A few days had passed since Tyrion Lannister's impromptu visit. In her office, Elara read Tony's instructions for the tenth time, delivered two days earlier by an exhausted messenger. The letter was concise, pragmatic, yet between the lines she sensed the urgency and the trust Tony placed in her. Accept the gold, but refuse exclusivity. Buy time. Negotiate the details. Turn a potential predator into a privileged client… but always under control. It was a dangerous dance on a tightrope.
She had spent the previous days in quiet anxiety, the heavy Lannister gold sat in a corner of her office like a tangible threat. She had followed Tony's initial directives: using part of the gold to discreetly speed up the purchase and shipment of materials to Val-Engrenage, and the rest to begin the conquest of new markets. Ironically, Lannister money was already funding the expansion of the empire it sought to infiltrate.
When the guard announced Lord Tyrion's return, Elara took a deep breath and smoothed the folds of her dress. She had prepared the modified contract, meticulously calligraphed by her assistant. She was ready.
Tyrion entered with his usual nonchalant confidence, but his sharp eyes immediately sized her up. He noticed the gold pouch was gone. Interesting.
"Mistress Elara," he began with a sly smile. "I hope your esteemed Council has had time to deliberate on my rather generous proposal?"
"Indeed, Lord Tyrion," Elara replied, inclining slightly. "The Council was greatly honored by the interest of House Lannister. Your offer has been… thoroughly discussed." She handed him the scroll. "Here is our counterproposal."
Tyrion took it, unrolled it, and read carefully, his expression unreadable. He noted the clauses accepting the thousand dragons as a "deposit for future priority orders." He read the polite but firm justifications refusing exclusivity, invoking the "irrevocable commitments" and the "limited capacity." He saw the proposal to significantly increase deliveries to the Lannisters, granting them a "privileged client" status.
He looked up, a flash of amusement shining in his heterochromatic eyes. "Clever, Mistress Elara. Very clever. Your Council has both business sense… and caution. They accept my gold, yet refuse to hand me the keys to the shop." He chuckled softly. "I admire that. Recklessness is expensive in this world."
He placed the contract back on the table. "Very well. I accept these terms… for now." He leaned slightly forward, his expression serious again. "However, my House's interest in your products, especially Blossom and your new lotions, is immense. The quality is… unmatched. I understand your current constraints. But consider this: House Lannister has considerable resources. Ships for transport, trading posts across Westeros and even beyond the Narrow Sea, privileged access to the most lucrative markets."
He let his words sink in. "Become our exclusive supplier for the cosmetic line, Mistress Elara. Let us handle large-scale distribution. Your Master Artisans focus on what they do best: innovation and production. We take care of the rest. The profits would be… considerable. For all of us. Think about it. It is an offer for the future."
Elara felt the trap close in a new, more seductive form. The offer was tempting. Logistically, it was indeed a nightmare. The idea of letting the Lannisters manage distribution was… rational. But she heard Tony's voice in her head: "Never give up control. Never."
"Your vision is… ambitious, Lord Tyrion," she replied cautiously. "And the idea of a partnership with your illustrious House is flattering. I will convey this new proposal to the Council. However, as you know, our current priority is to increase production capacity to meet existing demand. Any discussion of exclusive distribution would be… premature. But we will keep your offer in mind for the future."
Tyrion nodded slowly, acknowledging the maneuver. She wasn't saying no—she was deferring. He had won a battle—he had a foot in the door, priority access to products—but not the war. Not yet.
"Very well, Mistress Elara. I am a patient man. Keep me informed of your Council's deliberations. And do not hesitate to call on me if certain… obstacles threaten your deliveries. House Lannister knows how to protect its… privileged partners." It was an offer of assistance, but also a veiled threat.
He signed the modified contract with a quick flourish and stood. "I'll leave you now. I look forward to receiving our first priority deliveries. Let your Master Artisans know that Tyrion Lannister is impressed. Very impressed."
He left the office, leaving Elara with a signed contract and a feeling of precarious victory. She had stood her ground, but she knew the Imp would return.
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"The girl is smart. Cold, polite, and reciting her lesson perfectly," Tyrion thought. "The Council is an obvious farce, but well-played. She is protecting someone. This 'Tony'. A child? Hard to believe, given the complexity of the operation. Doesn't matter. The important thing is this: I have access to their products. The gold has been accepted, the connection established. Exclusivity will come later. Patience."
"Imagine… gold from Casterly Rock funding this machine. The Lannister name on these products, distributed throughout the realm, perhaps even to Essos. This is no longer an obscure Fleabottom venture, but a branch of Lannister power. And I, Tyrion, the architect of this merger. The one who saw potential where others only saw mud. Father would be green with rage, and I would surpass Jaime with his sword, Cersei with her court intrigues. I would have built something. Multiplied House wealth."
"Exclusivity is only the beginning. The true goal is control. Find this Tony. Understand his motivation. Seduce him, manipulate him, buy him… or break him if necessary. This company will be mine. Or at least serve Lannister interests. My interests. The game is on." He smiled darkly.
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Five months. Five months of relentless work had transformed the Hollard Valley.
Tony Stark had not left the valley since his arrival. Every day he was on the construction sites, supervising, correcting, innovating. The results were tangible, visible. The hydraulic sawmill ran at full capacity, spitting out thousands of precisely cut planks and beams. The cement works produced tons of the gray magical powder that allowed walls of workshops and the first homes to rise at staggering speed. Main roads had been laid and cobbled, facilitating the transport of materials. Charcoal production was at full throttle, ensuring constant income and the fuel necessary. And the heart of the future power, the blast furnace, was nearly finished, its massive chimney pointing skyward like a challenge. Nearly fifteen hundred people now lived and worked in Val-Engrenage, a steady stream arriving from King's Landing to escape poverty and join this unprecedented endeavor.
Lady Ermesande Rykker had returned. After a month-long absence, during which she had likely reported to her brother and evaluated her options, she reappeared at the Hollard keep, more determined than ever. Tony, still wary but recognizing the potential value of a noble and intelligent ally, had agreed to a cautious collaboration. She acted as his liaison to the outside world: managing relations (minimal for now) with nearby land knights, handling inevitable minor complaints from neighboring lords about noise or convoys, and using her name to facilitate the purchase of specific supplies Tony could not discreetly obtain. She learned quickly, observed everything, asked pertinent questions, and Tony began entrusting her with more significant administrative tasks, testing and gauging her.
Amid this flurry of constructive activity, Tony decided it was time to reveal the next phase of his plan. He summoned a small meeting in his personal workshop—a large building of cement blocks, securely locked, where he spent his rare "free time." Theron was present, as always. Lira, passing through to deliver funds and news from King's Landing. And Lady Ermesande, invited for the first time to a meeting of this level.
The workshop was an organized chaos of metal parts, unfinished prototypes, and scribbled schematics. At the center of the room, covered with a tarp, were two strange-looking objects.
"What we are building here is impressive," Tony began without preamble. "The forge, the sawmill, the cement works… these are the muscles of our new base. But an industry also needs a brain, a nervous system to transmit information, standardize, and educate."
He removed the first tarp, revealing a complex machine made of wood and metal. A heavy moving platen, rows of small metal characters (lead and tin, cast by Theron according to precise molds), a lever operating a large screw. It was a printing press, based on Gutenberg's principle, adapted with the available materials and techniques.
"This," he announced, "will change the way we communicate. No more slow, costly scribes copying documents. With this, we can reproduce texts, plans, instructions, books… by the hundreds, by the thousands. And start bleeding Essos of their gold. Knowledge is power… and money."
He performed a quick demonstration, inking the letters, placing a sheet of paper, operating the press. He removed a printed page—a simple alphabet, yet perfectly sharp and regular.
Theron and Kael examined the mechanism with fascination, immediately grasping the ingenuity of the press and movable type. Lira remained silent, but her eyes shone with an intense gleam—she foresaw the potential to disseminate orders, regulations, and countless other things.
Ermesande was stunned. A printing press? What was this? She had never heard of such a thing, even as a curiosity practiced in some free cities, but seeing it here, functional, capable of reproducing texts on demand… it was a revolution far beyond what she had expected.
"But to print, you need paper," Tony continued, removing the second tarp. Beneath were tubs filled with gray pulp, frames with fine metal meshes, and stacks of sheets of a flexible, durable material—thinner than leather but thicker than silk.
"Parchment is too expensive, too slow to produce. This is paper. Made from wood pulp—a waste product from our sawmill—and old rags. The process is simple once mastered. We can produce tons at a negligible cost." He handed a sheet to Ermesande. "Write on it."
She traced a few words with a quill he provided. The ink did not smear. The surface was surprisingly smooth.
The silence in the workshop was total. The printing press and paper. Two inventions which, combined, represented immeasurable power: the power to spread knowledge, information, orders, on a scale and speed never before seen in Westeros.
Theron and Lira… they were accustomed to Tony's miracles, but this one seemed different, more fundamental. Ermesande was literally shaken. She now understood. What she saw was not even the tip of the iceberg. Tony had an agenda that would disrupt everything (no wonder he had never been impressed by noble titles). And he was executing it here, in a forgotten valley, far from the eyes of the world. A wave of excitement and fear overwhelmed her. The ambition that had driven her to return suddenly seemed trivial compared to the scale of what she was discovering. Her mind raced—plans within plans formed at lightning speed.
Tony let her reaction settle. Then his gaze fell on Ermesande.
"Lady Rykker," he said, his voice calm and sharp again. "You wanted to participate. You wanted to prove your worth. What you see here goes far beyond mere soap or charcoal production. This is just a foundation for a pyramid. It requires absolute loyalty, unwavering discretion, and a will of steel. There is no turning back. So I ask you again: are you ready to go all the way? Are you ready to be part of something that surpasses you, and perhaps at the cost of your life?"
The challenge was set, the threat barely veiled. The future of Val-Engrenage, and perhaps Westeros itself, hung in the intense gaze exchanged between the child prodigy and the minor noblewoman.