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"I know your secret," said Bran proudly. He'd wrapped Tanya up in the dwarf's blanket to cover her magical chest wound and snuck her past the maesters and safely up to his room. "You're a witch, and you're hiding a magical gem in your heart!"

"Urppphhh!" Tanya groaned in his bed, clutching her heart in agony and kicking her legs out like Rickon had when he was a baby. Poor witch, that wound on her chest had looked pretty painful. Maybe her magic required blood or something? The wound had seemed to come from her spell, the assassin hadn't gotten close to touching her with his Valyrian steel dagger. He'd heard from Old Nan that blood magic was practiced by maegi beyond the Dothraki Sea. "Arrrrrrggggghhhh!!!"

"Should I take you to a maesters?" Asked Bran. He didn't want to though. He wasn't sure where all the maesters were from, and he'd heard southerners hated magic. It hadn't escaped his notice that Tanya lacked a pulse.

"No," said Tanya. "No… Thank you… For keeping my secret… What do you want? Gold?"

Bran huffed. He wasn't going to demand a reward for helping her. It wasn't gallant. Besides, he'd hardly done anything. She was the one who'd been heroic, saving the dwarf from that evil assassin. Maybe he should ask for nothing? That was always the moral in Old Nan's stories but he couldn't quite bring himself to be so noble. "Magic," said Bran shyly. "Can you teach me? Please! I know I've got it, I just know it!" That had seemed a bit demanding, hadn't it? "I won't tell anyone. I promise! I'll keep everything I saw a secret!"

Tanya groaned. "Fine… Magic you want, m'lord, magic you'll get. Just keep what you saw between me and you."

"I won't show anyone," Bran promised. "Please! I promise I'll be good, I promise!"

Tanya's smile wasn't quite sweet. "You want to be a mage? You'll have to take lower wages. Dangerous missions. Even survival won't mean honor and glory. Ours will be an order of secrecy. I feel compelled to advise you against it, my lord. It's a terrible career choice. You've got several preferable options."

"I can do it!" Bran said. He was certain Tanya was testing him. It was just like in Old Nan's stories, the witch always disguised herself! Tanya may have appeared to be a child, but he was certain she was his wise old mentor. And in the stories, nothing good came easy. "I won't ever complain!"

"Fine," said Tanya. "Just remember, a great leader realizes when an operation is futile and quits. Even at a loss."

Bran huffed. He would never quit!

ooOoo

The assassin's hand had been cut off, despite being protected by plate armor. It had been a clean cut, rather than a forceful one, the armor cleaved so precisely they could be fit back together like shattered pieces of a rock. Such strikes weren't unheard of, but he'd expect it from a professional fighter wielding Valyrian steel, not from Bran, or Tyrion, or the salamander girl. However, those had been the only three in the room. Robb and his men had been putting out a fire in the stables, a clear diversion in hindsight. There was a bent and partially torn butcher's knife, made of a lower quality steel than Mikken would ever accept. It wasn't from Winterfell, and yet it had been involved in the skirmish somehow. It couldn't have dealt the decisive blow, it certainly wouldn't have left a clean cut. A weapon was missing, perhaps of Valyrian origin. Lord Lannister's perhaps? It wasn't out of the question that a Lannister may have had such a priceless weapon. Why would Bran have hidden it? Maybe the girl had stolen it in a 'bout of childish greed? Perhaps…

Robb looked down from the window where the assassin had fallen. Perhaps he'd tried to grab a window during the fall? No, no, the assassin's hand had been found in the room.

Well, how the assassin had been wounded was hardly the most pressing matter. Robb scratched his direwolf, Grey Wind.

"Are you worried?" Asked Theon.

Robb was shaking.

"You'd be a fool not to be," said Theon. "If the Imp thinks the assassin was one of ours, it could mean war. Your father is in the Red Keep. We should imprison the Imp, and send ravens to King's Landing for your father to ride back north."

Perhaps it was wise advice. If war with the Lannisters was inevitable, it would be the most prudent course of action. But Robb would speak to Lord Lannister before making any decisions. He went to his mother's bedchambers, where they were temporarily keeping Tyrion.

"Have you caught the man who did this?" Asked Tyrion sourly, bedridden, and surrounded by maesters. "The fucker took my eye."

Robb looked him over. A red cut ran across the halfman's face, and the maesters had secured a large bandage across his right eye to somewhat stop the bleeding. "It's an improvement."

Tyrion's laughter was almost hysterical.

"But no," said Robb. "The assassin fell from the window. He's dead."

"Well isn't that convenient," said Tyrion, trembling. "You do realize that everyone's going to assume that you're behind it?"

"I wasn't," said Robb quietly. "I had no part in it. On my father's honor, you have my word."

Tyrion assessed him for a moment. "I believe you. My father won't. The blade the assassin wielded was… I believe…" Tyrion scowled. "Valyrian steel. Very rare…"

"If we can find who it belongs to, we'll know who sent him," Robb said.

"No," said Tyrion, sighing and lying back down. "Not necessarily. What kind of fool would arm an assassin with their own blade?"

"It wouldn't have mattered if he'd have finished the job," said Robb.

"Why didn't he?" Asked Tyrion. "He should have been capable. Why hire a second rate assassin if you're going to arm him with Valyrian steel? Only a fool would do that. A fool or someone that seeks to create a schism between noble houses. We must not let them. Continue to investigate if you must, but be wary of any firm conclusions, lest you become a puppet in our mastermind's plot. I will not tell my father of this, you do not tell yours, we must keep this attempt a secret for the good of the realm. At least until we have more information."

"Aye," said Robb. Tyrion was lying, somewhere, somehow. It was a southern plot, Robb was sure, but against the Lannisters rather than the Starks. He wasn't inclined to involve himself. The only other possible target was Bran, but that didn't make sense either. There wasn't any motive; more importantly, Robb had witnessed the tailend of the attempt, and the assassin had been surprised by Bran's presence in the window.

He went up two flights of stairs to his younger brother's room. Bran was tending to the salamander girl sleeping in his bed. He'd hung her bloody green uniform on a hanger. Summer growled at Robb's presence.

"Brother," said Robb gently. "Why did you push him off? I ordered you not to."

Bran was silent for a moment. Then another. Then another.

"I…" said Bran, looking at his feet. "I thought you meant um… Push him… I didn't know…"

Robb sighed. "What happened?"

"I didn't see… I mean, the assassin went after… The dwarf… And um…"

Robb could hear the lie.

"Who was the assassin after?" Robb asked.

"I don't know," said Bran, looking at his chamberpot. "I didn't see."

"Was he after you?" Asked Robb.

"Yes," said Bran, turning red, kneading his fingers nervously. "Yes. He was coming after me."

Robb frowned. Another lie. He'd eliminated two options. One remained, as unlikely as it was. "The girl… Was the assassin after her?"

"No," said Bran immediately, fiercely. He stood in front of her protectively. "Tanya's just a perfectly normal girl, it wouldn't make any sense!"

Robb could read Bran like a book, and knew the truth of it. An assassin wielding Valyrian steel had been after a smallfolk girl. But why? Hmm…

She'd have to be more important than she appeared… But how? She was a mere girl… Smart… Very smart, she was literate, rare for someone of her circumstances. Much of her advice had seemed wise and logical; in truth he'd have likely followed if it had come from a maester… But still, she was a girl of ten-and-one. How important could she possibly be?

Extremely important, if his enemies were to be believed…

No, no, he had to be mistaken. She was a mere peasant!

"Bran," said Robb. "Tyrion made mention of a Valyrian steel dagger. Did you take it?"

"No," said Bran.

"Did she take it?" Asked Robb.

Bran was silent for a moment longer than necessary. "No."

A mere peasant had defeated an assassin wielding Valyrian steel? The notion was laughable. He was being a fool!

But…

"Very well," said Robb, standing. "I'm done here. Theon, guard the room. Nobody gets in or out for any reason. When the girl wakes, send Bran to fetch me immediately."

Tanya had the dagger. He'd talk with her about it later, see what she'd do. He'd neglected her for far too long, dismissed her for her apparent youth and humble background. Perhaps he'd been right to ignore her, but to blind himself of information had obviously been an error. Robb went to his room, and told Mikken to fetch him Lother Brune.

"The girl you're with, Tanya right?" Robb frowned. A strange name, it sounded somewhat foreign, but he couldn't quite place from where. Perhaps she was a foreign noble prodigy from a more technologically advanced… Sent to help him, why? Brune gave a nod. "You're to report everything she does and says to me."

Lother Brune chuckled. "Finally figured out her importance, eh m'lord? About time. My rate is ten moons a week."

Robb scowled. "Not much for loyalty, are you?"

Lother Brune shrugged. "You'd have the information out of me either way, the least I can do is get paid for it."

Informing on a child of ten and one, it sickened him to have to work with such filth. He hid his disgust as best he could. "She sent you to deal with Father knowing he'd be more receptive to a soldier."

"Aye," said Lother Brune easily, leaning against the doorway, chewing on the stem of a blade of grain.

"What other nobles has she worked with?" Asked Robb, pacing back and forth. Basic questions he should have asked weeks ago! Mistake after mistake! Failing his duty!

"Just a few," said Lother Brune. "The most noticeable was the king. Had the entire precession talking. She impressed him. He'd grant her his favor if she could create a wine that tops Arbor Gold. An easier task than you might expect, Lord Stark, it's vinegary piss water. And of course, there's the deal she made through me with your father. Similar to the king, though more difficult, and with steel rather than wine."

Robb nodded, he'd tried the different wines of the realm, and found them all alike. Whatever flavor they might have had was overwhelmed by noxious taste of alcohol, pretending otherwise was mere southern grandstanding. Father had seen the value of the salamander far more quickly than Robb, overlooking their humble origins, it made sense that father's old friend Robert Baratheon would have as well. Still, even acknowledging she was a genius merchant, she was only making wine and steel, and she was specifically doing it for the Starks and the Baratheons. She was a peasant of King's Landing, and although she was a freeholder rather than a villein, the king himself was still her liege lord. He struggled to see the purpose of risking the ire of two great houses over the mere exchange of gold.

"What wineries did the king give her?" Asked Robb idly, as he tried to make sense of the situation. He knew House Redwyne was fairly powerful, perhaps they had taken the king's shifting favor as a slight?

"None," said Lother Brune. "He's a sterner man than your father, but likely more aware of her prowess. The Salamander Corporation took over the entire meat industry in King's Landing, so she has enough gold and experience to reasonably be expected to partner with a middling distillery. A logical partner for her might be Lord Butterwell, who always seeks to improve his wine. Of course this is merely a personal projection, Tanya's plans are her own."

So she was working for the Starks, the Baratheons, and a bannerman of the Tullys. If not for Tyrion's lost eye, he would have suspected the assassin came from the Lannisters. Perhaps the Tyrells or the Martells? Both had been loyal to the Targaryens, perhaps they wished to strike the Starks and Baratheons by attacking a valuable piece? But why not just attack Bran then? Or Robb himself? Attacking a mere smallfolk girl defied reason.

It couldn't have been about the current project. Robb knew that Father had assigned it to him as a training exercise, to familiarize him with the logistics required for a large-scale mobilization. If Father really thought the project had any chance of meeting the Salamander Corporation's lofty goals, he wouldn't have agreed to such a horribly one-sided contract. The Starks might become the wealthiest house in Westeros, but with a majority stake in all projected steel production in the entire continent, the Salamander Corporation would rule the country in all but name. It was beyond even considering. Wealth didn't just appear, as if from nothing, that was naive foolishness. Robb would be pleasantly surprised if he ever saw any new steel from the salamander's new production methods. He would be shocked if the process was expanded to match current production. The scope the salamander promised had been outrageous. It couldn't possibly work. It was impossible.

…But… Someone thought they would, at least enough to arm an assassin with a Valyrian steel blade. But who?

Lother Brune patted Robb on the shoulder. "You've got too much of the North in you to make sense of southern politics. Not that it's a bad thing. The way you care for your brother, it warms my heart." He turned, and left. "During my travels I've learned that such familial love is rare indeed."

Several hours later, Bran came to him with news that Tanya had awoken. The first thing she did when she saw him was hand him a jewel encrusted Valyrian steel dagger. Robb smiled, she must've pocketed the blade in the fight, and was returning it to him unprompted at her first opportunity. He didn't sense some vast alien intelligence from her, mere honesty, which he found preferable.

"I'll talk with her alone," he said, clearing his little brother's room. Tanya motioned for him to give the dagger back.

"I got it from the magic user, m'lord," she said, a single curl of yellow hair seeming to sparkle in smug satisfaction. "Even though it looks ornamental, lacking even a crossguard, it's useful because it has a permanent magic blade formula on it." She reached for her bloody green salamander uniform which Bran had put on a nearby hanger, procured a small knife from a hidden pocket, and sliced the knife in two with the priceless Valyrian steel dagger. "Incredible. The man who went after Lord Lannister wasn't much of a fighter, and clearly didn't understand basic weapon design, but he was a brilliant mage. A tragic misuse of human resources. If we can convince him to use his magical formula on our steel, we can sell it for two, maybe even three times the price!"

"He's dead," said Robb, his stomach lurching uncomfortably. Recreating Valyrian steel, who would consider such a thing so flippantly? "He wore plate armor. How were you able to take off his hand?"

"With the knife, m'lord," said Tanya. "As I've shown, it can cut through steel. I'll admit that in my past I've been in a few life-or-death fights. I'm a superior combatant than some nerd with a magic sword."

She didn't appear to be lying, but he couldn't tell for sure.

"Do you have any idea why an assassin was sent after you?" Asked Robb.

Tanya chuckled. "Me? He was after Lord Lannister. I was just unfortunate enough to be in the same room."

"Fine," said Robb neutrally. "Why would someone seek to assassinate Lord Lannister."

Tanya's smile could only be described as chilling. "I have no sources. I have no inside information. I can only speculate, m'lord."

"Then speculate," said Robb.

"They could not pick a more inflammatory target than Lord Tyrion Lannister, especially during his stay at Winterfell. The Starks. The Lannisters. Probably the second and third most influential houses in the entire realm. In the worst case this might devolve into a civil war," said Tanya, raising a single finger. "So who benefits? You might be tempted to consider one great house or another. The Tyrells? The Martells? Perhaps the Greyjoys? All have good reason to hate the Baratheons, Starks, and Lannisters. Perhaps it is the Boltons, they might seek to weaken your house in a fight with the Lannisters, and install themselves as new wardens of the north. I've heard Roose Bolton is ambitious."

He hadn't considered the Boltons. He probably should have, but he didn't think that any of the northern houses would do anything so treacherous. They had honor in the Nor-

"But really," said Tanya cooley. "A war between the Lannisters and the Starks would do none of them good. None of the noble houses, big or small, would consider a ruinous civil war beneficial. Speaking for the merchants and small folk, we have no desire for that either. So then, Lord Robb Stark, who benefits?"

Robb's mind was a fog.

"Come now," said Tanya. "You've heard the rumors."

A cold chill ran through his spine. A part of him realized the truth of her words. Something that even Lord Tyrion had overlooked.

"Ask yourself," said Tanya. "If you had to wage war against another land, with technological and numerical advantage, how would you do it?"

"I wouldn't," said Robb. "Only a fool would."

"But let's say you had to," said Tanya. "Let's say your people had no more room to expand. Or they were pushed into war by an alliance with a bloodthirsty neighbor. How then?"

"Turn them against themselves," said Robb. "Weaken them, so they are vulnerable to invasion. The more they fight themselves, the less they'd be able to repel my own forces. Even if they don't actually fight, merely splitting them would weaken their combat potential."

"Divide and conquer. A timeless strategy. It's what I would do if I were Mance Rayder," said Tanya cheerfully.

A muted horror overtook him, until he realized that her brilliant argument had destroyed itself. Her thoughts were alien, brilliant, and yet had all the certainty of truth. He'd studied his military history, and knew the truth of her words, but never heard the concept described so brazenly, so succinctly. Father had merely hinted at what she'd stated outright. If she told him she could revolutionize a millennia of steel manufacturing, he'd believe her. He was now certain she was the target of assassination, and just as certain that some divinity, perhaps the old gods, perhaps the new, had sent her here in The North's darkest hour. Or perhaps she was a god herself, wearing the skin of a little girl. No, no, what was he thinking? She peeled one of Bran's apples with the priceless Valyrian steel dagger, cutting it into chunks, and offering Robb a small slice of the fruit. He hesitated, but took the offering.

"Bran thinks the assassin was after you," said Robb.

Tanya snorted. "He's nine. I'm a shiny new toy for the young lord. He overestimates my importance."

It made sense. It was rational. Tanya was Bran's first crush, it made perfect sense that he'd mistake the situation. Robb didn't believe it for a second. The question that mattered was whether she did.

"The Salamander Corporation pales in comparison to the Starks and Lannisters, and operates under the permission of the king. As you know, Father and I are freemen, proper peasants not lowly serf villeins, and have sworn lifelong fealty to the king and can therefore own property," said Tanya proudly. "Although we can pocket a percentage of the profits to spend as we see fit, the majority still goes to our liege. Federal income taxes, tsk! No matter how wealthy the Salamander Corporation becomes, Father is a replaceable steward, and I am an even more replaceable advisor to a steward. I'm not some long lost Targaryen princess, I'm not a noble lady from a powerful house, or even some beautiful courtesan. I'm but a hard-working member of the proletariat, beneath the notice of such dangerous games."

She was right. What was he afraid of? She was a mere smallfolk, the worst she could do was sabotage the project, and it wouldn't work without her anyway. She could not damage him. And yet, a sliver of him doubted… Niggling. Uncomfortable. A spider inside his chainmail.

"Tell me what you know about the steel-smelting project," said Robb.

Tanya's eyes lit up. "Of course m'lord." Her description was thorough, detailed, and so dry it would make a maester jealous. It was entirely lacking though, in anything that could be considered childish. When he asked her questions about various aspects of the project, the thoroughness of her answers, the depth of her knowledge were all what he would expect from an experienced lord being asked of the running of their household. He asked about her bizarre suggestion to hire women onto the project, and received an intriguing answer about specialization and efficiency. Like a well run army, it was a waste to have all your soldiers do a little of everything, each should have a distinct role. The fewer responsibilities, the more efficient a soldier could be. Why not run a house, why not run a project, like you ran an army? Would it not be more efficient for a few women to cook for everyone, to sew for everyone, to centralize, specialize, and reduce individual responsibilities? The fewer responsibilities a worker had, the more efficient they could become. Think of the production of coke not as the result of a skilled laborer, but as a series of tasks that all needed to be completed, all in a line of construction. Tradition and chivalry were obstacles in the way of efficiency. Robb could understand her alien logic, though it made him uncomfortable. But tradition and chivalry would not defeat the white walkers. Steel would. If they did things the old way, he'd lose. He wasn't going to do things the old way.

"What will you need to make this project a success?" Asked Robb.

"The cooperation of the project team," said Tanya. "I need to be allowed to observe the production of coke and the authority and capital to implement necessary operational improvements."

"I'll think about it," said Robb. Her requests were laughably meager. And yet somehow he felt like he was signing away the very spirit of The North to a demon straight out of legend.

"Have you spoken with Lord Tyrion?" Asked Tanya. Robb nodded. "Has he mentioned anything? About the project?"

"He lost an eye," said Robb dryly. "The project didn't come up."

Tanya hid her irritation poorly. It reminded Robb quite a bit of Father when he heard of men whoring or drinking, and for a moment she seemed human. "Interesting," she said sharply. "He told me that perhaps adding limestone to the furnaces, as well as the coke and pig iron, might solve our problem with rust. How unfortunate that it somehow slipped from his mind."

Did she not realize that Tyrion had lost an eye? Robb believed that grievous wounds might make a man momentarily forget a vanity project, but had the distinct impression that Tanya would scoff at the notion.

He tested the girl's suggestions by adding limestone to the smelting-process a few days later, and was rewarded with steel stronger than anything made since Valyria. Northern Steel, the maesters called it. The process had been so quick, so easy, the only limiting factor was the production of coke. Even in smaller quantities, high quality steel would be invaluable. The project had been the Stark's sole success in their war with the white walkers. His aunt and uncle had been unmoved by Mother's requests for aid, and his father had been met with so much suspicion it may have been better to have not requested the queen's support nor the Reach's. Dorne's indifference had been an improvement, and contacting Stannis had strangely proven impossible. So far, the Salamander Corporation was The North's only ally, nothing less than a gift from the gods themselves.

"To the Salamander Corporation's Northern Steel," Robb yelled, holding up his sword, staring at Tanya. "Better than silver! The future of The North!"

"No," said Tanya sternly, disapproval radiating from her green uniform. "It is still inferior. It can still be improved. The assassin's weapon was far stronger. We must discover why. This isn't acceptable for public release-"

"To Robb Stark!" Lother Brune covered up her mouth with a smile. "To Northern Steel!"

The smiths and maesters roared their approval. "To Northern Steel! To Robb Stark! To the Salamander Corporation!"

Tanya huffed, and stalked away. Soon after, she requested that the Valyrian steel dagger be melted down, a portion of it to be combined with various ratios of Northern Steel, another portion to remain pure and be cast into razors, all with the intention of reproducing the lost technology. Robb denied her of course, but he did make sure the maesters and smiths knew that she had his full backing in other endeavors. They were to work with her. He was met with surprisingly little resistance. The only protesters were Theon and Maester Coleman.

ooOoo

Cersei or Joffrey? That was the question Tyrion pondered while he healed in bed after he had finally recognized the Valyrian steel dagger which had taken his eye. An ornamental piece, or so the king had proclaimed, a fitting blade for someone who'd never stepped foot on a battlefield. It didn't even have a crossguard. The dagger had been in the king's possession, so the assassin must have come from royalty. Of royalty, only Cersei or Joffrey would have ordered him dead. The question was why. Joffrey was a bloodthirsty fool, but why act now? Nevertheless, it was possible that the attempt on his life was merely the result of idiocy. Cersei seemed the more likely option. His older bitch of a sister had always held him in animous, and there were rumors that the new Hand was desperately trying to get in contact with Lord Stannis Baratheon, who had mysteriously fled from King's Landing after the late Jon Arryn's not-at-all suspicious death. He'd heard, of course, that the new Hand was trying to build up an army, loyal to his own brother- the mysterious Benjen Stark- using the laughable guise of an invasion of white walkers. It wasn't as if he had a spy network, everyone in the Seven Kingdoms had heard of Lord Stark's clumsy attempts to put the realm under northern control. The southern lords resisted for now, but things had changed. Which was worth more: Lannister gold or Northern Steel? And what about when rumors of the king's heirs legitimacy inevitably became more widespread? He'd heard from his brother that the youngest Stark girl had taken to visiting the king's bastards, and reading all about Baratheon blood lines. A civil war was coming. The Starks moved against the Lannisters legally, and there was little they could do to retaliate while Robert Baratheon was in power. It was probable that the best move for the family had been to sacrifice Tyrion, and move before the northern plots were fully realized. He could fully admit the wisdom in Cersei's actions.

However, Tyrion liked living. How best to ensure his safety? Once he was outside of Stark hospitality, it seemed unlikely that another attempt on his life would be made. He could rejoin his family, and act like the attempt had never happened, stand up against Cersei and Joffrey as best he could. However… He could also defect. He could stay in The North. If he told Lord Robb Stark his suspicions, he was sure he'd be accepted into his services. He could see this Northern-Steel project through to completion, and perhaps even be promised Casterly Rock after the civil war was through. Frankly, it was the smarter play. Eventually the king would realize that Cersei's children weren't his, and that would likely be the end of his dear sister and his sweet nephew Joffrey… But also Myrcella and Tommen. And Jaime too… Jaime too.

There was one other matter to consider. Tanya. He owed her his life. He wouldn't be letting her anywhere near Father of course, but that hardly seemed sufficient. He requested the presence of her trusted assistant, Lother Brune, to learn how best to repay her.

"There's little you can do for her, Lord Tyrion. Gold, land, titles, they'll all be hers soon enough," said Lother Brune. "If she doesn't offend the wrong person first. Her problem is not something as simple as manners or etiquette. She does not think the high lords should be above her, m'lord, she thinks she could do better. A problem, but a small one. There are plenty of peasants with misplaced ambition, and she does a better job of disguising hers than most. The concern that I suspect the high lords will have, is that her ambition is not misplaced. She would do better. And each success of the salamander makes that more clear."

An astute observation. He'd had the concern before he'd spoken with the soldier, but it was nice to have it confirmed. Insubordination could be forgiven; superiority could not. But the question was what was to be done about it.

ooOoo

"Might I offer a suggestion, m'lord?" I asked. It was my first strategic meeting with the project team, and my first opportunity to prove my competence to my new employer. I was under no illusions, I was an uneducated rube, surrounded by the most powerful men in The North. If I didn't impress them here, there would be no second chance. The Great Hall had been cleared for us. Lord Robb Stark sat on one end of the table and had indicated for me to sit opposite him, on the other end. Mikken the blacksmith and Maester Rhodry of Cerwyn had been chosen to represent the technical production of coke and steel respectively. Mikken had reported that he could produce up to two pounds of coke a week. Maester Rhodry reported that Winterfell imported 2000 pounds of coal, 500 pounds of pig iron, and 200 pounds of limestone a week, and could easily ramp those numbers up by an order of magnitude with increased trade with various cities in the north. At present, two pounds of coal could be converted into one pound of coke a week. To produce one pound of Northern Steel required roughly two pounds of coke, one pound of pig iron, and a quarter pound of limestone. It took roughly 2 pounds of steel to arm a man, and 30 to properly armor him. Without fixing their coke production they could arm a few men with Northern Steel. If they fixed their coke bottleneck, they had the resources for 250 new swords, or 20 properly equipped knights every week. At full capacity, The North alone had the steel to properly equip about 200 new knights a week.

From what I had heard, the Wildling army was 100,000 strong. The Night's Watch had the Wall though. 5,000 knights ought to be enough to defend the border indefinitely, so long as they had plenty of ammunition for their crossbows. That meant The North needed about half a year's production operating at full industrial capacity to properly defend their borders. It also meant that operating at their current threshold would be insufficient, and would result in northern collapse without aid from the rest of the country. My calculations didn't account for the human resources required, nor how the raw steel would be converted into useful products like bolts or swords. However, that was beyond the purview of the Stark-Salamander steel project, and was irrelevant to the current meeting.

To Robb's left was Theon Greyjoy, a crony of the acting lord. To his right, unfortunately, was Tyrion Lannister, who acted as Robb's trusted advisor. He'd likely stayed in The North to sabotage me.

"I would highly recommend reaching out to anyone in the area with experience smelting steel. Yes we've managed to create steel, but there are likely numerous inefficiencies that could be spotted by an expert. Interview them, gauge their interests, their thoughts on innovation, and after careful consideration of all factors with the project team, hire the best candid-"

I was interrupted by Theon's mocking laughter. Tyrion and Rhodry were smiling as if I'd said something foolish. Mikken seemed slightly sympathetic.

"I'm Lord of Winterfell while father's away," said Robb, chuckling. "Rhodry, find the man who operates the smallest steel-smelting shop in the area, and bring him to Winterfell. He's been selected for a great honor."

"It will be done, m'lord," said Maester Rhodry.

Crap! I'd made a rookie mistake! I'd spoken up in my first meeting, and unintentionally criticized organizational culture! I'd forgotten that in this primitive society my fellow smallfolk had no right to even the basic human rights of self-determination and liberty.

"More importantly," I said, recovering from my earlier gaffe. "It appears that the limited production of coke is the primary problem in our operations. I'd like to work with Mikken to create an action plan to increase Winterfell's productive capacity from 2 pounds a week to 20,000."

"Just that?" Robb asked, his tone making clear he hadn't forgotten my earlier gaffe. The other members of the project team were laughing at me as well. "How long would you need?"

Ugh. A self-imposed deadline for a cutting-edge project? Such an annoying question, and one every boss seemed to ask. A less experienced salaryman might ask for a year, and be judged a malingerer, or ask for a few days and set himself up for failure. Luckily, I had come prepared with a baseline. It had taken about a week for Mikken to create coke based on my clumsy descriptions, and going from zero to prototype often took more time than going from prototype to 10,000. The rule-of-thumb was to give yourself 2.5 times more than planned for a project. The project would, by my calculations, take roughly 18 days.

"I would like six weeks," I said audaciously. It never hurt to give yourself more time than strictly necessary, especially if you were negotiating with a layman.

Robb chuckled in disbelief, clearly having seen through my ruse. "Six weeks, she says."

Mikken tried to chuckle but instead produced a mangled gasp, and glared at me. As an expert in nonverbal communication, I understood his message perfectly. "M'lord, please, she's just a gurl! She don't know what she's sayi-"

"Two weeks," I said desperately, completing Mikken's thought. Slightly less than the 2.5 rule-of-thumb projection, but it still ought to be doable. I'd underestimated Robb Stark, he was clearly a no-nonsense task master after General Zettour's own heart. "Give us two weeks!"

"Very well," said Robb. "Two weeks."