Ned sat alone in the godswood, staring at the faces on the weirwood tree, contemplating… everything.
He was relieved that his men had come to an agreement without resorting to violence. They were going to send a group of no more than ten across the Wall with Benjen leading them.
Oberyn had insisted on going despite all the warnings. No one else seemed to have much of a problem with that, surprisingly. The rest were trusted men-at-arms from the households of his vassals.
He had decided he would travel to the Wall at least with them, to speak with the Lord Commander in person about plans to restore and fortify the wall.
He heard footsteps approaching and did not need to look to know who it was.
Jon entered quietly. He said nothing.
"I know what you're going to ask me." Ned met his eyes. "And you know what my answer is going to be."
Jon didn't back down. "Then I'll find another way."
It saddened Ned to hear that. "You're still too young for this."
"I'm not asking to take the black," Jon said quickly. "I'll return. I swear it. But let me help. You know I can."
"You can help me here. Why do you wish to go so badly?"
He hesitated before answering "Something calls me to it, …father. I feel it in my dreams."
Ghost settled at Jon's feet like a silent sentry. Ned looked at the direwolf, then at the boy beside him—taller than he remembered, with a voice that had lost its softness.
The fire in his eyes made him sigh. It seemed it did not matter what he said he could not stop him. "You can join me till the wall, You will not be taking a step beyond. Do you understand me?"
Jon's eyes widened. "You mean—?"
"Do you understand?" Ned repeated firmly.
Jon stepped forward, uncertain, then pulled Ned into a brief, tight hug. "Yes, Thank you… Father."
Ned held him a moment longer. "Go on before I change my mind. We leave in two days."
Jon left without another word, Ghost trailing behind. When the sounds of his footsteps faded, Ned exhaled.
He hoped he had not made a mistake.
------------------
Tyrion was in a trance.
The last few hours had been enlightening.
There had been a question that had been nagging at the back of his mind for quite some time now.
Where was El from?
Tyrion prided himself on being well-versed in the languages of the world. If he ever heard a language from an obscure corner of the world, he might not understand it, but he'd still be able to make a well educated guess on which corner it was from.
He hadn't been able to do that with El. Whenever anyone asked him about it he would just smile and say something mysterious before changing the topic.
There were times during his lectures when he'd slip and use strange phrases Tyrion had never heard before, in any language. Sometimes, El would reference events as if everyone in the room should know what he was talking about.
But after today's lesson, Tyrion was sure.
El wasn't just from a faraway land that he had never heard of.
He was from a different world.
There was no other explanation that made sense.
The knowledge El possessed, perhaps it could have been passed off as his own brilliance, but the stories he told painted a different picture. They implied entire institutions built around ideas and knowledge that even the most learned masters would scratch their heads over.
So yes, El was definitely not from this world.
What he was supposed to do with that information, he wasn't sure yet.
Confront him? And achieve what, exactly?
No. He would ask him about it someday—out of pure curiosity—but not now. Not today.
Today, he was inspired.
He'd spent the last few days buried in the logistics of setting up the bank. But numbers, until now, had only been simple tools he had never thought of how to use beyond their usual applications.
Now, he could see so much more.
He rushed back to his office after the lesson, parchments in hand, heart pounding with a kind of purpose he hadn't felt in years.
Hours passed. He didn't know how long he had been writing. It was more than dozens of parchments by now.
He was so absorbed he didn't notice the presence behind him until a voice broke the silence.
"Looks like someone's been busy."
Tyrion nearly hit the ceiling from how high he jumped. He spun around.
El was casually flipping through one of the pages on his desk.
"Oh wow," El said. "You did all this? Nice."
Tyrion took a breath. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Not long," El said with a grin. "This is really impressive. I see you got inspired."
Tyrion smirked, "What can I say, I'm that good."
------------
I was genuinely impressed.
After nothing more than a lesson on basic arithmetic, Tyrion had somehow figured the formula for simple interest. Not just the concept—he'd worked out a usable model. The structure was clean and logical.
I had definitely picked the right man for the job.
I grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment and quickly wrote down the formula for compound interest.
I handed it to him. "Here, this is a slightly more complicated version. See if you can figure it out."
He took the paper, studied it for a moment, and blinked. "What…?"
He didn't finish the sentence. Just sat down and stared at it, deep in thought.
After a moment, he pointed at the small number above the parentheses. "What does that number on top mean?"
"That's an exponent," I explained. "It means you multiply the number below by itself that many times. Like… three to the power of two is three times three."
"Ah. Alright." He nodded slowly, absorbing it. " Ohhh that makes sense"
"Wanna learn a bit more? Stuff that'll be really useful if you're going to manage a bank?"
Tyrion looked up at me with stars in his eyes. "Do you even have to ask?"
I grinned. "I probably have only about an hour before I have something important to do, but that should be enough to cover the basics of accounting."
"Then let's not waste time," he said, already pulling more parchment toward him to take notes.
------------------
Two hours later, I was making my way back to my lair.
Teaching was fun.
There was something deeply satisfying about watching someone truly learn something, watching their eyes light up as they understood a concept, then watching them twist it into something uniquely theirs. It made me feel… proud, I guess.
Math was amazing.
I stopped in my tracks.
Wait a minute, math was the universal language.
The notations were different from place to place, but at its core it was the same everywhere.
Shit.
I felt like the biggest idiot in the world.
I'd been trying to create spells using English for weeks, and it just wouldn't work well enough that I could use it reliably. I was still stuck using Valyrian runes, and while they were powerful, they felt clunky and limiting. There were too many of them. Too much nuance I didn't fully grasp.
But numbers…
Numbers I understood. If I treated math like the foundational syntax for spells…
In theory, I could eventually build a machine that crafted spells for me.
Fuck.
This was game changing.
I had already figured out how to use neurons as basic logic gates while I was building the wiring for my nuke.
I had to fight the urge to run straight to my lab and start working on it immediately. But no, I couldn't rush this. There were also other things I needed to do first.
The naming ritual still came before anything else.
But once that was done?
Yeah.
This was next.
Definitely next.
Hopefully nothing bad happened before that.
---------------
Joffrey stalked through Winterfell with his hound. He wanted to see what all the fuss about the so-called mage was.
He'd seen the mage once in King's Landing, from a distance. His mother had made certain to keep him away. That, of course, only made him more curious. Now, in this frozen village full of savage morons, the mage seemed to be the only thing anyone here talked about.
It was ridiculous.
He even had the gall not to greet the royal family when they arrived... and hadn't even shown up to the feast.
He came to an abrupt stop when he spotted a massive wolf sprawled in the middle of the road, fast asleep. No one seemed to care. People simply walked around it, like this sort of thing was normal.
It was unnatural.
Everything in this cold, dreary place was unnatural.
But he was the crown prince. He didn't need to concern himself with animals.
He was here for a purpose.
A small line had formed outside the healer's clinic. The peasants saw him coming and stepped aside, clearing a path to the door. He walked through and shoved it open. "Where is the mage?"
Everyone turned to look at him. Some paled. He smirked at their fear. That was more like it.
A peasant girl, barely older than him, stepped forward. "I'm afraid El isn't here right now."
"Summon him. Now." His voice rose. "Your prince demands an audience."
She paused, calm. "Are you in need of healing, your grace?"
Her tone was all wrong.
That wasn't how peasants were supposed to talk to him.
She didn't bow.
She didn't stammer.
She didn't lower her eyes.
His smirk vanished. He snarled.
"How dare you speak to your crown prince like that?"
Surprise flashed on her face, but she didn't cower. She dipped her head slightly. "My apologies, your grace."
Still no trembling. No begging.
What was wrong with her?
She was supposed to be afraid. She was supposed to be on the ground, sobbing for forgiveness, begging not to be punished.
His face twisted in fury. How dare she?
He drew his sword and pointed it at her. "Get on your knees and beg forgiveness for disrespecting the heir to the Iron Throne!"
The girl didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Her eyes just went colder.
"I'm going to have to ask you to sheathe your sword, your grace," she said evenly. "This is a place of healing. There are sick children here. You might hurt someone."
She was ordering him!!
Who did she think she was?
That was it, he needed to teach her a lesson.
With a scream of rage, he swung his sword at her neck.
What happened next was something he could not believe.
That wasn't possible. That wasn't—
He froze as his mind stuttered, unable to understand what he was seeing.
She had caught his sword, with her bare hand.
Then with seemingly no effort she yanked the sword from his grip.
"I can only return this once you leave," she looked at him like he was some child throwing a tantrum.
"Dog!" he shrieked. "Kill her!"
He looked behind him when he didn't hear the sound of steel being drawn.
Clenge hadn't moved.
He was just standing there... looking at him in shock. Like he was the one who'd done something inconceivable.
Why wasn't he doing what he was told?
"What are you doing? You imbecile...!"
Joffrey lunged forward, reaching for his sword to do it himself, but Clegane's hand slammed down on his shoulder.
"Let go of me, you bastard!"
Instead of doing as he was told, Clegane slapped his other hand over his mouth.
Joffrey thrashed, muffled and furious. "Mmmph—!"
"Apologies, my lady," Clegane said. "I'll take him back to the castle."
What!!!
She nodded. Like she was the one in charge.
Joffrey twisted in his grip, furious, but Clegane didn't loosen his hold. The brute dragged him toward the door like he was nothing.
He couldn't believe it.
He could not believe what had just happened.
He'd been humiliated. In public. Disrespected. Manhandled like some unruly servant.
He struggled harder, trying to break free... but it was no use.
They would all pay for this.
Every single one of them.