Annatar, who the elves call Thauron and others call Sauron, finds himself standing in a field. A broad and sweeping field, dotted all across with tufted hillocks. This isn’t an unusual feature in Middle Earth, but of course he isn’t IN Middle Earth any longer, for Annatar is banished. Upon his finger glints the One Ring of Power, and upon the ring runes of power blazing all in red fire. In his raiment, the splendor of the Eldar shines still, and on his fair brow a circlet of gleaming mithril. 

Mud sucks at his fine boots, and at the hooves of the calvary trotting grimly along- great dark warhorses, their riders short by the standards of the men of Numinor. They wear rough-spun cotton all of grey and brown, and bear proud standards which flap in the chill breeze like the tails of great grey serpents. A white wolf running on a grey field. They are unarmored, and their horses do not bear barding though they look to be of good enough stock. The men are armed, however, their lances shining keen. 

A man runs before them, the sort of tottering run of the inebriated or the exhausted- a black jerkin and black trousers, a worn black cape trimmed with a high ruff of black fur and black boots worn through in the toes and heels and splattered all with the chill muck that even now tries to soil Annatar's fine elvish boots. Though the horses pursuing him are flecked with foam, they canter cleanly with their heads held high and proud. 

He's lucky to find men here, Annatar supposes, as he collects himself into his body. It's not looking it's best, but all things considered he's doing surprisingly well. The space here tastes different from Arda, it has never been shaped by the Valar. Yet his power still seems to function. He stretches out and cloaks himself in illusion, becoming invisible to the men.

He surveys his resources. The clothes on his back: of good elven make, beautiful and resistant to damage and filth. Perhaps inappropriate for a mannish country, and a poor one at that, but the local kings may be impressed. Jewelry and enchantments: mostly useless. Minor defenses and boons that only served to prove his credentials as a skilled smith. Some may come in handy, but he has no need to rely on them. After all, now he has his ring. It took so much power and time to craft that he had become used to the weakness, but now he is flush with strength.

He is severed from the rest of his reserves and forces, but even so he doesn't expect to fear any but the gods of this new world.

The world itself seems recognizable but ugly. They have a sun, apparently, and these horsemen carry themselves with pride despite looking as poor and ugly as the man they are chasing. Are any of the men speaking?

The men have the grim air of those who set themselves to grim tasks. The sort of silent, mildly distasteful, expression that would not be out of place on an elf going to war. 

Do they disagree with the task they have been set, or are they merely feeling sorry for their prey? He would not flee so far past the point of exhaustion if he expected any kindness was waiting for him.

Annatar halts his own thoughts to listen more carefully to the minds of these men. What are they thinking?

They do not disagree with their task, but nor do they relish it. They resent their quarry perhaps, empathize with him maybe, but feel sorry? For an oath-breaker? For a deserter? One who takes the black- as the man they hunt had done- often joins as alternative to punishment for a capital crime and it makes the hunters feel better to imagine that was his reason in joining the Night's Watch. To run down a deserter is a distasteful task, and to execute a criminal an unpleasant duty for all but the most deranged mind, but this man does not deserve their pity. 

Kindness does not wait for their prey, but nor does death. Yet. In the north, in the lands ruled over by Lord Stark of Winterfel, Warden of the North and closest friend of the king, it is tradition that the man who passes sentence be the man who swings the sword, That is what awaits this oath-breaker- when he stumbles into the trap waiting for him over the next hill. Another dozen men on another dozen horses. They wait for that trap, not because their horses are too tired to run the man down, not because they think him likely to best them, but because that is the PLAN, and good soldiers don't disobey the plan even when they think they know better.

The fleeing man does not fear Lord Stark's sword. He does not fear the men behind him. He runs because he must, but not because he thinks it will buy him his life. He runs, because he has seen what lives north of the wall. He has seen dead men rise again. He has seen ancient.... things... from legend. He has seen them wield a cold intense enough to shatter steel. He runs, because death south of the wall is at least final. 

Order and discipline are values Annatar can appreciate, and he needs more information. He still hasn't heard the sound of their language. He will not interrupt their capture, and he will follow the group to see how they treat their prisoner.

The man stumbles to a hopeless halt when the trap is sprung, and submits to their ministrations without a fight. The cavaliers aren't gentle, but nor do they go out of their way to be rough. There are some unfamiliar words in what sounds like a mocking tone of voice, and others that sound victorious. The former is accompanied by thoughts like "Did you really think you could desert the Night's Watch?" and the latter by thoughts like "Long chase, but we got him, the bastard," and "He hardly seems worth the effort." The man's hands and feet are bound with heavy-looking manacles of a rough-forged iron, nothing like the wondrous artistry of the Eldar back in Middle Earth, and he is tied to the saddle of a spare horse. His dejected silence does nothing to breed conversation amongst his captors and mostly they ride with the same grim silence they held while they pursued him. 

The language is more recognizable than he would have expected, but it will still take him time to learn it. The men, on the other hand, are impressive both for their loyalty and the crudeness of their art. Unfortunate for their current standards of living, but it bodes well for his ability to teach them. Unless they are so poor they cannot progress past this point, he supposes. Hard to grow without enough iron and wood.

He will stay within hearing range of the men as they transport their prisoner, and continue listening to their thoughts until he has picked up the language. In the meantine, he is going to examine the local plants and animals to see how closely they match the ones he knows. What is the climate like, is this a fertile or barren land?

As the men travel, Annatar gets the sense that their loyalty is the exception here, rather than the norm, and born of their lord's reputation for fairness and honor. 

The land is not entirely barren, but is far from fertile. The rolling hills are covered with verdant grasses and tall clusters of trees stud the countryside, but there are great jagged rock outcroppings as well and the air is cold. There are animals about, but they scatter at the passing of the horses. Deer, peering timidly from betwixt the gnarled boughs of the trees, little red foxes darting away into the underbrush, mice in their cozy holes, birds chirping shyly from hidden places in the thickets. Gradually, the untamed grasses give way to fenced pastures and lowing cattle. There are low homes of a grey stone loosely piled together and patchily mortared, thatched in pale straw. Plows and hoes and other farm implements have the dull sheen of untempered iron, their hafts and shafts of dark barely-worked wood. A low grey fortress looms on the horizon- its towers short and squat, its keep a pale shadow of even the merest kingdom of men in Annatar's home world and with entirely too few spikes for Annatar's tastes. The thoughts- and slowly more intelligible words- of the men paint the north as the largest of the seven kingdoms, however, and they seem proud of the fortress. They stop in a field where a large man and his household wait for them. 

He is taller than the rest of these men, and broader in the shoulder, but smaller and uglier than even the least of the men of Numinor. Upon his shoulders a great wolf pelt, and on his chest a riveted breastplate. His breast bears the running wolf sigil of his house, and sword is a massive two handed affair made of a shining braided steel. The blade is of noticeably better craftsmanship than the weapons of the men who brought their prisoner here, but it doesn't hum in the song of the world like the magical blades of the Eldar, and it is covered with the telltale sheen of oil, implying a susceptibility to rust not shared by mithril or any of the great workings of Annatar's world. 

In the grass before this man there is a rough-hewn lump of wood like an ancient organic boulder, a carved channel for the neck and shoulders describes a dark recess in the oft-scarred top and the wood is stained with the dark patterning of old blood soaked into the grain and wiped away, time after time after time. Behind him stand three young men, two of whom share his features, one who does not, as well as a boy-child. All are armed and armored, their horses picketed a short stretch away. Their mail glints steel in the slowly fading light, their clothing is tight-spun and closely stitched. Lightly embroidered on the sleeves, and laced tight at the throat, but wool and cotton still, not linen or silk. They wear cloaks of black or grey or brown, all trimmed about the neck with fur. Their arms are polished and unmarked by pitting or rust or patina, but of straight-edged steel with plain cross guards and leather-wrapped handles. The arrows in quivers at their sides are fletched in pale goose quills and are long and straight, their bows of simple single-curved ash. There is no artistry in their weapons, no runes of power glinting anywhere, but they are well made and functional. They are the weapons of a people used to war, and used to the manufacture of war materiel, but a people who view weapons as tools only, and not artistry to lavish care and beauty upon. 

Annatar wonders if the Noldor were honest in their arrogance, and this is merely what the world would look like without their skill. But the future is not so bleak. He suspects they are motivated but uncreative, and might take well to foreign knowledge once it has proven itself.

The lack of wealth seems to persist even among these more important newcomers. Is frugality a great virtue here, or are they merely poor? Is the war they seem so prepared to fight actively waging, or merely a salient threat? So many questions, he must speak to them soon, and this tall one does not seem the type to be in a good mood after an execution.

He will have to reveal himself as a foreigner at some point, so there isn't much harm in demonstrating a lack of skill at the language. If they react poorly to his appearance, he can simply go elsewhere and try again. This does not seem like the sort of civilization to have an effective means of spreading news.

A ways down the road, while no one is looking in his direction, he flares a bit of magic to shake the mud from his clothes and dispel his illusions.

As Annatar approaches, the men notice him. Their Lord's head is bowed over his great blade and he is saying words over the criminal. At words from his men, the Lord Stark looks up and locks eyes with the approaching stranger. He finishes his words swiftly, asks the prisoner if he has any last words- he doesn't. The youngest of his (presumably) sons turns away, but the eldest lays a hand on the child's shoulder and says "You must watch. Father will know if you don't." The child nods, bites his lip, but watches. 

The father raises his massive blade and strikes off the prisoner's head in one swift glittering arc. The lord stark passes his sword to the eldest son, blood still running down the blade in thick ropey crimson dribbles, and stomps grimly towards Annatar. Behind him, his son carefully wipes the blade with a clean rag. 

Annatar approaches and greets him solemnly. He speaks with an accent. He doesn't need to, but it better matches his vocabulary in the learning curve of a man, and he has still not heard any mention of elves.

He stops a few paces from the lord and bows, slowly but not deeply.

"I greet you. I am Annatar, a man from a far land."

"Greetings, Annatar, man from a far land. I am Eddard Stark and these are my sons, Bran and Rob." He begins with the youngest, and then the oldest. He does not introduce the middle or the one who does not share his features. "What brings you to Winterfel? I trust you've met with no troubles in my lands? The Kingsroad can be unsafe for one... unarmed..." Unarmed, the Lord Stark says, but in the privacy of his mind what he really means is rich and alone. There is suspicion in Eddard's mind, concern for his people, and worry that Annatar might not actually BE alone. The hills are high and the sporadic clusters of trees may hide a host of Annatar's men at arms.

Annatar smiles at the children and bows lightly again. Is there clear difference in the dress or health of the named from the unnamed?

"I thank you to deal with my speech, I am not practiced. My travel was long, but easy. I have met no threats in your lands I could not handle myself.

I do not hope to interrupt your duties, but I have walked some ways. May I hope for hospitality here?"

No difference that Annatar notices, and if there was anything in the lord's mind it was a surface thought too briefly to catch. 

"Do you have men who need my hospitality as well, or do you ask only for yourself?" 

"Only for myself. My men have not travelled with me, and I fear they must make their own travel without my aid.

You are the lord of these lands, I think? I do not hope to be a difficult guest, but I will not claim hospitality that you do not wish to offer."

He shifts his body language, adding a touch of tiredness to the nobility with which he stands.

"Pardon an old man his caution. Let it never be said that the welcome of Wintefel was denied to an unarmed stranger. Come, fetch your horse and ride with me." 

Annoying. Of course it's odd that he reached this location without a mount. He could make an illusory horse, but it could be difficult to keep up the act once the beast is out of his sight.

"I thank you for your kindness. I am afraid I have no horse, so to accept this offer I must also hope to accept the use of one."

A quirk of an eyebrow. Thoughts something like a king, by the circlet on his brow and the finery he wears, but unnarmed and unaccompanied, without horse or bannermen. "We brought no remounts, but come, ride my horse and I shall walk beside."

Annatar is indeed suspiciously powerful and mysterious! Thank you for noticing, comparatively important local.

He bows politely again, and mounts the horse in a motion that is graceful, but not too unlikely for a human.

"I hope you will forgive me for any rudeness. I am afraid I do not know your culture better than your language."

"There is nothing to forgive, stranger," he gives a wordless sign to his men and the split into two groups. The first stays behind to take care of the body, the second falls in with their lord as the little party moves off. "Tell me, from whence do you hail, stranger? I confess, I do not know your accent or your features," he tries not to stare at the ring blazing on Annatar's finger, but his mind gives him away. In Middle Earth, it is considered extremely rude to pry into someone's mind without their permission. Of course, this isn't Middle Earth, and men rarely notice the intrusion anyway. 

Annatar will give up his advantages when the need is less pressing. He knows how to avoid motivated reasoning, and having just arrived in a war-torn world of which he knows not even the language is not a time when he feels comfortable acting without all accessible knowledge.

"Far, it is a different...body of land? Perhaps I could show you upon a map, if one can be found. It is a land well-suited to its people, who spend much of their time in pursuit of beauty. Though I have met a warm welcome, this seems to me a harsh land. Would you consider it so?"

“A harsh land indeed, but there is beauty in austerity. More, my people think, than in jewels and silk.” So a soft southerner, Lord Stark thinks. Soft and gaudy like my friend Robert the king, and the gold-driven house Lannister and the house Tyrell with their young knight of the flowers. “Tell me stranger, of the ring on your finger? How does it shine so?” 

"Then I hope you will not judge too harshly the styles of my own people. Perhaps I will attempt yours, if I stay long. They seem better-fitted to the needs of the land."

But there are gentler lands, further south. He has met many elves who love warmth and gold and flowers, and if there is any similarity he would be better off deploying his knowledge here. Though these southerners may be more readily directed with politics, and that would be higher leverage... He'll need more information to plot the development of this world.

"But my ring is unique to you? Such items are the work of a skilled smith, it is my own profession. If there are any here who would care to speak on the subject, I would be pleased to trade for lodging and support in this land. I may have skill and art not known here."

“Hospitality is a virtue in this land,” the lord Stark replies, “and I would accept no compensation for it. I thank you for your kind offer however, and my smiths would be delighted to learn from you if you wish to teach, knowing that our hospitality does not depend on the favor.” There is confusion flaring bright in his mind- he thought Annatar a king by the circlet on his brow and the fine clothes on his back, but no king he has heard of works at anything other than rule. 

"Then I would be honored to speak with your smiths, and will be happy to accept your hospitality even if my art proves useless to you. But I suspect opportunity for us to work together! Would you tell me more of how you live, here? Do you mine your metals? Or are they brought from elsewhere? Can you tell me of the duties of a lord of this land?"

“And I would be honored to work with you,” he replies. “Particularly if what you wear isn’t representative of your art.” His sons- as well as the mystery someone else- listen attentively. There are flashes of thought in Lord Stark’s mind. Ambitions of replicating lost art, reclaiming the miracle of Valerian steel. Ambitions of bettering his peoples, of making them wealthy and happy and safe from the depredations of lords he considers less honorable than himself. “We do a little mining here, but the land is too hard to mind deeply here. There are rumors that the Iron Isles have iron mines, but they deny this. Of course, they get their iron from somewhere and their name is telling.” You would think they would be more cooperative with the man that conquered them, Lord Stark thinks, but he also thinks that very little justifies war. Certainly not annoyance and the withholding of valuable resources. “Much of our ore we import from Braavos at painful expense, but the lands of the North can largely feed our people-“ pride here- “and the export of timber covers many of our expenses. Iron is expensive everywhere in Westeros-“ the country his lands belong to? “And only castle smiths have the skill and wealth to work high quality steel. There are local smiths who do work other than castle-forged of course, but that is useful only for horseshoes, barrel bands, plows, other tools.” It is clear by the joy in his mind, that his people are one of his only passions. “My duties are as one would expect. Arbitration of disputes, law making, overseeing public works, seeing to the prosperity of my lands, and the execution of justice where necessary.” His face grows as grim as before and his mood sours. “Such are the duties of a lord of this land. What of yourself? Are you a smith or a lord? If the former, are your masters just? If the latter, how do you rule?” Suspicion of an unknown kingdom, pain for commoners who may be suffering, hope for a prosperous trading partner... the king of Westeros may be Lord Stark’s friend, but the king has expensive tastes and the kingdom’s taxes make that his problem as well. 

"Hah! If you mean my robes, I am afraid I have no skill in weaving I can teach, let alone that would improve on your own methods. But I assure you I can work steel as well as gold, and other metals besides. My peoples would not have such wealth as we do without enough practical art to reach more basic values."

A greedy look passes through Annatar's eyes as he imagines the raw mithril reserves that this world may unknowingly hold.

"There are tools and machines that may ease the pain of mining, but it may not be efficient. Perhaps the best use of effort here lies elsewhere. I am impressed that you have made these lands produce sufficient food! It is a stress on a people to know that they must depend on distant trade to avoid starvation. It was worth the difficulty to arrange a steady production for my own. I spent most of my time upon my craft, but I had a people of my own and a...right to rule? My people were hated by the other lords for old reasons, not relevant in many generations of men. But my power was growing while most others were weakening, and in fear they decided to cast me out. My people will be weaker without me, but at least they will survive. So many would have died if I had fought the judgement."

He looks wistful about that. It would be such a shame if they hunted down the remaining orcs at this point, with him gone. Maybe they'll grow up and manage something big on their own.

"I cannot say that I approve of those who passed judgement on me. They love beauty and prosperity, but happily sacrifice freedom, and would enchain or destroy all other races to advance their favored people. I did as I thought best for my own men, and I even taught the others some of my knowledge of the forge, but their fear was too deep and I have come out the worse for it."

“I meant your ring largely,” Lord Stark replies. “I cannot conceive of how one might make a lantern so small, nor can I imagine how one might use it, but it speaks of marvelous craftsmanship and I am joyful that your trade is metalworking!” Thoughts of the horrors the man he executed talked of. “Winter is coming, and if your swords are half so fine we may endure it. I fear it shall be a long one. Long and cold. It sounds as though you were treated unjustly and if you wish to share your craft, there are many here who would be grateful.” He smiles in what he imagines is a warm fashion but his is the sort of face that rarely can manage anything other than grim. 

"I have many trinkets with light of their own, but they are not my only trick. Come, hold these!"

He draws from within his robes a small hammer and takes an ornate ring from his finger, and passes them both to Lord Stark, gesturing for him to wear the ring.

The hammer starts heating up as he holds it in his hand. Within seconds the silver head is glowing a dull red, almost painful to hold.

The ring does nothing until he puts it on, when it spreads a vague blanket-like feeling over him. The heat of the hammer is dulled, as is the bite of the air, as his body stablizes at a comfortable temperature.

“What a wonder,” he exclaims after a moment of astonished silence. “The lives this ring could save... is it possible to make more? Prohibitively expensive to widely distribute such a treasure I would guess? Come friend, I expect you are soon to be very wealthy.” His mind is filled with thoughts of applications- of peasants no longer freezing to death even while huddled around a fire, of soldiers marching on in a blizzard where previously they would freeze solid mid stride- but a small fear too, of whatever nation might exile a man like this.

"I will happily teach you to make such items, but they are not so easy to make in large number. Even the most skilled smith will take months to forge a ring which defends against weather. Though the effect could be made at larger scale without adding so much time, so homes could be covered, or perhaps even towns or armies. Metal which heats itself is easier, but still adds weeks."

Annatar is happy to talk logistics of magic item construction for as long as the lord pleases. The main chokepoint will be how many humans he can instruct and equip for the process, and whether their efforts won't be better used manufacturing other items that could be even more useful.

They talk logistics and approach the- insufficiently spiky- fortress. Lord Stark seems to prioritize things to keep his people warm in an impending winter which he hints as if everyone in the world knows, will be years long. He also seems very interested in replicating a material called Valerian steel which a telepath’s view of his mind reveals to be... slightly stronger and more rust resistant than normal steel. This is what his sword is made of, and seems to be the pinnacle of weapons technology, now long forgotten. In the privacy of his mind, Lord Stark also assigns it a number of dubiously plausible mythical properties such as “able to kill the monsters that live north beyond THE WALL which may or may not actually exist,” and “maybe forged by dragon fire? Who knows?” 

He is very impressed by Annatar and seems to consider that, and the rings of weather protection, to be the best that Annatar could maybe-offer, and sees these things as making Annatar more awesome than anyone he’s ever met except maybe his best friend the king. 

After a meaningful amount of traveling, a massive elk is found dead in the road, it’s throat torn out and strewn across the packed dirt like so many moldering rubies, it’s antlers snapped like a tree’s boughs in a fierce storm. Lord Stark grows pale, but approaches before his men, even without a horse. His armsmen are given orders to defend Annatar, then he and his two elder sons (and whatever is going on with the other young man who doesn’t really look like him at all) trudge into the woods to investigate. A few minutes later, they return and ask for Annatar to follow. 

...Annatar has helped with designing dragons before, and could probably duplicate the process, but it doesn't seem likely to be more effective than an industrial-scale bellows system. He forged the Ring in a volcano because it was his place of power, not because metaphors for fire are actually better than proper forges.

But blood on the wind catches his attention, and he follows when asked, pleased to see what powerful predators they have in these lands.

The predator lies dead about twenty feet from the road... path? Trail? Lord Stark regards the... road... as a major thoroughfare. 

The trees are thick here, one of the isolated thickets, and leaves lie thick in the beast's matted fur. It’s muzzle is a full two feet long and filled with gore-streaked fangs. It’s a canine of some sort, but no sort Annatar has ever seen. A wolf-like creature the size of a horse, maybe a little bigger, it’s fur thick and shaggy. Lodged in its throat is a section of the Elk’s antler and at its cold teats, six tiny pups try futilely to nurse. 

“A dire wolf,” says the man who doesn’t seem related to Lord Stark. 

“Aye,” Lord Stark agrees. “I’ve never seen one south of the wall before. I suppose we ought to count ourselves lucky we didn’t have to hunt the beast down.”

”My lord,” says the man who what’s his deal? He picks up one of the pups and draws a dagger from his belt. “Shall I dispatch the pups for you?”

”No,” Lord Stark raises a hand. “Friend Annatar, you ruled men in your land. Tell me, what would you do, we’re these your lands?”

"A wolf of this size! What a wonderful creature! Can they be trained? I am sure no herdsman would wish to live near one, but it seems a great shame not to ally yourself with such noble beasts!"

Lord Stark frowns thoughtfully. “Noble beasts? Hmm. I suppose they ARE my house sigil. Perhaps they can be trained. I have never heard of a wolf being trained and they’re as fiercer than wolves as wolves are than dogs, but... what do you propose? I think my master of the hounds would not thank me for giving him the task.” 

The youngest of his three sons regards Annatar with interest and excitement. He wants very much to be a knight and Annatar is an impressive enough king-standin that he’s captured the boy’s imagination. The boy’s name is Bran. He chooses not to speak of his daydreams. 

Annatar considers for a moment and eyes the boy with a light smirk.

"If they are to wolves as wolves to dogs it is a simple task to train them, though perhaps not easy nor safe. I have seen wolves trained, and they must be directed with forceful will lest they decide you are unworthy to lead the pack. But it is easier when you begin with the pups, and they are clever, they have a better memory for instructions than dogs. And you have sons! It is a fine task for a child. If they can learn to lead a beast like this, I am sure they can lead any man."

“There are five pups,” the unintroduced not-son says, “and six Stark children.” He seems a little hostile. Annatar is fairly sure, given better eyesight, that there are in fact six pups. 

“I’m not a Stark,” the unintroduced one of the two elder sons replies and doesn’t quite manage not to sound bitter. 

“Your words seem wise, friend Annatar,” Lord Stark cuts in. “In truth, I am loathe to slay a pup, even a direwolf pup. My children will raise them. They are to see that the creatures are fed, and trained, and housed.”

It is an interesting family they seem to have here. A guest and a cousin, perhaps?

"A fair judgement. I hope they may be a valuable ally and lesson. But I see six pups? Look, the white one merely hides."

“The runt of the litter for the bastard! How fitting.” The not-related man seems to take pleasure in wounding the unintroduced son but it seems the sort of pleasure born from a need to distribute ones pain rather than from innate viciousness. 

To combatively compare status is a common human passtime, but it is curious that this one seems to be unsure of his position even relative to the bastard. Is the not-a-Stark favored for some other reason? Is the unrelated boy instead disfavored? Child of a criminal, or an enemy? Or perhaps an ally who the lord dislikes for personal reasons? Lord Stark does seem the type to keep his obligations even if he disapproves of the beneficiary.

But more importantly, they are taking the wolves! They are good wolves, he's sure, and they would look very good in armor. Annatar makes a mental note to start designing war barding by the time they are fully grown. Black would be a good choice, it would match the fur. But maybe the white one should wear mithril! He hopes the apparent bastard is strong enough to control the wolf well, it would be a fine sight to send him into battle on a mithril-plated direwolf!

Refocusing on the scene around him, Annatar reaches down and pulls the piece of antler from the mother's neck. He flicks away stray droplets of blood, all of which deftly avoid his robes, and places the fragment in a pocket.

"A fine coincidence, then! It will teach a useful sort of strength. Should something be done with the mother?"

The unrelated man doesn’t think of his heratige. Lord Stark does, though. Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of the lord of the Iron Isles. Lord Stark is very not-find of the Iron Isles. 

There is shame is Lord Stark’s mind as well- or guilt perhaps? Not the sort of “I slept with someone not-my-wife” guilt you would expect of the father of a bastard, but rather guilt over... dishonesty? He doesn’t dwell on it in enough detail for Annatar to catch. 

“I will send men to dispose of the mother,” Lord Stark replies. “If she isn’t actively a threat, she doesn’t require my direct attention.” 

If Annatar has nothing further he wishes to do or say, the party moves back to the road and continues towards the insufficiently spikey castle. 

Interesting! Annatar will need to pay attention to these boys. Family ties seem to be very relevant on this world, which is not so different from his prior experience.

Annatar is content to continue to the castle, even if he would prefer more black-iron spires. These people can hardly manage steel, after all. It would be a lot to expect them to worry about aesthetics when they're just trying to avoid freezing to death.

Does anything interesting happen before the humans turn in for bed?

A man in grey robes meets them at the gate. He wears a chain like a bandoleer, each link of a different material, and carries a letter written on a long thin ribbon of paper. 

“A raven came, milord” he says. “Letter from King’s Landing.”

Lord Stark thanks him and takes the note, reads it quickly, and passes it to his eldest son. “Jon Arryn is dead,” he says. 

“Assasination?” Rob, his son, guesses. 

“Fever,” Lord Stark corrects him. “Not necessarily exclusive of assassination, but not obviously foul play.” In his mind, nebulous fears of poison. “The king is coming to Winterfell.”

”To name you hand to the king?” His son guesses. 

“I can think of no other reason,” Lord Stark does not seem to view the idea of promotion with pleasure. “This man is our guest. Make up the room in the west tower, and see to his needs. Annatar, my apologies. I must go and help my wife to figure out how we’re to pay for a royal visit and the feasts that go with.”

Annatar also meets his two daughters and youngest son; Sansa the eldest daughter, Arya the precocious younger, and Rikkon the very young son. The daughters wear dresses of fine silk, Arya’s soaked through the elbows and knees with fresh mud (disapproving glare from her father). Rikkon is dressed simmilarly to his brothers. The extremely busy Lady Stark wears a tastefully embroidered silk gown and jewelry which seems limited more by tastefulness than budget. The armsmen are equipped simmilarly to the horsemen Annatar first saw, armored in toughened leather and ringmail. The servants wear well-spun wool. The kingdom does not seem impoverished, but Winterfell is a fortress first, the center of government second, and a palace not at all. 

An armsman is assigned to show Annatar around (his mind carries instructions to guard against treachery as well) and Annatar is permitted to wander. 

Honestly, Annatar finds this kind of refreshing after spending so many years living with elves. Understated and warlike aesthetics are valid too.

But it is good to see some signs of wealth and power. It seems the king respects Stark, as well as the reverse. And more significantly, the king is coming to Winterfell! Now that will be a good opportunity, but he will need to be well-prepared to take advantage of it.

For the moment, Annatar will ask his guard if there's a library he can visit. He can derive a bit of the written language from the letter from the king, but becoming fully literate is a high priority. He'll also need to get to know the family, but tonight will be spent mastering the language both spoken and written, so he can properly communicate in this world.

There is a small library, which the guard is happy to guide Annatar to. The guard seems to understand that they must- somehow- hold information, but is not himself literate. 

Annatar learns to read and then also many interesting things. No one disturbs him until morning. 

Maiar don't have human psychology, or even elvish psychology. Or biology, for that matter. Annatar has more attention and patience, a better memory, and no need to sleep. He is fully capable of spending the night cross-referencing between books and the thoughts of the men in the fort, and by morning he is effectively fluent.

He's also gained a passing familiarity with some of the political structure of this world and its warlike history. There's a lot of room for improvement. Farming efficiency could be drastically improved just with new techniques, selective breeding has a lot of low-hanging benefits, even their road-leveling methods leave a lot to be desired. Better steel should be his first priority, since it's his own talent and it's so useful, but the most serious problem seems to be that all of their political fragmentation is setting things back years every generation! He'll need to see what the king is like.

Since he has the necessary footing now, he'll stop listening to the thoughts of the men. Does anyone come and get him for breakfast, or should he just ask to be shown to the forges?

The young son- not the baby, the one who wanted to be a knight- Bran greets Annatar in the morning. This isn’t very unusual. He enters the library through the window. The window doesn’t seem built with entry as a design consideration. Bran is full of questions- about Annatar, about his homeland, swords, whether or not it is advisable to feed eggs to a direwolf pup. He eventually gets around to inviting Annatar to breakfast. It is implied that all three meals are held in the great hall every day and though breakfast and lunch are informal affairs with flexible hours, guests normally attend all three with the family. The Lord Stark also holds audiences during meals, which Bran regards as insufferably boring. 

Annatar has answers for the boy, and a few questions of his own. He speaks about some of the impressive accomplishments of his home, their great cities and impressive weapons. He mentions the concept of gunpowder, and how an explosion may be harnessed to strike an enemy from far away. He also questions the child about the local customs, what they celebrate or mourn, what they worship, what he knows of the king and his court.

He is definitely not bored by audiences, and will be happy to eat with the family. Knowing what people want is one of the strongest forms of power, he mentions to Bran!

Do the lord and lady still seem stressed over the king's impending visit?

Bran is not impressed by power gained from knowing what people want. According to him, his father has a dim view of POLITICS. He is fascinated by talk of weapons. Less fascinated by gunpowder. It sounds less honorable than a sword, kindof like a crossbow and boring to learn to aim with. He gets to start learning swordplay next year! 

Breakfast is simple and uninteresting. Eggs, pork, biscuits and lots of each. Lord Stark greets Annatar warmly when he enters, but seems at least as stressed as the day before. The great hall is cavernous and mostly empty, though the Starks, the bastard, and the Iron Islander are present. The hall is unlit though there are chandeliers with empty spaces for candles, thick reinforcing beams of timber that would make an elf gag and a numinorian blush for the flaws in the stonework they imply. Heavy woolen banners from victories past decorate the walls and hint at a long and proud martial history, but also at a technology base which has remained unchanged for ages. 

Annatar is shown to the seat to the right of the Lord Stark and presented with a wooden platter heaped high with food. 

Annatar eats heartily. The energy is trivial in comparison with his current power, but it can't hurt and the men may find it polite. He does add masonry and some of the easier Numenorean recipes to his mental list of topics to share.

Do these people seem the type to talk while eating? If so, he will inquire about the number and availability of forges and smiths, and ask if any members of the family have inefficiencies in their lives that a foreign culture might have solved differently. He is excited to see if there is useful knowledge that might be shared!

They absolutely talk while eating. Lady Stark introduces herself and apologizes for being unavailable yesterday. 

The castle has one furnace, three anvils. and one blacksmith. No forge outside the castle can get hot enough to produce decent steel, and their language shows a difference of kind: castleforged steel. 

None of the adults seem aware of inefficiencies in their lives, and being unfamilar with all that many foreign cultures, they aren’t sure where the points of difference may be. Lord Stark would be interested in Annatar’s foreign views of the issues peasants bring to him for mediation. Without invading his mental privacy, Annatar has difficulty determining if Lord Stark is delegating a distasteful task, evaluating Annatar’s judgement, or curious about Annatar’s home culture as he claims. 

Annatar is honored to meet the Lady Stark, and pleased to hear of the castle forge's superior quality. He would like to see the forge as soon as is convenient, and perhaps to see examples of some different local pieces of metalwork.

He does not find it likely that Stark would ask for his judgements as a trap, he's not really the type. If it's a test, it's an honest one.

"I would also be interested to see how you find my judgements of your petitioners! I do of course caution you that I am unaware of local precidents, and cannot offer final judgement on men not my own, but I would be honored to offer my thoughts."

Lord Stark agrees that of course he should have final say over Annatar’s judgements until such time as Annatar’s judgement has been proven. Would he like to see the forges first, or aid with petitioners?

Petitioners happen during meals, right? If there are already petitioners available he'd be fine with hearing them now.

There are! Two cases have yet to be seen. 

The first is a farmer who claims his farm was burned by bandits. The bandits have not been caught, but the man discribes them a a band of men half a dozen strong, riding horses and wearing plate armor. He claims they rode in near evening two nights before, killed his adult son working the field, abducted his young daughter, set his fields and thatched roof aflame, and left. The farmer smells distinctly unwashed, his clothes are grimy, his face ash blackened except where long-dried tears washed clean tracks down his cheeks. He has come because he does not know what else to do. Without his seed stores he cannot replant, without this harvest he cannot afford to feed his surviving family, and without his home he cannot protect them from the elements. 

The second is a dispute between a miller and a farmer; the farmer complains that the miller stole three chickens, the miller claims the farmer came to have his grain ground and refused to pay so the miller seized three chickens as payment and an excellent few meals for his own family. 

Does Lord Stark find it plausible that bandits here would both have plate armor and be aimless enough to burn a farm? What does Annatar see in this man's eyes, is he a man who has suffered a great loss, or a man playing up his hardships? And how strong is the man? More the malnourished dirt farmer or the strong manual laborer?

For the second, does the farmer deny the lack of payment, deny the obligation to pay, or merely think the reaction was unreasonable? Are the chickens eaten already?

Lord Stark says that there are people who can afford armor, and that there is overlap between them and the subset of people who would be cruel enough to burn a farm for reasons other than money. Plate armor is expensive though, and the pool of those who can afford it is limited. The man’s eyes do hold intense sorrow. He doesn’t seem malnourished, but there are signs that he has gone hungry before. 

The farmer denies lack of payment. The chickens have been eaten. The farmer ends up yelling at the miller and talking over Annatar by the end of the exchange. 

If the man is not exaggerating due to grief, Annatar would expect either unruly young nobles or veterans of a recent conflict who feel they were not paid their due. Is either plausible? In any case, is the man's family at risk immediately, or are there neighbors who can take them in for a short time?

Annatar asks that the men be separated, and each removed from the room while the other is questioned. He asks each a couple of leading questions and listens to their thoughts to figure out what actually happened.

There are no wars quite recent enough for there to be veterans returning home. There are nobles who would delight in such sport. The man does have neighbors who are hosting his family, but they have their own large farming families to feed. 

By their thoughts, the farmer refused to pay because he felt the grain was improperly ground. It certainly LOOKS coarsely ground in his thoughts and there are odd black spots. He liberally insults Annatar’s parentage during the conversation. The miller knows he waited too long to grind the grain, knows it, and did his best to correct the problem, but the grain had gotten wet while stored. He is unfailingly polite, more eloquent then the farmer, and better able to make his point. He does not verbally admit to wrongdoing and without osanwe, it would be very difficult to determine the truth of the situation. Lord Stark listens impassively- as does his eldest son, Rob- and does not speak except to answer Annatar’s questions. 

Let it never be said that Annatar is unwilling to cheat when it nets a better result!

Nobles harassing peasants in their homes is a problem that Annatar thinks should be met as aggressively as possible, to discourage its spread. He recommends that Lord Stark send a tracker to see if the bandits can be identified. As for the man and his family, how much manual labor is available at the castle currently?

For the other two, Annatar tells Stark that he thinks they are both hiding some greater complexity. The farmer should be whipped once for insolence, the miller told to repay the value of a single chicken, and both told that they must have a witness to future transactions. Additionally, do they have the concept of insurance, here? Because that's the real solution.

Lord Stark approves of the solution for the former. A tracker is dispatched, and the man is offered temporary employment in the castle’s grain stores. 

They have no concept of insurance. Lord Stark is not usually inclined to whipping people for insolence for he claims that is a slick road to whipping people because they disagree with you and that is a dangerous policy. For the rest, he takes Annatar’s suggestions and seems glad to be rid of the headache. 

Well, Annatar thinks you can draw a principled distinction between discouraging people from being rude and discouraging people from providing you with new opinions and information, but okay, that works too. Annatar is glad he was able to help.

If that's all the petitioners for the moment, Annatar will finish eating and ask to see the forges.

And Annatar is shown to the forges  

The forges are... well, the people in this castle certainly seem proud of them? There is one furnace- if it can even be called that. A shallow rectangular brick furnace, open on three sides with a chimney in the brick back and a single vent and bellows opposite. Three anvils, a rack of hammers and tongs, a half dozen apprentices, and a single very grumpy blacksmith. He does not seem enthusiastic to be sharing his forge. The Lord Stark, for his part, is delighted by the prospect of Annatar’s artistry. 

Hm... Annatar might need to do some bootstrapping here. Can you even make good enough ceramics for a proper forge in an oven like this? At least he has some of his own tools, and in a pinch he could sustain a hotter fire himself.

"It is a good work! But I do think I could build a more advanced device. A stronger bellows or more insulation may be of use. If your smith would honor me with leave to impose upon his domain, I would value the opportunity to experiment with your materials."

He looks deferently towards the smith as he speaks. The man may keep his pride for the moment, poorly founded though it may be.

The man replies “I have a backload as long as a horse’s dick. I can’t afford for your foreign projects to set that back any. You can use the third anvil, that won’t slow me down too much, but there’s too much work for you to go rebuilding my forge now.” 

Lord Stark frowns, but doesn’t contradict him. “You are the smith,” he says, “and it is unwise to hire experts if you’re going to ignore their advice.” He turns to Annatar, “we can set up what you need there,” he points to a stretch of wall across the courtyard currently filled with archery targets, “or you can use the third anvil?”

"The courtyard will be fine, I would be loath to intrude." He smiles.

Talking more directly to Lord Stark, he explains the materials he would need to build a small demonstration furnace. Can Stark provide a few pounds of iron, some clay for baking bricks, some timber and leather, and a couple pounds each of some rarer minerals like lime? The actual construction won't take too long, if the materials are available.

Of course he can! It will not be cheap, but if the result is anything like the treasures Annatar showed him, it will be well worth it. He presumes Annatar would also like a roof built to keep the rain off his forge? 

Annatar unfortunately has no local currency, but he expects better equipment from his homeland could bring much wealth to this country.

He talks Lord Stark through the process as he collects and assembles materials. He would like a roof, yes, or possibly a shed, but for the demonstration models it would probably be viable to just cap them so the rain won't get in.

"The most difficult aspects of ironcraft to control are the temperature and impurities, you see. The heat of the coal can be hightened by first roasting it, instead of simply burning it. But in order to burn at those temperatures the fuel needs more air than it can itself circulate, so you need a forced air pump of some sort. For this scale I think a hand crank is easiest, but at larger scales I have seen good results with a system turned by oxen or horses walking in a circle. Gears can be used to convert the motion to a larger bellows, or multiple in tandem. The air is forced through the block of fuel, heating high enough to itself melt the iron. The air can be directed where it is  needed. In the refinery, for instance, the air is forced through the iron from below, taking with it any impurities but leaving the pure metal ready to be mixed with fine charcoal for steel. I will make these all small, so that you may see their function without using too much material. If the design works well for you, I can lead your men in constructing a larger assembly."

The explanation goes over Lord Stark’s head, but the wonders Annatar demonstrated are more than enough to earn his aid. And so, after pleasantries are exchanged, Lord Stark orders construction to begin and leaves to oversee the procurement of the harder-to-find materials. 

Thankfully nothing should be too hard to find. The rarer materials are uncommon sorts of rocks, but not especially expensive sorts.

Annatar is a quick worker, and has coal roasting and the wood mostly cut for the bellows in a matter of hours. He'll need to wait for the rarer minerals to come in to mix the clay and grout, but he has wooden molds prepared to support the furnace and forge as they set. The blast refinery will be itself made of steel, coated on the inside with a heavy layer of lime clay, and will need to wait for the forge to be complete before he can forge the basin. If the materials for Annatar's clay, grout, and refinery lime can be found quickly, he will be able to complete the example forge within a couple of days, only cheating a little bit with his magic.

Then the example forge is completed. The Stark children, particularly the young ones, spend most of their free time watching. 

The completed structure is, in fact, somewhat child-sized. However, if a strong man will crank the bellows, Annatar will demonstrate its use. It's more dramatic than the castle forge, the blast refinery roars and throws off enormous clouds of gas, leaving behind pure liquid iron. Annatar mixes this iron with powdered charcoal, switches the air to flow through the forge, and the metal glows much hotter than in the drafty main forge.

He forges two daggers. The first a hunting knife: pure, simple, and clean. The metal swirls in your view, complex patterns and shades forming a hazy speckled pattern, and it is durable enough to be suitable cutting wood or bone as well as flesh. Different grades of steel folded together, it will hold a sharp edge and yet not shatter under cold or impact, and most importantly it will be reminiscent of Lord Stark's own sword, apparently rare and ancient in this world. Annatar makes a die and winds the grip with bright wire, and presents it as a gift to Lord Stark, as an effective tool that may also be an effective showpiece.

The second dagger is harder, more brittle, and made to puncture armor. The weak steel of this world should crack under a direct strike from this blade. Annatar fashions the grip out of the antler, plucked from the neck of the dead direwolf, and gives it to Theon, who seems perhaps in deep need of a friend.

Theon Greyjoy is appropriately grateful for the gift. 

The patterned steel is obviously rare and ancient by Lord Stark’s awestruck expression. He pauses for a moment to admire it, then turns to one of his ever present guards. Orders are given to seal the gate and post a watch on the raven room. “Who else saw you make this?” His voice is as stern and sharp as a good blade. 

"There were a handful of guards and a few of the smith's apprentices who have seen some portion of the forging, but two of your children were the only ones watching when I wound the wire. That would have been the first time an observer could see the pattern. I performed the folds that produce the pattern while no one with any skill at smithing watched, no need to share the secret with unvetted craftsmen."

“Good,” Lord Stark nods slowly. “This is a wonderous work, and... And I cannot predict how the other noble houses would react if they were to find out. Oh would that I had ten of you, and it were known somehow that those ten could not be coerced into giving up their secrets. Ten would perhaps be too many to assassinate, but one? You are vulnerable, and if it were known that you had the lost art of valerian steel there would be a target on your back. How to proceed?”

"There's not so much need to worry, I'm not so easy to kill as all that. That ring which suppresses cold is not my greatest trick."

"But to proceed, we should prepare to work at higher scale. I'd like to start assembling a full-sized furnace and refinery, and a set of forges and casting basins. Before we get too far, though, I need to understand if you need to prepare for something specific. Should the other houses be considered threats? Customers? What does your country need? Are swords truly what would help you most? If so, who are you fighting? There are...other weapons I should perhaps demonstrate for you, if you can find me sulphur and niter."

“This is not a conversation best had in the open,” Lord Stark replies. “Shall we take ourselves to the godswood? That is traditionally where my house holds its secret talks. Not much secret if it’s tradition I suppose, but it is a small space and near impossible to listen in on without those you’re listening to noticing. This is a very great gift, by the way- it occurrs to me that I have not adequately expressed my gratitude.”

"It is no trouble, I am pleased that my craft is so well respected in these lands. "

They walk to the godswood. Is it a wood filled with gods? Maybe just a wood owned by gods. Or perhaps the wood itself is godly or derived from gods in some way. Human religion is weird, but maybe that's to be expected when they don't get to spend thousands of years personally hearing all of their creator's bad opinions.

It is a small glade enclosed by a high wall of tightly fitted grey stone. The trees are tall and old, dark and brooding like the ancient forests back home, but to describe the centerpiece of the garden as a “tree” is to do disservice to it. It’s a massive thing, bigger than a windmill, it’s bark a pale white unblemished by knots or creases. Just a smooth white surface. It’s leaves are a deep blood red, darker near the stem, lighter near their gently waving tips. There are no dead leaves on the ground. Red sap leaks slowly from a face carved deeply into the trunk, but despite the fresh sap Annatar gets the impression the face has been there a long time. As long as the tree perhaps. 

There are whispers over Osanwe. “We know you... we know your deeds... we know your works... we know what you are...” it seems to be coming from The Tree. 

Oho, what's this? This does not seem consistent with the lack of magic he had seen before. He focuses carefully, is there a mind, here, or just some sort of hallucinatory echo?

And yet I do not know what you are. It seems there are mysteries in this world after all, tree.

The tree does in fact seem to have a mind- of sorts. It seems... slower? More ponderous? Less quick to change tracks than a humans, but not exactly less intelligent? It’s an alien mind, as different from Annatar’s as a human’s would be, but in a very different way. It doesn’t seem to respond to Annatar, but that seems to be more because it’s mind can’t move that quickly to the next step in the conversation- insofar as this can be considered a conversation. 

Interesting! It seems almost like an ent, except that ents can't use osanwe. Annatar will continue interacting with the strange mind at its own pace, he can hold his conversation with Lord Stark in the meantime.

"This is a lovely tree, I have not seen its like in my land."

“The Weirwood Tree?” Lord Stark hums. “Yes, they’re certainly strange. I have heard a thousand different mutually exclusive explanations for where they come from, but if there’s truth buried in those explanations I am not clever enough to find it. You asked is I had anything which I needed to prepare for?”

"Yes, who is an enemy, who is a threat, who is a customer, and so on. I understand my swords are impressive to you, but are swords what you most need? I can help you to make as much steel as you need, but what would you wish to make with it, and is there something else that might even be more valuable than steel to you?"

Lord Stark sits on a nearby stone bench while he mills over his response. “We are not at war with anyone currently, but things change and winter is coming. This summer was a long one; few remember the winter that came before, and that was a mild one. This winter will be bad. Unless I badly miss my guess, there will be wars over the remaining food stores by the end. Wars over coal and firewood perhaps, as that is used up and the alternative becomes freezing in your home. And, of course, tales of worse things living north of the wall. I don’t know whether to give them any stock or not, but some people certainly believe. Of course, winter is still several years off. More pressingly, the hand of the king is dead and many people think it was poison. Regardless of if they’re right, they will act as though they are, and wars have a habit of following such thoughts. Who is our enemy? I cannot say. There are houses that have no love for mine, certainly. The Lannisters, the Frays, the Greyjoys. Even many of my own bannermen I do not fully trust. House Bolton has served mine long, but their symbol is the flayed man and their temperament matches. We are at war with none of them of course, and I do not mean to imply that we are, but we shouldn’t sell them weapons and it would be... bad... if they heard that we had the only smith living who can make valerian steel.”

”As for customers? You would become very wealthy selling those devices that protect from the cold. Moreso as the winter comes. Weapons though, it seems unwise to export at all. You ask what WE need, but I can’t say I know enough of your capabilities to tell. I don’t even know enough to guess where our artistry is deficient from yours, except in the ring that protects from cold, and the valerian steel. You ask what I need, what my house can benefit from you, and certainly I am happy to tell where my knowledge is sufficient, but the question must be asked: what do YOU need? What goals have you? In my experience, those who claim to work for free are always paid by your enemies, and my house MUST have you.” 

"There is joy in good works, and the opportunity to teach my craft and direct a great forge is a dear enough reward itself. But I do assure you I do not intend to be merely charitable. If my skills are as valuable here as they seem, I am sure I can begin amassing gold whenever it becomes more convenient than our current arrangement. If the steel is sold I will take a portion of the profit, and I will be able to sell enough for as much gold as would be useful to me. I will do the same for any other creations you find useful."

"What I need is a true ally in this foreign land. I know much of leadership and forgecraft, but I have no resources, no men who answer to me, no knowledge of the needs and desires of those who could help or harm me. I do not fear any ability to survive, or to sustain myself. What I fear is that if I can gain no power here, the only one I will be able to aid is myself. There is little I could be bribed with but trust."

"But if you fear so many of the lords around you, perhaps weapons ought to be a small portion of what I prepare you to make. We could encourage defense, by selling only armor, but there are also other inventons you may find useful. I think rockwool would not be so hard to make here, it requires great temperatures but little finesse, and if a room or house is lined with it, heat will escape more slowly. There is glass that would also trap heat but not light, my people can grow plants even in winter in a room such as this. I could copy books or notices faster than I expect is possible for you. There are some diseases of men, known to my people, which can be spread purposefully to prevent the innoculated from contracting worse diseases. I would share all this knowledge in time, but if you know whether you lose much possible wealth most to lack of food, or time spent in travel, or time spent copying books, or the difficulty of mining in hard rock, then I would better know where to begin."

"If these rings are the most useful of what I can offer, I shall begin constructing the device needed to create them. But I warn you such items are slow to form. I could create a device which lets one man make more in a week, or a device which lets a hundred in a few months, but each of those men would take months or years to do the same. A newly trained craftsman could perhaps make a ring to ward against cold in a few months, or an object to ward a whole house in a year. In five years we could perhaps ward twenty thousand houses, if I could find the men for it. Would this be valuable enough to forego interventions which scale faster?"

The Lord Stark nods thoughtfully. “If what you desire is gold, house Lannister is wealthiest by far, and they ‘always pay their debts,’” this last he says with a sort of bitter sarcasm. “House Tyrell too, is very rich and somewhat less objectionable, but the North is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms and the North is mine; if your motive is to aid people then the North holds the most people and will be hit hardest by the coming winter. From the way you speak, I would guess the land you hail from is far to the south, untouched by the snows, and yet you speak also of growing things during the winter cold. Do we speak of the same thing? I cannot conceive of how one might grow food during the long night, but you seem capable of many wonders so perhaps my mind is too small for it. Only the maesters know how long the winter will be, and theirs is only a guess, but they all say this next one will be long and terrible. We stockpile grain during the summer years, but we must rely on the guesses of the maesters and the luck of large harvests to see us through. If you know a way to grow food even when the sun vanishes for a decade or more, and the snows pile so high that houses disappear beneath, and the air grows so cold that horses have been known to freeze dead in minutes, that would be a great boon. We need not necessarily ward every farmhouse and hovel against the cold, but the small folk will need lodging in the keeps of the lesser lords and Winterfell will play host to many. Those keeps, at least, will need to be protected else the fires must burn day and night and who can say if the firewood will hold out? If you do indeed have a way of growing food even during the long night, we will need a way to distribute it as the scattered keeps exhaust their stores or else it will only benefit Winterfell. If the method of its transportation is arranged, communication will be necessary because the ravens would not endure the elements long enough to carry a message. If all those problems were solved, the great lords of the other six kingdoms will look upon the North with envy, and that envy coupled with the despair of their own troubles WILL lead to war. Even if the monsters of legend stay only in the shadows of our past and the bedtime stories used to scare small children, there WILL be war. There are too many keeps to be so warded if your estimation of production time is accurate. There are too many mouths for my kingdom alone to feed, even if we can grow during the long night. Southern kingdoms do not remember the last winter that touched them, but I have been assured that this one will. They do not stockpile grain, and they will not spend fortunes to buy your methods while they see no pressing need. By the time that they are convinced of the necessity it will be too late. Some lords will listen- some owe me fealty, some are North enough to know what must be done, some are friendly of my house, and some reasonable enough to be talked around. So long as there is no use for war, your arts can be shared there and that will lessen the burdens all round, but that will merely serve to push the war off our borders and onto others. That is worth doing for its own sake of course, and for the sake of the small folk of those lands, but I do not think war can be averted. I am guessing about many things- I do not know your methods, and cannot predict their efficacy or the time it will take to implement them- but guesses can be made with a degree of reliability and I do know the squabbling lords of Westeros. Weapons then will be needed. Weapons to discourage attack by the other lords, and weapons in case the legends are true. If, after all that, after weapons and farms which work in the winter and keeps which stave off the cold and caravans which move in the high snows and communication which goes through when a raven cannot, there is still effort and time to spare, the mining you speak of would be helpful. The North is rocky and the ground often frozen; the ability to dig in hard ground would allow my people the wealth enjoyed by the southern kingdoms. I think it more important though, that my people be alive than wealthy. I apologize for the lecture friend Annatar; you are a newcomer to this land and since I am unsure of what you know, I must say everything. If I assume you know of the long night, and your winter farm relies on the southern sun, many people will die. If the lords of your homeland are slower to war or less covetous than the lords of mine... I have made my point I think.” 

Mysteries, the tree sends at last, yes, many mysteries in the land, felt with the roots, wrapped, deep mysteries so deep so hidden. Metals the humans know nothing of, yes, and things they cannot dream, things which burn and things which shine and things which seep down so deep with a drip drip drip... the old tree seems to lose itself in whatever it was thinking. 

"To explain clearly is no insult to me, I appreciate your detail. It seems that I must waste no time in any given tool, and try to introduce as many tools as we can manage before the winter reaches us."

What sort of winter do these people have, anyway? That isn't really how seasons worked under the sun, perhaps this place has more active gods after all. But it does sound like there's a lot of work to be done. Annatar begins directing a large portion of his attention to designing new bodies, to better split his attention. He's never tried this before, but the Valar could do it, and with his Ring he has become very strong indeed.

"More specifically, there are plants I could grow without light, yes. Not grain, perhaps, but some roots or tubers can grow if kept warm, even in the dark. Better communication and the groundwork for better transport will be obviously valuable to others even in gentle times, so I am confident we can make good advances there before they grow nervous. Better mining and better plows will please many in any weather. And weapons, perhaps, are better stockpiled that used. The consistent point that I see is that we should begin quickly. Do you think that the craftsmen you may call on will be willing to learn, or do you think I would be better off training laborers? How many of each do you think you could summon here?"

“I can call perhaps a few dozen craftsmen on short notice,” Lord Stark replies, “though they are of various trades and any could be spy for another house, wittingly or no. Given three months I could perhaps muster three hundred with the same concerns. Northmen are slow to accept change but we are no fools: your arts are good and they will be willing to learn. Laborers of lesser skill I could muster two hundred tomorrow, and some few thousands in the same time frame. I would warn though, that sending out the call for a large project will be noticed by rival houses and allies will wonder why they were not invited to take part. Doing so may increase the labor pool, to the cost of security.” 

"Is the dearer concern that the other houses will take rapid growth as a threat, or that they will learn the techniques? Perhaps there are tricks of farming and medicine which would work better in the south, and could convince them they are also sharing in new wealth. Or is steel so valuable that any sign of newfound speed and skill at producing it would be enough to worry your neighbors?"

“Steel is used for many things, but in quantity? Rapidly? They would ask themselves who I am planning to ambush. The scout returned, incidentally. The one you ordered sent after the brigands who burned a man’s farm? They carried no banners or sigils but the leader was... distinctive. See Gregor Clegane. We lack the means to bring him to justice.”

"Ah, useful to know! Is the means that you lack a political strength or a strength of arms? But for the steel, would the other houses find it plausible that you are merely stockpiling. If you are already gathering food and wood, would it be so strange to also gather coal and iron? I could more easily hide how much steel we produce than how much ore we use, even if we gather more men to mine it. The first craftsmen we bring could be taught to level roads, to purify water, to raise stronger crops, and then be sent out to share this knowledge with others. Then the next set may begin the larger steelworks, and it will be less suspicious, especially if we at first only stockpile and produce some farming tools."

“If we only stockpiled, they would ask themselves what shortages I expect what what need I plan to have of it. Forges are rarely run during the long night because that is an unwise waste of things which can be burned for warmth.”

”we lack the means because Ser Gregor Clegane is bannerman to Tywin Lannister and of it were known that I sent men to slay ‘the mountain that rides’ he would be honor-bound to bring me war, and with the number of men that it will take to slay the mountain, the Lannister’s will hear of it. It is said that Gregor’s younger brother can cleave the head from a horse in one blow, and Gregor is as bigger and stronger than Sandor as Sandor is than you or I.”

Speak for yourself, Stark, Annatar is stronger than he looks. That does sound like an interesting and dangerous fellow, though...

"Unfortunate, but I am not sure I can help with such an issue besides in perhaps arming greater numbers of the common folk. Crossbows could be made in greater number with less metal than fine swords, but I do not know if you wish to arm so many peasants in such a manner. And if we wish to avoid others learning of the steelworks, the best option will perhaps be to increase the rate of production only slowly, to carefully vet those who work within it, to mine our own ore, or perhaps to limit contact between the works and the outside world. Perhaps I am imagining too much too quickly, but I believe I could construct a small town within a mine, building the steelworks inside it. We could grow the production more quickly at lower risk of others learning, and it would perhaps also be a good opportunity to test growing plants without light."

Lord Stark agrees that this could be a good solution and a worthwhile pursuit. He does wonder though where Annatar might get enough men to staff such an endeavor, unless he means to only make use of the craftsmen and laborers Lord Stark already has access to and what excuse will be given for gathering most of his craftsmen for an endeavor house Stark has had no interest in for generations. Perhaps excavating a new grain store for the winter, but the nearest mountains are far from Winterfell and grain stores have never before been built in such a fashion. Eventually also, silence will speak just as loudly as open action and any endeavor undertaken in secrecy is made more threatening because of it. If only house Bolton could be relied on; their methods are far too vicious for Lord Stark’s sensibilities but no one would bat an eye if Lord Bolton wanted a secret place to do terrible things to his prisoners. 

It is such a terrible thing when one has allies who cannot properly be trusted.

"If there are villages already near a suitable mountain, laborers could be recruited from them directly, or perhaps even a whole villiage convinced to move at once. Then the distance from Winterfell, and ideally from even neighboring villages, would itself be a security against other houses learning there is even a new community to find suspicious. We could claim it as an experiment in whether living within the mountains could provide better protection against the winter, rather than as a project intended to benefit anyone outside the villiage itself. Then it would need not be suspicious until we need to make use of the steel forged within. If the presence of a Bolton would be valuable, we could also speak to them personally. With offer of great wealth there is likely one loyal man among them."

“This is a good plan I think. You mentioned some skill at leading? What skill? Is this a project you could manage with little supervision? There would be oversight of course, but if I am seen to take such an active hand in ‘seeing if a village can survive the winter within a mountain,’ that will quite give away the game. You strike me as a just man and a good judge of character; if you choose to meet with Lord Bolton or his son, I trust your assessment of how much of their loyalty you can buy. You have my blessing to begin that endeavor, I ask only that you do not trust sensitive details to ravens, and that you return before the king arrives. Who to send with you?”

"I am honored by your judgement, and would be pleased to accept such a task. In my own lands I served a role not unlike yours, and am well used to directing groups. I think it would be best to travel lightly, so as not to imply the mission is of great significance. Some gold may be valuable, but crossing the countryside with reserves of food and iron will produce more problems than would be resolved by making it easier to begin when we get there."

"I would take a few guards, if possible one of them known to those I would visit, so as to vouch for my honesty in representing you. If one of your children or wards would find it interesting, it may also be informative for them to join us. And if you expect you can keep some papers from being seen by prying eyes, there is also a trick I can teach you to send messages that cannot be read by any means but the secret paper associated with them. Then we may request further supplies when the community is established and plausible."

“What you speak of with the paper seems wise, as does your desire to travel lightly. I shall see if any of my armsmen have family in Hintergart and I can send the man with the burned farm as well as his family. They are from nearby and this seems as good a use of them as any. If they would slow you down or bloat your party they can be sent separately. It would not do for one of my true sons to accompany you; that would draw attention, but Jon can accompany you?”

"The farmer's family should not accompany me to house Bolton, I think, but will otherwise be useful. If Jon does not have other commitments, though, I would not mind bringing him, and he may learn from the experience. And here, I shall explain the paper trick."

Annatar writes some random letters, and demonstrates how they may be added together to form other letters. A+A=B. C+C=F, and so on, circling around at the end so that Y+B=A. Given a sheet of random letters and a message, each letter in the message is added to the corresponding letter on the sheet, producing a new sheet of random letters. The recipient need only have a copy of the original random letters, and they may subtract each letter in turn from the letters in the random message they receive, to reveal the original message. Even if the process is known by your enemies, there is no way to find the message without the random letters that were selected upfront. Annatar will write a stack of paired random sheets, each labeled. Then if he or Lord Stark needs to send a message, they may simply select a sheet, encode their letter with it, label the letter with the label of the sheet, and send it normally. So long as they keep the random sheets safe, there is no risk in interception.

“A scheme worthy of Littlefinger or The Imp,” Lord Stark replies and it sounds like a complement. Kind of. “Go with my blessing, and take Jon with you. How easily could you have four Valerian steel swords ready by the time you return for the king’s visit?”

"If by this you mean the style of that knife, it will be tricky, but I think doable. I will assemble a larger forge in Hintergart, and should be able to have four ready by the time I return here. I will have little time for finery upon the blades, I warn you, but they will be strong, and the style itself has beauty."

“Then I shall have my forge master here do the grips guards and pommels. Two are intended for gifts, for it is tradition that the host give guest gifts and that would be a grand gift indeed. The Lannister’s are considered the wealthiest in Westeros and the king is the king, but neither has a single Valerian steel sword. If my house held three- my own, one for Rob, and one for Jon, then gave two for gifts, we would earn great standing. Ah Tywin would be forever trying to outdo the gift and all would know it. If Jon is to stay in the town you are erecting though, three blades will suffice.” 

"Would he not wish to meet the king? I suppose I can ask him on the way. Do you wish the swords to be of any specific style? If Rob or the king has a preference of length or shape, I could meet it. I could age the blades as well, if you prefer not to give away their youth. The effect would not be perfect, but might make it more plausible if you prefer to say you found them somewhere."

“Yes, that is the plan. Jon would like to meet the king I’m sure, but it is rarely done to introduce one’s bastard and could be taken as an insult. If he were here perhaps I would anyway, but if he has reason to be elsewhere...”

twisting deep, winding driving down down into the deep. Mysterious things there, yes, the odd old tree is still sending. 

"If if is inappropriate for him to be present, I am sure we can find reason for him to stay. Even if I manage to recruit a Bolton, it may be inadvisable to leave them unmonitored."

Annatar tries taking a different tack in communicating with the tree, and and reflects it's own impression of mysterious metals back at it. Can he guide it into deeper thoughts on that topic?

Deep deep, metals so shiny, so hard, too hard for roots to grow through they must grow around instead... the tree seems to at least be thinking about metals. 

“Yes, this seems a fair plan,” Lord Stark agrees, and stands. “I shall think on it, and see if anything occurs to me in the morning. Is there anything you need to speed your journey or aid you when you arrive? Anything you desire before you leave?” 

"Good horses will be of use, and if you have a sign or mark that might speed our way if interrupted, it would also be of value. Otherwise, only what I have already mentioned. I am pleased to get underway! This will be an interesting endeavor."

To the tree, he tries to direct it to think of the map of its roots, of the location of the metal. Iron is a lovely material, but there are purposes for which he would prefer another, and these Men do not seem to make use of many others.

“Horses you shall have.” Lord Stark replies. “And I shall have the Maester draft a non-specific writ for you bearing my seal. If there is nothing else, I think Jon will appreciate a little warning so he can pack.”

the tree seems... confused? It doesn’t understand the idea of a map, and cannot even properly comprehend of a “place” other than “here,” and “not here”. 

Does the tree have a concept of length? Of the further roots from the nearer, of the roots from the trunk?

"Then that seems sufficient. Let us inform Jon that I wish to leave tomorrow after breakfast, there is no need to leave tonight."

Lord Stark agrees and leaves to see to his duties. The godswood is a public part of the castle and Annatar is not encouraged to leave. 

The tree doesn’t really understand length. There are some resources “here” which it has roots that can access, and some resources “not here” which it grows roots outwards to find. Some of the older trees it talks with have root networks stretching nearly a mile. 

Annatar will remain in the godswood for a while, but he expects he can keep in contact with the tree from further away, now that he has noticed it. Are there trees of this type outside of the godswood, then? Are they linked to this tree by their roots, or are they communicating remotely?

Yes, the godswoods are a feature primarily of the North, commonly referred to as the “old gods.” There are not enough of them for root networks as the tree was pondering to connect them all. 

Interesting! Not necessarily useful, but this world may not be as impoverished of diversity as at first it seemed. All the more reason to begin amassing power so he can split his efforts sooner. For the moment, Annatar will spend a while longer trying to tease out what the tree knows about the history and of this land and its races, and then turn in at nightfall.

 Annatar spends the evening working on preparing for additional bodies. Not only does he have to carefully partion his attention and increase the sensory allocation, he has to set up a lossless merger system for memory development, decide which local skill clusters to handle remotely versus duplicate locally, and reorient his decision functions to account for the self-communication channel. Not to mention the body itself, which even with his current form as a template will still take days of carefully tuning molecules to fall into place as a working piece of biology. He can reuse most of his organs, humans won't be able to tell and he likes their current setup. But he should probably have a more local bone and skin structure, and that'll take time.

The tree knows things about the history of the people, but nothing about the land. It knows that the fair folk were at war with the first men long ago. I knows that the men were winning. It knows that the fair folk made the white walkers. It knows that the white walkers are coming. It is difficult to keep the tree thinking quickly though, and Annatar gets little else of use. 

Shortly after he returns to his quarters, a small recognizable head appears at his third story window. It is Bran Stark, eyes bright with adventure. 

Useful knowledge to Annatar. He'll have to seek out some of these other races. The humans don't seem in close contact with them, and if they have power but it didn't save them, he would prefer to fine out why.

"Hello again, child. How is your wolf?"

“Wolf’s good. He bit me, but it wasn’t very hard. I didn’t tell father.” 

"Reasonable. Training animals sometimes means small injuries, and you should not take them badly. You must be sure not to be afraid of him, or else he will decide he should be the leader. Have you a reason for your visit?"

“I just like climbing. Mom says I shouldn’t because I might fall but I never fall and it’s dark so she can’t see and if she can’t see I’m doing it then she won’t worry. You made Valerian steel. I’m not afraid of Summer. That’s my wolf’s name; Summer. I’m not afraid of him. I think he was just playing. Ghost- that’s Jon’s- killed one of the kennel dogs, but we’re not telling father about that either. I’m a little afraid of Ghost.”

"Hah! They will be good companions, if you raise them well. And your father seems to think I made this steel, yes. We call it something different in my land, of course, and I have not closely examined your father's sword. You should be cautious with that knowledge, your father might make enemies if it were well known, and I do not think he would appreciate the stress."

“I’m good at keeping secrets. I don’t think everyone is, or else father could have talked to you outside of the godswood and trusted the people who heard to keep their secrets. Father thinks you’re good at secrets. He also thinks you’re good at advice. That’s why he wants you here when the king visits.”

"Your father honors me with such praise, but I do not think it is false. Secrets are a useful skill to have, going through life."

“Then I have a secret and I need advice.” 

"I would be honored to assist. What help can I provide?"

“My sister Arya- that’s the younger one- she wants to be a knight. But everyone knows that girls can’t be knights, and I don’t want her to be sad and I don’t want to tell anyone because then they would make her stop practicing archery and stuff, but she’s not very good at being a lady.”

"A tricky problem, to be sure. It is often an issue, when children are not quite who their parents wish them to be. I would council that your sister focus more on learning what she wishes to learn than on avoiding the labels her parents wish to assign. Perhaps a girl cannot be a knight, but if a woman picks up a sword and begins striking down her enemies, who is going to stop her? Men with swords? She will simply strike them down. To destroy your enemies is one of the only skills worth knowing, and just as a knight who can only win with a sword is a poor knight, a lady who can only win with grace and modesty is a poor lady."

"But perhaps more relevantly, in my home it is common for women to fight when needed, and I know of styles of combat which, to a mother, might be deemed similar enough to dancing to be acceptable for a young lady to learn. Perhaps when I return from my trip your sister should ask if I would be willing to teach more of my culture."

Bran thinks for a second, nods agreeably. “Thanks! I’ll tell her!” He scampers down the wall and into the night. 

Then Annatar will finish out his evening peacefully, and write up a set of one-time pads, and be ready at breakfast with everything set to go once they've finished eating.

And everything is set to go. Breakfast is hearty and simple as usual. Jon is serious and glum as usual, his wolf is already approaching the size of a full grown retriever. The guards are gathered, horses saddled. There’s a flurry of activity before the little party departs, as all journeys begin with no matter how well packed the journeyers are, and then they are on the long road to the Dreadfort, home of house Bolton. 

A fine name for a house! Although Annatar can see why Stark feels they have a bit of a different style. He'll make some smalltalk with Jon on the way, does the boy have anything going on in his life, or is this glumness merely boredom?

Jon Snow wants nothing more than to be Jon Stark. He doesn’t say it, but he talks around it enough that a three year old child could guess it, and Annatar is MUCH better at reading people than a three year old child. What Jon does say is that he wishes to earn honor, and to make his father proud, but a father can only look upon a bastard with regret and there are no opportunities for a bastard to earn honor outside the Night’s Watch. Jon has been considering joining the Watch, but in doing so would give up his family and any chance to aid them in any southern struggles. This will either be a chance to prove himself, or an assignment to keep him out of the way while the king is visiting. If the former, it is a lot of pressure and he is concerned that he will prove unsuited to the task- to be given a chance and fail is almost worse than never getting a chance at all. If the latter, well, who wouldn’t be upset to be cast aside by their own father for appearance’s sake?

A common problem for children of Men. Though Lord Stark does not seem ashamed of Jon, and Annatar says as much. Stark is uncertain of Jon's place, which is a stressful position, but not one that need hold Jon back from his own goals. So many cultures expect their children to be grown in a decade or two, this is foolhardy. Jon will have more than enough opportunity to learn all the skills needed to make himself useful, and Annatar is happy to help him get there. The first lesson will be one of manipulating dangerous men, ideally followed up by a lesson about leading boring men.

“I have heard that you come from a land far away,” Jon replies, “and I know that other lands hold different traditions than my own, but I still find it difficult to imagine, a culture where a man is not grown by his second decade. By your third, already your parents are aged and failing. Dead by your fourth unless you are very lucky. How would a society even work, if everyone took half their life to be considered grown?”

"That is the difficulty, yes! But men may live longer than they often do. Better food, better medicine, these help greatly, and eighty years is not uncommon. Stranger tricks, like my ring here, can help even further. Live beyond the spans of old age, heal from irrecoverable wounds. It is all a matter of knowledge, and much of this knowledge I have and wish to share. And this would be a fine honor, to help lead your people into longer and healthier lives. We shall see how well the test city works!"

By the way Jon’s face lifts, he is convinced of the importance of the endeavor. By the way his brows furrow, he is concerned he will not live up to it. By the call of the horn on the hills, nearly a full day into the ride, the little party has company. 

What company interrupts their travel? Friends? Foes? Bandits?

Unlikely to be friends. A band of perhaps a dozen. Rough looking men wearing tattered ring mail mostly and wielding an assortment of unadorned weapons. They ride large travel-stained horses, and are led by a monster of a man. Head and shoulders taller than anyone he’s met in this land, broad shouldered and generously muscled. He wears dark iron full plate and bears a sword as long as he is tall. 

Ah, this might be the one! Annatar turns to his companions.

"Lord Stark mentioned a man named Clegane, known to be of great stature and violence. Is this he?"

That strength would be a useful tool... And surely if any man has abandoned the contracts that protect him from powerful strangers, it is a brigand such as this...

“Ser Gregor Clegane,” Jon says and draws his sword. “I’m sorry Lord Annatar. We shall try to sell our lives as slowly as we may. Take one of the remounts. You may get away.” The half-dozen guards Annatar brought from Winterfell likewise draw their weapons. 

Annatar laughs.

"Ha! No, no, stand down. I do not think it shall come to that."

He dismounts, and walks towards the band. He shouts at Clegane.

"Greetings! My companions say you are Ser Gregor Clegane, and you come to do us violence!"

Annatar’s companions are stunned into silence. Slowly, shakily, they sheath their blades. The “mountain that rides” canters his horse forward. 

“Die on horseback or off, it makes no difference to me,” he laughs. “I am Gregor. Which of Stark’s ‘little wolves’ am I killing?” 

"Too hasty, Gregor! I would fight you! Will you face me alone, or must I deal with your men as well?"

Ser Clegane laughs and dismounts. “Aye, I will fight you little man. Do you need one of my men’s swords as well or do you think your tiny fists will dent my armor?” 

"No need to worry! I am prepared."

As he walks forward, he draws from within his robes a knife. It is excessively beautiful in the style of elves, but clearly more a tool than a weapon of war. It's silver blade, however, shines very, very bright.

Gregor does not wait on further ceremony, and swings his huge sword in a wide flashing horizontal arc. 

Annatar dodges the first strike, slipping past the Mountain and experimentally pushing at the man, trying to unbalance him in the wide swing. Gregor swats at him and he ducks low, jamming his knife between two plates of armor and twisting, a satisfying snap tears a plate free as he leaps back, regaining distance. Gregor charges forward, and Annatar catches him, grabs his shoulder and pulls himself over the man's head, out of the way of his sword, lodging his knife in the shoulder as a handhold. Annatar throws his weight backwards, but even with the knife as a lever he can't get him to the ground. He contents himself with another attempted trip, then dodging a kick, a few more jabs between the plates of armor. Barely flesh wounds, but even a man this large has a finite amount of blood. He pulls away again, out of the way of another swing of the enormous sword, dancing back until Clegane charges again, this time to block the strike directly. He blocks with the edge of his knife, a great crack as Annatar imposes his will upon the metal, and the combined magic and mithril cleave the last two feet from Gregor's sword.

There is a moment of stunned silence. Ser Gregor stares for a moment at his sundered sword, then casts it contemptuously aside. He steps in, faster than a man his size has any right to move, sweeps Annatar into the parody of a hug, and starts crushing. “You’re fast, little man,” rumbles the Mountain That Rides. “I’ll take that little knife and trim those pointy ears with it! I’ll crush your bones and use your corpse as a rag to wipe my shit with!” 

If Gregor Clegane were a more attentive man, he might notice how Annatar is not crushing nearly as well as the average human being. As it is, all he manages to notice is the fire, deep within Annatar's dark eyes, flickering, growing, raging and roaring and consuming, crackling around his thoughts, rushing through his mind until the only thing he can think is burning, burning deep within his soul.

"No", speaks Annatar, "you will kneel!"

The body known as Ser Gregor Clegane stumbles backward, and falls to the ground, and Annatar looks up at himself from a second pair of eyes.

Both parties look on in awe, and then Gregor’s men break. The thunder of their horses’ hooves prevents any remark Annatar’s companions may be inclined to make. 

Annatar laughs, and spends a moment acquainting himself with his new body. This was a good idea! He could have just killed him, but something needed to be done and this was so much more efficient than making a full new body. It'll take a little while to integrate the fragment, but less than building a human body, and it'll even be more realistic that he's unnaturally durable.

He orders the Mountain tied up and brought with them, having the body act obedient and dumbstruck.

“I’m confused,” Jon says after a moment, as the Stark guards set about binding Gregor’s compliant body. “Whatever happened was impressive, but my father always says that only a very great fool fails to notice when they are confused.” 

"A predator will bow to the stronger will. Some men have moved beyond their animal nature, but not he."

Jon seems to buy this explanation, and then Gregor is bound and his men scattered. 

Then they can continue journeying, and Annatar will continue integrating his new body.

Aside from appraising glances from his companions, the rest of the journey to the Dreadfort is uneventful. 

Annatar can deal with appraising glances, and seems in particularly good spirits for the next few days. When they reach the Dreadfort, he sends a guard to announce them.

The Dreadfort is a brooding, blocky structure, built atop a sheer-sided rise. Banners of house Bolton’s flayed man fly from every rampart. A village clings to the skirts of the great hill the castle is built upon like a gaggle of children clinging to their mother’s dress. It seems a dreary place, though not poor exactly, and the people hurry between buildings not making eye contact. 

A short man greets them at the entrance to the city, wearing finely tailored-if unembroidered- furs and tunic. He is surrounded by house Bolton bannermen and keeps his hand on the handle of his knife with the sort of loving tenderness one usually reserves for their child. He seems young though- barely outside of childhood himself, by the way these people seem to recon it. He gives greeting, and bids the party follow. 

A reasonable design, but it could use some more spikes.

He follows the boy in. Stark found this house difficult to trust, so he'll also start listening to their thoughts. What do they think of this strange envoy?

The armsmen are thinking that they were told to be ready, in case they are ordered to execute these newcomers- it would be so easy to disappear them if they come with a message house Bolton doesn’t want to have heard. So many people are ambushed on the road. Such a pity they never reached their destination. 

Ramsey Snow, bastard son of Lord Bolton, is surprised Lord Stark’s lackeys had the balls to take Ser Gregor Clegane captive, and wondering idly what will happen when house Lannister inevitably hears. Mostly though, he is busy wondering what Annatar will look like without skin, and if there’s anything more interesting that could be done first. Suspend him by hooks set in the skin of his ankles, a few slits in the fascia to start it going and let his own body weight skin him. That might be fun. Lock him in a small dark room and feed him at irregular intervals so he can’t gauge how much time has passed? Would he be lucid enough to appreciate the indeterminate period of suffering after being skinned? This Annatar man looks strong enough. A pity Ramsey’s father probably won’t let him... 

And the entire family is supposed to be like this? It's impressive they've managed to hold a town together with a bloodline so predisposed to bloodthirst.

But no, sorry Ramsey, you aren't going to get the chance to skin Annatar. He'll keep you in mind if he ever needs an official torturer for something, though.

Are they going to meet with Lord Bolton?

They are indeed. Lord Bolton is in the audience hall, which is the first chamber within the great steel-bound gates. He sits in silence, behind a table and writing out elements of the budget on a long ream of parchment. He looks up as the party enters, stands, comes around the table. There’s a long sword at his hip and the unmistakable tinkle of ringmail beneath his embroidered tunic. 

“Welcome to the Dreadfort,” he says. “This is my son, Ramsey Snow. What business has Lord Stark with house Bolton?” He eyes Jon appraisingly, and by the thoughts in his mind though not his expression, he seems to believe that sending ‘the bastard’ is an insult. 

Annatar bows, and introduces himself.

"Greetings. I am called Annatar. I am new to these lands, and while Lord Stark has shown me great hospitality, I wished to meet some of the other houses, to see how they differ from what I have ready experienced. We are on our way north, but wish to stop here a day, if you will have us."

Lord Bolton greets Annatar, and offers the hospitality of the Dreadfort. If Annatar requires anything, he has only to ask one of the guards. Ramsey is given whispered instructions to not do anything awful. 

Annatar appreciates Lord Bolton's hospitality. Could he be shown around the fort? He's interested to see how different it might be from Stark's home.

Guards are detailed to escort Annatar around the castle. Lord Bolton is busy. 

Annatar takes in the sights, learns some things about how these people build their buildings, how the peasants seem to be treated, etc. He also asks the guards about Lord Bolton's leadership, their opinion of the other houses in the area, what they think of Stark's fears of a harsh winter. He listens to their thoughts as much as their answers.

The buildings are squat and thick-walled, the ceilings low with pronounced rafters. Universally, the peasantry claim to be well treated, but in the faux privacy of their thoughts they remember friends and family that go missing without warning and the screams that sometimes drift over the moors like the omnipresent fog. 

The guards say that their lord is just, and that they are proud to be in his service. They remember the people they have been ordered to drag away though. Sometimes those people are political dissidents. Not always. Mostly, they are Bolton armsmen because at least then they’re less likely to go missing. The other houses in the area are Stark allies and they have no real complaints. 

Everyone knows winter is coming. They’re northmen; everyone in the North knows to fear the long night. This summer has been decades long; the winter will be the same. Grain has been stockpiled, but no one knows exactly how many decades the winter will be. House Bolton’s lands are a little farther south than House Stark’s and though they are concerned about the coming snows, they are dismissive of tales of dead things lurking beyond the wall. 

Sounds in line with what he's heard from others. Potentially a useful sort of ferocity, but not one that seems to lend itself well to positions of leadership. Given their reputation, however, the name might be useful to attach to this forging town. Will he eat with the Boltons, or must he find another time to suggest the idea to them?

The Boltons are happy to host him for dinner. It is held in a small dining room high in the northern tower- the view from the two narrow windows is spectacular. They serve primarily meats, roasted or served with a rich glaze. Jon seems uncomfortable around the Boltons and both the elder and the younger Bolton seem to revel in the reputation. 

“Tell me Annatar,” Lord Bolton says over dinner, “I see you have taken Ser Gregor captive, but I can’t imagine how. Do you care to talk of your achievement, or are the deaths of the men you lost in the endeavor still too fresh?”

"You are right to be uncertain, his force was strong. But no, this was no military victory, and no lives were lost. Though he remains chained, he now travels with us willingly."

“I confess, I’m surprised,” Lord Bolton says after barely a moment’s hesitation. “Ser Gregor has always been a Lannister man.”

”A Lannister man who burns Stark farms,” Ramsey grins. “I am forced to wonder if catching him wasn’t the true point of your little expedition.” 

Jon doesn’t look up from his meat and his face is sullen. “My father commanded him not to,” he retorts. 

“Indeed,” Lord Bolton muses, and his face is inscrutable. 

"Hah, merely happy circumstance. I would not have wished to face him, but as it turns out, all he needed was to meet a stronger will than his own. It is not so uncommon, among brutish sorts of men. Rather like dogs, you know? They fight for their place in the order, but happily keep to it once established."

"But no, our purpose is less exciting. Lord Stark was intrigued that in my homeland we know of a way to draw heat up from within the earth to grow some plants without light. We mean to build a village, embedded in a mountain to test this. If it works, perhaps in future years the men of the North may retreat below the ground in winter, and emerge warm and fat! But for now, just a small experiment, and perhaps a useful learning opportunity for Jon."

“That does seem a good opportunity,” Lord Bolton agrees, “and I can certainly see the use in it. Your purpose then is NOT a tour of the northern houses.”

"Not especially, no, though it was my interest in coming here. If House Bolton has aid or advice to offer on this village project I would be pleased to hear it, but my hope was simply to see how others live, a little further from Lord Stark. I may tour some other houses as well, should they be convenient, but I do not expect to see them all on this expedition."

“Interesting,” Lord Bolton muses. “And what sort of aid or advice would you request of me? I could warn you not to give your smallfolk too much freedom for those that know how to read can read letters plotting rebellion and those who are permitted to travel can travel to buy weapons, but then, I don’t expect one of Lord Stark’s men to appreciate that sort of advice.”

"I would ask for nothing you do not wish to provide, but if there is insight you have into the peasantry of this land, that may be useful. The peoples I ruled in my homeland were very different from those found here, I must confess."

“The peasants of this land are base and brutish creatures,” Lord Bolton says. “They care only for their next meal, the roof over their heads, and producing more hungry children. As long as you are providing that, their complaints will be minimal.”

"That should be manageable. We were considering discouraging contact between the residents and outsiders, to encourage self-sufficiency. Do you expect this would be useful?"

“Useful?” Lord Bolton replies. “Hmm. Yes, I should expect so, depending of course on the particulars of your endeavor. If there were details that you think old Ned Stark wouldn’t... understand... then of course a policy of no contact would be useful for security. If you care only for self sufficiency as you implied then why bother? The small folk lack the ambition to do anything but rely on those who have it.” 

"Men of ambition must still get their information from somewhere. Outside interference is a distraction and a liability to any endeavor, in my view, whether it be from a local authority or from more distant interested parties."

“Yes yes,” Lord Bolton says, and glances meaningfully at Jon. “Privacy, and the security of one’s endeavors are ends in and of themselves.” By the thoughts lurking on the surface of his mind like an oil slick, he seems to think Annatar has secrets he wishes kept from Lord Stark. This doesn’t seem to lower his estimation of Annatar in any way but rather quite the opposite...

”Father,” Ramsay interjects, “I know how we keep the Dreadfort private, and in the same way that this experimental town represents an opportunity for Jon to earn some experience, might it not represent the same opportunity for me?” 

Lord Bolton nods slowly for a minute while Ramsay demolishes the drumstick of some large avian creature with a surgeon’s practiced grace. “Yes,” Lord Bolton says. “Of course it would. Annatar, you said that even the most ambitious man must get his information from somewhere? If we’re being blunt- and I do always like to get to the point- you do seem like a dangerously ambitious man, but you said yourself that you are unfamiliar with these lands.” In his mind, ‘dangerous’ and ‘admirable’ seem to be synonyms. “My son knows these lands, and these people. Ned’s bastard might know the land you build on best- his father is Warden of the North after all, and I assume it will be built in Stark lands proper- but I can guarantee you a Bolton knows people better than any Stark.” In the privacy of his head, he seems to recall a writing: ‘you can be with a man his whole life, but until you see him suffer you don’t truest know him.’ Well the Starks are too engrossed in their flimsy honor to see anyone suffer, but if there’s one thing his Ramsay does well...

He wouldn’t say this to a Stark man of course, and Annatar is a Stark man, and an unknown one at that. 

"That is a compelling option. Some additional expertise may be valuable, and I cannot assume that I will maintain direct leadership over the project indefinitely. A quick test, boy! You have led an expedition of cavalry deep into the territory of your enemies, burnt their crops and cut at their supply lines to weaken their forces in coming battles. Your men and horses are weary from a week spent on the run, when you find a village that claims they wish to defect. They are dissatisfied with their own lord, and wish to send with you some men and supplies, in hopes that their lands will be captured less violently. The village is a day's journey from your border. What do you do?"

Lord Bolton scoffs. “My son needs no test; he is heir to the Dreadfort.”

Ramsay thinks for a moment. “That’s an interesting question,” he says. “Are you planning to pick a fight with someone? Hmm. Any physical weariness can be recovered with a day or two of rest and you said nothing of injuries. The delay would let me negotiate from a position of strength, would give me less to fear from my enemy, and would keep from giving the town the impression that they are too important, without wasting the opportunity. Only an idiot wastes opportunities, but it’s a bigger idiot who overextends himself.”  

"Where would you find two days to rest behind enemy lines? But you have the right idea, yes. Lord Bolton, you would do me a great service if you would allow your son to accompany me to provide his...expertise on this endeavor."

“Then he may accompany you,” Lord Bolton agrees. 

Ramsay grumbles that he had misunderstood the scenario and thought himself back behind his own lines. 

Then unless there is further interruption, they will finish eating and Annatar will prepare to leave the next day.