Game of Thrones Iron Stark

The long caravan rolled north along the Kingsroad, bound for Winterfell. In the middle sat a rich carriage, finer than a merchant's but not quite royal.

"We'll be in Winterfell in three days, master," the maid said, offering a cup of wine.

Tony Stark accepted it with a lazy smile. He wasn't from this world. After dying in his old life, he'd woken up here as Brandon Stark's bastard son — Ned Stark's nephew. Catelyn had worked her quiet magic so he could keep the Stark name.

Sent to the Citadel at twelve to train as a maester, he'd earned his chain at fifteen, the youngest in history. King Robert had even received him in King's Landing. Tony had read every scroll he could find. He knew this was a world of swords, dragons, and old magic. So he'd turned his old friends into legends — the Shield Knight Rogers, the Hammer Knight Thor, the Lady Knight Natasha, the Giant Knight Bruce, the Archer Knight Hawkeye, and the Dark Knight. Half the realm now called him the greatest poet in Westeros.

He'd wanted to build engines and weapons, but this world had no coal or oil. So he worked with what he had. Stronger spirits. Better wine. Salt from the sea. Most of all, he'd changed how the land was farmed. Harvests had tripled. People stopped starving.

Now the titles followed him everywhere: youngest maester ever, cleverest man in Westeros, genius inventor, master poet.

"Diana," Tony said, voice low and amused. He lay back on the soft deerskin in nothing but a thin shirt. "Feed it to me. Use your mouth."

The pretty maid blushed deep red. She took a long sip of the rich red wine, then leaned down and kissed him, letting the wine flow warm and slow between their lips.

He swallowed, pulled her down, and covered her body with his.

"Keep it quiet," he murmured against her throat.

The carriage began to rock. Inside, her soft, helpless sounds mixed with the creak of wood and the steady drum of hooves on the road.

---

In Winterfell, Ned Stark read the raven's message and gathered his wife and children.

"Tony's coming home," he said.

Arya's face lit up like a torch. "Finally! He has to take me and Jon hunting the second he gets here."

Sansa clasped her hands, already dreaming. "I hope he brings perfume. Or something pretty from King's Landing."

Robb tried to sound casual, but the edge was there. "Youngest maester in Citadel history. Of course he is."

Catelyn watched them all with quiet pride.

"We should give him a proper welcome," she told Ned. "A real feast. The granaries are full for years now. We have him to thank for that."

Ned gave her a small, tired smile. "It's yours to plan, Cat. Do it right."

---

King's Landing smelled of smoke and funeral flowers. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, was dead. Servants and guards whispered in every corner.

"Too sudden."

"The Grand Maester never even reached him."

"Maybe somebody helped him along."

A soft cough cut the talk short.

Queen Cersei and her twin brother Jaime walked past. Everyone dropped to their knees.

Cersei looked every inch the queen — golden, beautiful, dangerous. Jaime moved beside her like a blade in white silk.

When they were alone, Cersei spoke quietly. "He died fast. Let's hope whatever he knew died with him."

Jaime's mouth curved. "Dead men don't gossip, sweet sister."

"Robert's riding north to drag Eddard Stark down here as the new Hand," she said. "That seat should have been yours."

"I'm Kingsguard," Jaime answered easily. "I don't want it."

Cersei's eyes stayed cold. "Then keep your eyes on the Starks. Especially the clever one. Tony Stark."

---

The caravan stopped at a small farm for the night. The smallfolk came out smiling like they'd been blessed.

"Seven save you, my lord," the old farmer said, bowing low. "We'd have starved last winter without the things you taught us."

Tony tossed him a pouch of silver. "For the roof and the trouble."

The man tried to push it back. "Can't take your coin, Lord Stark. You're blood of Winterfell."

Tony's gaze moved past him to the huge young man standing in the shadows — tall as a door, broad as an ox, quiet.

"Who's the big one?"

"My son," the farmer said with a sigh. "Strong enough to lift a horse, but he's got no head for the fields."

Tony studied the silent giant for a long moment, then smiled.

"Send him with me. He'll ride as my guard. If he's worth a damn, I'll see he earns his spurs."

The old man's mouth fell open.