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"Is this really your brother, Ned?" Asked Robert, sipping from his winecup. After the game of salamanderball, Ned had taken his old friend to the weirwood in the godswood to finally discuss the only issue that really mattered. "Tell me this is some kind of northern joke."

"I know what I saw," said Benjen, unbothered by the king's scorn.

"You'd have me believe an army of the undead is forming in the Land of Always Winter," said the king. "Have ya seen any giants or ghouls under your bed recently too?"

"You think the Night's Watch is some joke?" Asked Benjen, his voice as icy as winter. "With all due respect, your grace, you've never been north of the Wall, so don't tell me what's out there. I've seen thin-"

"Yes, I'm telling you this is a joke," said King Robert, steel in his voice. "One I'm willing to forgive because of your blood. I'll get you more men, if that's what you need, gods know I can always find more rapists and thieves to take the black. But don't pretend there's white walkers, don't pretend the wildlings have finally unified against us. I hear enough lies already, I don't need to hear more from a Stark. Enough of this."

"Robert," said Ned quietly. "I've never known Benjen to speak untruths."

"Then get me some proof you damned fool," said Robert angrily. "A distraction. You'd have me wasting my time chasing shadows when the real threat is that Targaryen whore across the Narrow Sea. I won't be able to rest until their entire line is eliminated."

"At least come to the Wall, Robert." Ned shifted uncomfortably. "One man, two men, even three can be ignored. But five hundr-"

"Ned," said the king. "Enough."

Ned swallowed. He'd seen enough battles to recognize when one was lost. "Your grace." He bowed, and motioned for Benjen to follow him.

"He asks for evidence," said Benjen. "And I'm telling you I cannot get it. We're undermanned already. A suicide mission is an extravagance The Watch cannot afford. You must go back to the kin-"

"There are other houses," said Ned. "I'll talk with Catelyn about Edmure and Lysa. I'll try the Lannisters. The Tyrells. Perhaps Stannis will listen. We can get men from elsewhere, they do not need to come from the crown. Get evidence, capture one of those wights Yoren mentioned, and you'll have the support of the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. But we cannot afford to offend Robert. He can be… Blind to the truth of things after he's made up his mind. You know this well."

Benjen shook his head. "You haven't seen the white walkers. Sending men to capture one of the undead? I'll just be adding to their army."

"If you cannot gather evidence," said Ned. "Then you will have the support of The North alone."

"I'm taking our nephew," said Benjen. "I need all the men I can get."

"Fine." Ned swallowed. "Good. That was always the plan."

"If you cannot convince your king," said Benjen, scowling. " I'll announce him. That'll bring the southern lords. I will die. So will Jon. Like rats. But at least they'll be in a position to save the realm as they feast on our corpses."

Benjen would sacrifice his honor for the Watch. Ned wished he could simply go to the Wall. Fight the undead to his last. A simple, honorable war he knew how to wage, it was the job he'd been trained for. Failing that, he wished to stay in Winterfell and work with the Salamander Corporation. Lother Brune wanted Ned's gold, and Lother Brune could only get Ned's gold by cooperating with him. Not a friend, but a reliable ally. Managing this new process of smelting steel, leading The North into a new industry, it was the job he'd been born to do. But going to The South, convincing the southern lords with honeyed words? He was a wolf in the sea. And if Arya's visions were to be believed, if all his instincts were to be believed, it would be the death of him.

He tried to arrange a meeting with the queen but was unsuccessful. According to Catelyn a few people from the king's procession would be staying in Winterfell for a time. Lother Brune and a blonde girl of eleven. A cook named Martha who brought southern recipes. And Tyrion Lannister. Ned frowned. Some kind of plot? Perhaps, but if he could get a Lannister to the Wall it would be worth enduring. He arranged a meeting with Tyrion in the Great Hall.

"You've summoned me, m'lord," Tyrion drawled. He was an ugly little thing, with a set of mismatched eyes, a freak halfman that would have been left in the forest if he'd been of common blood. He was a dwarf who frequented whorehouses, was rarely seen without a drink, and made mockery of the teachings of both the old gods and the new. He was easily the most honorable of Tywin's offspring. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You've requested to stay. Why?"

"I've heard whispers," said Tyrion. "Whispers that simply cannot be ignored. Something that will surely change the world if true, how could I possibly leave?"

Ned let out a breath. "And you want to investigate?"

Tyrion smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "I'm a curious man, Lord Stark. I seek to know all things, but I promise I won't tell anyone. I understand the need for secrecy in such matters."

"No," said Ned. "Tell them. I've been trying to convince the king, trying to convince your sister, she won't even take a meeting."

"Really?" Tyrion frowned. "That is surprising, to say the least… But I suppose if you've not read the right books you'd think it a mere fantasy, or something that can be taken for granted. Cersei wouldn't grasp the importance. I'll write to my family if that is truly your wish, but Father will take advantage. You'll lose gol-"

"I don't give a damn about gold," Ned grumbled. "This is for the good of the realm!"

Tyrion shook his head in disbelief. "You northerners really are different. I will do everything I can to assist you in this exciting new endeavor."

Ned didn't like that Tyrion was treating the white walkers like a game, but he knew he'd be lucky to receive that level of cooperation from the other southern lords. He would push the dwarf no farther. "Winterfell is yours," said Ned. "Stay as long as you like. I'll let Robb know to do everything in his power to accommodate your investigation."

Finished with the meeting, he made final preparations for his journey to King's Landing. Robb would be the acting Lord of Winterfell. He would have two jobs. Manage the steel making project with the Salamander Corporation and support the Night's Watch as much as he was able. In steel, in men, in grain. Catelyn would be traveling south to speak with her brother and sister and convince the Riverlands and the Vale to their cause. Sansa and Arya would be coming with him to King's Landing, along with about a hundred trusted soldiers. He'd need grain, horses, and wheelhouses for the journey, although meat would be provided courtesy of the Salamander Corporation. His youngest daughter, Arya, came to his room as he finished his preparations.

"Why haven't you told the king that his son is a bastard?" She asked angrily.

"The white walkers come," said Ned. "You saw it in your visions, and it has been confirmed by the Night's Watch. They did battle with the army of the undead at The Fist of the First Men and lost badly. We cannot afford to squabble amongst ourselves."

"Joffrey deserves to die," said Arya.

"He is a child," said Ned.

"He kills you," said Arya. "He could have sent you to The Night's Watch with Jon, even Cersei opposed him, but he killed you instead."

"He cannot be punished for things yet to pass," said Ned. "If we punished men for things they might do, we'd have an empire of skeletons."

"You're gathering evidence," said Arya finally. "You need proof. I'll find it for you. I'm good at not being noticed. We'll have the head of every one of those Lannister bastard's on spikes outside King's Landing."

"Arya," said Ned. "Leave it alone. Winter is coming."

Arya left the room, giving no indication she'd heard him. Another headache, but how to handle it? He could keep her in The North, away from where she might do damage. It seemed the easiest solution… No, he wouldn't repeat the mistakes of the past. He'd bring her south. He'd trust no one else to watch over her.

ooOoo

The prototype for the Stark-Salamander steel-smelting furnace had been built about thirty feet outside Winterfell's southern gate. The field hadn't exactly been a meadow before the project, but any grass or plant life had been dug out and moved elsewhere, and the space had been covered so it resembled a makeshift warehouse. It appeared the Starks had little desire to burn down their stronghold. The furnace itself was cylindrical, and vaguely resembled a metal trash can. Steel on the outside, a refractory layer of bricks inside, it certainly resembled the cupola furnaces of my first life that I had hastily drawn up in my initial plans. I had a few quibbles, but the craftsman had included several necessary details that I'd forgotten or never noticed in the first place. It appeared the Starks were largely competent, and would do their best to see this joint project through. That impression was further solidified when I met the project team Robb Stark had assembled. It consisted of maesters and blacksmiths from across The North rather than high ranking nobles. I introduced myself to them. Some of the smiths on the team were Donal Noye, Mikken, and Hammer. Hugh and Maester Wolkan were representatives from Lord Bolton. Maesters Medrick, Tybald, Rhodry, and Coleman represented various houses involved in the project. Robb and Bran Stark were the nobles heading the project. My computation orb reacted to the presence of the Stark children, an occurrence I really didn't know how to interpret. Perhaps they were magical? It seemed to react more strongly to Bran than Robb. In any case they belonged to be here, their father and mother had already ridden south, so they represented the Stark interest. Last was Tyrion Lannister, whose presence was concerning. I suspected sabotage, but my low social status prevented me from voicing any objection. I'd send an anonymous report to Robb Stark as soon as I found any solid evidence of foul play.

"Alright, m'lord," said Mikken, "It's ready. I'll begin by loading the coke into the furnace."

He shoveled in some glowing prelit coke from a crucible into an opening near the bottom of the furnace. The opening was slid closed, and he loaded a larger amount of unlit coke onto a conveyor belt, which he cranked to another opening near the top of the furnace. Pipes near the bottom of the furnace began to hiss like industrial fans. Mikken loaded the pig iron onto the conveyor belt and cranked it into the furnace. The hiss from the air intakes intensified. A few drops of glowing molten steel were produced from an opening near the bottom of the furnace, and were collected in a ceramic crucible, held in place by long strips of wood. The entire furnace shook, bricks inside cracking. The furnace grew louder and louder.

"Donal," said Robb. "Escort the children out."

"Sir, please reconsider," I said. "In order to troubleshoot I need to witn-"

"Donal!" Said Robb. "NOW!"

Donal Noye shoved us out of the warehouse. I'd like to say that a few moments later, the furnace blew its top. Nothing so dramatic. I did hear a loud whistle, high in pitch like a steaming tea kettle.

"Stay out, or I'll show you how we handle insubordination on the Wall," said Donal Noye sternly. He went back into the warehouse. I already had an idea of what had happened. In a closed container there is a simple law that gasses tend to follow at high temperatures, PV = nRT, also known as the Ideal Gas Law. Essentially, as temperature rose, pressure would rise as well. Pressure and strain were also proportional, which was known as Hooke's Law, so if enough pressure built up in the furnace it would lead to mechanical failure. Most metals were quite ductile, and the furnace would likely crack rather than shatter. The solution would have to be twofold. Find some way to alleviate pressure in the furnace, and make sure not to overload the furnace with coke. It might help to have a way of measuring temperature. I'd made thermometers in middle school, and knew it was no difficult fea-

"What are you doing?" I asked. Bran Stark had quietly reopened the door to the warehouse.

"Father forced me to stay in Winterfell," said Bran. "I'm tired of being kept from the fun. I want to see what's happening."

I was hardly in a position to stop him. He outranked me in status by a substantial margin. "As do I. Your brother gave his orders. It's our duty to follow them."

"I'm not afraid," said Bran proudly. "Someday I'm to be a knight. I can face danger. You can join me if you'd like. I'll keep you from trouble if we're caught."

"A knight follows orders," I said.

He ignored me, and snuck into the warehouse. Surprisingly, he wasn't booted back out immediately. With little else to do, I waited and waited. When at last the project team emerged, their faces grim and covered with soot, I was told to return to my lodgings before I could make any inquiries about what had happened.

ooOoo

Tyrion sighed. Robb Stark was merely a boy, but he could not help but feel disappointed. After meeting with Ned Stark, he had expected more.

"You've lied to us," Robb growled at the soldier. Lother Brune was a small man with a stalky build from a minor house from the crownlands. Tyrion very much doubted that the soldier had come up with these ideas himself. He was a puppet of some sort, who had been used as a figurehead to appeal to the Starks. "Sent us on a chase for steel we cannot afford. You've cost us no men, merely gold and time, so I'll spare you your head. Run to your home and never return."

The maesters and blacksmiths shuffled uncomfortably, but none made move to speak against the foolish boy.

"You would be wise to reconsider, m'lord," said Tyrion reluctantly.

"Why? This has been a failure," said Robb Stark quietly. "Southern lies, as Father feared. The furnace broke. The process produced no steel, and the iron that resulted was more brittle than when it started. It took the smiths a week to produce the coke, and it burned away in minutes. I'd be wise to send the smiths back where they came from, to produce steel using the methods that are tried and true."

"What do you know of metallurgy, boy?" Asked Tyrion.

"I'm no 'boy', Lannister," said Robb. "I'm Lord of Winterfell while my father's way."

"Then you might learn a lord's humility," said Tyrion. "No lord rules alone. Look at your maesters, look at your smiths. Do they seem upset by this ' failure' ?"

Of course not, they were smiling like they'd pleasured a whore so well they'd received their payment back.

Robb looked around. "Is this some plot? What is your game, Lannister?"

"Think of it," said Tyrion. "You ordered your smiths to build the most resilient furnace they knew of and even their best design was not enough to contain the heat produced by coke. Do you know why Valyrian Steel is so special? Because it was forged in dragon fire, hotter than anything we can currently produce. What was the purpose of this test? To create a few pounds of steel? No! It was to test the potential of new ideas. Yes there are problems. Numerous challenging problems in fact, that may take years or even decades to solve. But they will be solved eventually, and when they are, we'll enter an age of steel and coal."

"He's right, m'lord," said a smith. "Once we get this furnace working, we'll be able to make steel cheaper, faster, and stronger."

"It is a dragon egg," said a maester. "Do not throw it away before it hatches."

Robb Stark was silent for a time, until at last his eyes found Lother Brune. "For three months I will give you all the steel and coal you need, and the full support of Winterfell, but you must produce a furnace that does not break. You must find a way to produce coke at larger quantities. The steel must be pure. Winterfell is not the Citadel. It is no place for study. Fail to get results, and this little experiment is over."

Ahh, but it wouldn't be. Perhaps not with these maesters, perhaps not with these blacksmiths, but if Robb Stark was fool enough to toss this opportunity away, Tyrion would be more than happy enough to reap the reward. His first objective would be to discover the master pulling Lother Brune's strings, and turn him to Tyrion's side.

Robb Stark glared at him as if he had some knowledge of Tyrion's thoughts. Perhaps not so foolish afterall, aye boy?

ooOoo

In our lodging, Lother Brune briefed me on the three central issues that needed to be fixed. Minor issues, below any serious concern. I was fairly certain that a vent or exhaust port could prevent the furnace from breaking. In terms of increasing the production of coke and purifying the metal I simply needed to consult with experts. Luckily the blacksmith Mikken had already found a method of producing coke in small quantities. If he taught me his production methods, I could use my knowledge of modern industrial practices to make the process more efficient. In terms of purifying the metal, I knew that rust was a sign of oxidation. How to prevent oxidation I hadn't the faintest clue. I was optimistic however, that if we brought in a subject matter expert, they'd be able to solve the problem. Charcoal and coke weren't so different chemically, I was fairly certain they both acted upon combustion, and theoretically had the same or at least similar products and should therefore have similar methods of dealing with contaminants. So yes, there were several problems, as was to be expected with any prototype for new technology. We'd proven its capabilities and potential, no doubt Lord Robb Stark would be very pleased indeed. I gave a satisfied chuckle, my future secured at last.

"We have three months," said Lother Brune. "If we don't solve the issues Robb Stark is giving up on the project."

Three months? Three fucking months? What was Robb Stark's problem? Had I gone over his head? Did he have it out for me? What the hell was going on? Irrational, nonsensical, illogical! Nefarious manipulations! This could only be the work of some divine inspiration, some kind of reverse Adelheid von Schugel. Had some external threat miraculously appeared to force Robb Stark to impractical impatience? Curse you Being X! After I had finished slashing my bed, I sighed and rolled up my sleeves. "Well, we've got a lot of work to do. It's time to get started."

Whenever a project required help from others, it was always best to contact them immediately. They had busy schedules as well, so it was only common courtesy to give them the longest deadline possible.

"State your purpose," said a guard, when I arrived at the entrance of the Great Hall.

"Sir, I'd like to meet with Lord Robb Stark to inquire about filling a new position," I said. "At his earliest convenience of course."

"Move along," said the guard. "Lord Stark has no time to humor children."

I sighed. I'd need to send Lother Brune in my place. Perhaps I should have done that immediately, but I'd have liked to establish my competence if possible. It would allow our communications to be more accurate and efficient than this troublesome game of telephone.

Next, I tried to connect with the blacksmith Mikken to learn how he was processing coke. I'd hoped that because he was smallfolk as well, he might be more accommodating.

"Get outta here gurl," said Mikken. "This ain't no place fer a child!"

"I am a representative of the Salamander Corporation," I said forcefully. "I am a part of the project team as well, and you WILL show me your production methods, or I WILL write you up for insubordination. Am I understood, Smith?"

"I ain't tellin' yeh again," said Mikken. "Get outta here! I Ain't got time to waste!"

I channeled The White Silver, and gave him a heated glare.

"Guards!" Mikken cried hysterically. "Guards! Get her outta here, and don't let no more children into my damned shop! Damn southern children, like yeh've been turned to damned white walkers!"

Perhaps it would be wise to be less forceful in the future. I didn't want anymore blacksmiths wetting themselves in the future, it would probably harm morale. Next I went to the Library Tower to visit the maesters and suggest a means of relieving pressure in the furnace.

"They won't greet you, sweet summer child," said an elderly woman. "There is no place for a woman among maesters."

"They have no choice," I said, my computation orb throbbing painfully. "My father owns the Salamand-"

The elderly woman snorted. "They won't accept princesses. They won't accept you. Now come, listen, if The Night's Watch is to be believed, these stories concern us all."

She was right, so I sat beside Bran and listened to tales of white walkers bringing a neverending winter and an army of the dead. I'd have dismissed it, but for one fact.

"Is the Wall really 300 miles long and 700 feet tall?" I asked.

"Of course, sour summer child, it is known," said Old Nan.

And Robb Stark demanded the project be completed in three months. A coincidence? Possibly. I was skeptical of the white walkers of course, but not of a more mundane invasion from the north, because I was also skeptical that the wildlings were some barbaric people incapable of uniting and posing a threat to the realm. Xenophobic propaganda, easily recognizable with my modern sensibilities. Perhaps they even had necromantic magic, my continued existence was proof that such things were possible. With my luck, they'd been given divine inspiration by the accursed Being X. Yet I sensed none of the nationalistic madness usually associated with a coming war.

"Were you trying to learn about the furnace?" Asked Bran, after Old Nan had finished her stories. "Is that why you were looking for the maesters? I can get you to them. Follow me."

I'd hoped he would use his high status to force a meeting. Instead he started climbing the Library Tower, gracefully hopping from one open window to the next.

"I'll pass," I said dryly. "I was hoping to provide a suggestion. Might you come down and pass it along to your lord brother?"

"It's easy," Bran called down. "Don't be afraid."

"But I am afraid, Lord Bran," I said. "If you fall, and your lord brother learns that I did nothing to stop it, I very much fear the consequences."

Bran stuck out his tongue. "You're as boring as a grown up."

I was. I alerted a guard, and marched back to the library tower. I'd need to relay orders to Lother Brune when next I met him, but without the support of the project team, there was little for me to do. The best use of my time would be to read some books, and learn more about Westerosi culture. I noticed the books were made out of parchment, and had been handwritten. Parchment was made from animal skin, and I could make a fortune if I could recreate the process of making paper, which was derived from wood. I wasn't at all confident I could do such a thing, but it was a technology that would be worth hiring a team of maesters to research once I'd obtained a comfortable amount of capital and needed to invest for retirement. I was more confident I could recreate a printing press, but I wasn't sure if there was much demand for hundreds of versions of the same book. Without a bible equivalent, I was skeptical of the return on investment of such a venture.

"Why did you tell on me?" Asked Bran crossly, his direwolf growling at me. "Old Nan never told on me! Ser Rodrick never told on me! Not even Sansa told on me! You're so annoying! I hate you!"

"I feared you'd fall," I said, returning to my book.

"I would never fall," said Bran heatedly.

The boy and his dire wolf followed me around from then on, much to my annoyance. I spent my time in the library or giving suggestions through Lother Brune. My suggestion to create some kind of vent to alleviate pressure in the furnace was being considered, while my suggestion to bring in a metallurgy specialist had been rejected. Brune's description of the production of coke was too vague to be very useful. I needed to know the how and why of every step of the production process to provide beneficial changes. One problem which did have an obvious solution was a lack of personnel. About a hundred of the able bodied men had left for King's Landing, leaving Winterfell with a serious labor shortage.

"Then hire women," I said. "We could get away with paying them less."

Lother Brune chortled. "This is no project for a woman. Their bodies are too weak and feeble to be of much use. It would only serve to distract the men. Nothing would get done."

Perhaps too progressive for Westeros.

"Then hire children," I said.

Lother Brune frowned. "I could suggest it, but I fear it won't be taken well."

"Let's wait on that then," I said. "We'll try to build up our credibility first."

It took a month to build another furnace, and manufacture an adequate supply of coke. The furnace didn't explode, but the steel it produced was rusted. The northmen had taken to calling Lother Brune names that were hardly fair. If anyone should have such invective slung at them it was Lord Robb Stark, for failing to heed our valuable advice. I was done being diplomatic. The project team wasn't good enough. We needed women in our factories and we needed to hire on a metallurgy specialist to act as a consultant. Or else all the time and gold Lord Robb Stark had invested in the project would be as valuable as rust.

ooOoo

The project had progressed at inconceivable speed. The problem with the initial furnace had been identified nearly instantly. Coke produced exhaust which needed to escape the furnace to alleviate pressure. Tyrion had worked with the maesters to build a spark arrested hood for the new furnace, which had fixed the issue. While he was proud of his contributions, he was starting to fear the project might actually be completed within the boy's preposterous timeline. Ahh well, he would no longer be contributing to the project, and he very much doubted they'd make much progress without him. He'd received a crow from Casterly Rock.

He was to ride to The Red Keep immediately, where he would be meeting Father. And he was to bring the peasant child he'd made a partner of their Lannisport Winery as well.

Tanya was around. He could kidnap her. It wouldn't even be difficult. They'd both agreed she'd have made the five dragons had she ridden south, and they'd also both agreed that it would be better for both of them to stay north. At the time he'd merely thought she'd been intrigued by the northern miracle project as well. They'd agreed that whenever Tyrion decided to return to Casterly Rock, he'd escort her and her guardian Lother Brune back to King's Landing. All he had to do was escort her a little farther. A meeting with Tywin Lannister probably wouldn't appear sinister unless you knew the man well. Why wouldn't she be expected to meet with the head of the house she was to be working with?

Bring her to Father to suffer his wrath? Or leave her in Winterfell and suffer Father's wrath himself? There was little question of what to do. While he found the girl interesting, while he was sure that a vile fate awaited her in the Red Keep, he would not disobey Father. He could do much more good for the smallfolk if he stayed in Father's favor anyway. Not noble of course, but practical- Tyrion had always been practical.

The ward, Theon Greyjoy, barged into his room.

"Do you not understand what a closed door in a whorehouse means?" Asked Tyrion angrily, as the red-headed whore's lips left his cock tragically early.

"Come along, Dwarf, Lord Stark requests your presence." Theon handed a gold dragon to the whore. "You'd do well to learn to refuse some requests, Ros. A lesser lord may have knocked out all your pretty teeth."

Tyrion was pushed and shoved to the Great Hall with far more force than strictly necessary.

"You called me a boy a month ago, Lannister," said Robb Stark. "I remember it well. I've spent long nights thinking of your words. Turning them over and over and over… A girl, the same age as my youngest sister, seeks to advise me. A trusted source has observed her interactions with Lother Brune, and found the man to be a figurehead. It was she who first realized that we needed a way to alleviate pressure from the furnace, her suggestion that allowed us a breakthrough. She offers more suggestions. Hire the women of Winterfell for menial labor. Bring in men who specialize in metallurgy. Advice she calls it, but I know the truth. She seeks control over the project my father left me. She seeks to make me a puppet."

"Madness," said Theon Greyjoy. "She's an uneducated, illiterate, pup. You'd be wise to throw her out. Bring help from the Iron Islands. These furnaces are nothing compared to the expertise required to build a ship."

"A woman's place in the household," said Maester Coleman, huffing indignantly. "Our affairs are of no concern to her. You've been far too soft, Lord Stark. She dares to speak of matters she knows not. She sullies our libraries with her presence. She has bewitched the young Lord Bran. Have her flogged. Remind her of her station."

"Perhaps," said Robb Stark, scratching his dire wolf behind its ears. "Lannister, what do you think this 'boy' should do?"

Tyrion sighed. These northern games were trivial compared to anything down south. "Where is your father? Where is your mother? Where is your maester? Why did you bring me here? Because your trusted advisors whisper lies into your ear. The girl is illiterate. Bah! Nonsense, you must have heard otherwise from Bran, she reads him stories everyday! You know full well that you cannot lead this project, boy. You've no experience with metallurgy. You've no experience leading your house. I am the only one willing to tell the truth, so you seek my advice."

"And what is your advice, Lord Lannister," said Robb. Fool boy. Just because Tyrion had told him a harsh truth it did not make him an ally, nor did it mean he would continue to speak true. It merely made him a competent politician. However, Tyrion had no real quarrel with The North, and wasn't inclined to take advantage of Ned Stark's selflessness.

"Bring in a specialist," said Tyrion. "Listen to him, listen to your smiths, listen to your maesters. Read books on the matter, observe the project yourself, be given explanations of every step in the project from those doing the work and those planning it out. Say the sky is brown, see which agree with you. Ignore the advice of those who seek to control you with sweet words or honeyed lies. However, you cannot work the women of Winterfell. That is a step too far."

"And the girl?" Asked Robb. "She may be a fool, but I know she isn't a saboteur. She's the daughter of the head of the Salamander Corporation. They get 25% of the profits for all steel using this method. She isn't trying to gain my favor, she just wants the project to succeed. Should I take her on as an advisor?"

Well, that certainly changed things. Tyrion's options were reduced to one.

"It wouldn't be without precedent. Have you heard the tale of Baelor the Blessed?" Asked Tyrion. "He was holy, pious, and built several septs in the kingdom. He's better known, however, for naming a six-year old boy high septon because he thought he could work miracles."

Robb winced. "The girl makes no claims of miracles."

Tyrion snorted. "She seeks to turn black rocks into steel. What is that but a miracle? Give her power, and you will forever sully the Stark name, and your steel will continue to rust. You need her out. People are talking already. Saying her very presence is corrosive, that with her by your side even your silver will rust. Her continued presence delegitimizes your position, makes a mockery of your rule. Dismiss her."

"I need steel," said Robb. "I don't need to be popular."

The boy was getting better. Still worse than Tyrion, however.

"It is a political necessity," said Tyrion. "You cannot allow a smallfolk so much power."

"He's right," said Maester Coleman. "Listen to the Dwarf. You will be considered a fool if you allow the girl to sully the name of this noble project much longer. Lord Karstark, Lord Bolton, even your loving aunt grows worried about your continued indulgence."

"I will be leaving soon," said Tyrion. "My father has summoned me back to King's Landing. I can escort her back to her home. Wait any longer, and dismissing her will be much more cruel, which is unnecessary and unworthy of you. Let me know what you decide."

Tyrion turned heel and left the Great Hall in a hurry. He'd been in the middle of something far more important than sabotaging Robb Stark's miracle project. He'd been getting his cock sucked. He needed to return to his whore, or his sterling reputation as a connoisseur of debauchery would surely suffer among the fine northern establishments. Worse, he might have to pay for another session. Tyrion spent the rest of the afternoon indulging in the pleasures of the flesh. That night he scheduled a meeting with Tanya.

She'd had strange detailed knowledge of innovative wine manufacturing techniques. She'd been able to come up with an addictive game using only an inflated bladder in a matter of days. He'd required her to come up with a way to make five hundred dragons. Then, perhaps a week later he'd learned that the backwards north had developed a new method of smelting steel that would forever change the world, and would make possible the ability to make large sums of gold without agriculture and taxes. The Salamander Corporation would make 25% of the profits. He was no fool, he knew she was responsible, and he knew that she already knew how such a method was possible. Somehow.

Tyrion had always been curious about the why of things. His best guess was that she had what the northerners would call greensight, the Targaryens would call dragon dreams, and the rest of the realm would just call good old witchcraft. She had visions of future technologies, along with the prodigious intellect to divine their workings. It was a bold guess, but the only other alternative was that she was a genius several orders of magnitude above anyone who had come before. He'd told Robb Stark she promised miracles when converting coal to steel, and he hadn't been lying, metal defined ages: bronze, copper, iron, steel, and now cheap steel. He had neglected to mention the two prior miracles she'd performed for him prior though. That mention of preserving wine through gas, due to the fact that the atmosphere was highly reactive, was an observation that while obviously true upon inspection, should have taken decades to be discovered. And she wasn't some well read maester, she was common folk, it would have been extremely impressive if she could even read. He could only conclude that she was remembering, rather than discovering. Perhaps his specific estimation was incorrect, she may instead have come from a more advanced civilization from land unknown (freely sharing technology why?), but he fully anticipated that she already knew how to use coke to make steel, and would make the project a success if left to her own devices. Tyrion wouldn't let that happen. He'd trick her into revealing her secrets, and use them to recreate the steel-smelting in the south. They'd offer less for pig iron than the north, hire up the current smelting experts, and sell their steel for less. Markets were naturally unbalanced, and if southern steel was just 10% better, 10% cheaper, they wouldn't get 10% more of the market. They wouldn't get 20% more of the market. They'd get the entire market, leaving the northern steel industry barren.

Was it cruel to be so ruthless? To the Starks perhaps, but not to Tanya or the Salamander Corporation. Life was not simple or idyllic, politics could not be avoided, and the vested interests could not be ignored. A peasant with more gold than a Lannister wouldn't stay among the living for long. If she were successful in her steely endeavor, she wouldn't just make an enemy of the king, but the entirety of the nobility.

ooOoo

Tanya and the Dwarf were talking. Not loudly, but Bran had been able to hear them from his perch on a Great Keep window, and climbed down to their meeting room. He stood about two feet from the open window, his feet barely gripping a small overhang. Tanya made Bran feel things nobody else could. Whenever he was around her he felt more alert, more alive, almost like he could fly if only he could remember how to do it. It was like her very presence made the world magical. Maybe he was in love? He was drawn to her chest especially, but luckily Robb had told him it wasn't proper to stare at it. Still, he couldn't help but feel if only he could touch it, something special would happen, and he'd… He'd… The very mysteries of the world would be known to him, if only he could touch her chest, somehow he just knew it deep inside his very soul. When he'd asked Robb how he might convince her to let him touch it, Robb had only laughed like a twit and told him that it was an art he'd need to spend his entire life mastering.

"The problem is that the coke and iron aren't clean," said Tanya. "Or maybe it's the open air in the furnace. Maybe if we rinsed the coke and iron in water?"

"Perhaps," said the Dwarf. "I doubt water will help much. I seem to recall charcoal furnaces using a mix of pig iron, charcoal, and limestone. Perhaps the limestone acts as a cleaning agent."

"Maybe" said Tanya. "It's certainly an avenue worth pursuing. You've gained Robb's favor. Tell him to mix in limestone in the next test. He trusts you."

"Why not tell him yourself," said the Dwarf. "If you want to gain his favor you must gain credibility. Take credit for ideas before they're known to work, and you'll quickly become a trusted source."

Bran squeezed the brick overhang tightly. It wouldn't work. Adults would never listen to children, not even smart ones like Tanya, or brave ones like Bran. When Bran had begged Father to let them keep the pups he hadn't listened, but when Jon had suggested the same he'd given him his ear. The only exception was if you had magic, and Bran didn't have any. It wasn't fair!

"It's not my place," said Tanya. "I'm a mere salaryman, a ground level worker. You're noble, educated in all levels of production, and possess excellent communication skills. An ideal middle manager. You've a knack for building chemistry with anyone from the crudest of blacksmiths to the most posh of nobility. You're best utilized taking ideas from the bottom of the organization to the top, and the top to the bottom."

"I'm blushing" said the Dwarf sarcastically. "I do so love when a lady acknowledges my skillful tongue."

"Very clever, Tyrion," said Tanya dryly. "Will you tell Robb? My point stands. If you tell him about the limestone, he'll listen."

"The women," said the Dwarf. "Why do you want them working? It isn't proper."

"It's cheaper," said Tanya. "Rather than paying maesters to cut up the coal into manageable chunks, we can have women doing it. That's the main reason. Further, women aren't as proud, and would be more open to the small specialized roles required for the construction line that will almost certainly be necessary. Symbolically it represents that The North values efficiency over propriety or tradition."

"Interesting," said the Dwarf. "What of the cooking, cleaning, and sewing? If the women are working, who will take care of the household?"

"Centralize the work," said Tanya. "Cooking a meal for five is difficult, but cooking a meal for five hundred isn't so much more challen-"

The door to The Dwarf's room creaked open. A rustle, the screech of an unsheathed blade, Bran rushed to the window, and Summer howled helplessly from the ground below.

"Behind me child!" The Dwarf shouted, his voice quivering with fear. "Listen. Listen, I don't know who sent you, but I am a Lannister. Whatever they're paying you I'll doub-"

A shrill scream pierced the serene northern night. The cloaked assassin's curved dagger was red with blood, and The Dwarf had fallen, clutching his face. The assassin circled Tanya, who held a small butcher's knife. The assassin pounced, steel moved in a blur too fast for Bran to follow, erupting in sparks.

"You're skillful with a blade," said the assassin, retreating a few steps and shaking a steely hand. "But I wore armor."

Tanya's knife had bent and partially torn. She brought it to her lips and whispered to it. Her chest glowed yellow and bled through her green shirt.

The assassin's eyes widened, and he leapt at Tanya before she could finish her spell. His strike was slowed by a green shell with strange geometric patterns, but burst through it in a couple heartbeats. It had given Tanya enough time to make her own knife glow, she danced out of the way of the assassin's strike, and sliced through his steel-covered wrist like it was nothing more than butter. Tanya tossed aside her own knife, clutching her chest, and picked up the assassin's curved dagger.

"A magic blade formula," Tanya rasped, blood gushing from her chest. "How'd you… make it… last? Tell me… and… let you… go."

The assassin screamed, covering his bleeding stump of a hand.

Tanya groaned, ripped a piece of green fabric from her shirt, and pressed it against the assassin's gushing wound. Her movements were sure, but labored, she swayed like she was about to collapse. She held her new blade against a hanging torch, cauterized the assassin's wound with a sizzle, and pressed it against her own chest. Blood continued to ooze. "I'll… Tell me… How… Mage… And… You'll… Safe…" She groaned and slumped atop the assassin, eyelids drooping, covering him in her blood.

A stampede of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

The assassin shoved Tanya off him, and rushed to the window. His eyes widened when he noticed Bran. The assassin moved to push him off, but lost his balance when he tried to grip the overhang with a nonexistent hand. Bran reached out and grabbed him, before his thoughts caught up with him.

The door burst open. Soldiers filled the room. His older brother entered.

"Bran," said Robb desperately. "Bran, don't."

'Bran don't'. So vague. Don't what? Bran knew well. Even though everyone treated Bran like a child, he knew more than they thought. He knew that they needed the assassin alive for questioning. He knew the assassin would talk, eventually, even if they had to call in Lord Bolton. He knew they'd assume the assassin had been sent after Tyrion, possibly to create some feud between the Starks and the Lannisters…

But.

…He also knew that the assassin was really after Tanya. She was a witch, and soon they'd all know. Unless…

'Bran don't'. Bran chose his interpretation of the vague command. He sighed. He supposed he really must have been smitten with the blonde girl everyone claimed was rusting Stark silver, because only love could make a man do such strange things.

He let go of the assassin, let him fall, and let his dream of becoming an honorable knight die with one final thud. He no longer cared about such a silly, childish dream, he was beyond such juvenile fantasies. He couldn't care less about becoming a knight after witnessing a real life fight to the death. Swordplay, archery, chivalry, what Father and his brothers had taught him, he was beyond such pursuits now.

Because Bran was to be a wizard!

ooOoo

I was relieved when Bran snuck me past the maesters. It would be difficult to explain why I had no pulse. I'd never had one, the Type 95 pumping my blood like a machine rather than a heart. I did not curse Being X for making my computation orb all but useless in combat, its power instead being used in the trifling matter of keeping me alive. Still though, I could not help but feel disappointed. The combatant had been a supremely skilled mage, casting an advanced magic blade formula on a impractically designed dagger that did not appear to require his mana. He had also been an amateur fighter, and hadn't touched me with the clumsy swings of his dagger. Unfortunately, he wore armor that I couldn't penetrate without a strong spell. Unfortunately, casting strong spells required me to lift the formula that allowed the computation orb to function as my heart. Casting the magic blade formula on the butcher's knife had almost killed me, and caused the wound Mary Sue had given me in my second life to manifest.

I did not understand why Being X had given me a computation orb rather than a heart. I could not use it, except as a heart, so why not just give me a body that was not mortally wounded and simply refrain from giving me a computation orb? Why go through the trouble?

I was being irrational. Of all the accursed things the false god had done to me, this was not one of them. I required the most powerful weapon in Westeros to keep me alive, and if Bran's interest in me was any indication, mages had some inborn instinct of the Type-95's potential. I had seen him staring at it when he thought I wasn't looking. I would have to be more careful in the future. Still, there seemed little risk of someone stealing the orb from my chest, killing me for the godly power it would give them, afterall it was a completely irrational concept that no sane person would possibly think of. Who would ever think that the ultimate weapon could only be achieved by taking it from a woman's heart?