If Ethan had been asked to name the greatest tragedy in the history of Westeros, he would’ve answered without hesitation.
Not the Doom of Valyria.
Not the Long Night.
Not even the Dance of the Dragons.
“It was the complete and utter refusal of otherwise intelligent people to invent crop rotation.”
His friend stared at him across the café table.
“…You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“No, you’re insane.”
“There is a difference.”
“There really isn’t.”
Ethan sighed the sigh of a man burdened with explaining obvious truths to the terminally ignorant.
“Think about it.
The North starves every winter because they insist on growing the same bloody crops the same bloody way for thousands of years.
Then everyone acts surprised when famine shows up like an unpaid tax collector.”
“It’s a fantasy novel.”
“It is.”
“So why are you calculating agricultural yields?”
“Because George clearly wasn’t.”
His friend pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I asked you who your favorite character was.”
“And I answered.”
“You answered with wheat.”
“Potatoes.”
“That’s worse.”
“It really isn’t.”
The waitress arrived carrying two coffees.
She set Ethan’s down first, glanced at the notebook beside him, and paused.
“…Is that a map?”
“Yes.”
“Of…?”
“The North.”
She looked closer.
The map was covered in neat handwriting.
Rivers had been measured.
Forests marked.
Coastlines annotated.
Entire pages of calculations surrounded the drawing.
“Estimated annual timber yield.”
“Possible iron deposits?”
“Road from Winterfell to Barrowton—cost versus long-term trade increase.”
She blinked.
“University project?”
“No.”
She waited.
He smiled.
“…Hobby.”
The waitress decided she didn’t want to know.
By the time she walked away, Ethan’s friend was already laughing.
“You need professional help.”
“I need House Stark to discover potatoes.”
“They already have turnips.”
“Exactly.”
“They don’t need potatoes.”
“They desperately need potatoes.”
His friend leaned back in his chair.
“I cannot believe we’re having this conversation.”
“We’ve had this conversation before.”
“Six times.”
“And you’ve still failed to appreciate the strategic value of root vegetables.”
The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, drifting from agriculture to logistics, from logistics to metallurgy, and eventually to whether Torrhen Stark had made the correct decision kneeling before Aegon.
Ethan argued that he had.
His friend insisted that a true king would’ve fought.
“A true king would’ve gotten everyone killed.”
“He would’ve died with honor.”
“Honor is a lovely thing.”
Ethan finished the last of his coffee.
“It also burns remarkably well when dragons are involved.”
His friend rolled his eyes.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The rain had begun before they left the café.
By the time Ethan reached the bus stop, it had become something else entirely.
Water hammered the streets so hard it bounced from the pavement.
Gutters overflowed within minutes, carrying leaves, wrappers and abandoned bottles toward drains that had surrendered long ago.
People hurried past with heads lowered.
Drivers crawled through flooded roads, horns blaring at one another for reasons neither traffic nor common sense could explain.
Ethan looked up.
“That…”
He frowned.
“…doesn’t look healthy.”
The sky answered by opening even further.
His phone buzzed.
Emergency Weather Alert.
Flash flooding expected.
Avoid unnecessary travel.
“…Bit late for that.”
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and started walking.
The quickest route home crossed a small bridge over what was usually an unremarkable stream.
Today it looked like a river trying very hard to become an ocean.
Water slammed against the stone supports with enough force to make the bridge tremble beneath his feet.
People gathered along the railing, phones already held high.
Someone was filming.
Someone else was shouting.
Ethan followed their gaze.
A compact hatchback had left the road and come to rest against a bent guardrail where floodwater rushed around it on three sides.
Every passing minute pushed it a little farther toward the edge.
A young woman pounded frantically against the driver’s side window.
The door wouldn’t open.
The water outside had risen almost to the glass.
“Someone call emergency services!”
“They’re already coming!”
“When?”
“No idea!”
The car lurched.
Just a little.
It was enough.
Panic spread through the crowd.
People stepped closer.
Nobody stepped into the water.
Ethan understood why.
The current wasn’t merely fast.
It was violent.
One wrong step and it would drag a man beneath the bridge before anyone even knew where he’d gone.
He looked around.
There had to be a rope.
A chain.
Something.
Nothing.
Only frightened faces.
Someone muttered, “They’ll be here soon.”
Ethan looked back at the car.
It shifted again.
Soon wasn’t looking particularly convincing.
He sighed.
“This…”
He kicked off his shoes.
“…is either going to be very brave or incredibly stupid.”
Nobody answered.
Perhaps because they were too busy watching him climb over the barrier.
The water hit him like a charging bull.
It was freezing.
His feet slipped immediately before finding purchase against submerged asphalt.
Every step demanded every muscle he possessed.
The current pulled relentlessly at his legs, trying to twist him sideways.
By the time he reached the car, breathing had become work.
The woman inside looked at him with wide, terrified eyes.
He banged on the window and pointed toward the passenger side.
She shook her head frantically.
The door wouldn’t budge.
Of course it wouldn’t.
The water pressure…
“Think.”
He looked around desperately.
A fist-sized stone lay half submerged nearby.
Good enough.
He grabbed it, struck the corner of the window once.
Twice.
The third blow shattered the glass.
Water exploded into the cabin.
The woman screamed.
“So do I,” Ethan muttered, reaching through the broken window.
“Now move!”
She understood.
Fear had a remarkable talent for translating languages.
She climbed awkwardly through the opening, scraping her arms on broken glass before tumbling into the flood.
He caught her before the current could.
“Bridge,” he shouted.
“Don’t fight the water.
Move with me!”
Every step back felt harder than the journey out.
The woman stumbled repeatedly, clutching his arm with desperate strength.
Twice he nearly lost his footing.
The bridge grew closer.
Hands reached toward them.
Another step.
Another.
They were almost there.
Then the guardrail behind them gave way.
The car finally surrendered.
Thousands of kilograms of metal lurched into the flood, dragging a wall of water after it.
Ethan had just enough time to shove the woman toward waiting hands.
Then the current found him.
It didn’t pull.
It simply took.
The world became white water and deafening noise.
He struck something hard.
Then something else.
Up and down ceased to matter.
Cold filled his lungs.
His vision darkened.
A ridiculous thought drifted into his mind.
“Well…”
“Turns out saving strangers really is a Stark thing.”
He almost laughed.
It came out as bubbles.
“Did I just become Ned Stark?”
The darkness closed around him.
“Fuck.”