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Unfortunately, my plan for obtaining five gold dragons had hit an obstacle.

"Yer weird," said the leader of the precession's peasant boys, tossing my ball into a frosty field of grass by the King's Road. "We're trainin' to be knights! We don't have time to waste playin' with some smelly gurl! Go back to yer meat wagon yeh smoothtalkin' swindler!"

The boys started playing with their sticks again.

An older girl who would soon be quite beautiful, hopped out from a nearby wheelhouse, and stomped to my ball, followed by three lackeys. "Here," she said, handing the inflated pig bladder back to me. "Jorgen ain't been housetrained. His ma ain't raised him right. Throwin' yer things just cuz the way you is ain't right, that ain't no way to treat a lass!"

Jorgen seemed not to hear the pretty girl's criticism, too engrossed with his stick play.

"Thank you," I murmured, and immediately retreated from the situation as quickly as possible. My first encounter with children had been nothing less than an unmitigated disaster. Like a rookie officer, I had marched into a battle with no information. I had failed to network with any of the children throughout the journey to Winterfell. My gender and profession put me at a disadvantage. Another problem was that a schism had formed between the boys and girls of the precession. While it would be easier to ally myself with the girls of the camp, I needed to reach the male demographic to see my product reach its full potential.

I went back to the meat wagon to brainstorm possible solutions.

"I don't understand why they won't even try my game," I said to Pa. "It's irrational. My game offers strategy, teamwork, and poses little risk of injury. It requires dexterity, stamina, and strength. I offer a superior product, and they'd rather smack each other with sticks. I don't understand them!"

Pa shrugged. "I told yeh we shoulda brought Mycah."

He was right of course, and I understood his point. I had little understanding of children, and deploying Mycah would have been a far more efficient use of human resources.

"Perhaps if I offered them a small sum of money," I mused. "A penny each, just to try the game. The key is that they're playing the game by the time we get to Moat Cailin and Cerwyn. We've got to introduce the beautiful game to each settlement, so when we stop on the way back, we can sell them Salamander Corporation footballs."

"Money might get 'em playin'," Pa said, shaking his head. "But it ain't gonna convince 'em to buy the ball when ya ask. It'll just make it a chore."

"Probably," I said, pacing back and forth, frost crunching beneath my feet. "But I just need them to act as advertisements. You remember when we used the bars and whorehouses to get people to our store? It's the same idea."

"Nah," said Pa. "We was offerin' meat. People need meat. People knew what we was sellin'. Ain't nobody need no pig bladder. Look it, even if it be as fun as yeh say, they got on alright without it, so why waste silvers on it, let alone dragons?"

I frowned. Pa was right as always. The largest problem was that my product was ultimately unnecessary. I had to find some way to induce demand in the children. There was also another activity that ultimately fulfilled the niche my product presumed to take. I had to reduce the attractiveness of playing with sticks and stones while increasing the attractiveness of playing with balls. Finally there was the rift between the boys and girls of the camp.

Why did boy's play with sticks? Why did they throw rocks at one another? An outlet for their aggression? Perhaps, but then why didn't girls do so? It seemed more likely that it was as Jorgen had described: it was practice to become a knight. A delusion of course, but delusion in children was marketed as dreams and was typically viewed positively, even by responsible adults. And so, the first step in my plot became clear. I sent Lother Brune ahead to the next town to pick up some fowl, and invited Jorgen and his friends to the meat wagon for a chance to play with some real steel. Naturally, they jumped at the opportunity. The girls followed. For a time, I let them play with the blades, let them make some cuts even if they made a mess of the boar.

"Oh, what a treat," I said. Lother Brune had returned with a clutch of chicks. As requested, they were young and cute and yellow and fluffy. I handed Jorgen a butcher's knife. "Fresh meat. Jorgen, you want to become a knight, right? I'll give you the honor of the first kill."

Jorgen's smile faded, and he took a step back.

"Come now," I said, smiling gleefully. I skipped to Lother Brune, and snapped up one of the chicks from their cage. I held it up to the children, and the chick started to scream. "You wanted to be a knight right? What did you think it meant to be a professional killer?"

And suddenly the chick grew quiet. I had snapped its neck. The chicks in the cage cried. I removed another, and offered it to Jorgen. He turned away. I tried boy after boy, girl after girl, but none seemed to want the job. I simply smirked, and killed one after another. Some nearby soldiers watched what I was doing, but made no move to stop me. Killing was a lesson that needed to be taught to potential soldiers, but it wasn't something most fathers looked forward to teaching their sons. "You've probably realized that this was a trick. I knew you were cowards. Children. All of you, even the girls. Why exactly do you think the king is paying your fathers? How do you think the meat you cook arrives at the market? Pa trusted me with work when I was three. Your cuts were pathetic. You grew tired so easily. I pity whichever officer has the misfortune of leading you. I'd rather fight a competent enemy than have to lead incompetents who can't even perform basic tasks. None of you shitstains will ever work for the king. None of you shitstains will ever amount to anything. None of you shitstains will ever be able to do what I can do. None of you shitstains will ever be able to beat me."

"Shut up!" Jorgen snatched up the last chick angrily. He hesitated at its panicked cries, but squeezed and squeezed. The bird's screams grew louder, until Jorgen threw it on the ground, and stomped the life out of it. He fell into the mud, and started to cry. The pretty girl comforted him, glaring at me. I pushed them both down in an act of completely unnecessary meanness. I stood over the two of them, offering the children a chance to stand up to me. None of them did.

"Well, this has become rather dull. Lother, come with me," I said, looking down my nose at the children, and turning my heel. I led Lother Brune to a muddy grassy meadow, and marked off two spots about ten strides apart. As expected, the children had followed us. I pretended not to notice. "This is a game which was invented by the Salamander Corporation. It's called salamanderball. In a true game there would be eleven players on both sides. The purpose of the game is to get the ball through the opponent's goal as many times as possible. The key is that, with one exception, you cannot touch the ball with your hands…" As I continued my explanation my mind began to wander. I'd decided to rename football into salamanderball in order to better market Pa's company. As for traumatizing the children, well it wasn't exactly original. These childrens wanted to be heroes, and I'd just made myself the villain to be defeated. Even if it wasn't my specialty, I had absorbed some basics of marketing from the advertising of my first life and the propaganda of my second. Spouting the virtues of football wasn't likely to get me anywhere anymore than The Empire talking about how victory in a war might lead to slightly better terms in international agreements. The boys and girls of the caravan knew they didn't really need it. Instead I was selling them an idea and a feeling. The idea being that if they could beat me in football, they could prove they were better than me. And if they could prove they were better than me, they would be the superior child in the precession. In other words I had coupled football with glory and social status.

Once my explanation was over, I shot on Lother Brune ten times, scoring eight. That would be a good target for the children to overcome. As expected, the boys and girls united to defeat me. And just as planned, the children took to football quickly once they'd given it a chance. They almost even had the rules right. I tried to correct them, but they still wanted nothing to do with me. While I was excluded, their play had attracted the attention of a prince and princess, Tomen and Myrcella Baratheon. The crowned prince, Joffrey Baratheon, in a stroke of good fortune, had punctured the ball with his sword, Widow's Wail . Perhaps his father had told him to do that as a favor to me. In any case, Pa was able to sell five inflated pig's bladders as a replacement to the precession for one dragon. I made another dragon selling a few balls to the good children of Moat Cailin after buying up the local stock of pigs' bladders. Such a success, it appeared that I'd prove myself a competent business man to Tyrion Lannister after all.

XOXOXOX

"This is a disaster," said Tyrion Lannister. They were a two day ride from Winterfell, and he could feel his future melting away like spring snow. "I don't understand. Five gold in six weeks should have been unreachable! What could have possibly possessed you to buy one of her damn balls for an entire dragon?"

"Dear brother, you know how I care for my children, and they've taken to playing with the blonde peasant's balls. Besides, after Joffrey broke the stupid thing, I had little choice but to provide fair recompense, a Lannister always pays their debts after all." His older bitch of a sister sipped a cup of red wine with a half smile."Lannisport Honey is quite good, but even I must admit that Arbor Gold is the finest in all the realm. But you've always been clever Tyrion, and so is the girl. You did well to discover her, and link yourself to her forevermore. Such a brilliant move, I've boasted about it to the entire camp and written to my father to tell him of your wondrous foresight."

He hadn't known when he'd spoken with Tanya that she'd slandered the king's wine to his face! Perhaps she could have been more diplomatic, and simply told the king he was fat and old and had the smallest penis in all the Seven Kingdoms. Even still, it shouldn't have mattered! Five dragons! Five damn dragons! Seven hells, it should have been impossible. "A shame," said Tyrion shakily. "Raising a peasant girl so far above her station. She's sure to get herself killed."

"I don't know. Salamanderball is actually quite fun," said Jaime, smiling slyly, clearly mocking him, because what could possibly be fun about kicking around a blown up animal organ around like an imbecile? "I'm not joking, the two of you really ought to give it a try. And it only took her a few days to think of it, I'm most interested with what she'll do next."

"Jaime, sweet brother," Tyrion choked out. "Sometimes I wonder whose side you're really on."

"Why Tyrion, my sweet brother," said Jaime, his mouth full of bread and fish. "You wound me. You know how much I love my family."

Tyrion fumed. It took him a little over a day to figure out how to wiggle out of the moronic promise he'd made to the girl. He summoned her to his wheelhouse that night.

"Excellent work Tanya," Tyrion said.

The little girl beamed with pride. Absolutely clueless!

"I've little doubt that you'll make your five dragons," Tyrion said. "I'll grant you full partnership with the Lannisport Winery. Unfortunately, my family cannot presently afford to spend the dragons required to make the changes you proposed at our earlier meeting. A harsh harvest you see, but worry not, in five years we will be able to make all the changes you proposed."

That wiped the smug smirk off Tanya's face. "F-five years sir? Perhaps we could take out a loan from The Golden Bank? In your father's name of course, he must have good credit."

"I'm not in Father's good graces," said Tyrion, shrugging his shoulders. "He'll never allow it. Perhaps the Salamander Corporation can foot the bill? You have my word that we'll pay it back. Double even. A Lannister always pays their debts."

Tanya twitched indignantly, but schooled her features into a serene expression immediately.

"Perhaps you find my circumstances unfavorable? It would be a disappointment, but I suppose you could back out of the deal, if you feel you must." Tyrion leaned forward. Good, good. It was a ridiculous proposal. Even the lower estimates had placed the changes to Lannisport operations at five hundred dragons. Perhaps the girl could conjure five dragons from oblivion, but larger scales of gold could only be extracted from the land, and pooled through taxation. All the books he'd read agreed on the matter.

"No, no, that won't be necessary, sir," said Tanya, smiling pleasantly. "The Salamander Corporation will be responsible for the initial capital investment and implementation of the renovation of the Lannisport Winery. In return, I ask for a 50-50 split on the profit of all wines produced after renovation."

He should have expected as much. The girl simply did not know when to admit defeat. While such an even distribution of revenue would have been unheard of for a negotiation between a smallfolk and a noble, the key was in the details. Renovation would be impossible under the current contract. It was a deal that cost the Lannister's nothing, even Father would have to admit as much.

"Agreed," said Tyrion. "I'll have our maester write up a contract."

A few signatures later, and it was done. Tyrion let out a sigh. Now that he was free, he could admit to admiring the girl's optimism. Yet another impossible task, and she approached it with a smile. It appeared he'd been wise to use euphemisms and insinuations to reject her rather than bluntly saying no. It had spared her of hurt feelings and hurt pride and saved their business relationship. He hadn't had to explain her own naive foolishness to her. It seemed cruel to explain noble politics to a naive small folk child. If by some miracle her modifications allowed Lannisport Honey to successfully surpass Arbor Gold, she'd find her head separated from her shoulders for her slight to the king. If she failed, she'd be forgotten by the king, and more reasonable nobles like Tyrion could fully utilize her prodigious talents and reward her appropriately. She had more than proved her competence to him, and he quite looked forward to working with her on other, less dangerous projects. Perhaps it would be unconventional, but in a few years Ser Davos wouldn't be the only knight from Flea Bottom.

XOXOXOX

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. That Tyrion was a clever one. A real clever one! As thanks for his cleverness, I wished to wrap my fingers around his throat and squeeze and squeeze. He'd tricked me into sharing how to corner the wine market, and would simply wait for the king to execute me. Changes in wine manufacturing were more subtle than that of meat packing, and would take time and capital to truly corner the market place. Probably, I could make meaningful changes with as little as one hundred dragons, but I didn't see how the Salamander Corporation could shoulder such a large initial investment, at least not in the time frame the king had so cruelly imposed on me. I shared my worries with Pa and Lother Brune once I was back to the meat wagon.

"Coulda' told yeh as much," said Pa knowingly. "He was just playin' with yeh. Bet he jus' thought yeh another kid. He ain't never gonna do business with yeh, a highborn like that never was, now he's just tryin' ter find a way outta it, nice and legal like."

I stomped around a while, nodding my head vigorously at Pa's wise counsel. Westeros was irrational and unfair. It would be stuck in poverty and filth until the productive members of society were appropriately compensated. Down with the bourgeoisie! In that moment, I could finally understand the barbaric appeal of communism.

Lother Brune scratched his chin. "Maybe… You're probably right, but still… Can you tell me the details of the contract again?"

I repeated the details to Lother Brune, not that it would make any difference. Pa was right, no matter what I'd done, Tyrion never had had any intention of doing business with me. I had merely been a doll for him to play with and abandon. But even looking back, I don't know what I could have done differently. If I didn't make the deal with the king, the Salamander Corporation would have been taken from us, if not by Tyrion, then by some other lord. They were nobles I was not. That left me vulnerable, like a grad student conducting research for a professor, or an intelligent intern at a corrupt company, or a hopeful young orphan seeking a safe position in the rear. In a feudal society I needed to befriend someone powerful to protect me. But in order to do that, I needed to have the protection of somebody powerful. It was an ouroboros, an endless loop with no possible solution.

"I have a solution," said Lother Brune. "The odds are slight, but why not give it a try…"

As he explained his plan, my nose wrinkled. I wasn't pleased to be excluded from the bargaining table, but I understood the necessity. My appearance would surely be a hurdle, and he likely would be more receptive to a soldier. Best of all, Lother Brune would formally become an employee of the Salamander Corporation. The worst of it was that the plan was communism. Sure my heart had wavered for a second, but that had merely stemmed from momentary frustration. I suppose I could rationalize that a state owned enterprise was actually a step towards my beloved capitalism in the accursed feudal society that was Westeros. And yet I could think of no other alternative. It was as if I had, by some unfortunate circumstance, found myself in bed with a man. Best to close my eyes and be done with it.

XOXOXOX

When his younger brother's black form, riding on his black stallion, took shape over the frozen white tundra, Ned Stark felt a wave of relief wash over him. In a few hours he would have to meet a southern lord, in a few days he'd have to meet more, and in a few weeks he'd be in King's Landing unless he found some way to convince Robert otherwise. His daughter Arya begged him not to go, she claimed that it would be the death of him. He didn't have to be a greenseer to know the truth of it. Surrounded by honeyed words and knives to the back, he knew not how to handle such people. But his brother had returned to Winterfell, and that at least, he knew was good.

"Brother," said Benjen.

"Brother," said Ned.

He embraced his blood with a smile. Ned did his best not to notice Benjen's stiff expression.

"Angry at me for being a fool?" Asked Ned. He chuckled, but stopped when Benjen didn't join him. "Sorry. My leniency has cost you brothers, valuable rangers, it is no laughing matter."

Benjen said nothing. He just turned and stared into the icy north from which he'd come.

"The boy, Will, it gave me no pleasure to execute him," said Ned. "But the punishment for desertion is death."

"Aye," said Benjen.

"The north, true north will do things to a man," said Ned. "Even a good man. I did not judge the boy for his ravings."

"This is Yoren," said Benjen, introducing a brown-haired crow with sharp features. "He is now First Ranger. I am now Lord Commander."

"Oh," said Ned. He did not want to ask. Benjen did not want to answer.

"We need more men," said Benjen. "We need more steel. We need more support. We need more grain. A large wildling army led by Mance Rayder is marching south, and we cannot stop them. We've only five hundred…"

"Aye," said Ned. Last they'd spoken there had been a thousand in the Night's Watch.

"The North will support you," Ned promised. "Winter is co-"

"Not winter," snapped Yoren. "The white walkers. Your greenseer daughter said she had a damned vision of them marching South, an army of the undead, swallowing everything, bringing unending winter. She was right. Will saw them. At the Fist we saw them. They saw us. We fought… We lost… We died... We hid… We ran."

"They're true then," Ned said. He closed his eyes, clenched his fists. "Arya's visions?" If she had predicted the white walkers, there was little doubt that the rest were true as well. If he went south, he would be killed by Lannister treachery.

"We need more than The North, Ned," said Benjen. "That's why I'm here. We need the support of the southern lords."

"I am no king," said Ned weakly. "I have no say in southern affairs. I will aid you as I can, but I cannot promise you more."

"Go South," said Benjen grimly. "Bring Yoren. Convince them to our cause."

"Arya's visions, there are others…" Ned grimaced. "The southern lords have no honor. Treachery, deceit, they will not listen to truth, and they have long forgotten winter. Those same visions that told of the whitewalkers tell me that if I ride south, The North will fall, and Sansa will be all that remains of our line."

"Go south," said Benjen, without hesitation, without doubt. "If you cannot unite the realm against the true enemy, the entire realm will never see another spring."

Ned put a hand on his head. "I'll talk to Robert. I'll see about your steel. Winter is coming."

If there was any consolation, he no longer feared the meeting with the southern lord. The day could not possibly get any worse. He returned to the Great Hall with Maester Luwin and Mikken, Winterfell's blacksmith, to greet the two southern lords. Both were middle aged men and one wore armor. A soldier? Perhaps the meeting would be less bothersome than he'd feared.

"My lord," bowed the soldier. "My name is Lother Brune and I've come with an offer of partnership from the Salamander Corporation."

"Aye," said Ned. "My wife received your raven. A new way to heat our furnaces. A cheaper way to turn pig iron into steel. A likely tale. If all this is possible, why come north?"

"I can explain," said the soldier. "But I'd have your word that should we fail to reach an agreement, you will not use the secrets of the salamander to reproduce the method I share."

"You have it," said Ned easily. What use would it be to repeat lies?

The soldier smiled. "That's part of it. The southern lord are snakes, and would steal our secrets as soon as we shared them. More importantly, my lord, our method requires coal. The North has it. The South does not."

The rest of the conversation was well and truly above Ned's comprehension. By heating coal in the absence of air, it could be transformed into a magical substance called coke. Coke could then be used to fuel newly designed furnaces to smelt pig iron. There were even a few drawings, both of the new furnaces and of the machinery required to make this coke. It all seemed plausible enough, but was honestly beyond him. Luwin and Mikken stared at Lother Brune like he was Bran the Builder reborn.

"I don't understand," said Ned. "We can already produce steel with charcoal. Why go through all the trouble of producing this coke substance?"

Luwin and Mikken shared a look.

"Making coke will be very difficult, my lord," said Maester Luwin. Ned waited for the but. "But if it can produce as much heat and energy as Ser Brune describes… We'll be able to produce steel cheaper and in higher quantities. Much, much cheaper…" Maester Luwin frowned. "And then, perhaps… We'll become known for it. More pig iron will be sent to us from across the realm. More gold. More furnaces. More steel. More gold. And on and on. Wealth created rather than extracted. Everyone needs steel, m'lord. This is no small matter."

Ned snorted. Maester Luwin had been too long from any new ideas, and was revealing an excitable side he'd never shown before, like a winter child seeing his first spring. "Doubtful. But if it helps us get through the winter it's not an option I can ignore. Mikken, do you think you can recreate a smaller version of these designs to test the salamander's words? If coke is possible, if it burns hotter than charcoal, we will be able to find some use for it."

"Of course, m'lord. At once," Mikken said excitedly. He rushed off with the designs, eager to get started.

"I'll send ravens to Lord Manderly, Lord Hornwood, Lord Karstark, and Lord Bolton about their coal. If this idea has any merit, we'll need to establish supply lines," said Ned breezily. "More miners, more caravans, more gold."

Lother Brune sighed. "Unfortunately The Salamander Corpor-"

"I'll foot the damn bill," said Ned. "My house is not bankrupt, we've the gold for it. I'll need proof that your ideas are more than some lord's fanciful imaginations, but if what you say is true…"

Negotiations began. Ned found himself surprised. Few companies would negotiate on behalf of the smallfolk. In the end it was decided that the Salamander Corporation would get 25% of the profit for the steel produced using their method for the next twenty-five years. The Starks would keep 10% of the profits, the local lord would keep 5%, and the remaining 60% of the profits would be distributed among the small folk putting the plan into practice. Miners, smiths, merchants, soldiers, and whoever else. Ned suspected little would come from these southern promises, but he trusted his advisors enough to make the gamble.

A couple days later, Mikken reported that he had successfully produced coke, and that it had the properties the Salamander Corporation had reported. To his surprise, the salamander was not a snake. Ned wrote the relevant northern lords to increase their mining of coal and iron. He sent Maester Luwin to the citadel, to bring back the expertise needed to build the blast furnaces the Salamander Corporation had described.

"I must admit, I am surprised," said Lother Brune. "I had not thought you would set about this so quickly or thoroughly. I expected more resistance."

"Southern comforts," Ned said, waving away the soldier's concern. "You expected southern games. I cannot afford to play such games. Winter is coming."

Although according to Benjen, the white walkers could not be killed with steel. Even if the salamander's methods were a lie, they would need practice building new weapons. At worst, this would act as a necessary trial for Robb. He would need to learn how to build tens of thousands of new weapons of some unknown substance that might harm the wights. Maester Luwin's enthusiasm was not a lie, and they needed the experts from the citadel to help them with whatever could kill the white walkers.

The king arrived the next day, and as expected, he asked Ned to be his Hand. Ned had no choice but to accept. And as expected, the king's childrens were blonde as lions, and bore little resemblance to his childhood friend. Ned had no choice but to hold his tongue, to sacrifice his honor. Not for a promise made to his sister, but for a promise made to his brother. He had to unite the realm. He could not make war with the Lannisters. He took the first step towards peace when he found the queen's brother and two youngest bastards in the courtyard kicking around a… A soft circular thing he'd never seen before. Arya, Bran, even Robb and Jon watched them with interest.

"Little ones," said Ned. "What are you playing with?"

"A salamander ball," said Tomen sweetly. "Tanya has finally explained the rules, but we need more players for a proper match. Would you care to join us, Lord Stark?"

"Don't bother Ned, boy," said Robert heatedly. "He's better things to do than waste his time playing stupid games from some child's imagination."

"I do," said Ned, smiling slyly. "And yet I'll play anyways. You'd best not join us Robert. You've better things to do."

Robert huffed and joined them. Arya, Bran, Robb, and Jon followed after him.

And so it was that the Targaryens, Lannisters, Baratheons, Starks, and small folk all took part together in the first Westerosi game of football.