Tinkering With Life (GoT SI)

Silence hung heavy over our party as we made our way back to Winterfell.

What we'd witnessed seemed to have affected all of us.

Ned had done his best to comfort Bran, speaking softly to the boy about duty and honor.

It wasn't quite how I'd planned things, but sometimes the unexpected works out even better.

While it would have been better to have a guide to help me navigate, actually I was pretty sure I could enlist someone from the Night's Watch to do the same, and it would cut down my travel time if I had to go to at least the Wall myself.

This was the biggest issue I would have to deal with, and I didn't want to waste too much time convincing everyone of the existence of the main threat, so getting a head start on that felt great.

I couldn't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. The seed of doubt had been planted in their minds, just as I'd hoped. The deserter's wild tale and desperate actions had done more to convince them than any words I could have spoken.

It's funny how people are more likely to believe something when they think they've figured it out for themselves.

As we rode, I kept my thoughts to myself. Sometimes, the most effective way to convince someone is to say nothing at all and let others draw their own conclusions.

And judging by the troubled looks on everyone's faces, they were doing just that.

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Robb couldn't shake the unease that had settled over him as their party made its way back to Winterfell. The deserter's ravings about White Walkers still echoed in his mind, made all the more unsettling by his father's grim expression and El's unusual silence. Robb had never seen him look so troubled before.

Hoping to break the silence, he turned to El. "So, quite the tale, huh? White Walkers."

El nodded, his eyes distant. "Yes, quite the tale."

"Do you believe him?" he pressed, curious about the mage's take on the matter.

El raised an eyebrow. "Why ask me?"

He shrugged. "Well, you're the only person I know who's an expert on magic and odd happenings."

El sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, you don't need to worry about it. Even if the Others are real, they're quite far away. There's a pretty big wall between us and them."

Before he could respond, they were interrupted by the sound of approaching hooves. Jon appeared on the crest of a nearby hill, waving urgently.

"Over here!" Jon called out.

As they reached the riverbank, he saw Jon dismounting beside something on the ground. Curiosity got the better of him, and he approached to get a closer look.

"Seven hells," Theon cursed, pulling his horse away. "What is that thing?"

He knelt down, his eyes wide with wonder. "It's a wolf. A massive one."

The dead wolf was huge, bigger than any normal wolf he had ever seen, well, except for Fenrir, but he was quite the exception. Its blind eyes crawled with maggots, a grisly sight that made even the hardened men of the North recoil.

Jon shook his head, a hint of excitement in his voice. "No, it's a direwolf. This is the second one to be spotted south of the Wall for centuries."

Lord Stark knelt beside the beast, examining it closely. With a grunt, he yanked something from its throat – a foot of shattered antler, slick with half-dried blood.

"Tough old beast," Jory commented. "Birthing a litter with an antler in her throat."

That's when he noticed the small bundle of fur tucked against the dead wolf's belly. He reached down, scooping up a tiny direwolf pup. Its eyes were still closed, and it nuzzled blindly against his chest, whimpering softly.

"Look," Jon grinned, holding up another pup. "There are five of them."

Bran's eyes widened with excitement as Jon handed him a pup. The young boy cradled it gently, rubbing its soft fur against his cheek.

He saw father frowned, his expression troubled. "It's not natural. Better to give them a quick death. They won't last without their mother."

"No!" Bran cried out, clutching his pup protectively.

Jon spoke up, his voice calm as usual. "Lord Stark, there are five pups. Three male, two female. You have five trueborn children. Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. They were meant to have these pups."

Ned considered this for a moment, his gaze moving from the pups to his children's hopeful faces.

Finally, he nodded. "Very well. But you will feed them yourselves, and train them yourselves…. If they die, you bury them yourself."

"They won't," He said firmly. "We won't let them."

As they prepared to leave, Jon noticed something in the snow. He wandered off, returning moments later with a sixth pup in his arms. This one was different – an albino with fur as white as snow and eyes as red as blood.

"This one's mine," Jon said softly, a small smile on his face.

Robb watched as his half-brother cradled the white pup. 

He couldn't shake the feeling that finding these direwolves was more than just luck – it felt like destiny.

As they rode back to Winterfell, the tiny pups nestled safely in their arms, Robb caught El's eye.

He hadn't said much and was watching them from a bit farther away with an unreadable expression, but there was a glimmer of something in his gaze – concern, and for some reason, it seemed even more pronounced than the concern he had shown after the deserter's actions.

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I held back, observing the scene unfold before me. It was eerily similar to what I remembered, another pivotal moment playing out just as it had in my memories. The realization was unsettling. Despite my ability to influence events, it seemed some things were destined to happen unless I intervened directly. Or perhaps I was overthinking it all.

The rest of the world was a mystery to me, and I couldn't help but wonder what other events might be transpiring beyond my sight. For now, though, I had chosen not to interfere with this particular scene. Its importance was clear, and I was reluctant to alter its outcome, even if my past actions seemed to have had little effect on the grand scheme of things.

Before Ned could respond, Bran bounded up to us, his face beaming with joy as he showed off his newly acquired pup.

"Look, El!" he exclaimed. "Do you think he'll grow up to be as big as Fenrir?"

I couldn't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm. "I'm sure he will, buddy," I replied, ruffling his hair. "But remember, you'll have to take good care of him and feed him lots for that to happen. It's a big responsibility."

Bran nodded solemnly, clutching the pup closer to his chest.

The sight warmed my heart, even as a nagging voice in the back of my mind reminded me of the fates that awaited these wolves – and their young masters.

Yeah, I wasn't going to let that happen, fates be damned.

As the excitement died down, Ned approached me, his eyes on the pups his sons were cradling.

"Will they cause any issues?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

I shook my head, offering a reassuring smile. "Not really. As long as they're trained well, they'll be fine. Direwolves are fiercely loyal."

"And like Jon said, it does seem as though fate had a hand in this."

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Jon Arryn held in a cough as he slowly made his way towards the small council chambers. He had been feeling a little under the weather lately, likely due to the amount of stress he was juggling. Trying to keep the realm together was no easy task, especially at his age.

He was quite annoyed to have been summoned to the small council chamber, which was odd considering that the Grand Maester had called for one after skipping their usual summons just a few days back. He wondered what was wrong now that needed attention, hoping it wasn't something he would have to handle himself.

As Jon entered the small council chambers, it seemed that he was the last to arrive, other than Robert of course. 

He highly doubted the king would show up considering the hour.

It appeared that Pycelle and Stannis were already engaged in a heated argument. Jon was thankful that Stannis was back; he had been going almost insane handling the tasks of the Hand, the Master of Coin, and the Master of Ships himself. Renly had his hands full with his own duties and was doing nothing to help, seemingly enjoying the show.

Varys remained as enigmatic as ever. The only thing stopping Jon from having him removed was the doubt that he'd find an even half as competent Master of Whispers anytime soon.

Pycelle seemed more animated than Jon had ever seen him. When everyone else noticed Jon's presence, they fell silent.

"Greetings, everyone," Jon said, suppressing another cough. "Grand Maester Pycelle, I hope you have a good reason for calling this meeting at this hour."

Pycelle's eyes were wide with panic. "Foul magic is at play, Lord Hand! The Citadel was attacked!"

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Attacked? By whom?"

"A swarm of locusts!" Pycelle exclaimed. "They descended upon the Citadel and killed all of the Archmaesters!"

"What?" Jon couldn't believe what he was hearing. It sounded absurd.

"It has to be that mage," Pycelle insisted.

"You can't just deny the existence of magic and blame the mage for any unexplained events whenever it seems convenient for you, Grand Maester," Stannis said.

Varys spoke up. "As far-fetched as the Grand Maester's words seem to be, my little birds are singing the same song. While a swarm of locusts descending upon the Citadel might normally be considered a freak accident, the fact that only a handful of the highest-ranking Archmaesters were killed, and not even a page of a book was damaged, suggests that it was an assassination of some sort."

Jon sank into his chair, his mind reeling. If this was true, then there was a very good possibility that it was the White Mage's action. If not, then there were bigger problems at hand.

"Where is the mage now?"

"He should be in Winterfell. I highly doubt he had the time to get to Oldtown of all places after he had come to Dragonstone," Stannis said.

"Do you have any proof that the mage was responsible for this?"

"No, Lord Hand, but..."

"But nothing, while the mage might have the capabilities of arranging something like this," and wasn't that a chilling thought, "I have met the man myself, and I believe Stannis would also vouch for him that he would not do something like this without motive or in retaliation."

Jon leaned forward, his eyes boring into Pycelle. "Now, Grand Maester, I must ask: might the Citadel have taken any actions that could have provoked the White Mage's wrath?"

Pycelle's face contorted, fear flashing across his features before he could compose himself. That fleeting expression told Jon all he needed to know.

"My lord, I... that is to say..." Pycelle stammered, his usual eloquence deserting him.

A wave of relief washed over Jon, tempering his initial alarm. If the Citadel had indeed made a move against the mage, then this wasn't a case of indiscriminate violence. The White Mage had retaliated against a specific threat, not embarked on a random campaign of terror.

"Unless you can provide irrefutable evidence of the mage's culpability," Jon said firmly, cutting off Pycelle's stammering, "I will not entertain any accusations against the man to whom half the capital owes their lives."

Jon leaned back in his chair, considering the implications. Yes, the Citadel was Westeros' center of learning, and the loss of its leadership would undoubtedly cause upheaval. But that was a problem for another day, and quite frankly, not one that fell under his purview as Hand of the King.

"Now," he continued, his tone brooking no argument, "unless there are any other pressing matters, I believe we're done here."

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