Tinkering With Life (GoT SI)

I hadn't moved a muscle, but everyone watching knew I was responsible for what had just happened. The wildlings' faces went from anticipation to a mix of fear and awe. 

Good - that's exactly the reaction I'd been hoping for.

It was a neat little trick I'd recently developed to get around my limitation of needing touch to use my powers. I'd created what were essentially flesh-eating bacteria that remained tethered to me, moving around like an invisible cloud that I could control with a thought. 

Their main purpose was converting organic matter into biomass and storing it for later use.

They weren't really that versatile yet, but they were ready to consume any organic material at my mental command - like a swarm of invisible piranhas. I always had this cloud of invisible biomass surrounding me, prepared to use at a moment's notice.

The discussions with Mance that followed were a bit tense, but I managed to ease things with my winning charm.

"I hope the events outside won't hinder our cooperation," I said once we were in the privacy of his tent.

He was tense but seemed to relax a bit. "No, you didn't start anything, so it wasn't your fault." He clearly had questions but kept them to himself.

That was fine with me, so we got on to important matters.

"So," Mance said, eyeing me skeptically across the tent, "You need our help capturing White Walkers?"

"I'll handle the capturing part. What I need help with is tracking, and we're talking about just one. Failing that, I'd at least like to get my hands on a wight." I flashed him my most winning smile.

He wasn't impressed. "And why exactly would we help you do something that dangerous?"

"Because winter is coming. We both know it, whether we like it or not. That's the truth. Now, I can't promise anything yet, but I might be able to do something about the larger problem somewhere down the line." I said as seriously as I could.

He contemplated my words for a few moments before nodding slowly.

"Ten men," he said.

I shook my head. "Five is plenty. Any more would just slow us down."

"Eight." Why was he negotiating for more men?

"Five," I repeated. "And I'll throw in fixing that shoulder of yours that you keep trying to hide. Don't think I haven't noticed you favoring your left arm."

He agreed easily enough after that.

Without much delay, I was back in my element - sitting on a makeshift chair around a campfire with a line of patients to fix.

I'd thought my earlier display would make people hesitant to approach, but word spread quickly after I regrew that first patient's eye. Soon there were plenty seeking help, most with basic physical injuries.

As I analyzed more and more of their physiology, I found it fascinating to see the small adaptations they'd developed - like skin noticeably thicker than those living south of the Wall. Makes sense, given the harsh climate they endured.

After what felt like hours, the steady stream of patients finally came to an end. I spotted Tormund's familiar face approaching through the dispersing crowd.

"You definitely weren't lying when you said you were a famous healer," he said with a grin.

"I don't like lying," I shrugged. "So, you're one of the men coming with me?"

"Of course!" Tormund laughed. "Like there's a chance I'm gonna miss out on this. You should see how many people are lining up wanting to come with you."

"Oh, I thought my earlier …display would have had the opposite effect."

"Ha! Not many liked Crowkiller anyway," Tormund grinned before he became more serious. 

"Death, no matter how brutal, isn't exactly rare beyond the Wall," Tormund continued. 

"But when you regrew Orker's eye? Now that's something none of us had ever seen before. Made gathering volunteers very easy I barely had to do anything."

He wasn't wrong. If anything, I had to be selective, choosing only those I thought would be most useful for our hunt. There was no point in having too many people slowing us down.

"Well, I'm done here," I said, standing up and brushing off my clothes. "Shall we go meet this eager bunch of volunteers?"

Things were going according to plan so far. Hopefully, everything on the other side was going as smoothly as I'd hoped.

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The last few years have been quite interesting and enlightening for Luwin. 

While healing had not originally been one of his primary interests, it had now become so. All due to one person.

It all started the day that Lord Stark brought a strange boy into the castle after returning from the Greyjoy Rebellion. This boy possessed unusual abilities …magical abilities, and at first, Luwin was skeptical and worried, of course. 

However, it didn't take long for him to understand that the boy was truly someone blessed by whatever gods were out there.

What awed Luwin more than the boy's ability to heal anyone with a touch was the vast amount of knowledge he had on subjects beyond just the art of healing. Every available minute was spent reading and learning from the numerous books the boy had written, filling him with a giddy excitement reminiscent of his days as an acolyte.

He often sat in on the classes at the newly opened healing institute that El had established. He had become so engrossed in the new knowledge available to him at certain moments that he had slightly slacked on some of his duties, but he had picked up his slack other than cutting off or permanently delegating some of his more tedious duties.

However, Luwin was currently annoyed and worried for another reason. 

After what was supposed to be a normal execution, as morbid as it might sound, it was quite a common occurrence, the men returned looking spooked, and more concerning was that El was with them, looking worried as well.

It had all started with the noble heirs showing up in Winterfell at the same time, which required him to spend considerable time organizing all the communications regarding the situation. That was still manageable, but what truly began to weigh on him was a previous correspondence with the Citadel.

They had expressed an interest in acquiring some of El's books after he shared some of his findings with them. 

So, he decided to ask El, and his response had been positive. However, he also asked for a condition: He wanted the Citadel to send a copy of an equally interesting book in exchange for the growing library at the institute.

It had seemed like a fair ask but for some reason he couldn't comprehend, he was met with a refusal from the Citadel. That marked the beginning of his problems, and now, as he held the latest letter from the Citadel, he couldn't believe what he was reading.

The letter stated that the Citadel had been attacked, and all the high-ranking Archmaesters had been killed by a swarm of locusts that had seemingly gathered for that sole purpose.

He didn't know how to process this information. He had already checked to see if the letter could be fake, but it showed no signs of being so; even if it was fake, he wondered what purpose it was supposed to serve.

What was clear from the letter was that the leadership of the Citadel had changed overnight. 

Archmaester Merwyn was now the senior most Maester left at the Citadel and was handling matters. He had agreed to the previously proposed exchange of books and even stated that he would personally look for any existing copies of interesting books and have them sent.

That was one less headache for Luwin to worry about, but he couldn't ignore the growing number of questions he had: What had happened? How? Why?

He reported the matter to Lord Stark, but for some reason, Lord Stark seemed distracted. It wasn't just him; Luwin soon noticed that the entire group of men who had gone to execute the deserter had returned looking spooked but completely unhurt.

It wasn't just him that had noticed it. Almost the entirety of Winterfell seemed to be speculating what had occurred.

When Luwin asked around, he couldn't get a single answer that made any sense. Even Lord Stark had been silent on the matter when he inquired.

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Robert stared at Jon Arryn's pale face, watching helplessly as his foster father's life ebbed away.

The room felt too small, too stifling, but the size of the room had nothing to do with it. 

It was just the weight of failure crushing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

He took another long pull from his wine cup, hardly tasting it anymore. 

Jon had always disapproved of his drinking, but what else was there to do? Watch clear-headed as the man who'd raised him, who'd kept the bloody kingdoms from falling apart while he made a mess of everything - watch him die?

"Your Grace," Pycelle droned from somewhere behind him, "perhaps we should-"

"Get out," Robert growled, not bothering to look at the old maester. "All of you, out!"

The shuffling of feet told him his command was being obeyed. Good. He couldn't stand their hovering, their fake concerned faces. 

Once they were gone, he leaned forward in his chair, taking Jon's frail hand. When had the old man gotten so fragile?

"Jon," he said roughly, his voice thick. "Don't you dare die on me, you old bastard. Who's going to run the kingdoms? Not me, we both know that." he finished chuckling humorlessly.

Jon's eyes fluttered open, cloudy and unfocused. "Robert..." his voice was barely a whisper. "The seed is..."

And then nothing. His hand went limp, his chest stilled, and just like that, Jon Arryn was gone.

Robert sat there for a long time, still holding that lifeless hand, feeling more alone than he had since they'd brought Lyanna's body back from that cursed tower.

It didn't make sense—Jon had only seemed a bit under the weather these past few days. Nothing could explain this sudden, devastating decline.

He had been gone not long on a hunt and returned to find Jon in a state so completely incoherent that he didn't even understand what his last words meant. For gods' sake, there was a plot afoot, and he hated plots. He couldn't do this alone.

He needed help. He needed someone he could trust, someone who could do what needed to be done. Someone who actually cared about honor and duty and all those things Jon had tried to teach them.

He needed Ned.

Robert stood up, his chair scraping against the stone floor. Yes, he'd go North himself. Ned would refuse if he just sent a raven—his friend was stubborn that way. But face to face? Robert could convince him.

And maybe, just maybe, he could convince the Mage to come south as well.

He was fun to talk to, and he definitely had to thank him for whatever he had done to make Cerci quiet. He had experienced a lot fewer headaches without having to deal with her nagging.

Most importantly, he could tell that the smell of the city was returning, although it was still leagues better than what it used to be. He had gotten used to the city not smelling like shit.

Robert took one last look at Jon's peaceful face before striding toward the door. 

He made up his mind he was going to journey north after Jon's funeral.

The Mage had probably been right—the throne was definitely cursed. Everyone who sat on it seemed to have a terrible life. But what choice did he have now? He couldn't just walk away, as much as he wanted to.

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A/N: If you wish to read ahead you can find 8 more chapters on my Pa treon