**The Riverlands, Westeros – 299 AC**
**Three Days Before the Red Wedding**
**(I: THE FALLING STAR)**
Tony Stark died with a snap.
The cosmic gauntlet's energy, raw and infinite, tore through his nerves like white-hot barbed wire. Thanos's crumbling sigh. Peter Parker's tear-streaked face whispering *"Mr. Stark…"* The comforting hum of the arc reactor in his chest, a final, defiant blue pulse against oblivion. *"I am Iron Man."*
Then—**nothing**.
Not darkness. Not peace. A *tearing*.
It felt like being shredded atom by atom, hurled through a kaleidoscope of fractured realities. There was no time, no up, no down. Only the sickening lurch of displacement and the fading echo of FRIDAY's synthesized voice, choked by static.
`> CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE—`
He slammed into existence with the force of a meteor.
Rain, cold and brutal as shards of glass, lashed the cracked faceplate of his Mark LXXXV suit. Wind screamed past him. He was falling, tumbling end over end through a bruised-purple sky choked with storm clouds. Below him wasn't the familiar skyline of New York or the rolling hills of Tennessee. It was a tapestry of misery: patchwork fields of mud, skeletal forests stripped bare, and the smoldering ruins of a village, its blackened timbers like broken ribs against the earth. Torchlight flickered weakly amidst the devastation – tiny, desperate fireflies in a sea of grey.
**"FRIDAY! Status! Location!"** Tony barked, fighting the suit's violent gyrations. His voice sounded raw, alien in his own ears.
Silence. Then, a burst of fractured digital noise.
`> PRIMARY AI MATRIX… CORRUPTED. BOOT SEQUENCE… FAILING.`
`> CHRONOSIGNATURE ANOMALY… SPATIAL COORDINATES UNKNOWN.`
`> ATMOSPHERIC ANALYSIS: COMPATIBLE. HIGH ORGANIC DECAY SIGNATURES.`
`> SUIT STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: 84%.`
`> NANITE SWARM: ACTIVE. CONTROL PROTOCOLS… DEGRADED.`
`> ARC REACTOR: STABLE. OUTPUT: 100%.`
**"Degraded? What the hell does 'degraded'—?"** Tony's question was cut off as the suit clipped a skeletal treetop. He spun wildly before crashing into the fetid muck of a half-frozen pigsty beside the ruined village. Mud geysered. The impact drove the breath from his lungs. The stench – rotting vegetation, animal filth, and the underlying, metallic tang of old blood – was overwhelming.
**"Priorities,"** he gasped, retracting the cracked helmet. Icy rain stung his face. **"One: Don't drown in medieval sewage. Two: Find out what fresh hell this is. Three: Coffee. Or something that burns like it."**
**(II: SPEARS, SORCERY, AND A GLOWING HEART)**
He'd barely hauled himself onto marginally firmer ground when they emerged from the curtain of rain like vengeful wraiths. Three men, draped in ragged cloaks crusted with mud and what looked like dried blood. Their faces were gaunt, etched with hunger and a hard, desperate fury. They leveled crude spears – little more than sharpened sticks with rusted iron tips – directly at his chest. Their eyes, wide and terrified, were fixed on the pulsing blue light shining through the mud-spattered chest plate.
**"Demon!"** hissed the youngest, a boy barely older than Peter, his knuckles white on the spear shaft. His voice trembled. **"The storm… it spat it out!"**
**"Demon? Kid, I've been called a narcissist, a merchant of death, even a 'walking tin can' by a particularly charming Russian assassin – but demon's new."** Tony raised his hands slowly, palms open. The nanites beneath his skin shimmered faintly, ready to respond, but the usual fluid certainty was gone. They felt sluggish, confused. **"Name's Tony Stark. Tourist. Hopelessly lost. You got a visitor center around here? Or maybe just directions to the nearest exit?"**
The men exchanged bewildered glances. They understood him perfectly. That was something, at least.
**"Its heart glows!"** gasped the grizzled man beside the boy, missing two front teeth. He poked the air with his spear towards Tony's reactor. **"Witchfire! Like in Old Nan's tales!"**
**"Witchfire? It's clean energy, Toothless,"** Tony corrected, tapping the blue light. It pulsed steadily, a comforting anchor in the chaos. **"Miniaturized arc reactor. Fusion power. Runs on good intentions and bad decisions. Now, seriously, where am I? Looks like a Renaissance Faire gone horribly wrong."**
The boy's fear suddenly boiled over into reckless bravado. With a strangled cry, he lunged, spear aimed at Tony's throat.
Instinct screamed. Tony's right hand snapped up. He willed the nanites to form a repulsor gauntlet. Instead of the sleek, instantaneous plating, the particles flowed sluggishly, forming a lumpy, misshapen mass around his hand that sparked violently. The command felt like pushing sludge through a blocked pipe.
*PHZZZT-CRACK!*
A weak, sputtering burst of energy shot out, more noise and light than force. It struck the boy square in the chest, not burning, but shoving him backwards like a strong gust. He landed hard on his back in the mud, gasping, spear flying from his grasp, utterly unharmed but stunned.
**"Dammit!"** Tony snarled, retracting the unstable nanite mass. His HUD, flickering erratically in his peripheral vision, showed no power drain from the reactor – just a system error: `> REPULSOR FORMATION ERROR. CONTROL PROTOCOL INSTABILITY.` **"Non-lethal setting's a bitch when the suit's throwing a tantrum."**
The other two men stared, frozen in terror. **"Sorcery!"** the gap-toothed man shrieked, dropping his spear. **"The demon throws cursed wind!"** They scrambled backward, tripping over each other in their haste to flee into the downpour, abandoning their dazed companion.
Tony sighed, a wave of exhaustion hitting him. It wasn't physical. It was the weight of the impossible. **"Wind? Kid, repulsor tech is *hardly* wind. It's focused particle acceleration generating concussive—"** He stopped, looking down at the trembling boy in the mud. *Who am I kidding?*
He walked over, offering a hand. **"Look, Spear Guy. No hard feelings. Reflexes. Name's Tony Stark. You got one? Or is 'Victim of Glitchy Nanites' gonna have to do?"**
The boy just stared at the reactor's glow, shivering, unable to speak.
**(III: THE BROTHERHOOD AND THE BROKEN MACHINE)**
The new voice cut through the drumming rain like a rasp on stone. **"Hold, creature!"**
Tony turned. A gaunt figure stood ten paces away, silhouetted by the storm. He wore a tattered yellow tunic over rusted mail, a ragged black cloak hanging heavy with rain. His face was all sharp angles and grim resolve beneath dark, rain-slicked hair. But it was the weapon in his hand that commanded attention: a longsword wreathed in actual, crackling flames that hissed and spat defiance against the downpour. Behind him stood a dozen more figures – hard-eyed men and women with bows drawn, and a portly man in red robes clutching a wineskin, his eyes wide and fascinated.
**"Beric Dondarrion,"** the swordsman declared, his voice a dry rasp that nonetheless carried authority. His eyes, one a piercing grey, the other a sightless, milky orb, locked onto Tony's reactor with unnerving intensity. **"Lord of Blackhaven. Who, or *what*, walks with a star in its chest?"**
**"Tony Stark,"** Tony repeated, keeping his hands visible. **"Engineer. Innovator. Definitely not a 'creature'. That sword… impressive trick. Thermite coating? Custom oxidizer?"** His damaged HUD flickered: `> THERMAL SIGNATURE: 1,200°C. NO KNOWN FUEL SOURCE. ANOMALY DETECTED.` **"Heat management must be a nightmare."**
The red-robed man stepped forward, taking a long pull from his wineskin. **"Thoros of Myr,"** he announced, wiping his mouth, his gaze never leaving the reactor's glow. **"Servant of the Lord of Light! Beric, look! His heart… it burns with R'hllor's own fire! Cleaner and brighter than any I've seen!"**
**"It's called an arc reactor, Friar Tuck,"** Tony said, forcing a note of weary sarcasm. **"Not divine intervention. Though, landing here, I'm starting to reconsider."** He gestured around at the scorched ruins. **"What happened? Looks like Godzilla had a bad day."**
**"Lannisters,"** Beric spat, the flames on his sword flaring brighter as if fueled by his anger. **"And their butchers, the Bloody Mummers. They came yesterday. Took the last scraps of grain, killed the men who stood, burned the rest for sport."** His blind eye seemed to stare right through Tony. **"Your… armor. Your fire-throwing hand. Are you some Essosi sorcerer's puppet? A dragonlord's discarded weapon?"**
**"I'm a guy who solves problems,"** Tony stated, a spark of his old defiance igniting. **"Problems like bullies with too much power. Right now, my problem is this suit's throwing a fit. The *power* is fine,"** he tapped the reactor, its light unwavering, **"but the *machine* that uses it… it's damaged. Glitching. I need to fix it. You know anywhere with tools? A forge? Someplace that isn't actively trying to drown us?"**
Thoros chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. **"Tools? Harrenhal's got tools, aye. And curses to match. Closer by… there's the smithy in Wendish Town. Burnt, likely. Or Anguy here,"** he gestured to a lanky youth with a longbow, **"might have some fletching knives."**
Tony's gaze swept over the grim-faced Brotherhood. Their weapons were crude, their clothes ragged, but there was a hard resilience in their eyes. They protected the ruins, the smallfolk hiding in the woods. They fought bullies. **"Okay. Let's start simple. Anyone got a hammer?"**
**(IV: HAMMER, ANVIL, AND THE LANGUAGE OF THE SWARM)**
They led him to their camp – not much more than a large, relatively dry cave tucked beneath a rocky overhang near the roaring Trident River. A small fire smoked fitfully, casting dancing shadows. The air smelled of damp earth, woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and fear.
Gendry, a bull-shouldered youth with arms thick from the forge and intense blue eyes, watched Tony with open suspicion and fascination. He reluctantly handed over a heavy, well-worn blacksmith's hammer when Beric nodded.
Tony held it, feeling its weight, its balance. Primitive, but solid. **"Okay, Gendry, right? Ever work with copper?"**
Gendry grunted. **"Aye. For pots. Trinkets. Why?"**
**"Because copper talks,"** Tony said, kneeling by the firelight. He willed the nanites on his right forearm to retract, exposing the skin. Beneath, intricate circuitry glowed faintly around the main conduit leading to the reactor. A section was visibly blackened, fused. `> PRIMARY POWER CONDUIT TO NANITE HIVE: FUSED. AUXILIARY PATHWAYS COMPROMISED.` **"See that? That's the problem. The power's there,"** he pointed to the reactor, **"but the road to where it needs to go is blocked. Burnt out."**
He picked up a piece of firewood and used a shard of flint to start sketching in the damp earth near the fire. He drew the reactor, a path splitting into multiple lines, converging on a central point representing the nanite hive matrix within his suit's spine. He marked the burnt conduit.
**"I need a new road. A bypass. Made of copper. Thin sheets. Wires, if you can manage it."** He showed Gendry the thickness needed by pressing two pebbles close together in the mud. **"Can your hammer and that anvil outside make copper that thin and flat?"**
Gendry studied the crude schematic, then the burnt conduit on Tony's arm, then the hammer in his hand. A spark ignited in his eyes – the spark of a craftsman presented with a novel challenge. **"Metal's metal,"** he said, a hint of defiance in his voice. **"I can make it dance."** He grabbed a chunk of scavenged copper from a pile near the cave entrance and strode out into the persistent rain towards a large, scarred anvil set under a lean-to.
Tony watched him go, then turned his focus inward. He couldn't access FRIDAY's sophisticated diagnostic suite. He had to do this manually, by feel and instinct. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the nanite swarm. It was like trying to herd cats made of mercury using only his willpower. The connection was there, but fragmented, staticky. He sent a pulse of command – a simple request for status from the primary nanite hive.
The response was slow, distorted, like a badly tuned radio. `> HIVE… ACTIVE. CONTROL… INTERFACE… CORRUPTED. MANUAL OVERRIDE… REQUIRED.` He felt the swarm stir sluggishly beneath his skin, directionless.
Gendry returned, breath steaming in the cold air. In his hand were several thin, surprisingly even sheets of hammered copper and a few painstakingly drawn wires. **"Like this?"**
Tony took them, impressed despite himself. The kid had talent. **"Perfect, Gubby."**
**"Gendry,"** the young smith corrected, scowling.
**"Right. Gendry."** Tony positioned a copper sheet over the fused section of his forearm conduit. **"Now, hold this steady. This might get… sparky."**
He focused again, pouring his will into the nanite swarm. Not a complex command, but a primal directive: *Repair. Connect. Bridge the gap.* He visualized the copper merging with the damaged pathways, becoming a new conduit. The nanites on his forearm responded, flowing like liquid silver over the copper sheet. Tiny filaments extended, probing, seeking connection points. Sparks flew – real, physical sparks – as the nanites welded the copper directly to the surviving edges of the conduit circuitry. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't seamless. It was brute-force engineering.
`> AUXILIARY CONDUIT ESTABLISHED. NANITE HIVE INTERFACE… PARTIALLY RESTORED.`
`> ESTIMATED CONTROL PROTOCOL EFFICIENCY: 38%.`
Tony let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cave's chill. **"Okay. Moment of truth…"**
He stood, stepped back from the fire, and willed the nanites to form a simple repulsor gauntlet on his right hand. This time, the particles flowed faster, smoother. They still lacked the perfect, instantaneous cohesion of a fully operational suit, forming a bulkier, less refined gauntlet with visible seams where the nanites had flowed over Gendry's hammered copper. But it formed. Solid. Stable.
He aimed his palm at a large, rain-slicked boulder just outside the cave entrance.
*PHOOM!*
A clean, blue-white beam of concussive energy lanced out, striking the boulder dead center. Not the full, building-shaking power of his prime, but a respectable, controlled blast. The rock didn't vaporize; it shattered into a hundred fist-sized pieces that rained down into the churning river.
Silence followed, broken only by the roar of the Trident and the crackle of the fire. The Brotherhood stared, open-mouthed. Thoros beamed, raising his wineskin in salute. **"By the flames! He mends metal with magic metal!"**
Beric's expression was unreadable, but his single seeing eye held a new intensity. **"Can you mend steel? Craft armor? Make more of these… *repulsors*?"**
Tony retracted the gauntlet, the nanites flowing back into his undersuit. He felt the strain of the effort, the mental fatigue of wrestling the damaged control systems. **"Swords? Armor? That's child's play,"** he said, a weary smirk touching his lips. **"Give me a proper forge, good materials, time… I'll make things that'll turn your flaming sword into a birthday candle, Beric."** He tapped the unwavering blue light in his chest. **"The *power* is limitless. It's the *tools* and the *hands* that are the bottleneck. And right now, we're short on both."**
He looked around at the ragged group. They weren't an army. They were survivors. But they had seen the spark. Gendry's eyes burned with the fervor of discovery. Thoros saw holy fire. Beric saw a weapon. Tony saw… potential. Fragile, desperate potential.
**"So,"** Tony said, the smirk fading into something harder, more determined. **"You mentioned Lions and Wolves. War. You mentioned Harrenhal. Seems I've got a lot to learn about the local brand of crazy."** He gestured towards the meager fire. **"And maybe someone found some coffee beans in that ruined village? A man can dream."**
**(V: THE SHADOW OF DRAGONS AND THE LONG NIGHT)**
Later, huddled under a damp cloak near the cave entrance, Tony listened as Lem Lemoncloak, a sour-faced man, spat vitriol about "Lannister butchers" and "Frey treachery." Beric spoke grimly of King Robb Stark marching towards the Twins, seeking passage, and the cold dread in the air. Thoros muttered about visions in the flames – a great wolf slaughtered amidst laughter, a stone giant stirring in the frozen North.
Tony's mind raced, piecing together the fractured picture. A civil war. Betrayals brewing. Winter coming. And somewhere, a threat even the hardened Brotherhood feared more than lions or wolves. *The true enemy.* The words sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the rain.
He subtly activated his suit's partially restored sensors. The HUD flickered, lines of text unstable. `> PASSIVE LONG-RANGE SCAN INITIATED.` The world resolved into a patchwork of thermal signatures – the Brotherhood huddled around the fire, small animals in the woods, the cold flow of the river. He expanded the range, pushing the glitchy system.
East. Far east. Past the rain, beyond the horizon his eyes could see.
A bloom of intense, impossible heat seared his sensors. Massive. Roiling. *Alive.*
`> WARNING: MASSIVE THERMAL ANOMALY DETECTED.`
`> COORDINATES: APPROX. 45 MILES EAST.`
`> DESIGNATION: UNKNOWN. BIOLOGICAL SIGNATURE: CONFLICTING.`
`> SCALE: DRAGON-CLASS.`
`> WARNING: FLIGHT SYSTEMS OFFLINE. SENSOR ACCURACY LOW.`
**"Dragons…"** Tony breathed, the word lost in the drumming rain. A fierce grin, sharp and unexpected, spread across his face. Not a smile of joy, but of challenge acknowledged. **"Of course there are dragons."**
He looked out into the storm-lashed darkness, towards the east where that impossible heat signature pulsed like a second, fainter star. Then he looked north, where Thoros's "stone giant" and winter waited. The reactor glowed steadily against his chest, an island of impossible power in a broken world. One man. One damaged suit. A handful of desperate allies.
The climb would be brutal. The war would be long. The dead were coming.
**"Alright, Westeros,"** Tony Stark murmured, the light of the arc reactor reflecting in his eyes like cold blue fire. **"Let's see what you've got."**