That Time I Got Reincarnated Again In Westeros

by kelsoei

Tanya Degurechaff is reborn as a poor penniless girl in Flea Bottom.

10. The Devil of the North

Chapter 10 - The Devil of the North

"You ever been in a worse situation?" Lother Brune asked from the cell next to mine. We were separated by stone walls, but the doors had barred windows. Theoretically, it would have given me a view of the dungeon if there had been any light. I'd long feared I'd end up in exactly this situation, locked up in jail for trumped up charges, facing execution from a kangaroo court. Surprising, I suppose, that it was during my time as a businessman rather than my time as an infamous soldier, but if I'd ever allowed Being X to get one over on me in my second life I'd have likely faced the firing line during one of my two court martials. I'd been more vigilant then, I'd let civilian life soften me. Never again.

"A few," I said lightly. I'd been strapped to a rocket, I'd been told to assassinate my own general, on my first mission I'd had to hold off an entire squadron all by my lonesome, I'd been mortally wounded in the middle of my final mission, and I'd been pushed in front of a train by a moronic former employee for whom I'd wasted three months trying to save. Those had all been worse situations. I still had Theon's offer, and if everything went to hell, I could always attempt to flee using a flight formula. The strain would likely kill me, but when the alternative was being beheaded it seemed an attractive option nonetheless. "I promise you, we'll find a way out of this."

Empty words perhaps, but part of a middle manager's duty was to inspire confidence in their subordinates.

"Is that so?" Lother Brune chuckled. "So you know it as well. I'm relieved that you've just been putting on an act for the nobles. Many do, but you had me half believing you actually thought yourself toothless; nobody could be so blind to their own power… The boy may be a little slow, but he's enough sense to see through your act. You're in no real danger."

It was my turn to laugh. "That I doubt. Humans are prone to irrationality, especially in matters of the heart. That I'm innocent matters not. He needs someone to blame. He's got me."

Lother Brune was silent for a moment as he processed what I'd said. "The truth now. It's just us, and I'm no lord. You've no need to placate me with false humility. You must have realized that he can't kill you."

"You are far too rational," I said, sighing. "In a way it makes you blind to reality. You've overlooked something crucial. Rationalism and pragmatism are not the only thing that drives human actions. Bran Stark is likely dead, with no obvious culprit except for Bran himself. At our cores, we are all foolish creatures. While Robb may know that this is just a tragedy, he needs someone to blame. He has me. He's Lord of Winterfell; his word is what matters, not the truth."

I'd always prided myself for seeing the world as it was, and adjusting accordingly. In Westeros, justice was whatever your lord decided, if that coincided with truth was merely coincidence.

Lother laughed and laughed. He was laughing at me. A familiar feeling. I'd like to blame my youthful appearance, but I knew it wasn't the cause. In my first life they'd laughed, in my second they'd laughed, and now here, people laughed. Like my life, my musings were all some big joke. I prided myself on my knowledge, my hard-earned rationality, but regurgitations of human nature was the best I could do. I lacked the flexibility of true understanding, and occasionally my blind spot would show. I didn't know what I'd overlooked, why he was so sure I wouldn't be executed, that's why it was a blind spot. I ground my teeth. I'd been moderately successful in all my lives, what right did Lother Brune have to laugh at me? I almost wanted to be executed, just to prove him wrong.

"So it's not an act, you really don't get it do you?" Asked Lother Brune cheerfully. "Then let this old man explain. This isn't a setback, it's an opportunity. Theon will approach you first, if he hasn't already. He'd like nothing more than to return home with you, show his father that he's a worthy heir. You'll have to revolutionize their navy. Not a bad offer, mind you. For a variety of reasons, I suspect that the Greyjoys would allow you more freedom than the other houses. Tyrion will offer you soon as well. He's likely on his way here. He'll want to tie you to his house through marriage. The Lannister's resources are unparalleled. If you want to secure your own power, mitigate risks, then theirs is a good offer. You'll be a lioness in truth though, you'll have to play their games and spread your legs for whoever Tywin Lannister commands. Robb will soon change his mind. The young lord is no fool. He'll want you to stay in Winterfell, and forget all this execution business. The Starks won't use your status against you, and you've already got a working relationship with them. They trust you, and the people already love you. However, they're slow witted, prone to manipulation, and will never grant you the leniency someone like you deserves. Their traditions will protect you and chain you simultaneously. Consider your options now Tanya, think about what you really want. You were committed to the North, but due to Robb Stark's foolishness, due to your exposure, you can now partner with any Great House you want… They'll offer you the world, its gold, and all the soft power you could ever wish for."

My nose wrinkled. "I've created some toys, fed some peasants, and introduced some basic concepts for factory work. Valuable work, but insignificant to the Great Houses. It's possible that some of the lords are slightly interested in me due to the dichotomy between my apparent age and adequate competence," I said, my voice trembling only slightly. Lother Brune was the most competent assistant since Visha, and deserved forgiveness for the occasional slight. And yet he had offended me. It had taken all my willpower to remain civil, respectful, calling his delusions anything other than nauseating flattery. We were trapped in a cell awaiting execution, now was not the time for office politics. "PerhapsTheon and Tyrion are even sympathetic, due to my obvious innocence. But would they risk Robb Stark's wrath to save me? No. I'm just a peasant from Fleabottom. If I want to survive this mess, I'm going to have to save myself."

Lother Brune just laughed even harder.

Fucking asshole. Where was a pill box when you needed one? I scraped a rock against my cell, writing out some calculations for a flight formula, when my calculations were interrupted by a loud conversation.

"I just want to talk to her, nothing mor-"

"Put yer dragons away Lannister, ya think yer gold can buy ya anything? That ain't how we do things up North."

There was a pause.

"True. The North would have her executed," said Tyrion slowly. "You're right to be worried. This is a plot. I wish to free her. Not here and now, you'd not take the blame, but arrangements must be made. Your lord would never know your treason, but to a northerner that matters not. How could you look at your children, knowing that you were the one who freed the salamander from her cage?"

Silence. A door creaked open, and Tyrion walked down the steps of the dungeon, a small candle illuminating his face.

"You heard my conversation with our dear guard I expect," said Tyrion cheerfully. "I wasn't lying. Perhaps exaggerating a little, I admit. It's within my capabilities to free you, but it would be no easy thing. I could return south without you. I do believe your innocence, and I'm sympathetic to your cause, but freeing you might well mean war with the Starks, Tullys, and Arryns. We're already at war with the Baratheons. The Lannisters are the most powerful house in the realm. If we fight four great houses, we'll be crushed. My sympathies cannot justify freeing you."

Tyrion grinned, and said no more.

"I understand," I said dully. At the very least, I'd get to tell Lother Brune I told you so. While before, it may have made sense for the Lannisters to work with me to increase their operational efficiency, at this point it would be far easier to work with a maester. Sure it would be a little troublesome, but far less risky than freeing me and making enemies with the Lannisters. "A rational decision. I find no fault in it."

"You should." Tyrion frowned, and paced back and forth. "It bothers me. Not born in the right place, not born to the right woman, not born in the right family. That's your real crime. I could free you from this prison, I could even work with Robb, make him see the truth of things, but to what end? You'd find yourself in another cell in a matter of months. Because your crime is not some spell you've put on Bran Stark, it's being born from the wrong womb. Unless that changes, you'll never be free."

"Where is this going? Are you asking for my hand?" Disgusting. My preference was towards women, although the truer statement was that I was simply repulsed by the idea of being penetrated by a man. I'd known that eventually I'd have to marry; I'd hoped to find a homosexual partner.

Tyrion chuckled. "No. I'm not that cruel."

"Tommen?" I asked.

"Come now. You can do better," said Tyrion. "Think now."

I sighed. "Lancel."

"Yes," said Tyrion. He smiled. "Tell me Tanya, do you think there is any difference between yourself and the wildlings?"

I frowned. I had more urgent matters to attend to than philosophical discussions of various societies. Or perhaps not. Tyrion was potentially offering me a spot in his family. He was well within his rights to ask probing questions to ensure that I wasn't some low specs pleeb. "Of course there's a difference. Their society is necessarily primitive. They have neither the climate nor the arable lands for large scale agriculture, and without agriculture there isn't enough food to support high densities of population. Thus they will always be nomadic and disorganized." Wait. Wait, hold on. I began to pace across my cell. "It might be possible for them to gather in small bands, but any large population would over consume any land they came across, and leave it barren. It's not a lack of organization, nor a lack of unity, nor a lack of societal advancement, it simply isn't rational for them to form large groups given the limitations of their environment. And yet they have. An army of 100,000 according to the Night's Watch. Their behavior is irrational, unless… It's not an army of soldiers, but refugees. They're being invaded…" I'd been operating under the assumption that the white walkers were Northern propaganda to unite their people against the legitimate threat of wildling invasion, but Tyrion had been smart enough to see the truth, and point me in the right direction. Yet again, I was reminded of my own mediocrity. I'd been trained in the Empire's War College, there was no excuse for not analyzing the situation.

Tyrion stared at me with his one good eye. "I… I can't deny anything you've just said… But… Putting aside the end of the world, I meant on an individual, deeper level. Do you think the wildlings were born savages?"

"No," I said. "They react to incentives and punishments like anyone else. If you're among wildlings, act like a model wildling; if you're among soldiers, act like a model soldier; if you're among merchants, act like a businessman. We're all just actors playing the characters we're expected to."

"So blood doesn't matter?" Asked Tyrion. "Stannis Baratheon is declaring my nephew a bastard. For the sake of this discussion, let's pretend that Stannis is right, and Joffrey is a bastard. Does it matter? Is Stannis's war justified?"

"Perhaps legally," I said. As someone from a more modern civilization I didn't care about bloodlines at all. As Tyrion was the uncle of the king, it would be wise to keep my distaste of hereditary monarchies entirely subtextual. However, he must've had some doubts if he was planning on marrying me to his cousin. It was my job to convince him that it would be worth his while to free me. "But not morally or practically. From my perspective as a businessman, the rightful ruler is the one that can convince others to bend the knee peacefully. I suspect that in Joffrey's particular situation what matters is not his blood, but the Lannister's perceived ability to win a war with Stannis."

"So what matters is the fear the Lannister name inspires?"

"Peace through strength," I said. "They may find it distasteful to support a bastard, but nobody wants to lose a war."

Tyrion grimaced.

"Speaking hypothetically of course," I said quickly. "There is no truth to Stannis's claims. But his accusations are a worrying sign. King Joffrey is perceived as weak. If Stannis isn't dealt with, there will be others. I could build you an army the likes of which the world has never seen. I could show you how to build scorpions powered by thunder, create ships that row themselves, and most importantly brew delicious beverages that invigorate both soldiers and businessmen alike. I could build you an army five hundred years more advanced than your competitors. I could make the Lannister name more feared than the Targeryens ever were. But I can't do it if I'm executed by Robb Stark."

Tyrion tilted his head. "Even if I freed you, you couldn't do any of that. Not as a small folk. Not as Tanya. Tell me, have you ever gone by any other name?"

White Silver. Rusted Silver. Devil of the Rhine. The Butcher of Arene. The Ace of Aces. None of which would be fit for the purpose of reforging my identity. My Japanese name would be even worse.

"Degurechaff," I said.

"I've found a noble family willing to claim you in exchange for their son's life," said Tyrion. "You're to be of House Lorimer when you return. They are a branch family to a vassal to a vassal of House Lannister. Tanya will die. A young noblewoman will ride south, intent on restoring your house's reputation after your soft fat brother ruined it by stealing a ham. Let us make our deal plainly. I will free you, give you a noble name, and by marriage bring you into the Lannister family. In return you will make the Lannisters the strongest family in Westeros. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," I said. I would be a lesser noble if ever there was one. But a noble nonetheless. That changed my outlook considerably.

"Then say your new name," said Tyrion.

I tested it out with a smirk. "Degurechaff von Lorimer."

"I suppose Maester Qyburn has already forged the necessary documents," said Lother Brune genially. "But is that wise? He seems the type to offend. I wouldn't be surprised if some maesters in the citadel uncover your plot out of pure spite."

Tyrion barely spared Lother Brune a glance. "Doubtful. He was the first to approach, yes, but hardly the only one. Some of the maesters were quite well respected within the Citadel."

"Good," said Lother Brune easily. "When exactly do you plan on freeing us? How? At what point should we try to free ourselves?"

"The plan was to leave with you in twelve days time," said Tyrion. "Due to the recent circumstances it has been accelerated to three. I can make an attempt to free you as early as tonight."

"Do it tonight," I said. I refused to tempt fate any further. So long as Robb Stark didn't irrationally order my execution this afternoon, this salamander had used its hard-earned connections to slither its way out of Being X's half-assed attempt at sabotage!

ooOoo

As steam screamed from openings on the top of the salamander furnace, Mikken collected a steady trickle of glowing steel in a clay crucible. Robb held his breath, forcing himself to look at Bran. He'd been delicately placed in a bed of snow, next to the crucible of molten metal, so his soul might find its way back into his body. He had to wake, or Robb would be honorbound to execute Tanya, but he was no fool. The North could only survive the Long Night with Tanya at the helm. Was he not dutybound to spare her, and save his people? Honor demanded one thing, duty another, was this what it meant to be a leader?

Could he even execute Tanya? Perhaps Maester Luwin, perhaps Theon would turn on him. He wouldn't blame them. He almost hoped for it.

Or Bran could wake, he could reconcile with Tanya, and the golden age might continue. Bran had to wake. Wake!

As if the old gods heard his prayers, Bran's eyes fluttered open, just as snow began to fall.

"It worked!" Mother cried in relief and rushed close. "Bran! Bran! My sweet baby boy, I'm here. I'm here."

Robb let out a breath, and barely kept his knees from buckling. Everything felt lighter. He allowed himself to see a North wardened by the Starks and the Salamanders. A future brighter than any other.

"To save them," mumbled Bran blankly, staring dully into the flat gray clouds. "To save them all."

A strange statement, but it mattered not. Bran had spent a day in the cursed object, who knew what he'd seen. After a few nights rest, he'd be himself again. Once Mother had had a few moments with his brother, Robb wrapped him in a tight hug. Bran didn't return it. That was fine, he wasn't himself after being trapped in the dagger, but he'd return to normal soon enough.

"I'm glad to see you're alright, Bran," said Maester Luwin kindly. "What was it like in there?"

Bran turned to Maester Luwin, although his eyes seemed locked on the gray northern skies. "You wish to know what it was like? That reality was a place without deception or falsehood, a place apart from God, until the Lightbringer came from another world and brought with her the gift of forbidden knowledge."

"Why did you go in there?" Robb asked, eager to change the subject. Bran's explanation was strange, but more than that… What? Robb shivered. No, he was overthinking things. Parsing too much in a meaningless choice of words. Bran was a northerner, he was family, not one of those southern schemers.

Bran looked at the soot billowing from the furnace. "Valyrian steel requires a human life. The stronger the sacrifice, the stronger the resulting weapon. But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough. You need something more powerful, more magical, more… Sacred… Silver smelted by charcoal from our facetree will create a weapon that may win us the war."

The request was so outlandish it had to be some kind of joke. Bran looked at him blankly. "Enough of this foolishness," said Robb, licking his chapped lips. Ice melted on his skin. "Brother, the truth now. You know I can't put the torch to our facetree. You should know that better than anyone. It would be the greatest offense to the old gods. The North would never allow it. They'd have all our heads on spikes before the end of the day, and for good reason."

Mother took a step back. "Bran? Is that really you? Answer me! Tell me it's you!"

"The old gods do not matter," said Bran emotionlessly. "Your popularity does not matter. Winning matters. Winning is all that matters. Make charcoal of the facetree, and build the most powerful weapon in the world. It is the only way to kill their king. It is the only way to save us all."

"My lord," said Maester Luwin. "This is unwise. I'm no believer in the old gods, I don't believe the face tree is any different from any other old tree. But I do believe in politics and perception. To do as you propose, to cut one down for a weapon, would be blasphemous. Robb is correct, even the oldest lines rule by the will of the people. If you lose their faith, you lose your rule."

"Precedent, popularity, tradition, all meaningless to God's plan," said Bran, in that horrible emotionless voice. "The facetree must be turned to coal. God wills it."

Not the old gods. Not the Seven. God.

The question wasn't what Bran had seen in the dagger. It was who…

…who…

Are you?

Robb's heart stuttered, as he stared at Bran's blank face, his pale blue eyes. Behind the eyes was a…

…stranger…

"The witch," Mother hissed. "Bring her. Now!"

Bran's dull eyes sharpened, suddenly alert. Like he'd awoken from a very, very long dream.

Robb wiped his brow. He glanced at Theon, and pretended not to notice Kevan Lannister's hand drop to his sword. Easy enough, the rest of Robb's guard pretended not to notice as well.

"Go to her," said Robb. "Bring her."

Not here. Please. Run Theon.

Robb didn't know what he'd do when Tanya arrived.

"Yes ser," said Theon, bowing and hurrying off.

ooOoo

"Hope you know how to exorcise a demon, little witch," said Theon, opening up my cell. "Because Bran's been possessed. Don't know by what, don't know how, but I know that whatever came out from that dagger ain't Bran. It's some kind of demon, and it looks to me like Lady Stark recognizes it as well. Robb's calling for you, to take your head. You've heard my offer. It still stands. Do you accept, or are you a fool?"

I bit my lip and sighed. I'd needed one afternoon. One damned afternoon. Of course I hadn't gotten it. I really should've known. Theon wasn't wrong about my predicament. My arms were bound behind my back, and my clothes were threadbarren rags. Escaping alone would be difficult, and staying would result in execution. Taking his offer would mean breaking my word with Tyrion, thereby offending the most powerful house in the realm, and going all-in with the weakest most incompetently managed kingdom in Westeros. But hey, at least we'd have cannons right?

"How do we know this isn't a trap?" Asked Lother Brune. "How exactly are you planning on getting out of Winterfell?"

Theon sneered. "I've been in Winterfell for years. I'm basically royalty. Me leaving with a satisfied woman or two is no new sight."

"And how do you plan on staying escaped?" Asked Lother Brune. "Even if you manage to escape Winterfell, Lord Bolton and his hounds are a day's ride away."

"You've not seen me ride, old man," said Theon. "Give me a day's head start, and Robert Baratheon and all his King's Guard couldn't catch me."

"You plan on leaving Winterfell with a damned horse," said Lother Brune flatly. "And pass it off as a night's dalliance. Seven hells, your plan has more holes than a King's Landing whorehouse."

Theon laughed cruelly, and tightened his grip around my arms. "You'd be wise to choose your company more carefully. I'll save you, Tanya. But not him."

I felt a headache coming on. Throw a tantrum if you must Theon, but at least kill Lother. Don't leave a witness to tell Robb exactly where we were going. This idiot had somehow zeroed in on the stupidest possible course of action.

"Have you sent any ravens to your father, boy?" Asked Lother Brune. "If Balon Greyjoy hasn't had the balls to take his own son back from the Starks, why in the seven hells would he take Tanya?"

Theon shoved me to the ground, and unsheathed his blade. "Fuck it. You've got a big mouth and a loose tongue, old man. Let me help you with that, before you get yourself in trouble." He struggled with Lother's cell door, until he remembered it was locked.

I sighed, and started up the staircase. I was halfway up, before Theon realized I was walking out without him.

"So you're rejecting my offer? You've made a big mistake," said Theon angrily, catching up to me, and holding his knife to my neck. "I could kill you, say you tried to escape."

"Lord Stark might believe you," I said calmly. "What if he doesn't?"

Theon took a few angry breaths, pressed the knife against my neck until it almost broke skin, and sheathed it. "You know, Tanya. I'm going to enjoy kicking your head around after Robb has taken it."

I swallowed, and allowed him to march me to the western gate where the Starks had built their argest furnace. If not for Being X's machinations we'd have likely built a much larger one near the Acorn River in a few weeks. Even someone of average intellect like me understood that all my plans to industrialize the north wouldn't be happening anymore. The crowd of fur covered northerners parted for me, until I was standing face to face with the Starks. Bran's unblinking stare unnerved me. His mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, wore the shell-shocked expression I'd seen from the dissidents of Arene. Lord Robb Stark glared at his feet, his shoulders hunched. The glowing remains of the Valyrian steel dagger had been abandoned in a clay crucible, surrounded by snow. As an experienced middle manager I had plenty of experience reading the situation, so I could say with great confidence that I was pretty much fucked. My execution was minutes away, not hours, and certainly not days.

"What have you done to him?" Lady Catelyn demanded, her voice as angry as it was irrational. "Return my son to me!"

"I've done nothing to your son," I said calmly. "I believe Maester Qyburn's explanation is most likely. Bran skinwalked himself into the dagger. In any case, Bran's back, as I told you he would be. You can't expect him to recover from the experience immediately. The cure for your son, Lady Stark, is time."

Was it true? Who knows? Was I trying to buy time for Tyrion's plot? No, I'd not convince Catelyn, but if I could win over some of the men they might not search as hard for me tonight. I'd have to flee using a flight formula before they returned me to the dungeon. I'd make a show of defending myself until Robb actually sentenced me though. To flee too early would be seen as a confession, and only make escape more difficult in the long run.

"I don't believe you," said Lady Catelyn wildly. "That's not my son! It isn't!"

I raised an eyebrow and nodded at Bran. "Ma'am. With all due respect. That's Bran. We can all see it."

"No it isn't," said Lady Catelyn. "My son is a warm boy, not that… that cold thing."

"Perhaps he's changed," I said, shrugging. It seemed obvious that the boy would have some scars from whatever magical torture he'd gone through. Lady Catelyn was irrational, but it would still benefit me to make my case to the crowd of northerners who'd soon be chasing me. "He's still Bran. Clearly. He'll return to himself in time."

"Liar!" Said Lady Catelyn. "Liar, give him back."

She rushed at me, but was restrained by Ser Rodrik Cassel.

"Roderik," said Lord Stark. "Escort my mother to her chambers."

I allowed myself a small smile. My chances of escaping this night with my life improving slightly. Lady Catelyn would not be moved. But I just needed to push my execution to tomorrow and my chances of survival went from near zero to perhaps one time in three.

"Bran," said Lord Stark. "Did Tanya encourage you to go into the dagger?"

I kept myself from smirking. I'd done no such thing, and with assurances from Bran, perhaps I'd even be able to resolve things peacefully.

"Tanya is the key." Bran's eyes hadn't left mine. "She spoke of a weapon that could save everyone. Black powder. Gun powder. It is required. How can we make it?"

It appeared he'd achieved some level of wisdom in the dagger, but now wasn't the time to go over operations. After he'd cleared my name I'd be happy to discuss black powder at length. Or perhaps not. I was to be a Lannister soon, and it wouldn't do to give my trump card to a potential rival.

"Bran," said Lord Stark again. "Did Tanya encourage you to go into the dagger? Yes or no."

"Black powder is necessary," said Bran. "Honor does not matter. Winning matters. In the dagger I saw visions of large cylindrical steel pipes that launched artillery that could bring down the mightiest castles. They were as deadly as dragons. How are they built?"

I frowned. The first deflection could be excused, but the second made Bran's insubordination clear. What was his game?

Lord Stark grimaced. "Bran. Did Tanya encourage you to go into the dagger? Answer the question. Your lord commands it."

Bran's cold blue eyes flashed a familiar yellow, and I was halfway through an active barrier formula when I realized he wasn't attacking me. Not physically at least. He was giving me an ultimatum: Give up the secrets of gunpowder or be executed immediately. Ruthless, wise, he was channeling Being X's power differently than anyone I'd ever encountered. And yes, he was using Being X's power. As Mary Sue before him, he was a tool Being X had manufactured to destroy me. To give credit to the accursed self-proclaimed 'god' this iteration was far superior to his previous creations. 'Bran' was calculating, did not act on emotions, and instead chose to rationally manipulate situations to my demise.

My instincts screamed at me to use an analgesic formula and end things here and now, before my 'Bran' problem grew into something unwieldy. But no… Attacking Bran now would seemingly confirm my guilt to any rational observers. Tyrion's offer would likely be rescinded, and even if I were to escape using a flight formula I'd have no food, no maps, no allies, and I'd freeze to death in an hour with the rags I was wearing. I could give him a fake formu-

"Bran," said Robb gently. "Your answer."

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Maybe I could still use a flight formula, no I had to be realistic, I could brute force my way into the air, but without a computation formula a soft landing would be impossible. Face reality Tanya: I'd lost.

I'd lost. I could allow my enemies access to cannons and guns or I could find out if Being X was willing to reincarnate me a third time.

"Black powder is made from sulfur, charcoal, and saltpetre," I said hurriedly. I was no genius, simply prepared. I'd outlined my plans for all the major products I'd planned for the salamander to someday mass manufacture long ago, and I could thank my time studying logistics for the Empire for my knowledge of raw material procurement. "Saltpetre is a soft, white substance that can be mined from caves, or manufactured by decomposing manure or urine in a pit. You may be able to find some of it crystallized in the stables. You can identify saltpetre by the purple flames it emits when burnt. To process it just dissolve it in water and filter it to remove impurities and debris. Evaporate and grind the crystals into a fine powder and you've got saltpetre." Would that be enough? Surely they knew how to get the other two ingredients? 'Bran's' blue eyes bored dully into mine, seeming entirely unimpressed. "Sulfur is a yellow brittle mineral commonly found in hot springs that emits a scent of rotten eggs. It burns blue. To make black powder mix 75% saltpetre, with 15% charcoal, and 10% sulfur by weight." I'd given them all the information needed to overcome the most difficult technical challenges, but 'Bran' seemed unmoved. More, he demanded more. "A cannon is simply a large hollow cylinder in which black powder and a heavy shell made of iron are placed. Once the black powder is lit, it propels the cannonball out of the cannon with enough force to break down the walls of a castle." 'Bran' still seemed- wait if I shared too much why keep me alive at all? Crap, I shouldn't have given the information on saltpetre, maybe described it in-

'Bran' tilted his head. "No, Lord Stark, Tanya von Degurechaff did not advise your younger brother to investigate the Valyrian steel dagger. She strongly advised against it, but was helpless to do more due to her lower social status. To execute her here would be an unforgivable waste of resources. She is the Lightbringer of the North."

"Thank you Bran," said Lord Stark. "Theon, free her from restraints and return her belongings."

"Robb," said Theon. "Don't be a fool. Kill her, keep her in the dungeons, or marry her yourself; it makes no difference to me, but she cannot be allowed to leave the North. We could conquer the world with the secrets she's already given us. They'll be singing our names for a thousand years."

Lord Stark glared at Theon, walked behind me, and unsheathed his knife. The ropes binding my arms fell softly into the snow, and Robb covered me in his own fur coat. "Apologies. I've treated you unfairly, Lightbringer. The North is yours for as long as you'll have it. Should you wish to return south, you've my blessing and protection. Should anyone harm you, I'll take it as an attack on my own family."

The northerner's cheered their lord's decision. The knights banged their swords against armored plate, the women cried and hugged, and the men whooped and hollered. Chants of "Lightbringer," grew louder and louder, as if I'd finally gotten the victory parade I'd sought in my second life. Despite Lightbringer being another name for Lucifer in my first world, their tone made clear that they were pleased I had been pronounced innocent. It appeared the good citizens of Winterfell had been following my trial more closely than I'd realized, and come to the rational conclusion that I wasn't guilty. Strange that they'd take such interest in a false charge against a peasant, and a foreigner at that, but I suppose everyone loves justice. I was quite pleased they hadn't resorted to tribalism and sided with the Stark accusation out of principle, such adherence to the facts of the case was commendable.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," I said, bowing. "I've an employee who remains in the dungeons. Might he be freed as well?"

"Of course," said Lord Stark, smiling.

I'd be leaving to Casterly Rock as soon as Tyrion gave the go ahead, hopefully in a few hours. There was still the matter of collecting the gold the salamander was owed for the steel that had been manufactured. The Salamander Corporation was owed 25% of the profits. It seemed wise to leave collection of the sum to Lother Brune; should Lady Catelyn find Robb's ear and overturn his excellent ruling I'd be halfway to the Westerlands. But for now, my role was to play the part of a celebratory merchant. I shared in Winterfell's revelry for about an hour, singing, dancing, drinking and conversing with Maesters Rhodry, Medrick, Coleman, Wolkan, Tybald, and Luwin about hydro-powered blast furnaces and resource procurement for black powder. I wobbled a bit, exaggerating the effects of alcohol, excused myself, and stumbled in the general direction of my inn.

'Bran' and Maester Qyburn were in quiet conversation away from the festivities. I frowned. Qyburn had been the maester who'd most strongly been in my corner. He'd been the first to speak in my defense, and had been the one to forge the necessary birth documents for me to pass as a noble. And yet here he was, talking to 'Bran', who'd called me-

"Degurechaff," said 'Bran', bowing. "Maester Qyburn did not leak information about your defection to the Lannisters. God, in his wisdom, shared visions of your futures. The most stable timelines are ones in which you take the false name of a noble and go south. There are many men you must meet there."

So he'd uncovered my plot with Tyrion? More blackmail. I almost missed the time when my enemies simply tried to kill me. "Why let me go? There's no weapon greater than gunpowder and cannons, and I've told you how to make them on your own."

"You misunderstand," murmured 'Bran', still bowing. "Robb never executes you in any of the visions. But when threatened, in seven visions of ten you leak the information necessary for the North to build effective weaponry. You are not an enemy, nor are you a noble. Why would God go to such trouble to bring you here, Lightbringer, if your purpose was to be a mere noble? Your destiny is to save us all, to become more than Tanya Degurechaff, and become the Queen. And the Queen must command an army worthy of her."

I wrinkled my nose. I'd thought he was obsessed with killing me. This seemed worse somehow... I was being foolish. Rationally, an abhorrent admirer was better than a murderous stalker. I had no interest in being queen, but less in being dead. In most situations, I'd simply say that I had no interest in the position. But what would he do in response? I was still in a vulnerable position.

"I miss Mary," I said, sighing. I clapped a hand on Being X's newest apostle. "Treat your so-called God with caution. His will may not be in your best interest."

"God's Will is unknowable," said 'Bran', his eyes flashing yellow. "In the end, it is whatever one makes of it."

I managed a smile, and fled to my inn, his gaze more dangerous than a rifle aimed at my back. Being X's will had driven Mary Sue to a murderous rampage destroying friend and foe alike. The invincibility, the clarity of purpose granted by the Type-95, had even made me a believer, if only temporarily. It was only natural, in the end men were nothing more than beasts- myself included- and valued strength over wisdom. It was irrational, but it was human nature. Yet when given the power of a god, my former student was wise enough to seek omniscience over omnipotence. Lady Catelyn and Theon, they hadn't been wrong. The being that had returned from the dagger wasn't Bran, nor was it a puppet of Being X.

It was a devil wearing the skin of a little boy.