I watched the letter curl and blacken in the fireplace, each ember eating away at words that could get someone killed. Or worse—get them sent to the Wall, which in this world was basically a death sentence with extra steps and more zombies.
"Burn, baby, burn," I muttered, prodding the last corner with a poker. Six years of careful work had built my intelligence network across Westeros and beyond. No sense compromising it because I got lazy about operational security. This wasn't some video game where I could just reload a save file if things went wrong.
"My lord?" Edric's knock came precisely on time. The man was more reliable than my phone alarm had ever been.
"A moment!" I called out, sweeping the desk clear in what I hoped looked like casual efficiency rather than panicked evidence destruction. The map before me showed markers across all Seven Kingdoms—Gulltown, White Harbor, King's Landing, Oldtown, Lannisport, even across the Narrow Sea to Braavos, Pentos, and Volantis. Each marker represented one of my agents: merchants, servants, sellswords, even a few minor lords who owed me favors.
It looked like a really intense game of Risk, except the stakes were "don't get your head chopped off" instead of "lose Argentina."
Looking at myself in the polished bronze mirror still felt weird after eighteen years. I kept expecting my old face—the one that had stared at computer screens for twelve hours a day, sustained by energy drinks and the vain hope that my code would compile without errors. Instead: strong jaw, dark hair, grey eyes that actually worked without contacts. At least the cosmic joke of reincarnation had given me an upgrade in the looks department.
Bronze Yohn's other sons could have the "Bronze" nickname. I was perfectly happy being the hot one.
Ser Rodrik Royce. Firstborn son and heir of Bronze Yohn Royce. Owner of one genuine Valyrian steel sword, which was apparently worth more than a small kingdom. In my past life, the most valuable thing I'd owned was a gaming PC and a depressing amount of student debt.
My gaze drifted to Lamentation resting against the wall—won at the Gulltown tourney last year in what I could only describe as "the luckiest string of dice rolls in my entire existence." The weapon was impossibly light, impossibly sharp, and absolutely wasted on someone who'd learned swordplay from a world where "combat" meant arguing in Reddit comments.
Thank God for muscle memory. This body knew what to do even when my brain was screaming "ROLL FOR INITIATIVE!"
The maester's chain on my desk—three links forged during three years at the Citadel—clinked softly as I moved. Silver for medicine, gold for economics, and one for study of war. The maesters had been deeply suspicious of a lord's son who actually wanted to learn instead of just collecting a link for prestige. Even more suspicious when I'd casually revolutionized their understanding of infection theory.
"Germ theory isn't heresy, guys. It's just really tiny things making people sick. No, you can't see them. Yes, I'm sure. Just wash your damn hands."
That conversation had gone about as well as you'd expect.
I opened the door. Edric stood there, my most trusted man-at-arms and the closest thing I had to a friend in this increasingly complicated medieval nightmare. Trusted being relative—he didn't know I was a reincarnated software engineer with knowledge of future events. No one knew that except me, and I planned to keep it that way.
The "I'm actually from another world" conversation never ended well in the books. Just ask Bran—oh wait, he kept that secret too. Smart kid.
"The reports from King's Landing have arrived, my lord," Edric said, his scarred face professionally neutral. "And Lord Jon Arryn's personal maester sent word—Lady Lysa's condition continues to improve. Both she and young Lord Robert are thriving."
I smiled genuinely at that, feeling a rare moment of actual accomplishment. "Excellent news."
Lysa Arryn's difficult pregnancies had been the opening I'd needed to establish credibility with one of the most powerful men in Westeros. Two years ago, when she'd nearly lost another child, I'd sent my "innovations" to the Eyrie. Bread mold extracts for infection—thank you, Alexander Fleming, for discovering penicillin in my old world. Proper sterilization techniques—shoutout to Joseph Lister. Nutritional guidance for pregnancy—thanks to every medical paper I'd frantically Googled during my three years at the Citadel.
The maester had been deeply skeptical until, you know, they actually worked and babies stopped dying.
Lysa's successful delivery of young Robert, and his survival past infancy despite having all the constitution of wet tissue paper, had earned me the eternal gratitude of both Arryns. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and second most powerful man in Westeros, now counted House Royce among his most trusted allies.
Achievement Unlocked: Political Connections That Might Keep You Alive. Reward: Not getting murdered (yet).
"Any word from our friends in Essos?" I asked, moving to pour myself wine. Day drinking was socially acceptable here, which was honestly one of the few perks of medieval life.
"Your agent in Pentos reports on talk about the Targaryen girl—Daenerys— about to be sold to a Dothraki khal. The marriage will happen within the month."
Right on schedule. Canon events proceeding as planned. "And our asset?"
"always on girls side like shadow. She'll join the wedding party as a sellsword. The Dothraki respect warriors—man or woman."
I'd sent Mira—no, she was using the name Miara now, because apparently everyone in Essos needed a mysterious pseudonym—across the Narrow Sea two year ago. A Vale girl with a natural talent for stabbing things and an even better talent for eavesdropping. The plan was simple: work her way into Daenerys's service, become trusted, and send me reports on dragons, Dothraki movements, and whether the Mother of Dragons was someone I could eventually work with.
Or, you know, whether she was going to go full "Mad Queen" and I needed to start investing heavily in anti-dragon insurance.
"Good. Make sure her payment reaches her contacts in Braavos. Can't have our spy thinking we're cheapskates."
"Already arranged, my lord. The Iron Bank confirmed the transfer."
"Excellent. Nothing says 'please don't betray me' like reliable direct deposit."
Edric's mouth twitched. He was getting used to my strange comments.
After Edric left, I settled into my chair and reviewed the latest intelligence reports. This was the part of reincarnation that nobody talked about—the administrative work. Everyone fantasized about having future knowledge and using it to become rich and powerful. Nobody mentioned the absolutely soul-crushing amount of paperwork involved.
I'd traded debugging code for reading spy reports. Not sure that was actually an upgrade.
King's Landing: My contacts reported increased tension between Robert and Cersei, which was about as surprising as water being wet. The king drank more each month, slowly pickling himself to death one barrel of wine at a time. More concerning: Lord Jon Arryn had been asking strange questions about Robert's bastards.
Dangerous questions.
Questions that, if I remembered the books correctly, were going to get him killed in about—I checked my mental timeline—six months. Maybe less.
Shit.
Jon Arryn was useful. More than that, he was genuinely decent, which was rarer than Valyrian steel in this world. I needed to figure out how to warn him without revealing I had meta-knowledge of future events. "Hey, don't investigate those bastards, you'll get poisoned by your wife" wasn't exactly subtle.
The North: Benjen Stark had gone ranging beyond the Wall three months ago and hadn't returned. Right on schedule. The White Walker threat was stirring, which meant the real story was about to begin.
Everyone else was playing Game of Thrones. I was preparing for the actual apocalypse.
"Winter is coming," I muttered. "And it's bringing zombies. Because of course it is."
Essos: Besides the Daenerys situation, I had agents tracking Varys's movements through the Free Cities, monitoring the Golden Company's activities, and maintaining excellent relationships with the Iron Bank. The latter had been surprisingly easy—turns out bankers love people who actually understand compound interest and double-entry bookkeeping.
Revolutionary concept, I know.
The Reach: Crop yields were excellent. I'd been buying futures on grain through intermediaries for two years now, using a system I'd adapted from commodity trading in my old world. When winter came—and in Westeros, winter could last for years—I'd control significant food supplies.
Nothing says "political power" like being able to feed people when everyone else is starving. It wasn't noble, but neither was this world.
Dorne: The Martells remained insular and angry, which was entirely justified given that nobody had been punished for the brutal murder of Princess Elia and her children. My merchant contacts reported increased military activity. They were planning something.
"Vengeance and justice are like the two sides of a coin," I mused, making a note to increase surveillance. "Except in Westeros, the coin is poisoned and also on fire."
The Iron Islands: My newest intelligence project. I'd managed to place an agent in Pyke by the simple expedient of selling them better metalworking techniques for shipbuilding. Balon Greyjoy was an idiot, but his shipwrights were pragmatic. They took my innovations, and I got eyes on the Iron Fleet.
Fair trade, in my opinion.
Six years. That's how long I'd been building this network since returning from the Citadel at age twelve, armed with three maester's links and a head full of knowledge from two worlds. Most people thought I was just an innovative young lord, maybe a bit odd but harmlessly so. They had no idea I'd spent years placing agents, cultivating sources, building an information empire that could rival Varys's legendary network of "little birds."
The difference? Varys claimed to serve the realm. My network served one purpose: surviving what was coming.
Also, my agents were actually paid, which seemed like a significant improvement over the "brutalized child spy" model Varys preferred. Call me crazy, but I thought espionage worked better when your agents weren't traumatized children. Revolutionary management theory, I know.
A different knock at the door—three quick, one slow. That would be Marcus, my master of whispers, though we didn't call him that officially. His business card just said "Security Consultant," which was much less likely to get him stabbed.
"Enter."
Marcus limped in, his empty right sleeve pinned neatly to his side. Former sellsword, lost his sword arm to a Dothraki arakh in Essos, and had the good sense to get out of the murder business before he lost anything else. I'd hired him five years ago after finding him drunk in a Gulltown tavern, and he'd proven invaluable at managing my intelligence operations.
Best hiring decision I'd ever made, including that time I'd convinced my father to hire a proper accountant.
"Morning reports, my lord." He laid out several sealed letters with his left hand, movements practiced and efficient. "Your agent in the Red Keep confirms Lord Baelish is embezzling from the crown treasury. The sums are... substantial."
"How substantial are we talking? 'Buy a nice castle' substantial or 'buy several castles and a fleet' substantial?"
"The latter, my lord. He's been at it for years."
I'd known about Littlefinger's corruption for a while now. The man was embezzling with both hands, cooking the books harder than a Flea Bottom kitchen, and somehow everyone just... let it happen. Robert didn't care about money, Jon Arryn was too trusting, and everyone else assumed someone else was checking the math.
Classic diffusion of responsibility. Also, Petyr was really good at making people underestimate him.
"Anything else?"
"Your printing operation in Gulltown has completed another run. Five hundred copies of the new trade law compendium. Lords across the Vale are requesting copies, and we've received inquiries from the Riverlands and the Reach."
The printing press. My magnum opus. My gift to Westeros. My ticket to controlling information flow across the entire continent.
It had taken three years to build, another year to refine, and approximately one thousand arguments with skeptical craftsmen who couldn't understand why I wanted "tiny metal letters" arranged in "moveable rows." The maesters had been even worse, treating my invention like I'd personally insulted their ancient and noble tradition of hand-copying everything.
"But how will we preserve accuracy?" they'd whined.
"By checking the original once and printing it correctly a thousand times, maybe?" I'd suggested. "Instead of having a thousand scribes each make different mistakes?"
That conversation had also gone poorly.
But now the printing press was operational, legitimate, and profitable. We printed legal documents, trade manifests, technical manuals, even some books. The maesters had grumbled, then grudgingly admitted it was useful when they wanted fifty copies of something without employing fifty scribes for a month.
More importantly, controlling the primary printing operation in Westeros meant I could spread information quickly when needed. Like, say, warnings about an army of ice zombies marching south to kill everyone.
"Excellent. Keep the presses running. And make sure we're saving the plates for anything we might want to reprint quickly."
Marcus nodded, making a note. "And Lord Baelish's visit?"
"Confirmed for next week. He'll spend three days at Runestone before proceeding to the Eyrie."
Ah yes. Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger himself. The man who'd eventually cause a civil war because he couldn't handle getting friendzoned as a teenager.
We'd been circling each other for two years now—ever since my innovations had caught his attention as Master of Coin. We'd begun a careful cooperation: he provided capital and connections, I provided innovations and a share of profits. It was a partnership built on mutual benefit, mutual distrust, and the shared understanding that we were both too smart to fully trust each other.
Perfect, in other words.
Meeting Littlefinger was like playing chess against someone who'd poisoned half the pieces. You knew something was wrong, you just didn't know which pieces or what poison.
"Prepare the accounts he'll want to see," I instructed. "Revenue projections, profit margins, expansion possibilities. The optimistic but plausible ones."
"And the real accounts?"
"Stay hidden. Along with anything related to our intelligence operations, the full extent of our agent network, or my plans for the North."
Marcus nodded and left, understanding perfectly. We had three sets of books: the ones we showed the Crown for taxes, the ones we showed business partners like Baelish, and the real ones that showed where all the money actually went.
Medieval accounting was surprisingly similar to corporate accounting in my old world. Creative, technically legal, and morally questionable.
I returned to my correspondence, saving the most sensitive for last. The letter was coded—a message to my agent embedded in Varys's network. Yes, I had a spy in the Spider's web. It had taken three years and a frankly absurd amount of money to place her, but now I received copies of many reports that reached Varys himself.
The irony was beautiful: Varys thought he knew everything happening in Westeros. He had no idea someone was reading over his shoulder, metaphorically speaking.
My message was simple: Continue minimal profile. The Spider should believe House Royce is ambitious but harmless—focused on commerce, not politics. Any suggestions otherwise should be gently contradicted. You're doing excellent work. Bonus enclosed.
Varys was dangerous because he saw patterns others missed, connections others ignored. He played a game so deep that most people didn't even know they were pieces on his board.
I needed him to see the wrong pattern when he looked at me: a clever young merchant-lord, innovative but not threatening. Useful for economic advice, maybe, but not a player in the great game. Let him focus on the real threats—the Lannisters, the Tyrells, Littlefinger's schemes.
Meanwhile, I'd prepare for the game that actually mattered.
Because while everyone else was fighting over the Iron Throne, winter was coming. And with it, an army of ice zombies that wouldn't care who sat on a pointy metal chair.
I sealed the letter with my personal signet ring—a bronze rune-marked armor piece, the sigil of House Royce—and added it to the outgoing correspondence.
Tomorrow, I'd meet with the Vale lords about trade agreements. Next week, I'd smile and play nice with Littlefinger. In six months, I'd hopefully figure out how to use Jon Arryn situation with maximum benefit and without revealing I had future knowledge.
And somewhere in there, I needed to start working on Operation: Don't Let Everyone Die Horribly.
Being reincarnated into a fantasy world was supposed to be fun. Nobody mentioned it would involve this much paperwork and existential dread.
I poured another cup of wine.
"Here's to meta-knowledge," I toasted to my empty solar. "The most useful and terrifying cheat code in existence. May I not screw this up and get everyone killed."
The wine was excellent. Small mercies.
Outside my window, the Vale stretched beneath a clear sky, peaceful and beautiful. For now.
Winter was coming.
I intended to be ready.