Rodrik had made up his mind. The compass would be his first step, the seed from which his reputation as a serious-minded lord could grow. But there was a problem.
Actually, there were several.
The first was that he had the body of a four-year-old.
The second was that he had the responsibilities of a noble.
And the third—and perhaps most distracting of all—was his twin sister, Jeyne Aryan.
"Rodrik! Are you hiding something again?"
Rodrik sighed as Jeyne popped up beside him for the sixth time that morning. He had only just managed to sneak a look through the supply room—eyeing a nail he could potentially liberate—when she came bounding down the hall like a squirrel that had discovered sugar.
"I'm not hiding anything," he said, not looking at her.
"You're lying. You always lie when your face does that thing." She pointed to his nose, squinting suspiciously. "The scrunchy thing."
"It's called thinking. You should try it sometime."
"RUDE!"
Rodrik rubbed his temples. He was trying to obtain four things: a nail or piece of iron, a small bowl or shallow dish, thread or hair-thin string, and a bit of wood. None of which were just lying around for children to play with. Not without raising suspicion.
And all of which became exponentially harder to get when you had a curious twin shadowing your every move.
His first attempt at the nail ended in disaster. He had spotted a stableboy repairing a hinge and, in his most innocent voice, asked, "Ser, might I have a nail? For... um... learning."
The stableboy had laughed so hard he dropped the hammer. "What're you building, m'lord? A fortress made of snot?"
Rodrik grinned politely, stepped on the boy's boot "by accident," and retreated.
The second attempt was worse. He tried sneaking into the kitchen for a small wooden bowl. Jeyne followed.
"Are we playing soup merchant again?"
"No. Go away."
"Is it a secret soup merchant? I want to be the customer! I shall demand porridge with strawberries and if you don't give it, I shall scream!"
"Please don't."
She screamed.
Rodrik was promptly ejected by a very annoyed cook and told not to return unless he intended to eat what was served.
He nearly gave up then.
But over the course of three painstaking days, he managed to collect the things he needed:
A rusty nail from a broken stool (stolen during nap time).
A tiny bowl from a broken cup discarded by the scullery maid.
A piece of thread from the hem of one of Jeyne's old dolls (she noticed, accused him of murder, and made him promise a new doll later).
A splinter of pinewood he smoothed with a rock until it was flat enough.
Now, in the privacy of the old library—a place most people avoided because it smelled like mold and effort—Rodrik began his work.
Jeyne, of course, was there too.
"Are you making a pet bug? It looks like a bug. Are you trying to trap bugs?"
"It's not a bug. It's science."
"Science is boring. Unless it's exploding. Is it going to explode?!"
"Hopefully not."
He magnetized the nail by rubbing it with another piece of metal he found by luck in the sewing room. He balanced the thread over the wood, dangled the needle so it could spin freely, and placed it over the bowl of water.
The needle spun.
And then, settled.
Pointing unwaveringly in the same direction.
Rodrik stared.
"...It worked."
"What worked?"
He turned to Jeyne, eyes twinkling.
"A magic trick," he said with a conspiratorial smile. "No matter how you turn the bowl, the needle always points the same way."
He spun the bowl.
The needle wobbled, then returned.
Jeyne gasped like he'd turned water into honey.
"YOU'RE A WIZARD!"
"I'm a lord," Rodrik corrected. "A very clever one."
She looked up at him with awe. "Can I tell the maester?"
He paused.
"No. You must swear on the Seven. This is our magic trick. No one else can know."
Jeyne nodded solemnly, pressing her palm to her chest. "I swear by the Stranger. And the Smith. And—what's the one who likes hugs?"
"The Mother."
"Right. Her too."
Rodrik smiled. His first invention in Westeros. His first secret kept.
He had taken the first step.
The needle pointed north.
And now, so did he.