! Not some incompetent micromanager that has to browbeat their subordinates to their will! Such a being isn't worthy of respect, he's merely a sign of a failing organization!"

"The old magic is more powerful than anything you've taught me," screamed Bran. "I'm tired of studying. Magic shouldn't be about calculations! It shouldn't be so hard! Even if it can't be controlled, the old magic is better!"

He ran. I sighed. I'd lost my temper. I probably should have been gentler. Bran was the younger brother of the Lord of Winterfell. I couldn't kill him. Perhaps I could talk to Robb about it? I'd have to show that I was a mage of some expertise, prove it with some spells, and explain that Valyrian steel was dangerous and Bran ought not be experimenting with it. A perfectly rational explanation, that would circumvent whatever nefarious machinations Being X had planned. I'd talk to him tomorrow morning.

ooOoo

"And this letter is 'i'," said Old Nan, pointing at a large blackboard. "It makes an 'ih' soun-"

"I need to talk to you," said Bran. He felt the attention of about eighty children focus on him, but it mattered not. "What can you tell me about Valyrian steel? How did they make it?"

"Bran," said Old Nan sternly, "I'm bus-"

"I need to know," said Bran, stamping his foot. "Now, Nan!"

Old Nan looked at the children, and sighed. "Is this an order, my lord?"

"It is," said Bran.

"Very well," said Old Nan. "I'll tell you about Valyrian steel. Listen well summer children, as I won't be repeating myself. Valyrian steel all shares the same source. Valyria. At its apex, they were the greatest city in the known world, the center of civilization. What the books don't tell you is that when their dragons came to a city, their shadows larger than mountains, mothers slit the throats of their own children. Better dead than slaving in a Valyrian mine, than taken forcefully by a dozen Valyrian conquerors, than brought to a field with all your friends and family to be burned alive by dragonfire. Men fought them meaninglessly. Men died meaninglessly. There was no resisting Valyria. Their magic was of fire and blood. It allowed them to control dragons, to create Valyrian steel. But their real power, their real magic was cruelty. That is how they birthed dragons, forged a steel more valuable than kingdoms, and built the most powerful empire the world has ever seen. This steel you wish to know of, which you and our visitor wish to replicate, cannot even be reforged without a master-blacksmith of Qohar. Little is known of the ritual, but most speak of human sacrifice, and even the smiths of Qohar cannot create new Valyrian steel. Some think that this is because the original steel was forged in dragonfire, perhaps our new furnaces may make production possible once more. But Valyria created dragons, not the other way around. Their metal is the same. Valyrian steel is misery shaped into steel using fire and blood. Melting it frees the sword of its misery, and makes it lose its magic. The preserved cruelty from the sword's creation is what makes it an unparalleled tool of destruction. Even its shadow, its value, its prestige, has caused many a family to tear itself apart. You are to be a great lord someday, my sweet summer child, and you hear whispers of a great evil approaching. Our southern visitor offers great treasure, perhaps necessary for survival, I've little doubt that the secrets of Valyria will fall at her touch. And once the secret is uncovered, evil as it may be, there will be a temptation to use it. The truth, sweet summer child, is that everything has a cost. Perhaps Valyrian steel is necessary for our survival, and yet I, like the wives of old, fear the cost will still be too high."

Bran swallowed. "Normal steel won't kill the dead. I heard it from Uncle. What if Valyrian steel is the only way we can stop them?"

Old Nan smiled warmly. "When Aegon the Conqueror flew north- after burning Herenhall to cinders, and pillaging the Reach into compliance- Torrhen Stark raised an army, marched to meet him, and bent the knee. He sacrificed his pride to do what was best for his people. The Starks have always done right by the smallfolk. Ned will do right. As will Robb. As will you, Bran, even if it is difficult."

"I will," said Bran quietly. "I'll save everyone."

It was his destiny.

That night, Bran flew, free once more, in the body of a crow.

"Please Lord Stark," said Donal Noyal in the godswoods. "We need 100 suits of finely crafted plate armor. The king has tasked us with bringing back evidence. We cannot confront the army of the dead with anything but the finest armor."

"Do you know how long it takes to manufacture one suit of plate armor?" Robb asked. "It takes one skilled laborer, working from dawn to dusk, three months. If we simplify the design- focus on protecting vital areas, while standardizing the parts- I can create armor for ten times the men. We cannot defeat the white walkers through individual heroics. We cannot throw good men away in search of southern dreams. Confronting the Army of the Dead in the open field is madness, even if you had a thousand men as capable as Ser Arthur Dayne, covered head to toe in the finest Valyrian steel armor ever produced. We've a hundred foot Wall. It's our greatest strategic asset, and we'd be fools not to use it."

Donal Noyle snarled. "These aren't yer words, my lord. Remember yer father, what he taught yeh! The salamander bitch whispers madness!"

"Aye," said Robb. "Her madness has gotten me steel. Her madness has allowed me and my bannermen to train an army. Her madness might allow me to actually arm them. Mother returns north with no aid from my uncle. My aunt refuses to provide any more than she has already. The king is dead, and a Lannister sits the throne." Donal Noyle froze, but Robb continued as if it was unimportant. "Father put aside his honor, because Winter is Coming, and we cannot involve ourselves in a civil war. Our peace will last until Tywin Lannister asks us to join his silly southern war. Then Father and the girls will be lucky if they ever see the North again. Still, Father's sacrificed honor bought us the ability to claim neutrality without risking Tywin's wrath. We're not spoiled for allies Donal, you'd be wise to remember that before disrespecting our guest again."

"What are you saying?" Asked Donal.

"What I'm saying," said Robb. "Is that if The North is to survive, we must find a way to do so alone. Capturing an undead and bringing it south is an impossibility. We'd merely be giving our best men and our finest armor to the army of the dead."

"Aye," said Donal. "Aye… Yer right… We're on our own. Protecting southern men with our lives, men who call us liars and fools and traitors as we die for them… They'll have us sacrifice our way of living, so they can keep theirs…"

"They'd provide little help regardless," said Robb. "With our new steel, with our new production method, we can create a far greater army than the rest of the kingdoms combined."

Donal Noyle nodded, calmed at last. "We'll remember… The North will remember…"

Bran flew to the southern gate, where he saw the dwarf embracing a taller man who might have been his father.

"Half the town looks new," said the older man warily. "I saw the smoke from fifty miles out. The snow is darkened with ash. If half the words you've written are true…"

"Worse, I'm afraid," said the dwarf. "They all are. And the king is dead. I received a raven just before you came. Stannis declared Joffrey a bastard. Eddard declared Joffrey the true king."

"Joffrey is king," said the old man, sighing. "Gods save us. I'd have liked to confirm the rumors about this new steel myself, but it appears we're out of time. Get me a damned raven, I'll write to Tywin immediately."

"And the girl?" Asked Tyrion.

"Gods," said the older man. "I trust you Tyrion, but seven hells. Gambling the future of our house on a smallfolk-"

Tyrion pointed at the Library Tower. "The best maesters in the world are here. In the fucking icy shithole that is Winterfell. For her. All the largest families from the North sent their maesters here for this project, as did the Eyrie. They know about her. If we don't make a play for her, one of them will. Because they recognize what she is."

The older man sighed. "The way you talk of her, you'd think she was Aegon the Conqueror."

Tyrion snorted, and picked up a handful of black snow. "Ash." He pointed to the sky. "Ash. Do you know who conquered the Seven Kingdoms, Uncle? Who turned our great cities to ash? Who made the most powerful armies in Westeros shit themselves, who made our great kings bend the knee one by one? It wasn't Aegon the Conqueror. Nor Visenya, Rhaenys, or any other damned Targaryen. It was the Black Dread. Balerion. That is who I'm comparing her to, Uncle. She's a damn dragon."

Each word was like a punch to the gut, because Tyrion's words had the weight of absolute truth to them, and by simple analogy made Tanya's importance clear in a way that he and Robb had failed to recognize.

The older man nodded. "You've always had a way with words, nephew. Fine. You win. I'll make the arrangements."

He couldn't warn Robb and his memory would be spotty in the morning. He never remembered specifics after the gods allowed him to walk in the body of another. They'd been outmaneuvered, and in his current form, Bran was powerless to stop it.

Indeed the older man did send out a raven. Unfortunately for him, it was shot down almost immediately by a cloaked figure with a crossbow. Perhaps Robb was smarter than Tyrion afterall? The figure took the crow, picked out the letter, and went to the kitchens, twirling the dead crow by its talons carelessly.

"The Lannisters are making their move," said the cloaked figure, tossing the newly hired cook from King's Landing the lion's letter. "Tanya will deny them. They'll find such an answer unacceptable and attempt to kidnap her. Unless your master wants to leave Westeros to the wolves, well…" The figure shrugged, but Bran couldn't hear what he whispered next, his soul was already rushing back to his body.

Darkness, the soft warmth of his blanket. Had he just… What had he just seen? The Lannisters were plotting to kidnap Tanya! Worse, they didn't even seem to be the most worrying threat! Sure Bran was just a kid, but he understood some things. The cook's master, whoever they were, was planning to… Move against the wolf? But how? Father? No, Robb was more responsible than anyone for their newfound wealth. Anyone except Tanya. So how did she fit? A kidnapping attempt? How could that be useful? Think, think. It probably wouldn't even work. Tanya was a witch, more powerful than any knight. But. What if they knew? What if they knew the attempt would fail? Then… Then… And how did Robb fit into it? How could a failed kidnapping attempt ruin the Starks? An assassination sure, but what good would a kidnapping do other than…

No…

They wouldn't… They would… How better to ensure the destruction of a house than to set it on itself?

That was it! He had it!

His eyes snapped open, he had to warn Robb before- the Valyrian steel dagger laid on his table. And he could remember, he could remember the sensation of transferring his soul, of warging, but it was fleeing from memory quickly. He could do it if he tried, he just knew it!

But.

He had to warn Robb, already the insight, the connections he'd made to discover the southern conspiracy were pulling apart.

Find Robb. Protect him. Protect Tanya. An assassination, the coverup, it would ruin the Starks, but it wouldn't work if he just warned Robb about what was happening. The steel dagger flickered in the candlelight. Old magic was miraculous. It came to you once, and never again. The gods would only give him this opportunity once.

God would only give him this opportunity once.

God had said that he'd find his destiny in Valyrian steel. Tanya had said the dagger seemed like it had a soul of its own. Old Nan had said it was misery solidified. He would share what he had uncovered later. Anyone could uncover a plot. His love for his family was personal, but the fleeting knowledge of old magic was bigger. Far bigger. That must have been why god only gave him the ability to warg for a moment. He had to do it now, not a day from now, not a week from now under Robb and Tanya's careful supervision. Now. Bran would meet destiny.

"God Wills It," whispered Bran, somehow knowing the words to a spell he'd never known nor learned. He thrust his soul into the dagger. The magic shielding it parted, a singular occurrence granted by the grace of god, and he was inside…

An empty world of dark, devouring fire.

Alone.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Burning. He was burning. Burning and burning. Eternally burning.

Breaking and breaking. Smaller and smaller. Less and less.

Pain.

Darkness all around. Empty. Another world. Winterfell a mere memory. Alien, as if it had never existed. Merely a dream. All that existed was nothingness. And pain.

Pain.

Alone. Alone and in misery.

Pain.

Bran's soul withered. His thoughts were already fading.

He had to fight it. He was Bran Stark from Westeros. He hadn't been sacrificed. The agony wasn't his. He was on a mission from god. The agony wasn't his! It wasn't his? His?

Bran? Westeros?

Burning and burning.

Destiny! God! He'd gotten in here, he could get out. He just had to push his soul back into his body. Push his soul? His?

Burning and burning.

Stop, stop, please stop! Mother, help, Mother! Please, please, Father! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Make it stop, make it stop! God! Help, god! God?

… No… No…

No, no, no, no, no…

A demon… Something worse?

Burning and burning.

Bran screamed and screamed. But Bran had no mouth. Nobody heard. Nobody came. All that remained, all that would ever remain of Bran's soul, was pain. Bran's destiny was in Valyrian steel.

ooOoo

The spy hesitated, midway through penning a letter to her master. Her instructions were clear. Report on Winterfell. Gather intelligence on Tanya. She could almost hear her master's voice, whispering softly in her ear. Invasion. Harsh, unfortunate, but necessary. The Starks were right, Winter was Coming, but they didn't see the true problem. Westeros was weak, and had been for more than a hundred years. The Targaryens were nothing without their dragons, and had been rightfully removed, but their successors were insufficient. The Baratheons were stubborn and blind, the Lannisters heartless and heirless, the Starks slow and rigid, and the Tyrells soft and weak. None of them could save the Realm. They needed someone else, someone better, a perfect king from another land. The great houses needed to bleed, needed to weaken, so they could be disposed of and replaced with capable leaders. Good leaders.

And the Starks, because of Tanya, had become too powerful. She needed to be removed for Westeros to have the perfect king it needed. Someone who could rise above the petty squabbles, who could break the wheel, and truly unite the Realm. Killing a girl of ten-and-one was hardly unsavory, but it was for the good of the Seven Kingdoms. It was to save humanity itself.

The spy's hand quivered. Such pretty lies.

No, she knew her master's true words: tell me the threat, or I'll torture and kill you.

Fuck.

Fuck!

She'd always thought there was some honor to her missions, that she was doing something good. A lie. It was about survival.

If she truly cared about what was best for the Realm she would leave Tanya and Robb in Winterfell. Sure she would be tortured and killed, but she'd personally witnessed the good Tanya could do with a leader humble enough to give her free reign. The small folk had seen their status increased, been taught how to defend themselves, seen their income double, their children educated, and women were allowed to work without selling their bodies. And, the spy thought, it was just the beginning. Betray her master, allow Tanya and her Stark puppets to win, and the Realm would enter an age of never ending summer.

She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't die for what was right.

But maybe there was another option. He'd told her that the Lannisters were going to try to kidnap Tanya, he'd told her that he could forge Tywin Lannister's signature, and that he had his seal. He'd told her that Tanya's power in King's Landing would soon be taken from her, that she'd become a mortal enemy of the Lannisters, at least officially. Tyrion and Kevan didn't know that their raven had been intercepted. He'd also told her that Catelyn Stark would be returning soon, and that she was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven.

She'd have to remove Robb, but perhaps Tanya could be neutralized in another, subtler way. Afterall, everytime you made an enemy, you killed a friend. The timing would have to be precise, but with a forged note from Tywin Lannister, that could be arranged.

Martha crumpled her letter, and wrote a new one to her master.

-Robb Stark will have to be killed in his chambers at sunrise in twelve days time. Do it, or Westeros will be ruled by wolves. Send an assassin and see to it that they're short, blonde, and faceless.