In a stark and oppressive room within the small castle of Rosby, east of King's Landing, Lord Gyles Rosby coughed, a dry, wheezing fit that shook his frail body. He dabbed his pale lips with a fine silk handkerchief, already stained with a few red dots. Before him stood a man in rags, covered in dried mud and poorly treated cuts, whose haunted eyes still reflected the terror of the previous day. He was one of the few survivors of the disastrous ambush in the Kingswood, the only one who had managed to return and contact Rosby's men as agreed.
"Well?" Lord Rosby rasped, his voice thin and irritated. "Speak! Is the convoy stopped? Is the cargo recovered? And most importantly... were there any witnesses?" He hoped for a simple report, a quick confirmation of the success of the operation he had sanctioned – along with others, of course, but he had provided the initial funds and local contacts.
The mercenary, a man named Kryl, swallowed hard, his throat seemingly as dry as dead leaves. "My Lord... it was... it was a massacre."
Rosby frowned, his cough briefly returning. "A massacre? You were eighty against twenty! How in the blazes...?"
"They weren't merchants, my Lord," Kryl gasped, the horrific images flashing behind his eyes. "The wagons... they were fortresses. Armored. And the weapons..." He shivered despite the relative warmth of the room. "Machines. Machines that came out of the roofs. They spat steel bolts as big as my fist, faster than a man can reload. It... it cut down trees, cut men in half. We couldn't even get close."
Lord Rosby stared at him, his waxy complexion growing even paler. Machines? Rolling fortresses? What was this fool talking about? "You're raving, man! Drink or fear has addled your brain!"
"No, my Lord! I swear by the Seven!" Kryl almost fell to his knees, pleading. "It was like... like a forge from the hells. And then... the fire. They threw things. They exploded. The fire stuck, and... and spikes, shards... Vorlag burned alive. Almost everyone. Out of eighty men, maybe five of us survived. They hunted us down, finished us off. I crawled for hours..."
Silence fell in the room, broken only by Lord Rosby's wheezing breath. Panic began to dawn in his puffy eyes. Not because he was afraid, far from it, but rather because his adversary now knew they were being hunted.
He thought about the situation prevailing in King's Landing. The miracle soap, the bright lamps, the washing machines... He had laughed at these "commoner trinkets" at first, but had quickly changed his tune when they ruined several of his investments, as well as those of his acquaintances. What if this industrial power also hid an unsuspected military capability? He had thought he was attacking a troublesome economic competitor. He might have just awakened a rabid dog.
His cough returned, more violent this time. He spat into his handkerchief, seeing more red than white. Fear overwhelmed him. He was sick, weak. He couldn't afford an open war against such a formidable and unknown enemy, even though everything his intel said, he refused to believe it was all run by common folk; it was absurd. The noble pulling the strings in the shadows was simply ingenious. Which brought him back to this witness... this panicked mercenary... he was a direct link to him. An unacceptable risk.
After taking two or three deep breaths, he calmed himself, regaining a shred of his noble composure. He gestured for Kryl to rise. "Your report is... troubling. You showed courage in returning. Rest. Eat. My men will take care of you."
He rang a small silver bell sitting on his table. Two Rosby guards entered, their faces impassive.
"Escort this man to the kitchens," Lord Rosby ordered, his voice weak but firm. "Ensure he has everything he needs. And that he... is no longer a problem."
The guards exchanged a knowing glance. They seized Kryl by the arms. The mercenary understood too late. He tried to struggle, but fear and exhaustion had drained his strength.
"No! My Lord! I said nothing! I'll say nothing!"
He was dragged from the room, his pleas muffled by the heavy door closing behind him.
Lord Rosby remained alone, trembling, no longer from coughing, but from pure anxiety. The witness was eliminated. But the problem remained. He had stuck his finger into an unknown and deadly mechanism. He slumped into his chair, his breath whistling. He had to contact his "associates." Immediately. They needed to know what they were dealing with. They had to find a solution. Before that shadow came knocking at his own door.
----------------------------------------------
Three days after the bloody ambush, Tony's small convoy finally came into view of its destination: Hollard Keep, the ancestral seat of House Hollard. The landscape had changed dramatically. Gone were the gentle hills and cultivated fields around King's Landing. Here, the road snaked through a steep-sided valley, flanked by abrupt hills covered in a dense, dark forest – oak, pine, and a profusion of silver beeches. A tumultuous river, the northern source of the Blackwater Rush, flowed at the bottom of the valley, its low roar audible even from a distance. The air was crisp, pure, smelling of resin and damp earth. It was a wild, isolated, almost primordial landscape.
The keep itself was a pathetic sight. Perched on a small rocky spur overlooking a bend in the river, the main tower looked ready to collapse. Sections of walls were missing, replaced by rotting planks. The roof sagged dangerously in places. The few outbuildings – a dilapidated stable, an abandoned forge, a handful of hovels where the few remaining servants lived – were hardly in better condition. Only the tarnished Hollard coat of arms, barely recognizable above the rusted portcullis, recalled the lineage's past glory. It was a place forgotten by time and fortune.
Tony observed the scene from his carriage, a mixture of satisfaction and disgust on his usually impassive face. Satisfaction, because this was exactly what he was looking for: an isolated place, rich in resources (the forest was magnificent, the river powerful), and ruled by a clearly non-existent authority. Disgust, because this ruin was the very embodiment of the feudal system's absurdity: a man possessed these vast and potentially rich lands by birthright, but had neither the will, the means, nor the intelligence to exploit them, letting them rot while his people languished in poverty.
The convoy halted before the portcullis, which was laboriously raised by two toothless old men after a lengthy parley with Joren. They crossed a courtyard littered with refuse and overgrown with weeds, under the curious and fearful gaze of a few barefoot children and thin women dressed in rags. The smell here was not that of industry, but of pure poverty: green wood smoke, overflowing latrines, and a sour reek of cheap wine.
A man appeared on the dilapidated steps of the keep, staggering slightly. He was still relatively young – perhaps in his thirties – but his puffy face, bloodshot eyes, and wine-stained tunic spoke of an advanced life of debauchery. His lank, flaxen hair was unkempt, and several days' worth of stubble shadowed his receding chin. This was Dontos Hollard, the unworthy last heir of a once-respected line. The notorious drunkard whom Robert Baratheon had allowed to reclaim his ancestral lands on some royal whim after the Rebellion, and whom everyone since had tried hard to forget.
He blinked in the daylight, trying to make out his visitors. "So? Is it you? The... the merchants? Did you bring... what you promised?" His voice was slurred, reeking of alcohol.
-------------------------------------------
Theron dismounted from the carriage, adopting the agreed-upon role of chief representative of the "Gearwood Investment Company." Tony and Lira remained slightly behind, silent observers. Joren and the other guards positioned themselves in an ostensibly protective manner around them.
"Ser Dontos Hollard?" Theron began, his deep, steady voice contrasting with the drunkard's. "I am Master Theron, expert for the Company. We have come to discuss a potential agreement and proceed with the first payment if possible, as agreed in our previous exchanges."
Dontos's eyes lit up at the mention of payment. "Ah, yes! The agreement! Excellent! Come in, come in then!" He gestured vaguely towards the keep's interior, nearly stumbling on a worn step.
The inside was worse than the outside. The great hall was dark, smelling of damp and dust. The tapestries, once magnificent no doubt, hung in tattered, faded, and mildewed shreds. The few pieces of furniture were broken or rickety. A rough table in the center was covered with empty jugs and leftover food.
Dontos collapsed onto a dilapidated armchair, gesturing for his visitors to take seats on equally precarious benches. He fumbled for a cup, found one half-full of a cloudy liquid, and drained it in one gulp.
"So... the money?" he asked without further ado.
Theron placed a heavy chest on the table. "Five hundred gold dragons, Ser Dontos. The initial payment for the fifty-year lease of four thousand acres of your forest lands, as stipulated in this contract." He produced a parchment scroll prepared by Elara, detailing the terms: annual rent, exclusive exploitation rights, the right to build "forestry workshops" and housing, and the obligation to prioritize hiring local labor.
Dontos only glanced greedily at the chest. He waved dismissively at the parchment. "Yes, yes, the lands... the forest... take what you want. Nobody goes there anyway, except poachers and maybe some wolves. Five hundred dragons, you say? Now?"
"Upon signing the contract," Theron specified calmly.
Dontos searched for something to write with, knocked over a jug in his haste, swore, and finally found a nearly dry inkwell and a frayed quill. He signed the document without even reading it, his name scrawled in a shaky hand. As soon as the wax seal was applied, he lunged for the chest, prying it open with feverish fingers. The sight of the gleaming gold drew a small cry of joy from the drunkard. He plunged his hands into the coins, weighing them, letting them clink together.
Tony watched the scene, outwardly impassive but inwardly seething. So this was nobility? An inherited title granting power of life and death over thousands of acres, wielded by human refuse willing to sell everything for a few gold pieces to fund his next binge and his next brothel visit. No questions about the Company's plans, no concern for the future of his lands or his people. Just immediate, pathetic greed. This transaction, though incredibly advantageous for him, disgusted him deeply. He didn't know how he would do it, but Dontos Hollard was not going to remain lord for long. He wouldn't kill him, but he would get rid of him, one way or another.
Theron, ever the professional, tried to continue. "Ser Dontos, we will therefore begin surveying tomorrow. We will need local guides for the best sites, and we count on you to encourage your tenants to work with us, as agreed."
Dontos, still busy caressing his gold, answered vaguely. "Yes, yes... the peasants... take whoever you want. They do nothing anyway. Just tell them if they don't work for you, I'll kick them out. That should motivate them." He chuckled foolishly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have... urgent business to attend to." He grabbed a handful of gold dragons, stuffed them into his purse, and staggered to his feet. "The keep is yours for the night. Don't burn anything down. Or rather, yes, burn whatever you like, as long as you pay the rent!" He exited the hall, cackling, leaving his visitors in the gloom and the smell of sour wine.
Silence fell again. Lira looked at Tony, a flash of disgust in her green eyes. Theron slowly shook his head, looking distressed.
"Well," Tony finally said, his voice devoid of any inflection. "The acquisition went... smoothly. We have our lands."
He stood up. "Joren, organize the guards. No one enters, no one leaves without my authorization. Theron, at dawn tomorrow, we begin surveying. I want to identify the best sites for the sawmill, the charcoal kilns, and especially, the iron ore."
He walked over to a grimy window overlooking the wild valley. It was ugly. It was decadent. But it was his now. A blank canvas, rich and isolated, where he could paint his true industrial masterpiece. The absurdity of the transaction only strengthened his resolve. He would transform this forgotten valley, not for the glory of a drunken lord, but for the power of the gear. And for the war to come.