SI/OC as Robb Stark's Twin. Diverging from the Greyjoy Rebellion, focused on somewhat realistic Industrialization and all the ripples that will cause down the line. Significant AU from SI actions.
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[ASOIAF] [SI] Sorcerer with No Tricks - Tech Uplift / Drafts & Brainstorming
- Thread starter WorldWarWolf1
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Dracula Helped Me Do It.
New
WorldWarWolf1
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- May 11, 2023
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"It was biting, the wind was such Ned had never felt. He looked around him. Running his hand through his hair, he looked and looked and looked.
What a beautiful fucking world it was.
"Simply incredible is it not?" Maester Luwin said as he tinkered with the burner. Beginning their descent from this Hot-Air Balloon.
"Words fail to do it justice." Ned's whisper was almost lost in the wind, he was peering down at Castle Cerwyn. Maybe someone was seeing them too, maybe they were scared, wondering what beast loomed over them in the skies.
He wondered not for the first time in the last two years, what his Father would have thought of his grandson. What his brother and sister would have thought.
He looked directly below. He saw Robb jumping up and down waving his arms madly. He waved back absently, his eyes finding Brynden, his brilliant, queer son, looking back at him with a knowing smirk. They all would have loved him. Ned thought, as the weaker flame finally let them on the ground again.
Or,
21st Century Genius is reborn as Brynden Stark, twin brother of Robb.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Brynden Stark's Journal, date unknown.
I knew there were levels to doing it, when I first thought of how I would make the glass. Chemistry was elusive, I was never the best at it. But I still knew enough about glass because Dracula made reflections endlessly fascinating and I simply had to understand why Vampires were so shy to mirrors.
In this world where hand worked bellows was the height of heating technology, the glorious power of the sun was all ripe for the taking.
I remember it was the Greyjoy Rebellion of 289 when nearly all of the fighting men and household to sustain those numbers along the way left the City. The days were boring and quiet. But the nights, the nights were rife with illicit affairs of men and women whose spouses had left for the Rebellion and rampant thievery. In that, there was also a tiny roofless hovel near the Smithy, although not invisible, you'd have to make an effort to look for it. But why should you? It was as extraordinary as a four legged mule.
But it was the inside where all the magic was. It had taken an unreasonable amount of badgering to get Mikken, who had more than free time with all his usual clientele gone and duties practically on hold, to forge seven plates of a brass and tin alloy. Polishing them with abundant care. It took a while for the contraption to get right, ultimately my original design was an utter failure and we had to go by what felt right instead while putting it together. Finally after three days, it was done.
I remember that time exactly, there was so much light flooding the room from the metal reflectors even under the gentle half moon I could see as if it was day.
I now know that it was the first time someone had built a Solar Light Concentrator with Speculum Metals in this world. It was in the likeness of the James Webb telescope from my own world, a beautiful creature. You could even fold the hexagonal plates into themselves to somewhat control how hot you needed the concentrated area to be.
And there it was, I think even Mikken understood it on some level, that we had built something extraordinary. Catelyn was less than thrilled with her son with strange humors. I think she was allowing me to do it because even she was curious as to what the fuck I was doing.
But this was supposed to be the easy part.
How do you wash, sift and ground white silica without modern N95? This was not Valyria where I could add one extra infant sacrifice to the ritual or whatever they did back then to make me immune to silica dust. And god knows I'm not allowing Catelyn to sit by and watch while Mikken and I put our darling lungs under dust attack.
Suffice to say I was grounded for a sennight for telling the Lady of Winterfell what she must do. I spent days convincing her to let me go back, I had a world to save! Me threatening to attend sewing sessions with some ladies (and actually trying to attend one) was finally what broke her into allowing me in the roofless hovel again.
In my days spent grounded in my Chambers, I had drawn up the designs for 1820s Smoke Helmets, the ones that allowed fire-fighters to keep breathing fresh air when rushing into burning buildings. Surprisingly, it wasn't that difficult to build. Valves weren't a new thing for Mikken who was already used to forging and repairing them for the bellows. The one shitty thing that remained was, the helmet needed glass for the viewports, or you couldn't seal it perfectly and retain vision. Without glass it was as good as glueing your nose shut.
Decisions, decisions… Without the helmet I wasn't risking my own life, but also other people. One of which was very dear to me in that present and another who I would grow to admire and respect.
I decided extreme caution would cut it. There was no telling when the Rebellion may end, even though it was probably still too early for that. With a crowded Winterfell this… would not work.
We decided to get just enough Silica to grind for the small eye-lenses on the Helmets. That seemed good enough. Me and Mikken, Mother and Maester Luwin wore masks dipped in water even though I knew it wouldn't work, not nearly enough. But it was better than nothing and I felt better with that.
I tried blocking Mother at the door frame first, while Mikken did the holy work of crushing the silica inside a bucket of water into a slurry. I had grabbed the two ends of the frame and trapped her between the closed door and my stalwart seven year old self. Catelyn was having none of it and promptly picked me up and locked me outside the hovel.
I was never more grateful for the tree beside the shed which allowed me to climb back inside.
Well at least she and Luwin understood how much I was stressing safety. And Mikken always knew.
The silica was prepared, wood ash had been mixed. It was the moment of truth, in that boring sunny day of Winter, the concentrator was able to get the silica just hot enough to go from a glowing viscous thing inside the silica and fireclay bed to a smoother, flowy liquid.
We all looked with bated breath, the only sound was the hearth fire sitting on a platform on the side.
Mikken turned the molten silica onto the bed of melted tin. Even then he knew it must be the first instance of pilkington float glass in existence. Pop, pop and… a few more drips and it was done. The bog of tin holding furiously cooling the perfectly flat glass.
And by the Old Gods weren't they a beauty, marked with delicious reds and yellows, and some bubbles. The metal reflectors weren't perfect, they could not reach the 1700+ barrier needed to fuse pure quartz. We had potash glass, and it was enough for now.
Luwin was a kid in a candy store, he interrogated me for a full day right then and there as Catelyn sat silent, absorbing everything after she had already called some Guards to stand vigil some distance away from the hovel, to let no one come close.
That was it, no major incident occurred, and we had everything we needed for perfect handling of silica. To make more, to be more. The glass was pumped out with a zealous fervor, in a week, handling small batches we had made enough to replace all the metal in our Concentrator. And with the glass painted black chemically silvered on one side, we had Mach 2.
I think this was also when Catelyn had started seeing me a little differently. Well… not differently, she was Mother, she always knew I talked strange, in direct contrast to my twin, we were night and day. No… she'd always known I wasn't an ordinary boy that said not so ordinary things and asked strange questions and knew strange answers in turn.
Other than turning a little distant, it would take a while for her to actually confront me about it. The Witch Child that I was. The incident in the sept deserved a full re-telling of its own… someday. Which I remember most fondly.
Catelyn is a darling mother, of all the families in this god-forsaken world, I'm glad it was this one I was born into.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Still in pre-writing/brainstorming, figuring out the story phase. Feedback on characters, tech, whatever catches your interest or you thought was wrong is most appreciated <3
What a beautiful fucking world it was.
"Simply incredible is it not?" Maester Luwin said as he tinkered with the burner. Beginning their descent from this Hot-Air Balloon.
"Words fail to do it justice." Ned's whisper was almost lost in the wind, he was peering down at Castle Cerwyn. Maybe someone was seeing them too, maybe they were scared, wondering what beast loomed over them in the skies.
He wondered not for the first time in the last two years, what his Father would have thought of his grandson. What his brother and sister would have thought.
He looked directly below. He saw Robb jumping up and down waving his arms madly. He waved back absently, his eyes finding Brynden, his brilliant, queer son, looking back at him with a knowing smirk. They all would have loved him. Ned thought, as the weaker flame finally let them on the ground again.
Or,
21st Century Genius is reborn as Brynden Stark, twin brother of Robb.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Brynden Stark's Journal, date unknown.
I knew there were levels to doing it, when I first thought of how I would make the glass. Chemistry was elusive, I was never the best at it. But I still knew enough about glass because Dracula made reflections endlessly fascinating and I simply had to understand why Vampires were so shy to mirrors.
In this world where hand worked bellows was the height of heating technology, the glorious power of the sun was all ripe for the taking.
I remember it was the Greyjoy Rebellion of 289 when nearly all of the fighting men and household to sustain those numbers along the way left the City. The days were boring and quiet. But the nights, the nights were rife with illicit affairs of men and women whose spouses had left for the Rebellion and rampant thievery. In that, there was also a tiny roofless hovel near the Smithy, although not invisible, you'd have to make an effort to look for it. But why should you? It was as extraordinary as a four legged mule.
But it was the inside where all the magic was. It had taken an unreasonable amount of badgering to get Mikken, who had more than free time with all his usual clientele gone and duties practically on hold, to forge seven plates of a brass and tin alloy. Polishing them with abundant care. It took a while for the contraption to get right, ultimately my original design was an utter failure and we had to go by what felt right instead while putting it together. Finally after three days, it was done.
I remember that time exactly, there was so much light flooding the room from the metal reflectors even under the gentle half moon I could see as if it was day.
I now know that it was the first time someone had built a Solar Light Concentrator with Speculum Metals in this world. It was in the likeness of the James Webb telescope from my own world, a beautiful creature. You could even fold the hexagonal plates into themselves to somewhat control how hot you needed the concentrated area to be.
And there it was, I think even Mikken understood it on some level, that we had built something extraordinary. Catelyn was less than thrilled with her son with strange humors. I think she was allowing me to do it because even she was curious as to what the fuck I was doing.
But this was supposed to be the easy part.
How do you wash, sift and ground white silica without modern N95? This was not Valyria where I could add one extra infant sacrifice to the ritual or whatever they did back then to make me immune to silica dust. And god knows I'm not allowing Catelyn to sit by and watch while Mikken and I put our darling lungs under dust attack.
Suffice to say I was grounded for a sennight for telling the Lady of Winterfell what she must do. I spent days convincing her to let me go back, I had a world to save! Me threatening to attend sewing sessions with some ladies (and actually trying to attend one) was finally what broke her into allowing me in the roofless hovel again.
In my days spent grounded in my Chambers, I had drawn up the designs for 1820s Smoke Helmets, the ones that allowed fire-fighters to keep breathing fresh air when rushing into burning buildings. Surprisingly, it wasn't that difficult to build. Valves weren't a new thing for Mikken who was already used to forging and repairing them for the bellows. The one shitty thing that remained was, the helmet needed glass for the viewports, or you couldn't seal it perfectly and retain vision. Without glass it was as good as glueing your nose shut.
Decisions, decisions… Without the helmet I wasn't risking my own life, but also other people. One of which was very dear to me in that present and another who I would grow to admire and respect.
I decided extreme caution would cut it. There was no telling when the Rebellion may end, even though it was probably still too early for that. With a crowded Winterfell this… would not work.
We decided to get just enough Silica to grind for the small eye-lenses on the Helmets. That seemed good enough. Me and Mikken, Mother and Maester Luwin wore masks dipped in water even though I knew it wouldn't work, not nearly enough. But it was better than nothing and I felt better with that.
I tried blocking Mother at the door frame first, while Mikken did the holy work of crushing the silica inside a bucket of water into a slurry. I had grabbed the two ends of the frame and trapped her between the closed door and my stalwart seven year old self. Catelyn was having none of it and promptly picked me up and locked me outside the hovel.
I was never more grateful for the tree beside the shed which allowed me to climb back inside.
Well at least she and Luwin understood how much I was stressing safety. And Mikken always knew.
The silica was prepared, wood ash had been mixed. It was the moment of truth, in that boring sunny day of Winter, the concentrator was able to get the silica just hot enough to go from a glowing viscous thing inside the silica and fireclay bed to a smoother, flowy liquid.
We all looked with bated breath, the only sound was the hearth fire sitting on a platform on the side.
Mikken turned the molten silica onto the bed of melted tin. Even then he knew it must be the first instance of pilkington float glass in existence. Pop, pop and… a few more drips and it was done. The bog of tin holding furiously cooling the perfectly flat glass.
And by the Old Gods weren't they a beauty, marked with delicious reds and yellows, and some bubbles. The metal reflectors weren't perfect, they could not reach the 1700+ barrier needed to fuse pure quartz. We had potash glass, and it was enough for now.
Luwin was a kid in a candy store, he interrogated me for a full day right then and there as Catelyn sat silent, absorbing everything after she had already called some Guards to stand vigil some distance away from the hovel, to let no one come close.
That was it, no major incident occurred, and we had everything we needed for perfect handling of silica. To make more, to be more. The glass was pumped out with a zealous fervor, in a week, handling small batches we had made enough to replace all the metal in our Concentrator. And with the glass painted black chemically silvered on one side, we had Mach 2.
I think this was also when Catelyn had started seeing me a little differently. Well… not differently, she was Mother, she always knew I talked strange, in direct contrast to my twin, we were night and day. No… she'd always known I wasn't an ordinary boy that said not so ordinary things and asked strange questions and knew strange answers in turn.
Other than turning a little distant, it would take a while for her to actually confront me about it. The Witch Child that I was. The incident in the sept deserved a full re-telling of its own… someday. Which I remember most fondly.
Catelyn is a darling mother, of all the families in this god-forsaken world, I'm glad it was this one I was born into.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Still in pre-writing/brainstorming, figuring out the story phase. Feedback on characters, tech, whatever catches your interest or you thought was wrong is most appreciated <3
I Did Not Teach Him
New
WorldWarWolf1
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- May 11, 2023
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- Likes received
- 61
Catelyn
It was a day like any other, she was on a rocking chair by the window in her Chambers, regaling Brynden with stories of her childhood home, Riverrun. He was on her knee, playing with two wooden soldier figures. He must have been four at the time, and he wasn't really listening.
"The Godswood only had thirteen carved trees, so unlike the copper and grey forest here. It was never Lysa's favourite, she always complained when we played there. And there was this one time Edmure sneaked up on her for a spook, bless her soul she had a fainting spell then and there!"
The wooden soldiers weren't fighting with much vigor as they had been, she noticed absently as she played with his hair.
"Sounds like you were quite happy back then."
"...yes, you could say so." She gently turned her boy's head to face her… and she was met with those big grey eyes meeting her frowning ones, she couldn't exactly name what she was looking for. Brynden leaned into her hands resting his small face against them.
"Have you named those two Sers?"
The two Knights made a truce and agreed to be presented by her son. "This is Ser Olaf, he is the Lord of all the apple trees in the world! And this is-"
He rambled on, about one thing or another, as he did, like children do. But she could not shake the feeling she had, that one sentence ringing in her head. Something about the precision of it, the fluid articulation, choice of words…
"-But then Ser Dandelion broke his trust and stealed from Ser Olaf!"
"Oh we cannot let that insult stand now, can we?" She chuckled.
It was not a big revelation of any kind. She doubted many Highborn Lady Mothers would even notice such behavior in their children. Instead, hearing whispers from the staff and servants about odd things, children with strange humors.
The sort of children that elicit those whispers most often were of two kinds, either they were simple in the head… or they liked to clip wings off of ravens and watched as they fell down the Ravenry tower.
Brynden was decidedly neither of those. But she did not know whether she should thank the Seven for it.
Robb was lively, easily charming, easily loved. He took to the sword, he read and wrote his letters, a good and obedient child any mother would be grateful to have.
Brynden was all of those things too, he had charm in droves like his uncle. He did as he was told, he sang songs to his little sister, who adored him in turn.
Robb's gait had the bounce of a boy who had yet to see the world beyond those who loved him and who catered to his every need. Head up high, undeterred by anything.
Brynden's walk had a patience, a languid step borne of… she did not know.
While Robb was yet a child, he could not be allowed to be naive. She had tried teaching him to acknowledge his servants, learn their names, tell them they worked well that day every now and then. A Lord must not be ignorant of his household, to take for granted the people who made their lives easier as they reigned… and to remain vigil against spies. A Lord's life is never completely out of the shadow of danger even in their home, in peace or in War.
She knew it took a long time to learn herself, she would be remiss in not teaching her children such manners.
But Catelyn never had to teach Brynden. She never taught him anything, not the songs he sang to Sansa, nor the things he drew in his diaries that never made sense.
…she didn't teach him the language in which he wrote his journal. Luwin did not either, nor could he not say what language it was written in… Her darling son who wrote Journals.
Different indeed.
Now here she was… impossibility laid out bare in front of her in this, it couldn't be called more than a ruin, and in this ruin sat a thing that supposedly spewed a flame hot enough to melt sand.
"Maester, Smith. Leave us."
"At once, My Lady." They rushed outside. Likely not too far she thought, they seemed too excited to leave this place too far so soon.
"What are you doing, Bry?" She asked as she sat beside him.
"Some bad air from the tin has slagged onto the glass. We need to," He said, grunting with effort for a particular slice into the glass, "chip it off clean."
"Oh? And…" she stopped her feet from tapping, Gods, what was wrong with her? "Why- why did that happen?"
He hummed looking at the Tin bed, which was solid now. "Right now we don't have anything to stop the oxidation, suppose with a roof and a bigger hearth it wouldn't be so bad?"
"I understand… and, you don't believe you have something to tell me?"
He turned to her, she knew looking into his eyes, he knew exactly what she was speaking of.
"I believe you know that already." It was still his voice, it was still her son, she firmly locked the pious part away that whispered treasonous thoughts.
"I need you to tell me, you may explain yourself completely or is that too much of an ask?"
"Would you believe me if I said it came to me in a dream?"
A lie.
He sighed smiling, same as always, it did not look foreign, "It simply comes to me I suppose, like how you don't need to think about swallowing your food as you're done chewing it, it just happens. There are things I do, where my body takes over to do it as it remembers and it takes a moment for my mind to catch up and remember, oh yes! I've done this before! I remember my first time trying to write with Maester Luwin, I was supposed to write my name but I started writing something else entirely, a language I did not understand, which in moments became a language I understood better than the common tongue. After that, my hands simply never stopped."
She listened, and she listened well.
"And I am still speaking to Brynden Stark? The same one who has always been?"
"Yes, Mother." He took her hand, leaning his face into it.
A truth.
It was a day like any other, she was on a rocking chair by the window in her Chambers, regaling Brynden with stories of her childhood home, Riverrun. He was on her knee, playing with two wooden soldier figures. He must have been four at the time, and he wasn't really listening.
"The Godswood only had thirteen carved trees, so unlike the copper and grey forest here. It was never Lysa's favourite, she always complained when we played there. And there was this one time Edmure sneaked up on her for a spook, bless her soul she had a fainting spell then and there!"
The wooden soldiers weren't fighting with much vigor as they had been, she noticed absently as she played with his hair.
"Sounds like you were quite happy back then."
"...yes, you could say so." She gently turned her boy's head to face her… and she was met with those big grey eyes meeting her frowning ones, she couldn't exactly name what she was looking for. Brynden leaned into her hands resting his small face against them.
"Have you named those two Sers?"
The two Knights made a truce and agreed to be presented by her son. "This is Ser Olaf, he is the Lord of all the apple trees in the world! And this is-"
He rambled on, about one thing or another, as he did, like children do. But she could not shake the feeling she had, that one sentence ringing in her head. Something about the precision of it, the fluid articulation, choice of words…
"-But then Ser Dandelion broke his trust and stealed from Ser Olaf!"
"Oh we cannot let that insult stand now, can we?" She chuckled.
It was not a big revelation of any kind. She doubted many Highborn Lady Mothers would even notice such behavior in their children. Instead, hearing whispers from the staff and servants about odd things, children with strange humors.
The sort of children that elicit those whispers most often were of two kinds, either they were simple in the head… or they liked to clip wings off of ravens and watched as they fell down the Ravenry tower.
Brynden was decidedly neither of those. But she did not know whether she should thank the Seven for it.
Robb was lively, easily charming, easily loved. He took to the sword, he read and wrote his letters, a good and obedient child any mother would be grateful to have.
Brynden was all of those things too, he had charm in droves like his uncle. He did as he was told, he sang songs to his little sister, who adored him in turn.
Robb's gait had the bounce of a boy who had yet to see the world beyond those who loved him and who catered to his every need. Head up high, undeterred by anything.
Brynden's walk had a patience, a languid step borne of… she did not know.
While Robb was yet a child, he could not be allowed to be naive. She had tried teaching him to acknowledge his servants, learn their names, tell them they worked well that day every now and then. A Lord must not be ignorant of his household, to take for granted the people who made their lives easier as they reigned… and to remain vigil against spies. A Lord's life is never completely out of the shadow of danger even in their home, in peace or in War.
She knew it took a long time to learn herself, she would be remiss in not teaching her children such manners.
But Catelyn never had to teach Brynden. She never taught him anything, not the songs he sang to Sansa, nor the things he drew in his diaries that never made sense.
…she didn't teach him the language in which he wrote his journal. Luwin did not either, nor could he not say what language it was written in… Her darling son who wrote Journals.
Different indeed.
Now here she was… impossibility laid out bare in front of her in this, it couldn't be called more than a ruin, and in this ruin sat a thing that supposedly spewed a flame hot enough to melt sand.
"Maester, Smith. Leave us."
"At once, My Lady." They rushed outside. Likely not too far she thought, they seemed too excited to leave this place too far so soon.
"What are you doing, Bry?" She asked as she sat beside him.
"Some bad air from the tin has slagged onto the glass. We need to," He said, grunting with effort for a particular slice into the glass, "chip it off clean."
"Oh? And…" she stopped her feet from tapping, Gods, what was wrong with her? "Why- why did that happen?"
He hummed looking at the Tin bed, which was solid now. "Right now we don't have anything to stop the oxidation, suppose with a roof and a bigger hearth it wouldn't be so bad?"
"I understand… and, you don't believe you have something to tell me?"
He turned to her, she knew looking into his eyes, he knew exactly what she was speaking of.
"I believe you know that already." It was still his voice, it was still her son, she firmly locked the pious part away that whispered treasonous thoughts.
"I need you to tell me, you may explain yourself completely or is that too much of an ask?"
"Would you believe me if I said it came to me in a dream?"
A lie.
He sighed smiling, same as always, it did not look foreign, "It simply comes to me I suppose, like how you don't need to think about swallowing your food as you're done chewing it, it just happens. There are things I do, where my body takes over to do it as it remembers and it takes a moment for my mind to catch up and remember, oh yes! I've done this before! I remember my first time trying to write with Maester Luwin, I was supposed to write my name but I started writing something else entirely, a language I did not understand, which in moments became a language I understood better than the common tongue. After that, my hands simply never stopped."
She listened, and she listened well.
"And I am still speaking to Brynden Stark? The same one who has always been?"
"Yes, Mother." He took her hand, leaning his face into it.
A truth.
The Gift Horse
New
WorldWarWolf1
Getting some practice in, huh?
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- 61
289 AC
Ned could scarcely describe the emotion roiling in his heart that he had felt as he saw the grey stone of Winterfell looming over the horizon. And when he finally laid his eyes on his family waiting for him at the gates along with the entire Household and all of the town, he had all but broken into a run after jumping down from his horse. He wanted to hug his wife, his children, to hold them and make sure, that yes, he was back. He was Home. But the somber knowing of just how many wide eyed hopeful family and friends of his soldiers would only find cold bodies, forced a stoic addressing of his return.
It took a sennight, to visit all the homes of the one and forty men who'd lost their lives to Balon's folly and take care of the funerals. One and forty men… lost for what? The weight that was lifted off him after finally being back was being pushed back on his shoulders, heavier still with each pyre he lit.
Only the Gods know how he might have gotten through without Catelyn.
But he did, he must. The brief rebellion had not relieved him of his duties. He was yet the Warden of the North. He had things to do.
Those things however, they could wait. or his children came first.
"So what is it you wished to tell me?" Ned asked as he sat down in his solar. Brynden came up to the Hullwood table and rested his chin atop it as he stood, much to Ned's amusement.
"I would have written to you if I could, to tell you about this gift of mine." He said in that lilting voice of his, so unburdened by the world, as he placed… something wrapped in parchment on the desk.
"How delightful," Ned smiled, "Whatever could it be?" He asked as Brynden rested his elbows on his table to hold his head in watching him with all attention. He didn't have it in his to admonish him for that as he pulled away the parchment. Ah, it looks like he'd had Mikken forge a…
It was a Far-Eye. Mikken did not make this, he could almost see his reflection staring back. This was real glass.
He looked to his son, expectant and somewhat constrained excitement. He stood up, his next words came out in his Lord's voice, "Brynden, how did you convince Maester Luwin to purchase this? This is no small investment, son."
"Oh, we didn't buy it."
"And… when were you about to tell me of your secret friendship with the Myrmen who shipped their finest Far-Eyes for you for no gold?" Ned asked sardonically.
He looked around conspiratorially, before whispering, "We made it in secret~"
Ned sighed softly. This boy…
"Then you should have no trouble showing me, would you?"
"Of course Father!"
And so it starts.
Ned could scarcely describe the emotion roiling in his heart that he had felt as he saw the grey stone of Winterfell looming over the horizon. And when he finally laid his eyes on his family waiting for him at the gates along with the entire Household and all of the town, he had all but broken into a run after jumping down from his horse. He wanted to hug his wife, his children, to hold them and make sure, that yes, he was back. He was Home. But the somber knowing of just how many wide eyed hopeful family and friends of his soldiers would only find cold bodies, forced a stoic addressing of his return.
It took a sennight, to visit all the homes of the one and forty men who'd lost their lives to Balon's folly and take care of the funerals. One and forty men… lost for what? The weight that was lifted off him after finally being back was being pushed back on his shoulders, heavier still with each pyre he lit.
Only the Gods know how he might have gotten through without Catelyn.
But he did, he must. The brief rebellion had not relieved him of his duties. He was yet the Warden of the North. He had things to do.
Those things however, they could wait. or his children came first.
"So what is it you wished to tell me?" Ned asked as he sat down in his solar. Brynden came up to the Hullwood table and rested his chin atop it as he stood, much to Ned's amusement.
"I would have written to you if I could, to tell you about this gift of mine." He said in that lilting voice of his, so unburdened by the world, as he placed… something wrapped in parchment on the desk.
"How delightful," Ned smiled, "Whatever could it be?" He asked as Brynden rested his elbows on his table to hold his head in watching him with all attention. He didn't have it in his to admonish him for that as he pulled away the parchment. Ah, it looks like he'd had Mikken forge a…
It was a Far-Eye. Mikken did not make this, he could almost see his reflection staring back. This was real glass.
He looked to his son, expectant and somewhat constrained excitement. He stood up, his next words came out in his Lord's voice, "Brynden, how did you convince Maester Luwin to purchase this? This is no small investment, son."
"Oh, we didn't buy it."
"And… when were you about to tell me of your secret friendship with the Myrmen who shipped their finest Far-Eyes for you for no gold?" Ned asked sardonically.
He looked around conspiratorially, before whispering, "We made it in secret~"
Ned sighed softly. This boy…
"Then you should have no trouble showing me, would you?"
"Of course Father!"
And so it starts.
Where We Never Looked
New
WorldWarWolf1
Getting some practice in, huh?
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294 AC, Jon Arryn
They'd all heard the rumors.
'Northrons to compete with Myr? A sad jest.' They said, 'They found out how to melt sand into half clear slag. Good for the barbarians I suppose.' it wouldn't be wrong to say most of the Realm considered the Northrons to be little better than Wildlings themselves. He'd heard the mutterings and veiled insults to Ned the entire time and after his ward's time at the Eyrie.
As much as he loved his son in all but name, even he had difficulties understanding how the North was producing glass of all things, let alone good quality enough to build glass-gardens? It was a beautiful dream. He'd want nothing more than for his son and his Kingdom to prosper, and for history to remember his legacy fondly. But reality was a harsh mistress and dreams didn't feed people.
He was however finding it difficult to not believe as he held the glass candle holder in his arms. It was in the likeness of a swan, balanced so as to sit on a surface, with its wings cradling its back where the flat space to put the candle was. Its neck was not too long, but slender, its face demure. The whole piece was a little longer than his wrist. There were flecks of reds and greens and yellows visible as he turned it around with a care he would handle a newborn babe, but it was almost like the colors were tastefully placed, like the reds in the face, highlighting the eyes.
This was not novel technology for them… they've had time to refine this, they've bid their time… and he was holding the result.
Was it the most perfectly translucent piece he had seen in his life? No.
Was it something that had more artistic soul poured into its creation than anything made of glass he had seen in his life and would be coveted by no little amount of Lords and Merchants alike throughout the Realm and Free Cities?
He could absolutely see such a future.
For the first time in a solid ten minutes, he looked across his table to his guests, Jory and Rodrik Cassel, Courtiers from the North sent by Ned himself.
The boy, Jory, had been tapping his foot incessantly before being stopped with a look by the older man, only to start again not too long after, his gaze flitting from one place to another. Jon couldn't blame him for being nervous, the boy likely hadn't been beyond the North for all his life and suddenly being a guest in the Tower of the Hand was no small thing. The older man was a rock, betraying no thoughts, observing Jon impassively. Jon could tell it was less of the man's ability of hiding his intentions but more so to the fact that he was only here to do his duty, not to covet the Hand's favor.
He applauded Ned's caution in not sending a raven, but sending men he imagined were personally trusted to deliver the letter and the gift.
Jon addressed the Older Knight, Rodrick, "Must be a sight to see, this workshop. To be able to produce such beauty in a hard land."
"I imagine so, My Lord Hand." He nodded.
"And the production has been in place for… how long?"
"About five years now, My Lord, I believe we began immediately after the Greyjoy Rebellion."
…the fucking Greyjoy Rebellion, how did this escape his notice? Why had he waited so long to just ask? Did Varys know? Of course, he fucking would, but to what extent? He needs to see the logs… the books… send letters, hire men… things to do, more fucking things to do.
Gods he was old.
He didn't let the weary sigh escape him, sitting ram rod straight, his face a genial mask as he continued.
Rodrick pulled up a piece of parchment out of his doublet and slid it to him on the table.
"While I am not a Maester who could indulge My Lord's curiosities on the logistics of the Glass Gardens and current progress, Lord Stark saw fit to have a document crafted by Maester Luwin and Castellan Vayon Poole on that exact subject. I was told it was as thorough as it could be."
He looked over the parchments.
Names of the Houses who possess Gardens
Winterfell (Possessing a total of 4 gardens), Ryswell, Umber, Bolton, Karstark.
Currently in the process of building Gardens.
(Ones above included, not stopping at a few) Manderleys, Glovers, Mormont, Cerwyn.
There were logistics of moving the glass, how many men, how much gold, how much usually broke in transit. How many were employed at the Workshop, both at the Glass Garden department and the Artistry House still learning the craft. How much they were paid.
Listed the seeds that had been imported like apples, pears, melons and healing herbs. Getting more fruit than grain was prudent as the glass gardens are still smaller than desired due to the speed at which things need to be done.
This was a lot, there were more pages yet. He looked to his guests, "Good Sers, I believe we've had a productive discussion. I thank you for your time. But I still have questions that I may call upon you to answer at a later time, until then your retinue is a guest of the Crown and under its protection. You will receive the full hospitality until your departure and your journey back to Winterfell will be fully funded by the Crown."
The Old Knight stood up, the younger one joining him hastily, they bowed to him slightly, "We are thankful for your generosity, My Lord. We will attempt to brief you on everything we can as you order." He straightened up, "By your leave, My Lord."
And so they were dismissed, leaving him with a whirlwind in his mind.
This was unprecedented, the wealth the documents were describing… this should have come up in the log books, taxes, something… this was not something that could have been hidden. So then how the fuck was it so?
Investigations were in order, thorough investigations. The Lord Hand had things to do.
XXX
This may already need to be changed somewhat because I am now more familiar with logistics (charitably, one might say) and economics. How the glass may actually circulate. And I have a better idea how it will evolve and how the Culture (North, south and the broader world) may react to it and how Brynden will plan accordingly. Story is already flowing differently in my mind than how I wrote it here.
Also, let me just put it into perspective for you how much the North is making still in the first year (around 290 AC).
The method described in the first chapter is producing Potash Glass, everything it needs is basically free. (White Silica from riverbeds, streams, Lime/limestone, wood ash.) The only two ingredients that need real procurement are silver (Chemical silvering: silver dissolved in Nitric Acid (aqua fortis), mix that with ammonia salts to create the solution, then reduce it with honey.) And pyrolusite (Which Luwin could procure).
This, paired with the pilkington float glass method, will produce the flattest glass pane this world will ever see until precision tooling is invented. It is perfectly flat, it is clear, it is brighter than Myrish glass (assuming their process is the equivalent of Venetian Glassmakers with their tube blowing method with mercury amalgum.)
North's product is better in every way possible and they can make a glass vanity mirror for pennies. Assuming 2 silver stags per piece to make, selling it at 60 dragons. The North is in a profit margin that is on par with the one of modern pharmaceuticals.
Myr is fuming no doubt, the north is not only undercutting them, but also delivering a vastly superior (and safer, Brynden doesn't use Mercury) product. Though they will come into play a lot later.
I am working out how we will get an actual workforce, maintaining secrecy and such. And I think I really like what I have. Will get to writing it soon. Would love to hear what you peeps think! Comments give me life <3
They'd all heard the rumors.
'Northrons to compete with Myr? A sad jest.' They said, 'They found out how to melt sand into half clear slag. Good for the barbarians I suppose.' it wouldn't be wrong to say most of the Realm considered the Northrons to be little better than Wildlings themselves. He'd heard the mutterings and veiled insults to Ned the entire time and after his ward's time at the Eyrie.
As much as he loved his son in all but name, even he had difficulties understanding how the North was producing glass of all things, let alone good quality enough to build glass-gardens? It was a beautiful dream. He'd want nothing more than for his son and his Kingdom to prosper, and for history to remember his legacy fondly. But reality was a harsh mistress and dreams didn't feed people.
He was however finding it difficult to not believe as he held the glass candle holder in his arms. It was in the likeness of a swan, balanced so as to sit on a surface, with its wings cradling its back where the flat space to put the candle was. Its neck was not too long, but slender, its face demure. The whole piece was a little longer than his wrist. There were flecks of reds and greens and yellows visible as he turned it around with a care he would handle a newborn babe, but it was almost like the colors were tastefully placed, like the reds in the face, highlighting the eyes.
This was not novel technology for them… they've had time to refine this, they've bid their time… and he was holding the result.
Was it the most perfectly translucent piece he had seen in his life? No.
Was it something that had more artistic soul poured into its creation than anything made of glass he had seen in his life and would be coveted by no little amount of Lords and Merchants alike throughout the Realm and Free Cities?
He could absolutely see such a future.
For the first time in a solid ten minutes, he looked across his table to his guests, Jory and Rodrik Cassel, Courtiers from the North sent by Ned himself.
The boy, Jory, had been tapping his foot incessantly before being stopped with a look by the older man, only to start again not too long after, his gaze flitting from one place to another. Jon couldn't blame him for being nervous, the boy likely hadn't been beyond the North for all his life and suddenly being a guest in the Tower of the Hand was no small thing. The older man was a rock, betraying no thoughts, observing Jon impassively. Jon could tell it was less of the man's ability of hiding his intentions but more so to the fact that he was only here to do his duty, not to covet the Hand's favor.
He applauded Ned's caution in not sending a raven, but sending men he imagined were personally trusted to deliver the letter and the gift.
Jon addressed the Older Knight, Rodrick, "Must be a sight to see, this workshop. To be able to produce such beauty in a hard land."
"I imagine so, My Lord Hand." He nodded.
"And the production has been in place for… how long?"
"About five years now, My Lord, I believe we began immediately after the Greyjoy Rebellion."
…the fucking Greyjoy Rebellion, how did this escape his notice? Why had he waited so long to just ask? Did Varys know? Of course, he fucking would, but to what extent? He needs to see the logs… the books… send letters, hire men… things to do, more fucking things to do.
Gods he was old.
He didn't let the weary sigh escape him, sitting ram rod straight, his face a genial mask as he continued.
Rodrick pulled up a piece of parchment out of his doublet and slid it to him on the table.
"While I am not a Maester who could indulge My Lord's curiosities on the logistics of the Glass Gardens and current progress, Lord Stark saw fit to have a document crafted by Maester Luwin and Castellan Vayon Poole on that exact subject. I was told it was as thorough as it could be."
He looked over the parchments.
Names of the Houses who possess Gardens
Winterfell (Possessing a total of 4 gardens), Ryswell, Umber, Bolton, Karstark.
Currently in the process of building Gardens.
(Ones above included, not stopping at a few) Manderleys, Glovers, Mormont, Cerwyn.
There were logistics of moving the glass, how many men, how much gold, how much usually broke in transit. How many were employed at the Workshop, both at the Glass Garden department and the Artistry House still learning the craft. How much they were paid.
Listed the seeds that had been imported like apples, pears, melons and healing herbs. Getting more fruit than grain was prudent as the glass gardens are still smaller than desired due to the speed at which things need to be done.
This was a lot, there were more pages yet. He looked to his guests, "Good Sers, I believe we've had a productive discussion. I thank you for your time. But I still have questions that I may call upon you to answer at a later time, until then your retinue is a guest of the Crown and under its protection. You will receive the full hospitality until your departure and your journey back to Winterfell will be fully funded by the Crown."
The Old Knight stood up, the younger one joining him hastily, they bowed to him slightly, "We are thankful for your generosity, My Lord. We will attempt to brief you on everything we can as you order." He straightened up, "By your leave, My Lord."
And so they were dismissed, leaving him with a whirlwind in his mind.
This was unprecedented, the wealth the documents were describing… this should have come up in the log books, taxes, something… this was not something that could have been hidden. So then how the fuck was it so?
Investigations were in order, thorough investigations. The Lord Hand had things to do.
XXX
This may already need to be changed somewhat because I am now more familiar with logistics (charitably, one might say) and economics. How the glass may actually circulate. And I have a better idea how it will evolve and how the Culture (North, south and the broader world) may react to it and how Brynden will plan accordingly. Story is already flowing differently in my mind than how I wrote it here.
Also, let me just put it into perspective for you how much the North is making still in the first year (around 290 AC).
The method described in the first chapter is producing Potash Glass, everything it needs is basically free. (White Silica from riverbeds, streams, Lime/limestone, wood ash.) The only two ingredients that need real procurement are silver (Chemical silvering: silver dissolved in Nitric Acid (aqua fortis), mix that with ammonia salts to create the solution, then reduce it with honey.) And pyrolusite (Which Luwin could procure).
This, paired with the pilkington float glass method, will produce the flattest glass pane this world will ever see until precision tooling is invented. It is perfectly flat, it is clear, it is brighter than Myrish glass (assuming their process is the equivalent of Venetian Glassmakers with their tube blowing method with mercury amalgum.)
North's product is better in every way possible and they can make a glass vanity mirror for pennies. Assuming 2 silver stags per piece to make, selling it at 60 dragons. The North is in a profit margin that is on par with the one of modern pharmaceuticals.
Myr is fuming no doubt, the north is not only undercutting them, but also delivering a vastly superior (and safer, Brynden doesn't use Mercury) product. Though they will come into play a lot later.
I am working out how we will get an actual workforce, maintaining secrecy and such. And I think I really like what I have. Will get to writing it soon. Would love to hear what you peeps think! Comments give me life <3
King_Belphegor
The Slothful
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Undercutting slavers will always be good. Keep the chapters coming. 
A funny suggestion, but if Myr starts getting violent ( no doubt in my mind ) have the MC start handing out the recipe to everyone, Westeros, Free Cities, Summer Isles, etc. If they start demanding he stop selling than he'll stop everyone from having to buy it from them.
A funny suggestion, but if Myr starts getting violent ( no doubt in my mind ) have the MC start handing out the recipe to everyone, Westeros, Free Cities, Summer Isles, etc. If they start demanding he stop selling than he'll stop everyone from having to buy it from them.
WorldWarWolf1
Getting some practice in, huh?
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Undercutting slavers will always be good. Keep the chapters coming.
A funny suggestion, but if Myr starts getting violent ( no doubt in my mind ) have the MC start handing out the recipe to everyone, Westeros, Free Cities, Summer Isles, etc. If they start demanding he stop selling than he'll stop everyone from having to buy it from them.
That is indeed going to happen later on when a distraction in the Realm is needed. Silica + Potash Glass (the one used for tapestries and stained glass) is incredibly hard to get right (No flat glass without knowing Pilkington process), not obvious to many and not to mention, incredibly dangerous (Smoke helmets are as much an invention as the glass). It would not be surprising if it kickstarted a fibrosis calamity throughout the Realm and across the pond. And with it, they still hold monopoly on the solar furnace, which is outputting pure quartz (for lens, far eyes/optics, chemistry contraptions, though this is more long term.)
The more perceptive/craftsmen would understand they have "two" distinct kinds of glass, but the ruse works for most and is a satisfying answer to how the barbarians in snow got this done.
Oh and the original furnace, where they used the speculum metal (Brass + Tin alloy, polished) as a reflector, this was scrapped as fast as possible and the contraption was fitted with Glass itself (and later quartz). So even if some spy somehow infiltrated the very heart and got a glimpse at the furnace, it would be a dead end "You need glass to make glass" they would report back. No one would ever know the first batch was made with reflective metal.
As for Myr's retaliation, I doubt they would actually "demand" to stop. They have an intellectual monopoly, they can't actually exert any power over a Kingdom of Westeros to "stop a trade". What they may actually try is target a Manderley ship when it leaves the Harbor and make sure it doesn't reach a destination. Keep things vague.
If that did happen, I wonder how our characters may deal with it.
King_Belphegor
The Slothful
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Pretty much what I was thinking, not "hey, stop that!" I figure a combination of piracy and assassins would force the North to the negotiation table. After all this is their big draw and livelihood at stake. But they also have many rivals that would support their fall, so the North has that.
Plus no doubt Robert would throw the whole of Westeros at Myr, he's a bro like that.
WorldWarWolf1
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Pretty much what I was thinking, not "hey, stop that!" I figure a combination of piracy and assassins would force the North to the negotiation table. After all this is their big draw and livelihood at stake. But they also have many rivals that would support their fall, so the North has that.
Plus no doubt Robert would throw the whole of Westeros at Myr, he's a bro like that.
That's why I am currently re-working the timeline so that the first ever export of Glass from North is directly addressed to Robert himself. A tapestry for the King, sort of like a tribute. King is the trendsetter, everyone will wanna see what the Northern Glass is all about. Get it for themselves, those who can.
Robert would love it, and he would not give a shit on how it happened, Ned said they made it home and he'd be like, "Ned's people are clever, good for Ned." and down another pint. Meanwhile Jon Arryn is malding being "wtf is going on up there"
King_Belphegor
The Slothful
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On that note, is the current year really good for a tech uplift? I'd say at the very least a good starting point is around Robert's Rebellion. Maybe Ninepenny Kings war? Perhaps have the MC take the place of Benjen ( Ned's brother ) or even make a younger brother for Rickard ( Ned's dad ). Gives more time before things go to shit. Unless you decide to give the MC something like the Celestial Forge to speed things up. the Dance era could work too.
Guess it depends on how much of a tech uplift you want.
ATP
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Poor Arryn,but Baelish would take care of him.Arryn murder aside, what about making damascus steel and porcelain,too? North should have everytching they need.
And water mills.After 1400 they mass produced almost everytching - steel,flour,clothes, etc.
Alien
New
WorldWarWolf1
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Brynden Stark's Journal, Entry 25
The Newcomen was a noble machine. Thomas Newcomen supposedly wanted to save miners from drowning, and of course, make more money for the mine owner.
It was simple, reliable and crude.
It was simply the best that the engineering of backwater Europe could come up with. Precision was not a stranger to the ancient world. The Greek Antikythera was a masterclass of bronze work and the Indian class of generational temple builders and artisans would have built spaceships in the modern world had the art not died out.
But I have something none of these Masters of a bygone era possibly could have had.
Hindsight.
It was trivial in design. Mikken worked a deft hand even if he didn't know what he was making.
Lost Wax casting was an art form. Something an artisan would have practised for years before their name was worth more than the bread they ate a day. Before their creations lined the top shelves of merchants raking in gold upon silver pouches.
One did not need to be an artist to make cylinder molds of clay. I tried, tried as best as I could to make them thin. I had chalk and stone to draw circles with a rope but no means of measure to get a precise one or two millimeter thickness between two drawn circles. That was no more than a minor annoyance. Functionally it would be more than enough.
A cast was made, more instructed by me and created by the newly hired Blacksmiths that were going to be engineers with Mikken's oversight.
What came out from inside the cast was the most perfectly smooth and thin cylinder this world had ever seen… though they wouldn't really be seeing it. This, again, was going to be an Area 51 tier secret.
They'd hung more than one of their newly hired "Engineers" for being spies.
Anyways, a piston was made cast into readymade springsteel rings. That was a bitch and a half of trial and error with the practice, even with Mikken and Luwin to help out.
I metaphorically lost half my hair to rage as the bronze piston did not want to shrink to the same size after cooling as a springsteel rings. Theon being a satisfying punching bag saw me through those months, even if I lost more than half the bouts in practise. I savored the wins where I could.
But we got it, of course we did.
The rotary valves were nothing quite so difficult, god forbid we ever tried building the standard poppet valves. I would have surely jumped off the tallest tower if we did. I sped through making the valves in two days of non-stop work, sleeping and eating in the workshop, while Mikken had his work cut out making the flywheel.
We thought we were done.
We thought wrong.
Getting the assembly right took nearly another three grueling moons.
But we did it. Of course we did.
XXX
Please do keep in mind I am going to go absolutely ham on the Uplift pedal while keeping it grounded with the best of my ability. This was a very bare entry, just introducing the thing with much less character involvement than the first Journal entry, it's pretty meh.
The Newcomen is pretty fucking underrated for how simple it is to build, how safe it is (no high pressures or temperatures, works on 100 degree celsius steam) and how high return it is.
Back then, groundwater in Mines were a not really a problem per say, they were just impossible barriers written off. The mine ended when you hit groundwater.
The Newcomen, has a simple job. Pull the water out. And it does that very well, historically they were capable of increasing the reachable depths by a factor of 3 to 5. That means not only can the current operating mines can be mined for much, much longer. You unlock parts of the old "depleted" mines you didn't even know existed. And Brynden is not using the dirty iron made, 1 or 2 inch thick cylinders. We have the lost-wax casting allowing for near precise (very thin, in the ballpark of 1mm) thin cylinder. I estimate the thermal efficiency jump from 0.5% (historically) to 2% or 2.5%. That's fucking crazy and we don't even have the condenser. And I still have more modifications to the Engine that will improve both efficiency and power output.
Also, this is huge for construction, the main bottleneck back then (after transportation), was lifting heavy stone, Newcomen can easily lift tens of tons of stone to be placed as needed for Castles and whatever establishments need it.
We'll be making diabolical amounts of Gold soon (Which, funnily enough, will lead to Littlefinger's downfall. First of the Major butterflies/divergence relating to plot I suppose. Not really, the first might be Jorah's fate. Do we let Jorah escape?)