Chapter Text
Tarvek
He was annoyed. That… that parvenu son of the most hated (if also respected) men in Europe had gone off after giving her a kiss that had come close to melting his glasses. Alright, so Violetta had pointed out that the sneaky weasel’s departure actually heightened his own chances of success with Agatha, but still…
Faugh. He had enough to think about. This part of Castle Hetrodyne was… fascinating. It was also insanely dangerous at times, even with Agatha being there. Violetta had just gone, fortunately, so he could brood in peace. Who to approach in the order… Van Bulen perhaps? And then there was the little issue of the Smoke Knights… He hefted the bag of tools in his hands for a moment and thought hard. Hmmm, they had a grudge…
He sighed and then put a hand on the nearest wall. He could do this. Then he paused. His hand was not on the wall. It was on some kind of mirror. He peered at it worriedly for a moment, before pulling his hand off it. For a split second he felt oddly heavy, but then the sensation went away. He eyed the mirror suspiciously and then sighed and walked away.
He never saw his own horrified face inside the mirror before it vanished downwards as if the floor had vanished. But then he also never saw the gleeful face of Sanaa Wilhelm as she leapt on him with the sack.
This was peculiar, he thought as he plummeted downwards. It was also alarming and there was an excellent chance that he was about to die, but first he had to address an important existential point. Was he the original or was he a copy? The mirror had done something to him, but what? Was it worth worrying about, given that he was about to die?
Then he hit what appeared to be a vast cloud of fluffiness and came to a halt. Ok. This was more than peculiar. He felt an odd sensation of juddering and then a noise like a giant ruler twanging. It was then the fluffiness vanished and he plummeted downwards again.
This time he landed in what felt like a giant pile of leaves, landed so hard that it drove every breath of air from his lungs. As he tried to make his chest move again he opened his eyes. Oh look, he was in a giant pile of leaves. Red leaves. Odd – it wasn’t autumn. Something white was above him. White branches?
His lungs finally started working again and he took a deep whooping gulp of air into them. Then his limbs started to report in. What they mostly said was ‘pain’.
It was then that he noticed the faces around him, all looking down at him. One was bearded and older than the others. He looked very like one of the others. Then there was a red-headed lad and a slightly older lad who looked both cocky and confused and a young boy who was babbling something to the others about a blue portal in the sky.
The older man told the boy that yes, he’d seen the same thing, before looking down at him and asking who he was.
He cudgelled his brain a little. Ah, yes. “Tarvek Sturmvoraus,” he said. “Prince of Sturmhalten.” And then he passed out.
Ned
He sat in his solar and brooded quietly over the heap of clothing on the table in front of him. After a moment he heard a set of knuckles rap on the open door and he looked up to see Cat standing there, a slightly exasperated look on her face.
“Are you alright Cat?”
She threw her hands in the air as she approached him. “I can’t get Bran to stop talking about what he saw on that hunt in the woods! He just goes on and on and on about it, about blue portals and falling men and what it might mean and if the Old Gods are talking to us and… well, he won’t shut up.”
“I’m not surprised,” he replied quietly. “If I was his age I’d be babbling about it myself. I saw it too, Cat. So did Robb, Jon and Theon. He fell from a blue portal that appeared in the air.”
She looked at him worriedly and she could tell that doubt was battling with belief. “Ned,” she said eventually, “It all sounds so… fantastical. Bizarre.”
“And yet it is what it is,” he replied, before reaching out and running a hand over the clothing in front of him. “It all looks worn and tattered doesn’t it? He said that he was a Prince, but his clothes are not that of a prince. Until you look harder. These are old, yes, worn, yes… but look at the material Cat.” He handed over the shirt and then jabbed a finger at it. “Feel it.”
She did so and then frowned. “Is this cotton?”
“Aye. Finer thread than I have ever seen, or felt, before. It may be old and worn, but it must have cost many a silver stag. And this coat… it’s fine leather Cat. The finest leather I have ever seen. And then there are these.” He gestured at the bag by the table. “These… tools, if that’s what they are.”
She picked one up with two fingers and then peered at it. He’d been looking at that one earlier. It looked as if a hammer had been mated with a spring, with a button on the side.
“Don’t press the butt-” But it was too late. She thumbed the button and it sprang into life with a buzz that was just as alarming as it had been earlier. Her hands jerked as it wobbled all over the place, making her jiggle in all kinds of interesting ways, but this time it only broke one mug on the table nearby before she hurriedly thumbed the button again and it stopped.
“What is this thing?” Cat looked at her wide-eyed.
“I don’t know,” he said as he stared at the tapestry on the other side of the room. The humming had echoed around the room but had somehow been absorbed by the tapestry, as if there was something behind it and he made a note to look there. Then he looked back at the bag. “Mikken and Luwin are both baffled by the contents. They both agree that they are tools, but they can’t agree on what they are tools for, or what they can be used on.”
His wife stared at him and then at the tools and then back at him. “Who is he?”
“He said he was Prince Tarvek Sturmvoraus of Sturmhalten. The problem is that I cannot find any reference to any such place, in Westeros or Essos. His name is… alien as well. And from the few words he said his accent was… peculiar. And then there’s the portal…” He pulled a slight face and then looked at her intently. “Cat, I can think of only one reason for what happened. Magic. That or the direct intervention of the Old Gods, but that would be… a bit extreme.”
There was a long moment of silence. “But… why? How?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? We need to find out who he is and why he’s here. Oh and – who sent him?”
Tarvek
He didn’t open his eyes when he woke up. Long experience had told him that the first few seconds of consciousness could allow access to vital clues, such as where the nearest exit was and if there was a bent spoon nearby that could be used to stick in the neck of the nearest guard so that he could jump out of the window on the other side of said exit.
Alright, so he was in a bed. In bed sans clothes, that might be a slight problem but hey he’d escaped from the Great Hospital in nothing more than a sheet. From the sounds he was hearing in the distance and the way that they bounced around him, he was in a room, and that room was warm. That was good, but also puzzling. He went through his memories. He’d been in Castle Hetrodyne, that rather chilly and very dangerous deathtrap. No, wait. That mirror. Falling… Leaves. Faces.
Unfamiliar terror caused his eyes to spring open. He was looking at a stone ceiling. There were stone walls. He was in quite a comfortable bed. With goosedown somewhere in it. He peered at the stitching on the quilt. Unfamiliar, if quite attractive.
Where was he? He got out of bed, wrapped a sheet around him and looked about. What he now saw did not fill him with optimism. The frame of the bed looked… well, a little cruder than he was used to. The chair and the table were also crude. Oh and there was the glass in the window. It was thick and crude. He peered out of the window. Even though he didn’t have his glasses on, he could see unfamiliar banners outside with some kind of stylised wolf’s head. Oh and there were men with spears on the battlements.
He couldn’t see a single cannon, musket, weathervane or airship anywhere.
This was not good. He peered at the banner outside again. No, not one that he was familiar with. His various tutors had almost bored him to death at times (Father had chosen some complete mediocrities), but they had at least gotten him to memorise the personal heraldic coats of arms of not just all the Fifty Families, but also most of the more important nobility of Europa.
This had taught him a few things. Firstly that large parts of Europa were ruled by self-important snobbish imbeciles who came from terrifyingly small gene pools and secondly that an awful lot of them had rather more humble origins than many might have thought. Anything cheese-related was a dead giveaway.
It had also made him memorise a lot of sigils and symbols. The stylised wolf’s head that he was now looking at was not on any of the coats of arms that he had ever studied. There had been all kinds of wolves, sometimes with additional heads stuck on, but not that type of wolf.
So, he wasn’t in Europa. He was somewhere large and primitive. He had no pants on, his glasses were missing, he didn’t have a single tool, weapon or even coin on him and he had no idea where he was. All he had was his knowledge, his wits and his Spark.
Well now. He liked a challenge.
Ned
The boy looked… very self-possessed. He had been escorted in by Jory Cassel, bowed slightly, as one equal to another, and then asked drily if he was a ‘guest’ or a prisoner – and whose guest or prisoner he was.
“I am Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North and you are my guest,” Ned replied softly as he poured wine into two cups. “You are not a prisoner. You have committed no crime. But the manner of your arrival here was… unusual. I would know more about it.” He handed the cup over and seated himself. This ‘Prince’ was a very cool customer indeed.
“I see,” the young man said, sipping his wine. He had turned a tad pale. “I have to point out that I have never heard of you I’m afraid. And the North of what?”
This was odd. “This part of Westeros has always been called the North.” He gestured at the map on the wall.
“May I?” The ‘Prince’ said as he gestured at the map. Ned nodded and he stood and walked over to the map. He stood there for a few minutes and then he returned to his chair. If anything he seemed to be a touch paler. “Ah. This is… unexpected. I do not recognise a single place on your map.”
This was beyond odd. Ned was about to open his mouth when there was a knock on the door. “Come!”
The door opened to reveal Luwin, who looked at their guest with some interest. “Your pardon my Lord, but you asked me to check the records for anything like the… incident that occurred when young Tarvek here arrived.” He hefted a book out from under his arm. “I might have found something.”
“Thank you, Luwin,” Ned replied. “Which reminds me – you claim to be a Prince?”
“I am a prince,” Tarvek said with a certain amount of hauteur. “Prince of Sturmhalten. I inherited the title after the death of my father.”
Ned swapped glances with Luwin. “I have never heard of any such place. It sounds as if it should be in the Stormlands, but it’s on no map of that Kingdom.”
“I do not recognise your maps,” Tarvek said softly, with a slight tremor in his voice. “This is not my world. I need to ask you something. Does the word ‘Heterodyne’ mean anything to you?”
It meant nothing to Ned but Luwin jumped slightly. “Aye,” he said excitedly, opening the book. “It does. This is an account written by Arch-Maester Torran Redspring just after Aegon’s Conquest almost 300 years ago. He was working in his study when he said that an ‘azure portal dyd appear in the ayre near his desk.’”
Luwin placed the book down on the desk. Ned looked at it, noting that Tarvek was staring at it with his eyes screwed up. “Lord Stark, may I have my spectacles back?”
“Spec-ta-cles? What are spec-ta-cles?”
“Ah,” said Luwin as he reached into one of his voluminous pockets. “Does you mean these? We call them Myrish glasses.” He held out the object in question.
“Thank you… Maester Luwin, was it?” Tarvek reached out and took the ‘spectacles’, placing them on the end of his nose and then peering at the book.
Ned stared down at the book. The language was archaic, but he soon made the adjustment in his head.
“As I stared at the portal, it seemed to shift and then the face of a bearded man appeared in it,” Tarvek read out. “And then he declared in a great voice ‘Fiddlesticks! This blasted thing still doesn’t seem to work properly. What’s the point of a wormhole generator when the other side leaps about all over the place on that blasted primitive hellhole?’
“And then another voice, greater and more terrible was heard, but the person was unseen. ‘Master,’ it boomed, ‘A force of squid clanks is advancing up the valley. They seem to be led by a dwarf with a huge beard. He bears a banner with a prawn on it.’
“Aha! Von Mustard attacks at last! Is he in range yet?’
“No Master. Another few minutes.’
“Get the screamer guns ready. And tell the Generals that I want to capture one of those squid clanks. We’ll soon teach this idiot a lesson – you do not attack Robur Hetereodyne and expect to get away with it! Mua-ha-ha! Right! Take this useless bloody thing away. Usual traps. The Red Corridor I think.”
“And with that the portal closed and I was left in need of a lot of wine.”
Tarvek seemed to droop as he finished. “Bugger,” he muttered, as he sat down again. “Bloody Robur Hetereodyne. Fiddling with things he never understood.” He paused. “Lord Stark, do you have a library here? I need to find out everything I can about this world.”
“World?” Luwin asked in some surprise.
“Yes, Maester Luwin. Because this world is not my world.”
Two years later…
Tarvek
He looked up at the clock and sighed a little. It was about that time of the day and he could almost count down the seconds until he finally heard the sound of someone climbing stealthily outside the open window to one side. And then he finally spoke: “A good morning to you young Bran.”
A puzzled face came into view. “How did you know it was me?”
“Because it’s 11.45am, you’ve just finished your archery practice and you have just enough time to climb my tower and try to see what I’m working on before luncheon at Noon.”
Bran peered at the clock. “I still don’t understand how gears can tell the time.”
He grinned at him and peered back at what he was working on. The designs looked… good. “Are you wearing it?”
Bran sighed and rolled his eyes. “…Yes.”
“Are you really wearing it, or are you just saying that to try and get me to not check you?”
“I’m really wearing it.” Another roll of the eyes and then Bran hauled himself up to the window. Yes, the little safety device was on the small of his back. “See?”
“Good. Don’t roll your eyes like that, if the wind changes you might not get them back in place.”
Bran giggled but then pulled a face. “Still don’t know why I need it. I don’t fall!”
“You never know. It might rain, a pigeon might fly into your face, things happen. And if you wear it then your mother worries less and lets you climb more. Is that a bad thing?”
Bran considered this for a moment. “…No?”
“No. Now, climb down – carefully – and I’ll see you at luncheon.”
“Alright Tarvek!” And with that he was gone, climbing down with an ease and speed that was rather frightening.
Tarvek watched him go, nodded when he was safely down and then went back to his desk. There was so much to do, so much to plan, now that he finally had his steelworks all set up on the edge of the Wolfswood, plus the right ores come in to make the kind of steel that the blacksmiths of the North were crowing over. His six months of prospecting in the hills and mountains of the North had paid off massively. Discovered a lot of unsuspected silver as well, something that had made Ned a very happy man indeed.
After a moment he looked up. “Not bad. Bran didn’t see you.”
“He didn’t, did he?” There was a pause and then Arya jumped down from her perch. “Am I getting better at this?”
“You are. You’re not a Smoke Knight yet, you need a lot more practice, but you’re doing well.”
She was too. Arya had the kind of natural skills that Violetta would have nodded at, criticised and then dragged her away for intensive training, especially after hearing about the way that women were treated in this backwards world with its insane orbital eccentricities. Studying the seasons gave him a headache and he had some nasty theories about why this world was not progressing in terms of technology.
“I’ll keep practicing!” Arya said firmly and then she ran to the door, carefully peeked out and then left.
Tarvek watched her go with a half-smile and then took his spectacles off and polished them with a piece of soft cloth. Lady Stark did not know about Arya’s training. Ned did. As he put it, if his sister Lyanna had been even half-trained then perhaps she might not have been taken by Rhaegar Targaryen’s men.
He wondered for a moment what Agatha would have made of this world and then shuddered slightly at the thought of what Klaus Wulfenbach would have made of the news that there was a culture based on slavery in Essos. Say what you might about the Baron, but on the issue of slavery he had the right idea – total obliteration of any slave overlords. If the Baron ever made it to this world then every Essosi city that dealt in slaves would have been on fire in months, if not weeks.
Noon struck and as the little figure of Agatha marched out of the top of the clock and brained the Baron with a skillet Tarvek closed the folder with his latest plans in them, placed him in his desk, locked the desk very firmly – it was tamperproof in a very nasty manner – and then left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
As he padded down the stairs, passing the locked rooms in which his various experiments and machines were safely stored he found himself wondering what to do about Varys. The man was making more and more of an effort to find out why his little birds in a growing part of the North no longer sang. Well, fortunately the man didn’t suspect that a good Spark with access to some of the more… interesting plants and concoctions in the North, plus some very delicate procedures, could do wonders when it came to missing tongues. And those that wouldn’t be turned were sent North to the Wall, with Ned’s blessing.
Emerging into the courtyard he tilted his head slightly. From the crackle of musketry off to one side the Cassels were training the new cadre of Wolftroopers, the riflemen of the North who would be a very nasty surprise to anyone who even thought of crossing the Starks.
“Ah, Tarvek!” He turned to see Luwin striding over to him, a piece of paper in one hand. “A semaphore message from the foundry – they’re ready to cast the first ‘cannon’.”
“Excellent!” He beamed. “We should ride over there with Lord Stark when we can. Any word on the extra sulphur?”
“A new deposit has been found by the Last Hearth. GreatJon Umber sent word to Lord Stark.”
He nodded and then strode on with the Maester to the Great Hall, where luncheon would be held that day. The place was buzzing with conversation when they arrived and as they bowed to the dais at the head of the hall and then split apart, Luwin to one side and he to the high table he mulled the changes that had happened in the two years he had been there now.
They had taken Tarvek in, seen what he could do and then allowed him if not free rein than certainly they had listened, learned and embraced change in a way that might have unsettled their ancestors.
New steel, new ploughs, new weapons, new ship designs, new ways of farming. It hadn’t been easy, in fact he’d had to prove that every new step didn’t just work but was far, far, better than anything they had had before, but he’d persuaded them. Damn near exhausted his voice a few times, but they’d listened.
“Lord and Lady Stark,” he said formally and bowed again as he reached the table.
“Prince Tarvek.” Ned nodded courteously and then he was free to join them at the table. The kitchens of Winterfell had taken his idea of a meat smoker and embraced it to the point where they made the most exquisite beef brisket.
After he had heaped his plate with just the right amount, as well as some fresh bread he leant over and looked at Catelyn Stark. “I found Bran climbing again – but he had the safety harness on, as he promised.”
She pulled a face. “I keep telling him to wear it, but there are times when he doesn’t. I’m glad he did again today. Perhaps he’s getting into the habit of it?”
“I hope so,” Tarvek replied and then nodded politely and set to eating. Oh, yes, exceptional.
Chairs scraped to one side and he saw that Robb, Sansa and Jon had joined them, the latter at the far end. It had taken him some time to get Lady Stark to treat the lad with any real sense of human decency, not that he would say that in public. He had quickly come to the conclusion that Jon was not the son of Ned, but was more likely his nephew, not that Ned had been at all willing to admit to that. He’d had to hint, insinuate carefully and then finally give Ned a talk about timing, history, genetics and the fact that he just didn’t believe that Ned had ever had the time or inclination to betray his wife.
Catelyn Stark’s reaction to being told the truth had had to be carefully hidden. He had to admit that he could add ‘marriage conciliator’ to his talents as a Spark. Fortunately she’d come around and the Starks were expecting another baby. Perhaps even twins. He probably shouldn’t have added something to the water of Winterfell.
“Tarvek,” said Ned, as he wiped his mouth, “There was message from the Dreadfort. Domeric sends his best wishes and that he has personally torched…” Ned lowered his voice at this. “His late father’s secret rooms. You were very right about Roose Bolton.”
He nodded. And that was all that needed to be said about the matter. Disgusting, revolting man. Such a shame he was dead. Not.
“Luwin had a message, Ned. The first cannon is ready to be cast. Will you join us this afternoon?”
“I will,” Ned said with a sigh. “But I need to attend to another matter first. A man of the Night’s Watch has been captured near here. He broke his oath and must die.”
Tarvek frowned. “Why did he run from the Wall?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Might it be because of the reports of the Others returning?” He’d had a bad feeling after visiting the Wall. There was something almost Sparkish about the place, as if it had been made by someone or something with a deadly serious intent. And then there had been the reports coming south from the slowly reviving Night’s Watch, as men trickled North to support it after Ned had begged his friend the King to support it.
“Maybe. You can ask him yourself before we ride to see that cannon casting.”
He nodded. But his thumbs were pricking. Something was up.
The clock chimed midnight, Agatha brained the Baron with a rolling pin on top of it – different weapons for different times – and he sat there at the desk, leaning with his elbows on the surface, his hands steepled so that his forefingers touched the base of his nostrils.
It had been a very interesting day, for both good and bad reasons.
First the good – the cannon casting had been a spectacular success, with the first finished product being exactly as he had planned from a standpoint of quality control. It would be mated with its carriage and then production and training would start. 9lbers for the horse artillery, 12lbers for the foot artillery, 24lbers for the siege weapons, plus the howitzers. The guns were one of the reasons why he’d pressed so hard for a fast cheap way of improving the North’s roads. If his plans all came together in even a partial manner then the North would be able to laugh at anyone who attacked – before turning them into bloodied mist.
And then there were the other weapons he had in mind. In every use of the word ‘other’.
No, it was the rest of the day that had been just chock full of bad or unsettling news. First there had been the deserter from the Night’s Watch. He’d had Ned ride out earlier than planned to the execution, along with Robb, Jon, Theon and Bran, just so that he could question the man closely about what he’d seen. There had been a look of absolute horror in his eyes, as if he’d been driven almost to the point of madness. And he’d spoken of the walking dead and blue-eyed wraiths in horribly chilling detail.
Theon had scoffed and called the man mad. Tarvek and Ned had swapped worried glances, a look that Robb and Jon had noticed (although Bran had been watching a passing butterfly). Ned had given the man what he wanted a – quick death – and then had said that he was sending a raven to Castle Black at once, so they’d galloped back to Winterfell.
They’d almost been too late to save the life of the large Direwolf that was now laying prone in the kennels of Winterfell with a large bandage around its neck from the antler that had almost killed her and seven unsteady puppies feeding from her. That had been the weird part of the day. The symbolism was… disturbing. Fortunately he'd been there to save her life.
After the cannon casting they’d returned to the heart of the keep and then there had come the news that had made Ned Stark’s face go white. Jon Arryn was dead. The man had been a second father to him. He’d envied Ned, given his own upbringing.
And now he sat there, lost in thought. After he’d realised that he was stuck in this backwards world of medieval technology he’d swiftly realised that firstly he was probably the only Spark on the planet and that he needed every tool at his disposal. His bag of tools had been irreplaceable. So the first thing he’d had to make was replacement tools that would allow him to make the tools that would allow him to make yet more tools and then actual equipment. Plus he needed the raw materials - electrical wiring didn’t make itself.
But the second thing he’d worked out was that Westeros was a political powder keg if it wasn’t managed correctly. The old Targaryens had united it with dragons and mass murder. When their dragons had died off, in highly suspicious circumstances, they used politics and intelligence to keep it united - just. Too many areas hated other areas. Dorne was a collection of hotheaded lunatics. The Westerlands was ruled by a man who seemed to think that he had to rule with a hardness that bordered on cruelty. The Riverlands were indefensible and full of squabbling hotheads. The Reach was ruled by a man who was either a fool who could be wise or a wise man who played the fool. The Vale confused him at times. And then there was the Iron Islands. Which really needed to sink into the ocean and stop bothering people. He probably needed a plan for that.
The North was huge, but did not have a huge population and was isolated. It also had a cold climate. And as he was in it, he needed to help as much as possible as otherwise if the powder keg was lit and things went to hell then the North might lose whatever many-sided war that might arise. Plus the thought of being given orders by Tywin Lannister scared him hugely. Ned was a good man. Tywin Lannister was not.
Jon Arryn had been a good Hand of the King in that he’d stopped the powder keg from being lit. But he hadn’t been able to stop Robert Baratheon from going spectacularly to seed and getting the Realm heavily in debt.
In his two years on Westeros he’d worked hard on getting good sources of intelligence. Agents, for want of a better word. He’d worked carefully, quietly, a word here, a few coins there, a favour here, a loan there. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t what he might have wanted, but he had his sources. He’d been able to tell Ned quite quickly that King Robert was going to seed. He’d convinced Ned to start writing to his old friend on a regular basis, reminding him of their shared youth, of how fit they’d been, how strong Robert had been, how strong he needed to be. Nostalgia could be a strong influence, if done subtly.
The Robert that was riding for Winterfell wasn’t the Robert who had been a drunken fat mess of two years before. Oh, he was still mired in bad habits, but he wasn’t as deep in his cups and torpor as he had been. And he wanted Ned to be the Hand of the King.
Ned was a good man. An honest man. A just man. King’s Landing was a cesspit that would eat him alive, he knew that. Was this the spark? Was the moment approaching for the powder keg to catch fire?
Someone, he knew, was already trying to influence the Starks. The note from Lysa Arryn to her sister had been a surprise and an odd one at that. It made no sense, as he had told Ned and Cat after they had brought it to him. It had been a sign that they trusted him completely and that they knew that he was better at figuring out this kind of thing. His success at working out what was happening at the Dreadfort based on a few reports about barley shipments and a rise in the price of beetroots had been praised by them both, along with comments about his discretion. No, someone was obviously influencing Lysa to try and cast suspicion on the Lannisters. Someone who thought that they were cunning and clever, but someone who was not Varys. He’d keep thinking about it.
So – the King was coming to probably ask Ned to become Hand. He’d already sent his latest travel landau down to White Harbour, as the wheelhouses that they’d normally use would be a slow nightmare of broken axles and wheels after ten miles at least.
If he was lucky then the King and Court would miss the changes that were occurring to the North as they travelled to Winterfell. The King liked to hunt, the Queen was a cold statue of arrogant beauty and there was something wrong with the crown prince, as from the reports he’d received he was either an idiot or a sociopath. They would probably ignore the new farming techniques and machinery. However, they would notice how smooth the road was now and probably even the semaphore stations that were being built in places.
If he was unlucky however… hmmm. He knew that if Ned accepted the position there was an excellent chance that he’d have to go South with him to advise him. Cat would insist on that.
Which meant that he had a lot to do before the King arrived. He stood and drank his cup of filtered water. He needed to get a good night’s sleep before he asked Ned not to bother him for at least a week whilst he unleashed his inner Spark. A lot of the pieces were in place. He had clanks and more to build.
When he opened his eyes he soon became aware of two things. The first was that even though he was waking up, he was still quite tired. That was a bad thing, that meant that he’d been a hyper-extended state of Spark activity. The second thing was there were a large number of glowing blue objects in front of him.
Memory kicked his tired synapses a bit and then he grinned. Oh, wonderful. He’d built the power units that his clanks required. He counted them and then blinked. Actually, he’d built three times the number that he’d planned to. Then he looked around. Oh, good. He’d really been busy. There was a clank guarding the door and another that seemed ready to accept instructions to one side.
There was also a lot of paper on the desk in front of him and he shuffled through some of the messages and plans. Yes, he’d definitely overdone it a bit, but in doing so he’d obviously had a reason to do so. The plans for the helium production plant were complete, he had a message that the silk production plant was about to start mass production operations (Yi-Ti would be annoyed, but he didn’t care), the aluminium ore was ready to be refined and above all the rare earth minerals he needed were ready to be shipped to Winterfell.
Oh and he’d invented Westeros’s first version of stainless steel. Plus a new form of canning food. And a whoopee cushion that wasn’t based on a sheep’s bladder.
At which point his stomach growled and he realised that he was extremely hungry. So he stood up and approached the clanks that were watching him. Both were based around suits of plate armour that he’d forged himself in a moment of boredom, both were armed with maces in both hands and both had blue lights in the slits of their helmets.
“You are Ser Tick,” he said, pointing at the one by the door, “And you are Ser Tock. Remain here. Observe only. Do not initiate contact with anyone. New instructions to follow.” Both stamped to attention and then became still.
He left the room and passed down the corridor before padding down the spiral stairs of his tower. There was a note pasted on one of the doors that he passed and he paused, checked inside and then closed the door again with a pleased nod. Oh, he’d been busy.
Winterfell was quietly buzzing with activity as he strode across the courtyard. There was a lot to do ahead of the King’s visit, as well as a lot to, well, if not hide then certainly obscure. The rifles would have to be hidden for a start and the cannons. However, some things like the semaphore could not be hidden, just explained away.
If he had to live on this backwards hellhole of a world then he’d do his best to drag it, kicking and screaming, forwards – or at least this bit of it. The North had been dealt a bad enough hand as it was by an unforgiving world, especially with the horrible possibility that the Others were threatening to invade.
“Tarvek?” Luwin sounded rather cautious as he approached to one side. “Are you… erm, unsparked?”
He winced slightly. “Yes, Luwin. Did I make an appearance when I was in full Spark?”
“You did.” Luwin said, his hands going up his sleeves. “You devised a new form of food, called a ‘sand-wedge’, or so I think you called it, drew a sketch for an ‘explosive’ shell for the cannon – which frankly terrified me at the thought of it – and flirted with a chambermaid, before vanishing back into your tower.”
He cringed. “Hannah again?”
“Oh yes. It’s fine, she knows about your Sparked behaviour.” Luwin smiled slightly. “A raven came from White Harbour. Your latest ‘landaus’ are ready for the King’s party.”
Ah. That was probably a good thing, given the primitive horror that was the wheelhouse that some people seemed to use.
“And the Citadel has been touch. They want you to visit at your earliest convenience to discuss, well, everything. Your germ theory for a start and especially the impact on midwifery.”
Tarvek pulled a slight face. “I’ve been wanting to go to Oldtown for a while, Luwin, but not just yet. Too much to do. Too many plans!”
The old man smiled again. “I know. Your ambition is impressive my boy. And you have changed so much of the North already!”
It was at this point that his stomach audibly growled again. Luwin quirked an eyebrow at him. “No lunch yet?”
“No – I’m famished.”
“If you head to the Great Hall, I’ll have a word with the kitchen and get you some sand-wedges. Do I have the pronunciation right?”
“Almost. Sandwiches.”
The Maester inclined his head. “I stand corrected. I’ll have the cooks send something out quickly.”
The Maester was as good as his word and Tarvek was soon munching happily on a bacon sandwich and sipping some excellent ale as he sat in the Great Hall. Bacon was a universal and very satisfactory constant. And Winterfell had access to superb bacon.
It was then that he spotted that he had company. Lady Stark was standing to one side, looking rather uncertain, which was odd for her. “Prince Tarvek.”
Ah. She was being formal. This was important. “Lady Stark. How can I help you?”
She sank into a chair next to him. “I need to talk to you. About the purpose of the King’s visit to Winterfell.”
There was a pause and he finally filled the silence. “Ah – we think that he’s going to offer the position of Hand of the King to Lord Stark?”
She nodded. “King’s Landing,” she said bitterly, “Is a pit of vipers. And Ned intends to take some of our children. I know that you are going with them, but I have fears about the whole thing. Jon Arryn’s death is more than suspicious.”
Tarvek held up a hand. “I know. And yes, I have a back-up plan in case of disaster.” He pulled out a folded set of papers and handed them over to her. “A means of escape.”
Lady Stark took the papers, unfolded them and read – and then her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Truly? You can build this?”
“I can build it. And I shall. If the worst comes to the worst I’ll get Ned and everyone else out. I promise it.”
She looked at the papers again. And then she smiled at him. “Thank you.” And with that she stood and walked off, leaving him with his sandwich and his ale, which he consumed quickly. He had a lot to do.
Tyrion
The first hint that Tyrion had that something had indeed changed in the North was when he heard the muttered comments of the Captain, which were as inventive and as profane as he had come to expect from the Stormlander.
“What’s amiss, Captain Storm?”
The seaman squinted at the harbour, then at him and then back at the harbour. “Never seen the Roadstead at White Harbour so fuckin’ busy, me Lord. Ships from all over. Stormlands, Dorne, Crownlands, The Vale, Westerlands, Reach, Pentos and Myr. And that scow there’s from Volantis.” He spat to one side. “Better not be any slaves on ‘er. Starks free any slaves that run from ships from Essos, an’ them ships that have any get frowned on and then banned if they try and get their ‘property’ back.”
Tyrion looked at the ships that were waiting to unload. “Certainly seems busy to me. Is this surge new?”
“I heard that the North’s ports were busier than ever. Didn’t really believe it. Do now.”
He nodded. He’d heard a few things of late and Father had written him a terse note to ‘keep your eyes open’ in the North, based on reports of ores and gems being found there.
Being part of the King’s flotilla they went straight to the main wharf, where Lord Manderley was waiting for them with a full entourage. The Lord of White Harbour was less fat than he had been told and he wondered what had happened to the man. The King, who was himself thinner than he had been, boomed his pleasure at seeing Manderley again, accepted bread and salt and then stamped off to shout orders at people. They were leaving for Winterfell in two days.
By the time that evening came Tyrion had a little more information, but was confused about what he had. A maid with truly wonderful tits had told him that she’d heard that people from Winterfell and ‘that handsome young Prince’ were looking for crones and mangonels underground. That made absolutely no sense whatsoever until he talked to a smith, who seemed to be far more skilled than anyone on the Street of Steel, and heard that they were looking for manganese and chromium. Which were two words that he’d never heard of. It wasn’t until he paid a visit to the Maester that he learnt that they were two forms of ore for the creation of high-quality steel.
Humph. Interesting. He’d made a note of it.
The next thing that he noticed was the strange structure at the highest point of the New Castle. It faced North, was well constructed and was in almost continuous use. There was some kind of set of shutters on its front, that were both white and black, so that patterns appeared about once a minute by his estimation.
Some quiet observation and the exchange of a small amount of silver soon yielded the news that this was a ‘semaphore’ and then it conveyed messages with a chain of such structures that led to Winterfell and other places. It was a brilliant idea – information could be sent quickly and in detail that could not be sent via signal fires. Winterfell could know what was happening in White Harbour within a day, if the message was sent early enough – and then when night fell he could see that lanterns were being used on the structure. Someone had been uncommonly clever.
What was even cleverer was that some of the messages – it had been a challenge to work out the lettering system, but he’d always liked such a challenge – were encrypted. And he couldn’t crack the cypher. It wasn’t a single transposition (B for A, C for B, etc) or even a double or triple transposition, it was something entire new. And, of course, infuriating.
There were a few other things. Firstly there seemed to be space for some kind of objects on the walls of the New Castle and the outer walls of the city that had not yet been installed. Secondly there were the occasional sounds to the North-east that sounded like cracks or booms and which he could not explain. Apparently some of the Manderley guards were off ‘being trained’, or so Bess of the Big Tits had told him, but she could not say trained with what.
And then, finally, on the day that they were due to leave, there was the… he had no words for what it was as it stood there in the main courtyard of the New Castle. Apparently it was a ‘landau’, it had been sent from Winterfell and it was some kind of wheelhouse, only far more elegant than the one they’d brought from King’s Landing. He walked around it and then scratched the back of his head. There were some kind of springs underneath it, attached to graceful curving bars of light-looking steel and the wheels had peculiar attachments to the axles.
“It’s a smooth ride, my Lord,” the driver said reassuringly. “It’s Prince Tarvek’s own design. Would you care for a demonstration?”
And there it was again, that name. Prince Tarvek, the man who was apparently advising Ned Stark and who had changed so much. “I would indeed,” he said cheerfully, stepping onto the box that led to the handy little set of folding steps that led into the interior. Once he was in a footman closed the door – and then his eyes widened as the ‘landau’ started to move. He could see that they were moving in a circle around the courtyard, but he could barely feel any movement.
Once they had done a complete circuit they came to a halt and he schooled his features. “Delightful!” He said as he got out and then stared at the whole thing intently. “And remarkable.”
“What is?”
The words came from Cersei, who had arrived with her two youngest children and who was visibly curling a lip at the landau. “What is this… thing?”
“A landau, Your Grace,” the diver said, bowing from his seat. “Would you care to try it out?”
Her lip curled again. “This is not the wheelhouse that we brought.”
“Indeed not,” Tyrion said cheerily. “It’s better!”
“Better.” Cersei almost spat the word. “Better. This is the North. They’re savages here. How can this be better?”
Tyrion pulled a slight face as he noticed that the driver had stiffened in his seat, with flinty eyes, and then made a slight gesture of apology to the man. “Why not get in it and see? It will take but a moment of your time and if it’s truly bad then you can criticise it to your heart’s content!”
His sister rolled her eyes – but then (wonder of wonders) she got into it, followed by Tommen and Myrcella. “Very well,” she said in long-suffering tones, “Once around the courtyard.”
The landau’s driver grinned and winked at Tyrion and then flicked his whip at the horses and drove the landau in a fast trot around the courtyard. When it returned to the spot where Tyrion was waiting it stopped and there was a silent moment, before his nephew and niece stuck their heads out of the window. “Uncle Tyrion,” they chorused, “That was amazing! So smooth!”
The door opened and Cersei got out. She stood there for a moment as she looked at anywhere but him. “It will suffice for the trip to Winterfell,” she muttered eventually and then she stalked off, the children in tow as they chattered excitedly.
He watched them go with a smirk and then nodded at the driver. “I love it when my sister’s wrong,” he said and then wandered off whistling to find that maid with the big tits again. Life could be good at times.
Tarvek
He sat back in his chair and sipped from his wine glass. One of the first things that he had done once he had arrived in Westeros had been to start making glass. A lot of glass. Glass for the greenhouses – glass houses as they were called in this backward place – and glass for himself and a select number of others.
The doubling of the number of glass houses that Winterfell had was not something that could really be concealed, still less the tripling and then the quadrupling, and the first attempt against his life from Roose Bolton had been a) inevitable, b) stupidly obvious in its crudity and c) something to squash effortlessly and then watch as the man sweated at the knowledge that Ned Stark knew what had happened and was watching him very, very closely.
Roose Bolton’s missteps after that had been pathetic and the man was now very dead. His bastard son too. Domeric Bolton was now in the Dreadfort and knew full well that he was on very thin ice indeed. Fortunately he seemed to understand that and also be a far, far, better person than his father and half-brother could ever be.
Tarvek frowned a little and concentrated again. Anyway, the increase in greenhouses had resulted in the growing of vines in certain crucial parts of them, including his own personal greenhouse, and he was drinking the results. It was a quite passable white wine, and there were a few barrels of what might – with time – become a superb red eventually in certain tunnels under Winterfell.
He looked at the wine in the glass and frowned slightly. The arrival of the King had been… interesting. The man had obviously pulled himself together a bit from what he had heard about him, losing weight and trying to apply himself more than a bit, thanks to Ned’s letters, but he obviously had quite a way to go to get himself back to the way that he had been.
But that wasn’t what was concerning Tarvek that night as he stared at his wine glass. No, it was the royal children that he was thinking about. All very blond. Very, very, blond. Green-eyed too. And thoroughly resembling their mother. Why, it was almost as if they didn’t resemble their ‘father’ at all!
His eyes narrowed for a moment. Genetics was something of a passion of his, as he was a descendant of the Storm King and could lay claim to that title. Certain… traits ran true in family lines. And from what he had been able to find out, the King’s bastard children all had black hair and blue eyes. But his legitimate children – he forced himself not to put inverted comments around the word legitimate in his head – were blond and green-eyed.
Someone else who was blond and green-eyed was the Queen’s brother, Ser Jaime Lannister. The pieces fit together in his head, but he had no proof and this was not something to bring to Ned just yet because – well, hoo boy, this was something that could start a damn war.
He needed proof. Blood. Blood types was a great start. He had to build a case to lay before Ned, who was surely now being asked to become the Hand of the King. And it would have to be a good case.
A chime sounded and he started a little before pressing a button. Ned was at the door to the tower and Ser Tock admitted him. He stood and had a glass of wine ready as the door opened and the Lord of Winterfell strode in, looking tired.
“I think you need a drink,” Tarvek said wryly and handed him the wine glass.
“You think right – my thanks,” Ned said as he sat tiredly and sipped at it. “Gods, that’s good.” He leant back, closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened his eyes, he looked at Tarvek. “You were right. He wants me to be his Hand. I accepted.”
Tarvek winced a little in sympathy. “He’s changed, hasn’t he?”
Ned’s eyes went to the glass in his hand. “Aye. He’s still there, it’s still Robert, but my gods. You say that he was fatter?”
“From what I heard – yes.”
They sat there in silence for a moment. “He wants Sansa to be betrothed to Joffrey.”
He schooled his face so that he did not wince. “For the future, perhaps, I would say. Not for now. Let me watch the boy.”
Ned nodded slowly. “A good point. What else would you say?”
He thought fast and hard. “I’ll go ahead of you to King’s Landing, to get a sense of what you’ll be up against. Ned – I have a bad feeling about this.”
That bought him a sharp glance. “How bad?”
“I’m not sure yet… but tell the Cassells to speed up training. And I’ll work on a few things.”
Ned winced. “Ah. That bad.”
He smiled and topped up their glasses with more white wine. “Always plan for the worst case. That way you’ll never be disappointed.” And then he blinked as plans started to pour into his mind.
When he had first been dropped in this benighted world he had not many tools and precious little in the wake of resources. However, there had been two small things. The first had been the old curling sandwich that he had hurriedly wrapped in paper and jammed in his pocket. The second had been the surprise that he had found jammed into the bag he had been carrying, a possible joke placed in it by one of the prisoners in Castle Hetrodyne. The sandwich had several slices of tomatoes in it (with seeds) and the surprise had been a large potato.
That meant that the first tomatoes and potatoes in Westeros had been grown (and even improved on a little, he had to boast) first in Winterfell and then in the North. Both had gone nuts for them.
And that had been the benefit of the glasshouses. At first they had grown tomatoes for their seeds (and to eat of course afterwards) but that first potato and its offspring had been jealously guarded before being spread about as the numbers had risen.
He had almost cried over his first tomato. And over his first chip.
Packets of seeds and instructions had been gifted to the major houses of the North, and then the minor houses and finally every inn and town and village.
He had personally sent the first packages down to the major ruling houses below the Neck and given the way that the various courtiers in Winterfell were singing the praises of everything it had all been a glorious – and tasty – triumph.
Tarvek finished his own late breakfast of a large BLT and wandered out into the main courtyard, where various people were bustling about, sometimes with purpose and others with the appearance of being busy, as someone walking briskly with a piece of paper in their hand was always a messenger, right?
It therefore came something of a surprise when he rounded a corner and witnessed a small group standing in front of his tower. There was a blond teenager almost dancing with rage in front of the impassive figures of Ser Tick and Ser Tock, watched by a tall man with long hair covering one side of his face, several rather embarrassed Winterfell servants and, to one side, the lounging figure of Tyrion Lannister, a man who was cleverer than many thought but not perhaps as clever as he himself thought.
“I DEMAND that you let me in!” The blond teenager – oh lovely, it was Joffrey Baratheon himself – screamed at the clanks.
“ACCEESS DENIED.” Ser Tick intoned. “INSUFFICIENT CLEARANCE.”
“I AM THE PRINCE!”
“ACCESS DENIED.”
The Prince danced with rage again and then turned to the tall man behind him. “DOG! KILL HIM!”
“What?”
“KILL HIM!”
“What for?” The tall man spat to one side. “Besides, looks more like a statue to me. No living man stands that still.”
Tarvek cleared his throat. “Can I help you, Prince Joffrey? You are standing in front of my tower. Prince Aaronev Tarvek Sturmvoraus, at your service.” He sketched the smallest of bows.
Everyone (apart from the clanks) turned to look at him and he could see how relieved the servants looked. He nodded slightly at them and one of them got the message scurried off.
The blond boy got a hold of his temper almost visibly and then stalked up to him. “So – you’re the so-called ‘Prince of Winterfell’.”
He adjusted his pince-nez carefully. “My actual title is Prince of Sturmhalten.”
“Impossible! I’ve never heard of that place!” Joffrey seemed to think that he had won some kind of a point by saying that and Tarvek assessed him quietly. Unstable. Proud, prickly and there was a touch of madness in there, he could sense it.
“Sturmhalten is a long, long way away,” he said with curt sadness. “A place called Europa. Which… you have also never heard of. My arrival here in the North was something of an accident. And yet here I am. Still a Prince.”
For some reason Joffrey smirked at this. “I am the only Prince in Westeros. There can only be one Prince in Westeros?”
He pulled his best ‘slight thinking about that face’ – “And what about the Princes of Dorne?”
Joffrey flushed. “Once I am King then they will not be Princes!”
“So you would insult them and all but declare war?” The words came from Tyrion Lannister, who looked as if he now needed a large glass of wine.
“Yes – no! I mean…” The boy seemed to recall where he was. “I want your men here flogged for disobeying my orders!”
Tarvek just looked at him. “You want Ser Tick and Ser Tock here – flogged?”
“Yes!” The boy took on that almost demented look again. “I command it!”
He strode up to Ser Tick, knocked three times on the chestplate and then opened it up to reveal the humming lights and revolving parts that were the central part of a clank. “They’re not human, they are machines. Flogging won’t hurt them.” And then he closed the chestplate. “Any further questions?”
Joffrey goggled at the clanks – there could be no other word – and then swallowed and strode off with his nose in the air. Sandor Clegane followed with a look of amused disgust and as he did his hair moved to reveal the horrific burns that Tarvek had been told was there. Aha. Healing that would be a challenge.
Tyrion
Tyrion sat in the main hall of Winterfell and admired the food in his hand. It was a simple lunch, this ‘BLT’, but by all the gods it was delicious. Thick cuts of fresh warm bread, thick slices of very well-smoked and cured bacon, a number of slices of tomato and some crispy lettuce. It was practical, filling and heavenly.
He finished it off and then thought about the little pips that had been inside the tomatoes and which were now on the side of the plate. As soon as he got back to his room he would start the process of drying them out so that they could join the others. Yes, tomato seeds were being sent to all the major houses of Westeros, but he wouldn’t put it past Father to sneer at them and ignore them. No, when he got back to Casterley Rock he would make sure that the seeds were planted, the tomatoes grown – and one day, when he was Lord of the Westerlands, the best tomatoes in Westeros would be his. An idle fancy but a good one.
Of course, thinking about Father made him think about the report that he as starting to write for him and a slight scowl crossed his face. Something here in the North was most definitely up – the problem was that Father would want more details than that.
The ‘Landau’ (what a strange word, where was it from?) had taken Cersei and her children from White Harbour to Winterfell in considerable style and comfort, so much so that his dear idiot of a sister had demanded that they take it back to King Landing with them, as it was fit only for the Queen and not those Northern peasants. Ned Stark had gifted her the carriage, before muttering to the King when Cersei had stalked off looking smug but Tyrion had been in earshot that actually that was Tarvek’s old landau and his news ones were much, much better. King Robert had laughed himself hoarse at that.
Of course Father wouldn’t take much notice of ‘a new carriage’. But he should. The design, the underside, the wheels – they were all better than anything else in Westeros. The idea of the ‘leafspring’ was sheer genius.
And then there was the semaphore. He’d been given permission to see into the one here in Winterfell, a wonderfully exciting place of slats and ladders and mechanisms. The men and women operating it had been young and clever and filled with a fierce enthusiasm. He knew that the semaphore was delivering enciphered messages along with plain-language ones and for the life of him he still couldn’t decipher the code. It was excitingly frustrating, a true challenge to even his intellect.
And there was more. Winterfell had its Great Clock now, a wondrous thing that told the time no matter what the weather. It was not a sundial, or a candle with markings on it, it was a great mechanism of wheels and cogs and weights that now sat in a new emplacement on the main gatehouse into the citadel. It told the time – and perfectly.
There was also the matter of the steel. The Westerlands had long been known for having excellent steel, as the gold of the Westerlands attracted the best smiths in Westeros. But, as Father would realise, based on the knives that he had bought in Winterfell (one of which was just for him, the other would go into the parcel that held the rest of the report), the North had developed excellent steel. Superb steel in fact. And the question was – how?
There were times when all he had to do was close his eyes and remember the little things about the trip to Winterfell. Too many people scorned the North as being full of primitive savages. They were not. They were a people who lived in a place that tried to kill them in large numbers every winter, the kind of winters that would lead to most people South of the Neck dying like flies. They were a people who placed their faith in things that worked. They did not reject innovation, they trusted it when it worked. And right now a large number of things that worked were being introduced. The ploughs were different – the shape was changed and they ploughed a deeper furrow, which was good. The steel was increasingly different – it was harder and kept a better edge, which was good. The windmills he had seen were subtly different. So had been the watermills. Little things, things that Cersei ignored and Jaime laughed at.
The North was changing, he could feel it. And there were the other things, the things that he could not write to Father about because all he had was conjecture about those things. The Cassels were sometimes away from Winterfell – never together as one was always at the side of Ned Stark, but one was often away. He has once heard distant crackles of something away to the North, when a chilly wind had been blowing that way, and he had stood at the ramparts and wondered what it had been – and Jory Cassel had seen him looking. The noise had not happened again, but there had been a distant booming noise two days after. Again, Jory Cassel had noticed his curiosity at the sound – and once again it had never happened again. No, something was up, somewhere.
It was Tarvek Sturmvoraus who was at the centre of it all, he could tell. The young man was… different. And Father needed to know that.
He sighed and drank some more of the excellent beer. Word was already probably on the way to Father to say that Ned Stark was the new Hand of the King. Joffrey was not betrothed to Sansa Stark, but that might happen (the poor girl might escape that fate as the boy was a spoilt imbecile) and Tommen was now squire to Ned Stark and seemed to be perking up a bit.
The doors behind him opened and then he heard the heavy tread of feet. He looked behind him and then blinked as Ser Tick and Ser Tock marched into the hall. They headed straight for the Hound, who was demolishing a plate of ham and eggs.
“SANDOR CLEGANE.” The hall fell silent as Ser Tick intoned. “YOU WILL COME WITH US TO BE HEALED.”
The Hound looked over his shoulder and scoffed. “Fuck off.”
Ser Tick Paused for a moment. “IMPOSSIBLE TO COMPLY, PHYISICAL REQUIREMENTS LACKING. YOU WILL COME WITH US TO BE HEALED. DO NOT RESIST.”
And with that the two ‘clanks’ seized the Hound in what looked like a combined grip of iron, hoisted him in the air, turned and then marched out of the hall, despite his roaring and frantic movements that… did not affect them at all.
The others in the hall stood collectively in bafflement, with many Redcloaks looking at each other and asking what was going on. Tyrion leapt to his feet and ran after the trio as they passed through the doors, calling for calm as he cursed his stumpy little legs. As he burst out of the hall and into the sunlight in the courtyard he could see an astonished Luwin watching the sight of the struggling Hound yelling in the implacable grip of the two clanks.
“Luwin, apparently they’re taking him to be healed!” He gasped out the words as he ran. The Maester gaped at him for a moment – and then he ran with him.
Wonder of wonder they caught up with the trio as they passed into Tarveks tower and as they followed them up the stairs the door slammed closed behind them. Fortunately for Tyrion’s legs and the Maester’s panting breaths the clanks delivered the Hound into a room on the first floor of the tower, which was filled with glowing… mechanisms was the best word that Tyrion could come up with, that glowed.
A door to one side opened and Tarvek Sturmvoraus entered – and Tyrion suddenly had to repress the need to run. The man had a white coat on and there was something about him that was triggering his flight or fight reflex. His eyes were glittering with something, there was an almost manic smile on his face.
“Aha! Sandor Clegane! Put him in the chair now and strap him in!”
There was an odd harmonic about his voice and he looked at Luwin who had blanched. “By the old gods, he’s fully Sparked.”
“Sparked?”
The old man looked at him seriously. “You’ll see.”
He looked back at the Hound, who was now strapped into a chair and not happy about it.
“Let me GO, you MAD FUCKER!”
Tarvek looked at him and the Hound paled. “But why should I? I’m about to heal your face! I’ve realised how to do it, so simple really, a paste and then a dermal regeneration, with a few other factors, really so simple! LETSGETSTARTEDSHALLWE?”
Some kind of paste was smeared all over the Hounds horrific burns and he roared with fury and pain, before Tarvek suddenly jammed a helmet over his face that had a closed faceplate and some kind of fat strings attached to it.
“HOLDSTILLORYOURFACEMIGHTMELTOFFYOURSKULL.” The Hound froze in what Tyrion could tell was complete terror. “WELLTHECHANCES ARE ACTUALLYQUITEREMOTEBUTBETTERSAFETHANSORRY!THREE!TWO!ONE!NOW!”
Light suddenly flared from the helmet, light that made Tyrion and Luwin throw their hands up to shield their eyes. It lasted a good minute as the Hound made a noise of closed-mouthed distress – and then it was all over, as something overhead made a VMMM-VMM-VM noise that sounded as if something was slowing down.
And then when Tarvek Sturmvoraus lifted the helmet up, he saw a miracle. The Hound’s face was healed.