Six months. Six months of relentless effort, constant challenges, and yet, astounding progress. By the start of 287 AC, the Hollard valley was no longer a forgotten land haunted by ghosts and bandits. It had become Val-Engrenage, a nascent industrial city, humming with raw, determined energy. Tony's blueprints were no longer lines on parchment; they were cast in cement, forged in steel, and etched into the landscape.
The transformation was spectacular. The hydraulic sawmill turned without cease, processing mountains of standardized planks that fed the construction sites. The cement factory spewed its grey powder, allowing the walls of workshops, warehouses, and dwellings to rise at a disconcerting speed. The completed blast furnace roared day and night under Theron's expert supervision, converting the valley's red ore into raw iron, ready to be refined into steel in the adjacent converters. Next to it, the first hydraulic power hammers began pounding the incandescent metal, shaping the tools and machine parts necessary for continued expansion.
All the industries that had ensured Tony's initial success in Fleabottom were now replicated here, but on a tenfold scale. A new, larger, more rational soap factory produced "Degreaser" by the ton. An improved mechanical rope-works spun miles of rigging for the merchant ships of Maidenpool and Duskendale, drawn by the competitive prices of lumber, high-quality charcoal, and other Val-Engrenage products. A chemical laboratory, led by Lorcas and Pollitor, now produced vinegar, glycerin, and industrial alcohol in significant quantities under Tony's direction. Gold was beginning to flow, not yet a tidal wave, but a steady and growing river that financed construction and wages.
The city itself was taking shape. The main streets were wide, paved with stone, designed for the passage of heavy carts. The residential districts stretched out in orderly rows of small concrete block houses—simple but solid, equipped with collective latrines and water points supplied by rudimentary piping. It was not Braavos, but it was infinitely better than the squalor of Fleabottom. Migration was intensifying. Every week, new families arrived, drawn by the promise of stable work, decent housing, and relative security. Val-Engrenage now counted nearly three thousand souls, an industrious and isolated enclave at the heart of the Crownlands.
Security was an absolute priority. Tony had not forgotten the ambush. A new guard force had been established, commanded by Joren. One hundred men strong, it was exclusively composed of loyal veterans from Fleabottom. There was no question of hiring locals or unknown sellswords yet to protect the heart of the operation. They patrolled the boundaries of the leased territory and beyond, monitored access points, and maintained order within the city with iron discipline. Their presence deterred the remaining bandits and reminded neighboring lords that Val-Engrenage was not easy prey.
Even the decrepit Hollard keep was beginning to change. Tony had established his headquarters there. Teams of workers were consolidating the walls, redoing the roofs, and installing glass windows—a novelty made possible by the recent arrival of a peculiar group of artisans.
They had arrived a month earlier, a small, discreet convoy that came not from King's Landing, but directly from a ship docked at Maidenpool. A dozen Myrish men and women, their eyes still bearing the fear and resignation of slaves. They were glassblowers, bought for a king's ransom by Tony's agents sent to Myr, then immediately freed upon their arrival at Val-Engrenage. Their initial surprise gave way to wary gratitude, then to cautious devotion when they understood that what was expected of them was not servitude, but their art. In a workshop specially built for them, equipped with furnaces designed by Tony, they were just beginning to take up their tools again, shaping the valley's siliceous sand into goblets, vials, and, above all, plates of glass destined for windows and future laboratory instruments. Glass, essential for the advanced chemistry and biology Tony envisioned, was now within reach. Val-Engrenage was no longer just about steel and cement; it was entering the age of glass.
Tony, who had not left the valley since his arrival months earlier, supervised it all with an intensity that bordered on overwork. He saw his plan materialize, but he knew that every success created new challenges. The city was 80% built, but the remaining 20%—the fine urban planning, the complex sanitation systems, the housing for an ever-growing population—were the most difficult. Trade was soaring, but it also attracted attention. Peace reigned in the valley, but external threats were always lurking.
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The influx of wealth had a predictable effect on Dontos Hollard. The drunkard, whose rent was now paid with metronomic regularity by the Company, had begun to emerge from his alcoholic stupor. Not to take an interest in the management of his domain—he cared nothing for that—but to demand more. He paraded in the keep courtyard, dressed in new silks paid for with Tony's gold, demanding better wine, more servants, and even a "right of inspection" over the Company's activities.
Tony treated him with glacial contempt, having Theron (who managed relations with him) provide an additional "personal allowance," but superbly ignoring his attempts at interference.
Dontos had no real power—the lease contract was solid as a rock—but his whiny, unpredictable presence was a nuisance, a potential source of embarrassment, or even danger if he happened to speak carelessly to the wrong people.
It was Lady Ermesande Rykker who proposed an unexpected solution. She had become a constant presence in Val-Engrenage, dividing her time between the Hollard keep (where she maintained a façade of courtesy with Dontos) and Tony's improvised office, where she familiarized herself with the complexities of industrial management with obvious intelligence and ambition. She had earned some of Tony's trust, proving her loyalty by discreetly thwarting a neighboring lord's attempted interference and by using her contacts to smooth over a few difficulties.
One evening, as they were reviewing the expansion plans for worker housing, she broached the subject of Dontos.
"He is becoming... presumptuous," she said with a moue of disgust. "The money is going to his head, without him having lifted a finger. He speaks of raising the rent, of renegotiating the contract. It's absurd, of course, but he could create problems. Telling stories in King's Landing…"
"I'll handle it," Tony cut in coldly. He had already considered several scenarios to neutralize Dontos, ranging from gilded exile to an opportune hunting accident.
"Perhaps there is a more... elegant solution," Ermesande resumed, looking him straight in the eye. "A solution that would stabilize the situation, strengthen our position here, and reassure my own family about my... associations."
Tony raised an interrogative eyebrow.
"A marriage," Ermesande calmly announced. "Between Ser Dontos and me."
Tony stared at her, surprised. "You? Marry... that man? Are you joking?"
"Not at all," Ermesande replied, her face impassive. "Consider the advantages. Dontos is the last of the Hollards. He will never have an heir of his own line given his condition. As his wife, I would become Lady Hollard. I would have legal control over this domain. Upon his death—which, let's be honest, won't be long given his lifestyle—I would be the regent, perhaps even the heir. Val-Engrenage would be secured under a noble and legitimate authority. My brother, Lord Rykker, would look favorably upon this unexpected but advantageous union: his sister controlling a neighboring and potentially very wealthy lordship. He would become an objective ally, a protection against the other houses of the Crownlands."
Tony quickly analyzed the plan. It was Machiavellian, but brilliant. It solved the Dontos problem without violence. It gave legitimacy and a noble façade to his operations. It offered political protection via the Rykkers. It was almost too perfect.
"And you?" he asked. "What do you gain, Lady Ermesande? Aside from a drunken husband and an unhappy marriage?"
A cold smile touched Ermesande's lips. "I gain my independence, Supervisor. I escape a dull marriage imposed by my father. I become mistress of my own destiny, and of a domain that, thanks to you, has a future. I gain a seat at the table of power. Your table."
Tony understood. She sought to elevate herself, to use Val-Engrenage as a springboard for her own ambition. It was dangerous. An ally so calculating could become a formidable rival. But the immediate strategic gain was undeniable. It was a gamble. A gamble on his ability to keep her under control, or at least, to align their interests. He even suspected that this thought was not born the day after Dontos's antics began.
"It's a... pragmatic arrangement," he said slowly. "Disgusting, but pragmatic. Very well, Lady Rykker. If you are prepared to pay this price, I will not oppose it. I will even facilitate the 'negotiations' with Ser Dontos. He won't refuse a noble wife... especially if she comes with a substantial dowry."
He looked at her fixedly. "But let things be clear. Your primary loyalty remains with the Company. With us. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, Steward," Ermesande replied, without blinking. The deal was sealed. The power the Company would represent in the future was well worth the sacrifice.
—---------------------------
In the heart of the King'swood, where the centuries-old oaks masked every glimmer of moonlight, the assembly was complete. Captain Gault, a man whose face was split by a scar and whose armor was blackened steel (a legacy of a decade spent in the Essosi sellsword Companies), surveyed his troops.
Seven hundred men. Hardened sellswords, former soldiers seeking pay, dishonorable men whose only allegiance was gold. The majority had gathered in groups of ten or twenty, so as not to arouse suspicion, under the pretext of a banal "anti-bandit operation" in the Crownlands.
"Good," Gault murmured to his lieutenant, a man named Joss.
"The count is correct. Not a single banner has appeared, not a single raven has been raised. The stealth approach worked."
Joss nodded, his hand gripping the hilt of his longsword. "They sleep, Captain. They think their crossbows will protect them. But they only have a hundred guards. A hundred, against seven hundred. We will be upon them at dawn."
Gault sneered, a dry, joyless sound. "It's more than just a city, Joss. It's a gold mine. And the man who pays us doesn't just want the land; he wants the whole machine, so no looting. The steel they produce here, the wood, their tools... It will all be ours by the afternoon."
He circled the camp, observing the troops' preparations. Bows were strung, halberds sharpened. They were the traditional sword of Westeros, ready to subdue this abnormal and unholy growth that was Val-Engrenage.
"The plan: the cavalry strikes the outer walls to draw the guards," Gault ordered in a low voice. "The heavy infantry, divided into three waves, must breach the gates or scale the palisades. The keep…" He smiled. "The keep is for me. We capture the famous Tony. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter, as long as his arrogance is silenced. And as for Lord Dontos, we'll ensure his alcohol proves fatal."
He looked up at the faint glow of fire and metal rising over the hills. The smell of coal and iron smoke drifted through the air. It was the smell of wealth, and he was about to seize it. The night was ending.
—----------------------------
In the map room of the Hollard Keep, the atmosphere was electric. The Steel Guard, alerted by the scouts, stood ready. Tony Stark stood before a table covered with schematics, his calm contrasting with Joren's palpable nervousness.
"Seven hundred unidentified men, arriving via the forest roads from the Northwest," Tony summarized, tapping a point on the map. "I suppose my hidden enemy grew tired of waiting for me to leave my den, or perhaps he let me build the den only to seize it. No matter!"
Joren, the head of the guards, spoke in a rough voice. "We only have a hundred men. The cement walls won't hold forever against battering rams. We must fortify the workshops or evacuate."
"Evacuate is ridiculous, Joren. The city will continue to run as if nothing is happening. No, we are going to use the tools we have manufactured to show them the true worth of Val-Engrenage steel. And we are going to attack them first."
Tony gave his orders with the precision of a master clockmaker.
"Joren, arm your men and the carts. Then come find me at the secret base, with the men who are in the confidence."
"Lorcas, distribute the 'Demon Bottles'." He was referring to the improvised grenades, the Myrish glass vials filled with an explosive mixture that triggered upon violent impact. "I doubt we'll use them, but better safe than sorry."
"Theron, put five men on standby, equipped with shovels, picks, and wheelbarrows."
Thirty minutes after preparations, Joren arrived at the said base as ordered.
Tony opened a large steel safe. He pulled out a weapon—a compact, smooth, tubular metal device made of a series of metal parts. He handed it to Joren, who examined it, his eyebrows furrowing.
"What… what are we supposed to do with this? Weren't these supposed to still be in development since our last tests? Isn't this... overkill for mere mercenaries?"
Tony looked away toward the dark spot where the seven hundred men were hiding in the darkness, ignoring the question.
"No, Joren," Tony replied, adjusting the collar of his reinforced leather jacket. "War is war."