The Engineer's Iron Horse
Disclaimer:
Game of Thrones is owned by George R.R. Martin
Chapter...
Disclaimer:
Game of Thrones is owned by George R.R. Martin
Chapter...
The Engineer's Iron Horse [ISOT / Game of Thrones]
- Thread starter Xlerons
- Start date
- Created
- Status
- Ongoing
- Watchers
- 66
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 1
-
Statistics (1 threadmarks, 5.1k words)
User Total Xlerons 1 Threadmarks Reader mode
Chapter I - Of Ash & Snow
- Location
- United States
The Engineer's Iron Horse
Disclaimer:
Game of Thrones is owned by George R.R. Martin
Game of Thrones is owned by George R.R. Martin
Chapter I - Of Ash & Snow
Benjen eyed the smoke in the distance, brows furrowed and lips thinned in an expression of rare puzzlement. Long, narrow, and colored an irregular mixture of pristine white and ashen black, the grey clouds beyond rose gently into the air, their source streaking rapidly across the horizon. Neither he nor his brothers, the three figures looking out from above the gargantuan structure of the Wall, could guess as to what they were seeing. A rumbling could be heard from afar, the howling winds of the frigid North carrying the echoes of growling thunder and ringing steel, a soft yet distinct whisper which the Stark seized and bound into memory.
"D' you know what it is?" Asked the boy to his right, Will's brown hair wiping about as he reached back for his hood, hand pulling the thick black wool up and over his head. His poaching of Mallister woods had landed him here, a shame he thought, for someone so young. The lad's chestnut shaded eyes starred into Benjen's blue own, filled with equal parts enthusiasm and worry.
"No, I don't." He briefly returned, only to then spin round the tough leather sole of his boot, cloak on his back flailing wildly as yet another cold breeze washed over them. He made for the wooden lift that lead back down to Castle Black, steps light with haste and grip tightened about the handle of his sword.
"It seems to be movin' down south. Can't say where it'll be headed though." Stated the other man, Bowen Marsh's unshaven visage serving only to conceal the frown accentuating his features. Benjen kept on the move, maintaining his pace as he loudly voiced his response to the duo he left behind.
"The only place such mysteries ever seek; Winterfell."
Mining tracks they'd said. Arya studied them, eyes gleaming in naked interest, watching how they swept from north to south and past the skyline, ends beyond view no matter how much she squinted her eyes. Thick wooden boards lied upon low ridges of course gravel, rocks piled onto the soil while large metal rails, made not from iron but from steel, sat nailed down atop. Running parallel to one another and stretching far into the distance, the abnormal roads (For what else could they be?) split the forest neatly in two. Appearing sometime during the night, with no clues as to the how or why, the mysterious constructs were soon discovered. Both her father and Ser Rodrick, along with her brothers and Theon, had left some hours ago, twin bands of eight riding out in different directions in search of whomever, or whatever, was responsible.
Arya, to her utmost resentment, had not been allowed to accompany them, left behind to spend her days practicing needlework and the many other things expected of a proper lady-in-training. Of course, given her character and the fact that she despised virtually everything having to do with either Sansa or the septa crone, the youngest Stark girl simply chose not to attend, instead exploring the uncovered paths which provided the perfect excuse for skipping those horrid little lessons of hers altogether. Let mother and the old tart complain all they wanted after she got back, father was sure to accept the act of rebellion as he had time and time again, the recent event too exceptional an opportunity to waste. Besides, by persuading Bran to come along, since he too was otherwise stuck at the castle on account of the mission's possible dangers, she could always claim that it was his idea in the first place, him having brought her for the ride and, as a result, justifying her disappearance. Mother would likely be more lenient in her punishment in such circumstances.
It should be noted that she and Brandon were, at this point, a good way's off from the castle, the tracks, although visible from atop Winterfell's battlements, having taken nearly an hour's run to reach. Already the sun was beginning to dip from the darkening sky, the first orange beams making themselves known, shinning through the dimming light and swaying leaves. If they stayed too long there wouldn't be enough time to return home before nightfall, meaning that their presence, or lack thereof, would be noticed. Time, therefore, was against them.
"Do you think this is all magic's fault?" Questioned her brother.
Arya's head tilted up, back resting upon a felled tree trunk as she wiped away at the sweat drenching her brow. Her face, red with fatigue and akin to Bran's own, morphed into an expression of thoughtfulness.
"Maester Luwin's always said that magic's been gone for hundreds of years so I'm not sure what to think. He told me that no one knows if it ever really existed and that, if it did, it'd vanished in the Doom of Valyria and then left the world." She replied.
Bran pondered her words.
"Giants!" He suddenly shouted, snapping his fingers and voice oozing with confidence, clearly pleased by his supposed 'realization'. Already he'd begun to scan the clearing in the hopes of catching one of said, probably imagined, giants' footprints. Arya giggled at her brother's antics, bursting into laughter when he pouted in perceived betrayal. She turned to her surroundings.
"When d'you reckon father will be back?" She asked.
Her brother took pause, facing her as he spoke.
"Old Nan's talked about the Wildlings putting their ears to the ground to hear oncoming riders, something about sound traveling faster through stone than in air. Maybe give it try?" He suggested. Bran continued his search.
For a moment Arya hesitated on taking Bran's words merely at face value, unsure as to whether or not he was trying to trick her into bending down and displaying her ass. It was not, by any means, the first time he'd dulled out false advice, only to be later seen snickering at his victims' expense. What reservations she did have, however, were short lived, the elder sibling simply vowing to punt her kin in the jewels should her suspicions prove correct.
Legs folding together as she bent over and kneeled, Arya twisted her head to the left and placed an ear to the dirt, the short strands of her brown hair tickling her cheeks as they swung. Closing her eyes, she listened.
The earth shook.
"I hear something." She said.
A singular noise, a rhythmic pounding echoing within the cavity of her ear, grew louder as it went. Doom doom, doom doom, doom doom it rang, beat becoming progressively faster, accelerating in its pace. Charging horses didn't make that clatter, did they?
"Arya." Came Bran's voice. It was ignored, Arya's mind too fixated on the sound.
The quaking intensified.
"Arya." Tried her sibling anew, his tone now conveyed with a sense of urgency. Were one of the groups, Jory's perhaps, passing by? She couldn't tell.
The very land trembled.
"Arya!" Her brother finally yelled, gripping her by the shoulders in a firm bid for attention. Arya opened her eyes, dazed and confused as to what was happening, watching Bran as he pointed to her right, letting her go as he did. A constant clanging resonated throughout the area, its source barreling towards them. Her grey eyes swelled in amazement.
Long, black and ash spewing from its hearth, a beast emerged from the thicket, its hulking frame rushing onwards. Twin bursts of steam shrieked to life, signaling its approach. Wheels locked and sparks flew, the grinding screech forcing them to cover their ears, muffling the metals' screams. A second's time and the shape came to rest, water gurgling, its motioned ceased.
"Oy." A voice hollered.
The Stark duo raised their heads. A man, blond of hair and wearing a cap, starred at them from a window, grin plastered across his face.
"Hey lads."
Benjen eyed the smoke in the distance, brows furrowed and lips thinned in an expression of rare puzzlement. Long, narrow, and colored an irregular mixture of pristine white and ashen black, the grey clouds beyond rose gently into the air, their source streaking rapidly across the horizon. Neither he nor his brothers, the three figures looking out from above the gargantuan structure of the Wall, could guess as to what they were seeing. A rumbling could be heard from afar, the howling winds of the frigid North carrying the echoes of growling thunder and ringing steel, a soft yet distinct whisper which the Stark seized and bound into memory.
"D' you know what it is?" Asked the boy to his right, Will's brown hair wiping about as he reached back for his hood, hand pulling the thick black wool up and over his head. His poaching of Mallister woods had landed him here, a shame he thought, for someone so young. The lad's chestnut shaded eyes starred into Benjen's blue own, filled with equal parts enthusiasm and worry.
"No, I don't." He briefly returned, only to then spin round the tough leather sole of his boot, cloak on his back flailing wildly as yet another cold breeze washed over them. He made for the wooden lift that lead back down to Castle Black, steps light with haste and grip tightened about the handle of his sword.
"It seems to be movin' down south. Can't say where it'll be headed though." Stated the other man, Bowen Marsh's unshaven visage serving only to conceal the frown accentuating his features. Benjen kept on the move, maintaining his pace as he loudly voiced his response to the duo he left behind.
"The only place such mysteries ever seek; Winterfell."
Mining tracks they'd said. Arya studied them, eyes gleaming in naked interest, watching how they swept from north to south and past the skyline, ends beyond view no matter how much she squinted her eyes. Thick wooden boards lied upon low ridges of course gravel, rocks piled onto the soil while large metal rails, made not from iron but from steel, sat nailed down atop. Running parallel to one another and stretching far into the distance, the abnormal roads (For what else could they be?) split the forest neatly in two. Appearing sometime during the night, with no clues as to the how or why, the mysterious constructs were soon discovered. Both her father and Ser Rodrick, along with her brothers and Theon, had left some hours ago, twin bands of eight riding out in different directions in search of whomever, or whatever, was responsible.
Arya, to her utmost resentment, had not been allowed to accompany them, left behind to spend her days practicing needlework and the many other things expected of a proper lady-in-training. Of course, given her character and the fact that she despised virtually everything having to do with either Sansa or the septa crone, the youngest Stark girl simply chose not to attend, instead exploring the uncovered paths which provided the perfect excuse for skipping those horrid little lessons of hers altogether. Let mother and the old tart complain all they wanted after she got back, father was sure to accept the act of rebellion as he had time and time again, the recent event too exceptional an opportunity to waste. Besides, by persuading Bran to come along, since he too was otherwise stuck at the castle on account of the mission's possible dangers, she could always claim that it was his idea in the first place, him having brought her for the ride and, as a result, justifying her disappearance. Mother would likely be more lenient in her punishment in such circumstances.
It should be noted that she and Brandon were, at this point, a good way's off from the castle, the tracks, although visible from atop Winterfell's battlements, having taken nearly an hour's run to reach. Already the sun was beginning to dip from the darkening sky, the first orange beams making themselves known, shinning through the dimming light and swaying leaves. If they stayed too long there wouldn't be enough time to return home before nightfall, meaning that their presence, or lack thereof, would be noticed. Time, therefore, was against them.
"Do you think this is all magic's fault?" Questioned her brother.
Arya's head tilted up, back resting upon a felled tree trunk as she wiped away at the sweat drenching her brow. Her face, red with fatigue and akin to Bran's own, morphed into an expression of thoughtfulness.
"Maester Luwin's always said that magic's been gone for hundreds of years so I'm not sure what to think. He told me that no one knows if it ever really existed and that, if it did, it'd vanished in the Doom of Valyria and then left the world." She replied.
Bran pondered her words.
"Giants!" He suddenly shouted, snapping his fingers and voice oozing with confidence, clearly pleased by his supposed 'realization'. Already he'd begun to scan the clearing in the hopes of catching one of said, probably imagined, giants' footprints. Arya giggled at her brother's antics, bursting into laughter when he pouted in perceived betrayal. She turned to her surroundings.
"When d'you reckon father will be back?" She asked.
Her brother took pause, facing her as he spoke.
"Old Nan's talked about the Wildlings putting their ears to the ground to hear oncoming riders, something about sound traveling faster through stone than in air. Maybe give it try?" He suggested. Bran continued his search.
For a moment Arya hesitated on taking Bran's words merely at face value, unsure as to whether or not he was trying to trick her into bending down and displaying her ass. It was not, by any means, the first time he'd dulled out false advice, only to be later seen snickering at his victims' expense. What reservations she did have, however, were short lived, the elder sibling simply vowing to punt her kin in the jewels should her suspicions prove correct.
Legs folding together as she bent over and kneeled, Arya twisted her head to the left and placed an ear to the dirt, the short strands of her brown hair tickling her cheeks as they swung. Closing her eyes, she listened.
The earth shook.
"I hear something." She said.
A singular noise, a rhythmic pounding echoing within the cavity of her ear, grew louder as it went. Doom doom, doom doom, doom doom it rang, beat becoming progressively faster, accelerating in its pace. Charging horses didn't make that clatter, did they?
"Arya." Came Bran's voice. It was ignored, Arya's mind too fixated on the sound.
The quaking intensified.
"Arya." Tried her sibling anew, his tone now conveyed with a sense of urgency. Were one of the groups, Jory's perhaps, passing by? She couldn't tell.
The very land trembled.
"Arya!" Her brother finally yelled, gripping her by the shoulders in a firm bid for attention. Arya opened her eyes, dazed and confused as to what was happening, watching Bran as he pointed to her right, letting her go as he did. A constant clanging resonated throughout the area, its source barreling towards them. Her grey eyes swelled in amazement.
Long, black and ash spewing from its hearth, a beast emerged from the thicket, its hulking frame rushing onwards. Twin bursts of steam shrieked to life, signaling its approach. Wheels locked and sparks flew, the grinding screech forcing them to cover their ears, muffling the metals' screams. A second's time and the shape came to rest, water gurgling, its motioned ceased.
"Oy." A voice hollered.
The Stark duo raised their heads. A man, blond of hair and wearing a cap, starred at them from a window, grin plastered across his face.
"Hey lads."
Albert diligently munched on another piece of his rabbit, courtesy of some cream and a well placed shot of his rifle, smiling pleasantly as he did. Sitting opposite to himself, Brandon and Arya Snow, as they'd introduced themselves, tore into their meals, engulfing their portions at rates far greater than his own. Whilst their initial meeting had been anything but unpleasant, barring his offering of dinner and a few polite phrases, the novel trio ate in silence, with only the delicate clinking of glass, silverware and falling rain cutting through the enveloping quiet. Eventually, however, spurred on by either curiosity or boredom, and more likely a combination of the two, someone spoke.
"Are you a noble?" The girl asked.
Despite the albeit simplicity of the question, Albert, or Al as he went, was nevertheless sent into a abrupt fit of hacks and coughs, lungs choking on bits of half swallowed potato as he wheezed for air. Wiping at both the tears in his eyes and spittle near his plate, napkin in hand, the blond mechanic took a series of deep breaths. Shaking his head and eyebrow raised, he begged, "Now whatever gave you that idea?"
Arya's face scrunched up in apparent disbelief.
"It's just, your home…" She began, only to stop, her arms haphazardly waving about in reference to their, admittedly, unique accommodations.
Golden highlights dotted the roof, glinting in the soft yellow rays of half - domed electric lamps hanging from the ceiling. Mahogany furniture, exquisitely carved and beautifully lacquered, added to the decor, a series of tables, chairs and leather clad seats equally dispersed about the carriage, identical to the ones at which they sat. Glass windows, satin red blinds included, gave those inside a view of the exterior's night sky, moon partially hidden behind passing clouds. The floor, in conformance to the rest of the wagon's overall theme, was of a somberly dyed cider parquet.
Even though he'd walked the coach's central isle end to end more times than he cared to remember, Albert mutedly confessed that its beauty, if a tad bit overdone, remained grand as ever. Also, based off the room's sheer level off both luxury and opulence, it was possible that someone could truly mistake him for some sort of aristocrat, the fact that the he stood as the train's sole resident, current visitors not included, only encouraging the notion. To his regret, however, he wasn't. Or, at least, hadn't, given the situation. Who could say otherwise? Still, he was used to it all.
"It's only a dining car." He said in indifference, not understanding her confusion.
"But look at it!" Arya exclaimed, her words flowing in a cross between excitement and exasperation. "Plates from Yi Ti, goblets made of crystal, silver forks and knives! You must be some kind of Lord, right?" Obviously the banality with which he'd referenced to the wagon bothered her.
Al gave her a smile, features crinkling as he did."
"It's a company car Arya." 'Was a company car.' He told himself. "I just own the engine and my workshop up at the front. This room belongs to the people I work for. I was supposed to be heading for a depot near Versailles to pick up a general and his staff." His smile evolved into a smirk. "Although, given the change in scenery lately, something tells me that may be the least of my problems. I can't remember ever seeing massive ice walls in Nord-Pas-de-Calais." He trailed off.
"What's Versailles?" Bran asked.
"It's a very large castle close to the city of Paris." He offhandedly clarified.
"And where is Paris?" Went Arya. Albert spared them a contemplative glance as his thoughts caught up to his mouth, pausing in internal reflection.
After a brief moment, he inquired, "Have either of you ever gone to school?"
The two at his front shot each other furtive looks, a rather dubious reaction for such a simple question. The deed instantly caught Al's interest.
"Well?" He questioned again, concentrating on the matter at hand. "If you don't want to tell me that's fine, at least let me know, alright?"
His words seemed to put them at ease. It was Bran who spoke first.
"We've taken lessons with… uh, Septon Luwin yes. Why d'you ask?"
Wiping his hands clean, Albert pushed his plate to the side as he stood up, flexing a finger and signaling his guests to do the same. He'd dealt with enough lying children in his time, a conductor in years past, to know when they were attempting to hide something, Brandon's uncertainty about his teacher's name telling. Whatever secret there was, however, he didn't let it concern him. It was probable that they were just trying to play things safe, keeping their cards close to their chests, as it were. He honestly didn't believe they'd any sort of nefarious goals in mind, nervous tension more like it. Besides, these things tended to reveal themselves sooner or later, all one needed to do was be patient.
"Come with me, I want to show you something." He said.
The siblings didn't bother to push in their own plates as they moved to follow, trace signs of unease in their steps. Then again, now that he thought about it, would he have trusted a stranger on the fly, even if he'd gotten a free dinner? Probably not.
The group made its way towards the wagon's end, Albert reaching down for one of the many keys in his possession, an ornate brass loop attached to his belt from whence they hung. This being not only a first class passenger train but also a designated military transport, including the fact that his country had been in an elevated state of war, the whole convoy had gone through a compulsory weapon's grade overhaul. Armored plates where bolted to each sections' exterior structure, the cars with windows fitted specially designed blinds that allowed for natural lighting without risking the occupants, able to seal shut in the rare case of wandering artillery fire. Newly furnished steel doors acted as replacements for those originally made from wood, completing the transformation. Though they were never meant to go anywhere near the actual trenches, by all appearances, the men in charge weren't willing to take any chances. Of course, it was only complete coincidence that they and the men he'd so often ferried were one and the same. He'd little room to complain, however, given the complimentary upgrades his steamer had received in passing. The newly installed boiler was far more efficient than its predecessor, extending its range while requiring less of the customary fuel stops, not to mention the reduced water consumption.
Having held the door long enough for Arya and Bran to pass through, the blond then locked it shut, swiveling around to open its brethren, the train's outer lanterns shinning in the darkness. It was getting cold, the falling rain sliding off the roves' overhangs, keeping them dry. A quick turn of the wrist and he entered, awaiting his charges to follow him in, twice more repeating the process as they passed through the kitchens, Albert observing the brother's and sister's alternating expressions as they examined the newfound interior, starring at some of the most mundane of objects, with stoves, fridges and glass paned cupboards alike. Considering how they'd likely never seen such things, it was a predictable reaction, yet comical nonetheless.
His workshop's door lay dead ahead.
"Are you a noble?" The girl asked.
Despite the albeit simplicity of the question, Albert, or Al as he went, was nevertheless sent into a abrupt fit of hacks and coughs, lungs choking on bits of half swallowed potato as he wheezed for air. Wiping at both the tears in his eyes and spittle near his plate, napkin in hand, the blond mechanic took a series of deep breaths. Shaking his head and eyebrow raised, he begged, "Now whatever gave you that idea?"
Arya's face scrunched up in apparent disbelief.
"It's just, your home…" She began, only to stop, her arms haphazardly waving about in reference to their, admittedly, unique accommodations.
Golden highlights dotted the roof, glinting in the soft yellow rays of half - domed electric lamps hanging from the ceiling. Mahogany furniture, exquisitely carved and beautifully lacquered, added to the decor, a series of tables, chairs and leather clad seats equally dispersed about the carriage, identical to the ones at which they sat. Glass windows, satin red blinds included, gave those inside a view of the exterior's night sky, moon partially hidden behind passing clouds. The floor, in conformance to the rest of the wagon's overall theme, was of a somberly dyed cider parquet.
Even though he'd walked the coach's central isle end to end more times than he cared to remember, Albert mutedly confessed that its beauty, if a tad bit overdone, remained grand as ever. Also, based off the room's sheer level off both luxury and opulence, it was possible that someone could truly mistake him for some sort of aristocrat, the fact that the he stood as the train's sole resident, current visitors not included, only encouraging the notion. To his regret, however, he wasn't. Or, at least, hadn't, given the situation. Who could say otherwise? Still, he was used to it all.
"It's only a dining car." He said in indifference, not understanding her confusion.
"But look at it!" Arya exclaimed, her words flowing in a cross between excitement and exasperation. "Plates from Yi Ti, goblets made of crystal, silver forks and knives! You must be some kind of Lord, right?" Obviously the banality with which he'd referenced to the wagon bothered her.
Al gave her a smile, features crinkling as he did."
"It's a company car Arya." 'Was a company car.' He told himself. "I just own the engine and my workshop up at the front. This room belongs to the people I work for. I was supposed to be heading for a depot near Versailles to pick up a general and his staff." His smile evolved into a smirk. "Although, given the change in scenery lately, something tells me that may be the least of my problems. I can't remember ever seeing massive ice walls in Nord-Pas-de-Calais." He trailed off.
"What's Versailles?" Bran asked.
"It's a very large castle close to the city of Paris." He offhandedly clarified.
"And where is Paris?" Went Arya. Albert spared them a contemplative glance as his thoughts caught up to his mouth, pausing in internal reflection.
After a brief moment, he inquired, "Have either of you ever gone to school?"
The two at his front shot each other furtive looks, a rather dubious reaction for such a simple question. The deed instantly caught Al's interest.
"Well?" He questioned again, concentrating on the matter at hand. "If you don't want to tell me that's fine, at least let me know, alright?"
His words seemed to put them at ease. It was Bran who spoke first.
"We've taken lessons with… uh, Septon Luwin yes. Why d'you ask?"
Wiping his hands clean, Albert pushed his plate to the side as he stood up, flexing a finger and signaling his guests to do the same. He'd dealt with enough lying children in his time, a conductor in years past, to know when they were attempting to hide something, Brandon's uncertainty about his teacher's name telling. Whatever secret there was, however, he didn't let it concern him. It was probable that they were just trying to play things safe, keeping their cards close to their chests, as it were. He honestly didn't believe they'd any sort of nefarious goals in mind, nervous tension more like it. Besides, these things tended to reveal themselves sooner or later, all one needed to do was be patient.
"Come with me, I want to show you something." He said.
The siblings didn't bother to push in their own plates as they moved to follow, trace signs of unease in their steps. Then again, now that he thought about it, would he have trusted a stranger on the fly, even if he'd gotten a free dinner? Probably not.
The group made its way towards the wagon's end, Albert reaching down for one of the many keys in his possession, an ornate brass loop attached to his belt from whence they hung. This being not only a first class passenger train but also a designated military transport, including the fact that his country had been in an elevated state of war, the whole convoy had gone through a compulsory weapon's grade overhaul. Armored plates where bolted to each sections' exterior structure, the cars with windows fitted specially designed blinds that allowed for natural lighting without risking the occupants, able to seal shut in the rare case of wandering artillery fire. Newly furnished steel doors acted as replacements for those originally made from wood, completing the transformation. Though they were never meant to go anywhere near the actual trenches, by all appearances, the men in charge weren't willing to take any chances. Of course, it was only complete coincidence that they and the men he'd so often ferried were one and the same. He'd little room to complain, however, given the complimentary upgrades his steamer had received in passing. The newly installed boiler was far more efficient than its predecessor, extending its range while requiring less of the customary fuel stops, not to mention the reduced water consumption.
Having held the door long enough for Arya and Bran to pass through, the blond then locked it shut, swiveling around to open its brethren, the train's outer lanterns shinning in the darkness. It was getting cold, the falling rain sliding off the roves' overhangs, keeping them dry. A quick turn of the wrist and he entered, awaiting his charges to follow him in, twice more repeating the process as they passed through the kitchens, Albert observing the brother's and sister's alternating expressions as they examined the newfound interior, starring at some of the most mundane of objects, with stoves, fridges and glass paned cupboards alike. Considering how they'd likely never seen such things, it was a predictable reaction, yet comical nonetheless.
His workshop's door lay dead ahead.
Had Bran known he'd one day have met a wizard, he could honestly say this wasn't what he'd come to expect. Both mother and Old Nan's tales always talked of elderly men wreathed in robes and clad with long, thick beards, their lengths going so far as to sometimes hit their toes. The more comedic tales sometimes had those same mystics get tangled up within their own beards, their struggle for freedom more often ending up with them tripping over themselves. Albert, kind as he was, another key trait of the aforementioned magic wielders, did not fit this description. The room he and Arya found themselves in, however, begged otherwise.
There were already quite a few unusual points about the tall young blond, with his peculiar clothes and the little round windows that sat on his nose, clear green eyes left easily seen. From the odd flameless torches to the bizarre crossbow, with neither string, limb nor stirrup, spewing fire and cracking like lighting, the element of mystery enshrouding Albert left much to the unknown. This was, of course, without remarking upon their host's moving residence in it of itself, a 'train' of some eight massive carts, as big and wide as ships' hulls, all drawn by the iron horse called a 'locomotive'. Still, fantastic as these were, the contents of the latest chamber, in his mind, outshone them all.
"Now be careful in here." Their host stated, opening the door. "I haven't cleaned up in a while and don't want anyone getting hurt, so please just don't touch anything for now. Oh, and welcome to the workshop."
It was a mess. Countless gears littered the room, gilded, rusted and plain, assorted tools spread about in hap - hazardous fashion with little care to where they lied. Squat pipes and tubes hung from the sealing and slithered across the walls, like vines weaving their way over old towers' stones, water dripping from their seals. Thick tomes and numerous papers rested atop a combination of a wooden bookcase and desk, rugged and stained a myriad of different blacks, grays and browns, huddled and built into the car's rightmost corner, swivel chair at the front. Metal racks jutted from the sides, wires, ores, ingots and bottles of unknown liquids lining them from end to end. A furnace and various strange contraptions of wheels and belts crowded what little space was left, with little more than a narrow walkway's of space left in the entire cabin. Truly, it had all the looks of some deranged cross between a blacksmith's and a maester's office, smell included. The only refuge from the inundating chaos was a sort of brass cage in the coach's middle with, what appeared to be, a suit of knight's plate held upright from dangling steel links within.
"What is that?" He voiced aloud, turning his head in search of Albert. The blond was squatting near the desk, fiddling with his keys as he tried to open a chest hidden underneath, rolling chair pushed aside. He spared Bran a cursory peek before retuning to his task, answering.
"That's Arty, my automaton. I put him in storage until I needed his help to start the train back up again, otherwise I 'd have to keep his motor running if I didn't."
"You mean it's not armor?" Asked Arya, she too having zeroed in on the present subject of interest. "And what's an 'automaton'?" She added in afterthought.
Retrieving a large scroll from the trunk through which he'd been searching, Bran watched as Albert came towards them, pushing him and his sister apart as he retrieved yet another key, opening the cage. He noted how the blond had to squeeze in - between the machine and enclosure, sucking in a non - existent gut as he passed through and found himself facing a shelf. His arm extended to Arya, telling her, "Take this please, and no, it's not armor." and thanking her as she followed suit.
"An automaton, or robot, in layman's terms, is a machine capable of automatically carrying out a series of complex actions. Basically, it's a mechanism that doesn't need a person for it to work. Arty here's originally a medic, though he can do other things. He's the one who generally keeps the engine going while I'm back here or taking care of passengers." Albert explained, picking up a little white box and a bent metal bar which looked eerily similar to the gatehouse levers back in Winterfell.
"So is it alive?" Arya spoke, taking in and lightly marveling at the mechanical figure.
"Now that's a whole other question Arya. However, for all extensive purposes, treat him like he is. He can speak some basic words and has some memory capacity up in his head, but it's limited at best. I won't bore you with the details, but the clockwork inside there is incredibly complicated, something called an analytical engine, it's what allows him to learn and do things."
"Does it use magic?" Bran asked, captivated by his host's explanations. Metal men who could walk, speak and learn, what other marvels did this place hold?
"No, no." Answered Albert, no small amount of mirth leaking into his voice. "It's all just some very intricate machinery, nothing so fantastical."
The blond popped free a hatch on the robots' back before opening the box in his hand, exposing little sticks of wood, ends tipped in red, to their view. The mechanic then struck one of said stick's tip on the pack's side, a small flame bursting to life.
"What did you just do." Bran wondered.
"It's a match. Think of it as a kind of special flint." Answered Albert, having already closed the opening. "Stand back." He said, noticing how both Arya and himself had moved in closer in order to better see what was happening.
The mechanic then undid a lock that kept the lengths of chain by which Arty was traditionally suspended in place, lowering the robot in question until 'his' feet met the floor, chains rattling as they spun around their overhead pulley. Albert then wedged himself back out of the cage, crankshaft in hand and wedging it into a specific space at the machine's front. A loud click sounded as it locked into place.
"I've got to get his pistons rolling, we haven't yet figured out how to get them to star on their on at this point." He explained.
Back hunger as he stood, Bran's host violently jerked his arm in a circular motion, a half - coughed growl coming from the robot. One, two, three times this happened, before the automaton's engine blasted into life, a steady stream of black fumes rising from its back. The helmeted head's eyes went from dark to an amber yellow.
"Bonjour Albert." Came its voice, rasping and staccato, no doubt due to the thin shaking of its power source.
The addressed blond chuckled, hands on his hips. "Bonjour Arty." He replied.
Bran didn't care what Albert said he was, the man was going down as a true warlock in his mind. And judging by his sister reaction, she probably did the same.
There were already quite a few unusual points about the tall young blond, with his peculiar clothes and the little round windows that sat on his nose, clear green eyes left easily seen. From the odd flameless torches to the bizarre crossbow, with neither string, limb nor stirrup, spewing fire and cracking like lighting, the element of mystery enshrouding Albert left much to the unknown. This was, of course, without remarking upon their host's moving residence in it of itself, a 'train' of some eight massive carts, as big and wide as ships' hulls, all drawn by the iron horse called a 'locomotive'. Still, fantastic as these were, the contents of the latest chamber, in his mind, outshone them all.
"Now be careful in here." Their host stated, opening the door. "I haven't cleaned up in a while and don't want anyone getting hurt, so please just don't touch anything for now. Oh, and welcome to the workshop."
It was a mess. Countless gears littered the room, gilded, rusted and plain, assorted tools spread about in hap - hazardous fashion with little care to where they lied. Squat pipes and tubes hung from the sealing and slithered across the walls, like vines weaving their way over old towers' stones, water dripping from their seals. Thick tomes and numerous papers rested atop a combination of a wooden bookcase and desk, rugged and stained a myriad of different blacks, grays and browns, huddled and built into the car's rightmost corner, swivel chair at the front. Metal racks jutted from the sides, wires, ores, ingots and bottles of unknown liquids lining them from end to end. A furnace and various strange contraptions of wheels and belts crowded what little space was left, with little more than a narrow walkway's of space left in the entire cabin. Truly, it had all the looks of some deranged cross between a blacksmith's and a maester's office, smell included. The only refuge from the inundating chaos was a sort of brass cage in the coach's middle with, what appeared to be, a suit of knight's plate held upright from dangling steel links within.
"What is that?" He voiced aloud, turning his head in search of Albert. The blond was squatting near the desk, fiddling with his keys as he tried to open a chest hidden underneath, rolling chair pushed aside. He spared Bran a cursory peek before retuning to his task, answering.
"That's Arty, my automaton. I put him in storage until I needed his help to start the train back up again, otherwise I 'd have to keep his motor running if I didn't."
"You mean it's not armor?" Asked Arya, she too having zeroed in on the present subject of interest. "And what's an 'automaton'?" She added in afterthought.
Retrieving a large scroll from the trunk through which he'd been searching, Bran watched as Albert came towards them, pushing him and his sister apart as he retrieved yet another key, opening the cage. He noted how the blond had to squeeze in - between the machine and enclosure, sucking in a non - existent gut as he passed through and found himself facing a shelf. His arm extended to Arya, telling her, "Take this please, and no, it's not armor." and thanking her as she followed suit.
"An automaton, or robot, in layman's terms, is a machine capable of automatically carrying out a series of complex actions. Basically, it's a mechanism that doesn't need a person for it to work. Arty here's originally a medic, though he can do other things. He's the one who generally keeps the engine going while I'm back here or taking care of passengers." Albert explained, picking up a little white box and a bent metal bar which looked eerily similar to the gatehouse levers back in Winterfell.
"So is it alive?" Arya spoke, taking in and lightly marveling at the mechanical figure.
"Now that's a whole other question Arya. However, for all extensive purposes, treat him like he is. He can speak some basic words and has some memory capacity up in his head, but it's limited at best. I won't bore you with the details, but the clockwork inside there is incredibly complicated, something called an analytical engine, it's what allows him to learn and do things."
"Does it use magic?" Bran asked, captivated by his host's explanations. Metal men who could walk, speak and learn, what other marvels did this place hold?
"No, no." Answered Albert, no small amount of mirth leaking into his voice. "It's all just some very intricate machinery, nothing so fantastical."
The blond popped free a hatch on the robots' back before opening the box in his hand, exposing little sticks of wood, ends tipped in red, to their view. The mechanic then struck one of said stick's tip on the pack's side, a small flame bursting to life.
"What did you just do." Bran wondered.
"It's a match. Think of it as a kind of special flint." Answered Albert, having already closed the opening. "Stand back." He said, noticing how both Arya and himself had moved in closer in order to better see what was happening.
The mechanic then undid a lock that kept the lengths of chain by which Arty was traditionally suspended in place, lowering the robot in question until 'his' feet met the floor, chains rattling as they spun around their overhead pulley. Albert then wedged himself back out of the cage, crankshaft in hand and wedging it into a specific space at the machine's front. A loud click sounded as it locked into place.
"I've got to get his pistons rolling, we haven't yet figured out how to get them to star on their on at this point." He explained.
Back hunger as he stood, Bran's host violently jerked his arm in a circular motion, a half - coughed growl coming from the robot. One, two, three times this happened, before the automaton's engine blasted into life, a steady stream of black fumes rising from its back. The helmeted head's eyes went from dark to an amber yellow.
"Bonjour Albert." Came its voice, rasping and staccato, no doubt due to the thin shaking of its power source.
The addressed blond chuckled, hands on his hips. "Bonjour Arty." He replied.
Bran didn't care what Albert said he was, the man was going down as a true warlock in his mind. And judging by his sister reaction, she probably did the same.
Arya sipped on her drink, the dark brew's sweet taste invading her mouth, brother dozing in the bunk across from her own. Delicate music played in the background, instruments she couldn't identify accompanying the silken flows of a woman's voice, the French tongue in which she sang incomprehensible to her. The phonograph, as it was called, was yet another of the many wondrous devices strewn about Albert's home, the turntable's rotating black record exuding soft tunes from its bronze horn, no troubadours or minstrels in sight. Directly positioned behind the dining car and acting as their nighttime residence, the dorm to which they'd been assigned was one of six others making up the train's joint sleeping quarters, with an extra two fully equipped bathrooms built near the coach rear's back end.
Despite having explained the need for them to head home following their tour of the workshop, Al, averse to let what, in his eyes, were two children walk home in the dead of night and under torrential rains, had insisted, none to forcefully, that they stay instead. Vowing to make it up to them come morning, both she and Bran, realizing how determined he was, had reluctantly agree. Given the hour, mother, if she hadn't done so already, was guaranteed to be panicking. Truth be told, as much as they argued and quarreled, Arya felt a sliver of guilt for her actions, unable to fall asleep just yet.
A bell chimed, the room's wall mounted clock marking the hour, pendulum ticking away as it did. The Westerosi equivalent of an hourglass and capable of lasting a week's time before needing its spring rewound, the day's arguably most mundane item was unique to the point of nonetheless garnering her interest. Again she took a swig from her mug, relishing its contents. She had decided, not long ago, that chocolate milk was, forevermore, her favorite beverage.
Having earlier set his clock's alarm for six, Albert had explained that he would wake them should they by then still be in bed, promising breakfast before seeing them off. Should they desire, he was even willing to go so far as to proposing himself as an escort until he knew they'd be safe, though Brandon worried about their parents' reactions. Al didn't know they were nobles, commenting on how the name of 'Snow' was beautiful during their first discussion. That little morsel had sent them for quite a roll, though, given the fact that they knew none of the lands he'd showed them on his map, it was likely that he didn't entirely comprehend what it meant, a foreigner. Instead he thought it just another common name and not one saved for bastards. She shuddered at the though of what would happen if the blond should accidentally call her mother 'Lady Snow' in a misguided attempt at politeness upon arrival, utterly unaware of how insulting it would actually be.
The Stark idly wondered as to whether she should enjoy another shower, yearning for the rapid flowing streams of hot water which descended upon one's back, questioning if a second session would help her sleep. Having no other ideas on hand but it, Arya rose from her mattress and slowly left the bedroom, careful not to wake her brother.
Only to nearly scream in terror as she walked face first into Arty, dropping her mug in the process. It was empty by then, the carpeted floor spared a stain.
Her heart hammer in her chest, fright now past as she took deep, calming breaths. The faint whining of the robot's engine was the only sound in the encompassing silence, save for the muted rainfall which continued outside. Gold glowing eyes starred down at her.
"Etes vous bien?" It, no, he, asked.
"I can't understand you." Arya said, rubbing her head in obvious pain. It didn't help with trying to grasp the weird version of High Valyrian the automaton used, not to mention how she, to begin with, knew almost nothing of the ancient language.
For a moment Arty continued to stare at her without response, a slight whirring of gears emanating from somewhere around his metal head. A click, and only then did he talk.
"Are you uninjured?" He said this time, in clear but accented Common Tongue. Where did they come from anyway? Looking back, she realized neither she nor Bran had actually bothered to ask. Her headache briefly doubled. She'd check on it tomorrow.
"Yes, I'm fine Arty." She replied, hoisting herself off the ground. Were any of these carriages' not covered in gold? Arya thought she might literally become sick she'd seen so much. True, it was stunning and true, she, like many, loved the precious metal as much as anyone. However, the endless shimmering, always in view no matter where one looked, had begun to take its toll, the false flickers making her nauseous. "I was just going to take a shower, I couldn't sleep." She added.
Again Arty starred at her, silence descending anew. While he could speak, the time it took for him to chat was a rather long one. He did not make for the best of conversationalists.
"If you cannot sleep, would you prefer to read?" He challenged.
She threw him an inquiring look, not that the robot could recognize facial expressions (Or could he?), conceding her interest. The only literature she'd seen so far were the few tomes back in the Albert's workshop, tomes she wasn't sure he'd be willing to let her read in the middle of the night. Arty however…
"What kind of books do you have?" She asked him, gambling on the basis that he didn't have the same restricting inhibitions as his human counterpart.
"The public lounge next door incorporates a library with a wide selection of various genres." Said the robot, emotionless as ever.
Deciding that a library, if the rest of the train was anything to go by, was sure to have something in the realm of her likings, Arya gave an affirmative, "Yes, that'll do nicely. D'you mind taking me there?"
"Please follow me." Arty then said, executing a precise turn, as was ordinary for one of his kind, making for the door, she shadowing in his footsteps.
The pair soon found themselves within an enclave, smelling of leather, paper and parchment, the study saturated in its aroma. Searching for a lamp in the black gloom availed itself relatively easy, given the bright luminescence of her companion's eyes. The harsh but immediate influx of light cause her to squint in discomfort, eyes having yet to adjust.
Books, easily outnumbering those in the whole of Winterfell, lined the shelves by the dozen. She browsed through the volumes, some whose names she could read and others not, most in the latter category. It still left her with quite a few options, however. Arty, for his part, stood a silent guard at the door, offering no more than a statue.
"An Examination of History - The Napoleonic Wars." She read aloud, the heavy title peeking her curiosity. Reading, despite not being her favorite of pass times, nevertheless remained a far better endeavor than Sansa's embroidery.
As she drooped herself upon a sofa, Arya plunged into tales of cunning men, colossal battles and gargantuan wars, where emperors ruled and kings fought, a macabre dance of blood and iron spanning decades as entire continents were engulfed in flames.
Sleep eluded her that night.
Despite having explained the need for them to head home following their tour of the workshop, Al, averse to let what, in his eyes, were two children walk home in the dead of night and under torrential rains, had insisted, none to forcefully, that they stay instead. Vowing to make it up to them come morning, both she and Bran, realizing how determined he was, had reluctantly agree. Given the hour, mother, if she hadn't done so already, was guaranteed to be panicking. Truth be told, as much as they argued and quarreled, Arya felt a sliver of guilt for her actions, unable to fall asleep just yet.
A bell chimed, the room's wall mounted clock marking the hour, pendulum ticking away as it did. The Westerosi equivalent of an hourglass and capable of lasting a week's time before needing its spring rewound, the day's arguably most mundane item was unique to the point of nonetheless garnering her interest. Again she took a swig from her mug, relishing its contents. She had decided, not long ago, that chocolate milk was, forevermore, her favorite beverage.
Having earlier set his clock's alarm for six, Albert had explained that he would wake them should they by then still be in bed, promising breakfast before seeing them off. Should they desire, he was even willing to go so far as to proposing himself as an escort until he knew they'd be safe, though Brandon worried about their parents' reactions. Al didn't know they were nobles, commenting on how the name of 'Snow' was beautiful during their first discussion. That little morsel had sent them for quite a roll, though, given the fact that they knew none of the lands he'd showed them on his map, it was likely that he didn't entirely comprehend what it meant, a foreigner. Instead he thought it just another common name and not one saved for bastards. She shuddered at the though of what would happen if the blond should accidentally call her mother 'Lady Snow' in a misguided attempt at politeness upon arrival, utterly unaware of how insulting it would actually be.
The Stark idly wondered as to whether she should enjoy another shower, yearning for the rapid flowing streams of hot water which descended upon one's back, questioning if a second session would help her sleep. Having no other ideas on hand but it, Arya rose from her mattress and slowly left the bedroom, careful not to wake her brother.
Only to nearly scream in terror as she walked face first into Arty, dropping her mug in the process. It was empty by then, the carpeted floor spared a stain.
Her heart hammer in her chest, fright now past as she took deep, calming breaths. The faint whining of the robot's engine was the only sound in the encompassing silence, save for the muted rainfall which continued outside. Gold glowing eyes starred down at her.
"Etes vous bien?" It, no, he, asked.
"I can't understand you." Arya said, rubbing her head in obvious pain. It didn't help with trying to grasp the weird version of High Valyrian the automaton used, not to mention how she, to begin with, knew almost nothing of the ancient language.
For a moment Arty continued to stare at her without response, a slight whirring of gears emanating from somewhere around his metal head. A click, and only then did he talk.
"Are you uninjured?" He said this time, in clear but accented Common Tongue. Where did they come from anyway? Looking back, she realized neither she nor Bran had actually bothered to ask. Her headache briefly doubled. She'd check on it tomorrow.
"Yes, I'm fine Arty." She replied, hoisting herself off the ground. Were any of these carriages' not covered in gold? Arya thought she might literally become sick she'd seen so much. True, it was stunning and true, she, like many, loved the precious metal as much as anyone. However, the endless shimmering, always in view no matter where one looked, had begun to take its toll, the false flickers making her nauseous. "I was just going to take a shower, I couldn't sleep." She added.
Again Arty starred at her, silence descending anew. While he could speak, the time it took for him to chat was a rather long one. He did not make for the best of conversationalists.
"If you cannot sleep, would you prefer to read?" He challenged.
She threw him an inquiring look, not that the robot could recognize facial expressions (Or could he?), conceding her interest. The only literature she'd seen so far were the few tomes back in the Albert's workshop, tomes she wasn't sure he'd be willing to let her read in the middle of the night. Arty however…
"What kind of books do you have?" She asked him, gambling on the basis that he didn't have the same restricting inhibitions as his human counterpart.
"The public lounge next door incorporates a library with a wide selection of various genres." Said the robot, emotionless as ever.
Deciding that a library, if the rest of the train was anything to go by, was sure to have something in the realm of her likings, Arya gave an affirmative, "Yes, that'll do nicely. D'you mind taking me there?"
"Please follow me." Arty then said, executing a precise turn, as was ordinary for one of his kind, making for the door, she shadowing in his footsteps.
The pair soon found themselves within an enclave, smelling of leather, paper and parchment, the study saturated in its aroma. Searching for a lamp in the black gloom availed itself relatively easy, given the bright luminescence of her companion's eyes. The harsh but immediate influx of light cause her to squint in discomfort, eyes having yet to adjust.
Books, easily outnumbering those in the whole of Winterfell, lined the shelves by the dozen. She browsed through the volumes, some whose names she could read and others not, most in the latter category. It still left her with quite a few options, however. Arty, for his part, stood a silent guard at the door, offering no more than a statue.
"An Examination of History - The Napoleonic Wars." She read aloud, the heavy title peeking her curiosity. Reading, despite not being her favorite of pass times, nevertheless remained a far better endeavor than Sansa's embroidery.
As she drooped herself upon a sofa, Arya plunged into tales of cunning men, colossal battles and gargantuan wars, where emperors ruled and kings fought, a macabre dance of blood and iron spanning decades as entire continents were engulfed in flames.
Sleep eluded her that night.
Word Count: 4,979