Since Lady Ermesande Rykker's inquisitive visit a week earlier, a new tension had hung in the air. The young woman had not left. Taking advantage of Dontos Hollard's tipsy, indifferent hospitality, she had settled into the decrepit keep, claiming a "prolonged rest" before continuing her journey. In truth, she spent her days on horseback, riding the valley and watching the works with an insistent curiosity that did not escape Joren and his men. She asked the laborers questions, questioned local tradesmen, trying to piece together the puzzle of this frenzied activity. Tony knew she was dangerous. Intelligent, observant, and the daughter of a powerful house. He could not allow her to snoop unsupervised, but he could not expel her either without creating a diplomatic incident. He was forced to play the part of the distant host while making sure she saw only what he wanted her to see.
It was in that tense context that the messenger from King's Landing arrived. A young, nimble man, come by horse after an exhausting ride, carrying an urgent note from Elara. Tony received him in the barracks that served as his temporary office, a simple wooden room near the forge site. Lira was present, having returned the night before from a quick round trip to Maidenpool.
The message, hurriedly written on thin parchment, detailed Tyrion Lannister's visit and his astonishing offer: one thousand gold dragons to buy the entire soap stock and secure a six-month exclusivity. Elara described the pressure exerted by the dwarf, her certainty that it was a trap to infiltrate or control their operations, and her anguish about deciding what to do. She begged Tony to give her clear instructions.
Tony read the letter twice, his face hardening imperceptibly. A Lannister. Tyrion, the dwarf, famed for his wit and craftiness. The interest of the great houses, which he had feared, manifested itself earlier and more directly than he had expected. And the offer… a thousand gold dragons, a sum capable of financing a considerable portion of his factories, thrown on the table like bait. It was indeed a trap. A dazzling trap. To accept it would be to sell his independence. To refuse it would be to openly defy the second most powerful house in the realm.
He looked up at Lira. "They're starting to poke around seriously?" "Indeed. We'll need to strengthen security," Lira replied, eyebrows knitted after reading the message over Tony's shoulder. "Elara is terrified, as you can see. Dealing with people above the law is no small matter. Despite her intelligence, she is not you."
Tony rubbed his forehead. The situation was a nightmare. He was caught between an anvil and a hammer. On one side, Tyrion Lannister and his gilded threat in King's Landing. On the other, Lady Rykker and her dangerous curiosity here in Gearford. And in the middle, the most important construction site of his second life, which demanded his constant presence. Leaving for King's Landing now? Not only would that mean abandoning the site at a crucial moment, but it might also spring another trap. Who could say the ambush wasn't connected? That his enemies weren't waiting for him to step out of his new fortress to eliminate him?
No, he could not leave. He had to stay, oversee the work, keep an eye on Lady Rykker. He had to trust Elara to handle the Lannister threat. But he could not leave her alone against a player of Tyrion's caliber. He had to give her the tools to negotiate, to buy time, to turn the trap into an advantage.
He took a blank sheet of parchment and dipped his quill in the inkwell. He began to write, quickly translating his thoughts into precise instructions.
"Elara," he dictated aloud for Lira, "listen carefully. You will accept the gold." Lira looked at him, stunned. "Accept? But Tony, that's…" "Listen," he cut in. "You accept the thousand dragons, but not as a deposit for exclusivity. You accept it as a 'substantial security deposit' in anticipation of 'future, large, and regular orders' from House Lannister. You will draw up a contract — I'll give you the exact terms here — which states that the Company commits to significantly increase deliveries of our soaps (Docker and Blossom) to House Lannister, granting them 'preferred customer priority.' But not exclusivity. You will invoke our 'irrevocable contracts' with the guilds of King's Landing and our 'limited production capacity' which prevents us, much to our regret, from honoring an exclusive demand right now. And that our cosmetic products are produced in too small quantities at present to supply wholesalers." He continued writing and dictating. "Insist that the decision was made by the council members present, impressed by Lord Tyrion's interest but concerned for our reputation. Use the gold immediately: part to accelerate shipments of materials and tools to Gearford — discreetly. The rest… the rest to conquer new markets. The essential thing is to buy time. Engage Tyrion in detailed negotiations: which exact scents for the Blossom Lannister? What delivery schedules? What frequency? Make him wait. Make him feel he is getting something, but never give in on exclusivity. You're clever, Elara. You'll know how to handle him. Make him believe he's pulling the strings while we use his gold to build our future." He finished his letter, adding the precise contract clauses and a few personal words of encouragement for Elara. He sealed it and handed it to the weary messenger. "Rest three hours, then ride back. This must reach Elara as soon as possible. Understood?" The boy nodded and left.
Tony sat thoughtful, watching the wavering flame of the lamp on his makeshift desk. He had parried the blow, for now. But he knew it was only a reprieve. Tyrion Lannister would not be fooled for long. And Lady Rykker kept prowling. The noose tightened. The race to make Val-engrenage operational and defensible had suddenly accelerated.
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Lady Ermesande Rykker cursed inwardly at the mud clinging to her riding boots while wearing an interested smile for Master Smith Theron. She had now been stuck in that godforsaken hole for nearly two weeks, playing the charming noblewoman for a drunken senile lord and trying to pry the secrets of this strange "Company" loose.
Her initial mission, entrusted by her brother Lord Rykker, had been simple: assess the scale of this new activity on the Hollard lands, discover where the money came from, and determine whether it represented an opportunity or a threat to Duskendale's interests. Rumors of massive charcoal and cheap timber production worried them.
But what she had uncovered went far beyond mere economic fears. This was not a timber operation. It was the birth of a town. An industrial town, planned with a logic and ambition that left her speechless. Every day she saw structures rise with astonishing speed. The hydraulic sawmill was already operating, cutting trunks with disconcerting ease. The metal skeleton of the blast furnace climbed toward the sky like a pagan idol. Miles of roads were being laid out. And those gray blocks… that "cement"… she had seen walls rise in a few days where traditional masonry would have taken weeks.
She had tried to understand. She questioned the workers — brutish men mostly from Fleabottom, loyal or fearful, who knew nothing or pretended not to. She questioned Dontos Hollard, but got only drunken ramblings about gold he had received. She tried to speak with Theron, the Master Smith, whose skill was obvious, but the man was as closed as an oyster and answered with evasive grunts about "secrets of manufacture." Captain Joren was polite but icy, his men trailing discreetly when she took her walks.
And then there was the boy. Tony. The "famous steward." Despite his youth — she guessed fifteen — he was the undisputed center of everything. His authority was absolute and silent, accepted by all, from the simple laborer to the Master Smith. She had watched him for hours from afar. He did not bark orders. He explained, drew incomprehensible diagrams, corrected a movement, adjusted a mechanism. His intelligence was blinding; his grasp of technical processes seemed innate. He moved from designing a trinket to planning logistics for a convoy with bewildering ease. Where did he come from? Who was he? A noble bastard educated in secret? A prodigy escaped from the Citadel? Or something entirely new?
Over the days, her initial suspicion had shifted into a reluctant fascination, then into a strange envy. She, Ermesande Rykker, sister of Lord Rykker, was destined for a political marriage without love to some fat, insignificant lord; her first fiancé had died during the rebellion. Her nephews would inherit power and glory. She was cleverer than most of the men she knew, but to her brother she was worth only as a bargaining chip. She spent her days embroidering and listening to gossip, dreaming of action and influence.
And here, in this forgotten valley, a boy barely out of childhood — probably a commoner — was building an empire from nothing, commanding hundreds of men, defying the laws of nature and gods. He created. He built. He had a purpose. A raw power emanated from him, not of muscle or blood but of mind and will. It was everything she desired and could never obtain.
And then the idea slowly formed in her mind, audacious, almost mad. What if, instead of reporting this operation to her brother so he might destroy or seize it, she tried to become part of it? If she could prove her worth to this enigmatic "Steward," offer him what he lacked — knowledge of political mechanisms, access to noble networks, protection against the enemies he would inevitably make — it would be her chance. Her only chance to escape her fate, to prove to her brother and the world that she was more than a pawn.
She made her decision. Enough observing. Enough hypocrisy. She would confront him.
She found him near the blast furnace site, deep in animated discussion with Theron about the heat resistance of refractory bricks. She waited patiently for their confab to end. When Theron left, she approached Tony.
"Steward Tony," she began, her voice firmer than when they first met. Tony turned to her, a slight crease of annoyance on his brow. "Lady Rykker. To what do I owe the pleasure? I have a site to supervise." "Enough games, Steward," she said, looking him squarely in the eye. "I am not stupid. What you're building here is not mere timber extraction. It's… something else. Something large. New, perhaps." Tony kept his impassive mask. "I don't see what you mean, Madam. We are honoring our contract with Ser Dontos."
"Nonsense," Ermesande shot back. "I've seen the plans. I've seen the materials. I've seen the scale. You are building an industrial fortress. The question is not what, but why. And, above all, who are you to dare such an enterprise? Ser Dontos is the perfect cover, is he not?"
Tony held her gaze, a flash of amusement or appraisal in his dark eyes. "My person matters little, Lady Rykker. What matters is the work done."
"That's where you're wrong," she insisted. "Your person matters. Without a powerful ally, without political protection, your work will be swept away as soon as the vultures realize the worth of your treasure. And believe me, they're beginning to smell it. My brother is curious. Lord Rosby is nervous. Others will follow."
She took a step closer, lowering her voice. "I know what you're doing. Or at least I can guess your ambition. And I want in." Tony raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised this time. "In? A lady of your rank? Partner with… commoners like us?"
"Don't take me for a fool," she hissed, a note of passion in her voice. "I see clearer than most men of my station. I see the power rising here — a new power based on intelligence and labor, not inherited titles and fallow lands. My brother will marry me off to an impotent old man to gain a few acres. My nephews will wait for inheritance. I'm worth more than that. I can be useful to you. I know courtly maneuvering. I know how nobles speak, how they think. I can be your eyes and ears where you cannot go. I can warn you of dangers, help you navigate the political traps that will inevitably come." She challenged him with her gaze. "Accepting my cooperation would only benefit you." Tony was silent a long time, measuring her. The offer was staggering. An ally within the nobility, direct information… The potential was enormous. But the risk was equally great. A ruse? Infiltration by her brother? Or the sincere cry of an intelligent, ambitious woman trapped by her condition? He could not know. For now, regardless, drastic countermeasures were being prepared to repel any attack on the town.
"Lady Rykker," he finally said, his voice returning to neutrality. "Your proposal is… bold. And unexpected. You underestimate the dangers you'd face partnering with an enterprise like ours. And overestimate our need for political help." He made a vague gesture toward the works. "As you see, we are very busy at the moment. But your… interest is noted. Perhaps, when things calm down, we can resume this conversation."
He did not accept, but he did not reject her outright. He left a door ajar, a thin hope. Ermesande felt frustration mixed with a flicker of challenge. He was testing her. Fine. She would show him what she could do. "As you wish, Steward," she said with returned coolness. "But don't wait too long. My offer is not eternal." She turned on her heel and returned to the keep, leaving Tony alone before the roaring shadow of his blast furnace, a new, complex variable added to an already perilous equation. The future would tell.