***
The storage room smelled like mildew and forgotten metal. Castor shoved through racks of rusted armor and broken furniture until he reached the back wall, pushing aside the painted canvas to reveal lamplight and the sharp scent of sawdust.
Both craftsmen went rigid when he entered.
Harren straightened from the wooden frame he was assembling, head bowing immediately. "M'lord. Forgive us, we didn't hear you coming."
"Keep working." Castor moved to the workbench.
Look at them, he grinned, watching their shoulders tense. Two grown men about to piss themselves because their lord walked in. Medieval social dynamics are fucking wild.
Harren's hands went back to the wood, movements careful and deliberate. Tym didn't even look up from the steel cylinder, his fingers working the seals like his life depended on getting it perfect. Which, fair—it probably did.
Castor picked up one of the metal letters from a box. Lead alloy, crisp edges, designed to interlock. The letter 'B' for Bolton. Hundreds more sat in organized rows, waiting to become words, sentences, documents that would exist only because he willed them into being.
Movable type. Gutenberg's baby. Except I'm using it for fraud instead of Bibles. Pretty sure that's not what the printing revolution was supposed to be about.
"This ready?" he asked.
"Two more days, m'lord." Harren's voice was steady despite his obvious nerves. "The screw mechanism needs final fitting. Threads have to align perfect, or the pressure won't distribute even across the plate."
At least he knows his shit. Castor ran his hand along the wooden frame.
Smooth oak, joints fitted so precisely they needed no nails. Quality work from a man who'd spent decades building things that killed people when they failed.
"And you understand how to use it?"
Harren hesitated. "Begging your pardon, m'lord, but I'm not certain I grasp what it does. You said printing, but that word means nothing to me."
Right. Printing doesn't exist here yet. No books, no newspapers, no mass-produced anything. Everything's handwritten by monks and maesters charging out the ass for copies.
"You know how Maester Tybald copies documents?" Castor asked.
"Aye, m'lord. Takes him hours for a single page."
"This makes a hundred copies in the time it takes him to write one."
Silence. Both men had gone completely still.
There it is. The moment when medieval brains try to process industrial concepts. Like explaining smartphones to cavemen.
"You arrange these metal letters in a frame," Castor continued, "cover them with ink, press paper against them with this screw mechanism. Pressure transfers the ink. Perfect copy. Lift the paper, press another. As many as you need."
More silence. Harren's face had gone carefully blank—the expression of a man trying not to think heretical thoughts.
He's wondering if I've gone insane. Or if this is some kind of Bolton house magic. Probably both.
"That's..." Harren caught himself. "Forgive me, m'lord."
"You were going to say it sounds impossible."
"I would never question—"
"You don't have to question. You just have to build it." Castor kept his voice level. "Can you do that?"
"Yes, m'lord. On my life." Harren's hands steadied. "If you say it works, it works. I'll build it true."
Good answer. Don't understand, don't question, just obey. Medieval employment contracts are beautifully simple.
Castor moved to the hydraulic press where Tym worked. The kid—couldn't be more than eighteen—was fitting leather gaskets into the steel cylinder. His hands trembled.
Scared shitless. Probably thinks he's going to end up like Berk for knowing too much.
"Stop shaking," Castor said quietly. "Need steady hands for this."
"Yes, m'lord. Sorry, m'lord." Tym took a breath, forcing his hands still. "The seals are ready. Soaked in oil and wax like you ordered. Tested them—they hold pressure without leaking."
"Show me."
Tym pulled the piston up and down through the cylinder. Smooth movement despite tight tolerances. The leather gaskets compressed and expanded, maintaining seal integrity throughout the stroke.
Impressive. Kid's got real talent. Natural engineer trapped in a world that doesn't have engineering yet.
"Good work," Castor said. "Water wheel connection?"
"Ready for mounting, m'lord." Tym pointed at gears on the bench, hand still shaking slightly. "The force multiplication should be—" He stopped, uncertain.
"Should be what?"
"About fifty-to-one, m'lord. That's what the calculations showed. But I might be wrong—"
"You're not wrong."
He actually calculated mechanical advantage. Without formal education. Just intuitive understanding of leverage and ratios. Fucking hell, this kid's wasted as a peasant craftsman.
Castor picked up one of the gears. "Fifty-to-one means a man turning the wheel applies the force of fifty men through the piston. Enough to stamp metal with uniform pressure."
Tym's eyes widened, though he kept them fixed on the workbench. "Stamping metal. Like..." He trailed off.
He knows. Kid's smart enough to connect hydraulic press plus metal dies equals coin minting. Question is whether that intelligence gets him killed or promoted.
Castor reached past him and pulled back the cloth covering the dies.
Braavosi honors gleaming in lamplight. Pentoshi coins with crossed keys. Myrish currency showing double-hulled galleys. Each die carved with detail that would pass scrutiny from anyone who handled the real thing.
Both craftsmen stared. Harren had gone pale.
Yeah. That's the look of men realizing they're accessories to something way bigger than workshop equipment.
"You used real coins as templates," Castor observed, picking up the Titan's head die. "Smart work. Detail's perfect."
"M'lord, I—" Tym's voice cracked. "I didn't mean to overstep. You gave me coins and said make stamps, so I just thought that's what you wanted—"
"It is what I wanted. You did it correctly."
Poor bastard thinks I'm about to flay him for being competent. Medieval work culture is so fucked.
"Why are you afraid?" Castor asked.
Tym's mouth worked. No sound came out.
"You think I'm angry you figured out we're making currency?"
"I didn't figure nothing out, m'lord!" Words tumbling over each other now. "I just followed orders! Made what you told me! Don't know nothing about why or what for—"
"Calm down." Castor set the die down. "I'm not going to flay you for being good at your job."
Tym exhaled shakily, whole body trembling.
Hey Ram!! The terror in this place runs deep. Roose really did a number on everyone's psychology.
"Both of you, look at me."
They obeyed instantly, eyes still lowered in submission.
"You're wondering what you've gotten yourselves into," Castor said. "Strange machines, foreign coin dies, working in secret while Berk's corpse hangs in the courtyard. You're scared."
Neither denied it. Harren's jaw was clenched. Tym looked ready to vomit.
Time to manage this. Can't have them too terrified to work or desperate enough to run.
"That's good. Fear keeps you careful." Castor paused. "But I want you to understand something. You're not in danger from me as long as you do three things."
"Yes, m'lord," they said together.
"First: Build correctly. No shortcuts, no sloppy work. If something doesn't work right, tell me immediately. Don't hide mistakes."
"Yes, m'lord."
"Second: Tell no one what you're building. Anyone asks, you're making improved workshop equipment. Nothing more. Someone pushes for details, you report to me."
Standard operational security. Compartmentalize information, control the narrative, eliminate leak points.
"Yes, m'lord."
"Third: Take your bonuses when I offer them, and don't spend stupidly. New wealth attracts attention. Be smart."
Both men's expressions shifted. Understanding dawning.
There it is. They're realizing this isn't just threats. There's actual reward for success. Stick and carrot, baby. Management 101.
"How much?" Harren asked, then immediately looked like he regretted it. "Begging pardon, m'lord—"
"Ten gold dragons each when the machines work. Another ten after first production run. More if you keep serving well."
Twenty gold dragons. More money than either sees in five years normally. Enough to set up families, buy property, live comfortable. Also enough to make betrayal financially stupid on top of suicidally dangerous.
Their eyes had gone wide. Tym's mouth actually hung open before he caught himself.
"M'lord, that's..." Tym's voice was barely audible. "That's generous."
"It's practical. You're building something valuable. You deserve profit." Castor moved toward the door, then stopped. "You're both clever enough to have guessed what these machines do. The printing press makes documents—any documents I need. Trade manifests, bills of sale, official letters. The hydraulic press makes coins—foreign currency that makes Bolton merchants look prosperous when they claim payment for goods sold abroad."
Might as well be explicit. They've figured it out anyway. Better to control the narrative than let them fill in blanks with worse theories.
He watched them process this. Smart enough to understand implications but not stupid enough to say them out loud.
"You're wondering if this is treason," Castor said. "It's not. The gold's real, mined from Bolton lands. The currency uses that gold—real metal in real denominations. Nothing counterfeit. And the documents?" He smiled without warmth. "Every house keeps records. We're just more efficient."
Beautiful lie. Technically true enough that they can tell themselves they're not breaking laws. Practically false enough that anyone with sense would call it fraud. But they won't think too hard because thinking gets you flayed.
"We understand, m'lord," Harren said quietly. "We'll build them true. And we'll keep silent."
"See that you do." Castor turned to leave. "Tests running within the week. Send word when you're ready."
"Yes, m'lord."
He pushed through canvas into the storage room. Behind him, urgent whispers—Harren and Tym reassuring each other, probably convincing themselves the gold was worth the risk.
They'll serve. Fear of death plus promise of wealth. Simple fucking equation. Add in the fact that they're already complicit just by building this stuff, and they've got no choice but to see it through.
Castor navigated through clutter and rust into the cold corridor beyond. His breath misted in the chill air. Somewhere distant, guards changed watch.
He stood there for a moment, running through mental checklists.
Gold production: steady, twenty bars already with more coming weekly.
Security: established through Berk's example—everyone knows the price of talking.
Conversion methods: nearly ready once these machines are operational.
Military: training in Roman tactics nobody else understands.
Warging: getting stronger daily, rats and ravens under control, wolves next.
And in a year, maybe less, a ship sails for Essos to grab the one piece that makes all this matter. A twelve-year-old girl who doesn't know she's the key to dragons.
He started walking toward the family wing where dinner would be served soon. Had to play the role—dutiful young lord, making improvements, consulting with advisors, everything normal and proper.
The mask. Always the fucking mask. Smiling at lords who think I'm reformed, nodding at Stark directives like I'm a loyal bannerman, pretending this is all about better governance instead of building an empire in the shadows.
But that's fine. Let them think what they want. By the time they realize what I've actually built, it'll be too late. Infrastructure's in place, systems are running, power's accumulated in ways they can't even conceive of.
The stairs spiraled upward, torchlight throwing shadows that danced and twisted. Castor's footsteps echoed in the narrow space.
Printing press and hydraulic press. Two machines that give me control over the two things that matter—information and money. Can forge any document, mint any currency, create paper trails that support whatever story I need to tell. Add in the gold mine funding it all, and I've got the foundation for something unprecedented.
The North thinks in terms of honor and swords and feudal obligations. They're fighting with Bronze Age tools. I'm bringing Industrial Revolution concepts into a medieval world. Not fair. Not honorable. But absolutely effective.
He reached the main corridor, heading toward the great hall. Sounds of preparation—servants setting tables, kitchen staff hauling food, the low hum of castle life continuing as it had for centuries.
None of them know.
Not the servants, not most of the soldiers, not the visiting merchants or the smallfolk in the villages. They see a young lord making reforms. Better roads, new construction, modest military expansion. Normal shit.
They don't see the gold mine.
Don't see the machines.
Don't see the intelligence network I'm building through warging.
Don't see that in two years I'll have more operational power than any Northern house except maybe the Starks.
And even they won't realize it until I want them to.
Castor paused at a window overlooking the courtyard. Torches burned in the darkness. Guards patrolled walls. And in the center, chains creaking in the wind, Berk's flayed corpse served as permanent reminder of what happened to men who broke faith.
One example. That's all it took. One deserter made into a monument, and now fifty men who know about the gold won't even whisper about it in their sleep. Fear works when you're willing to follow through. And I'm very fucking willing.
He continued toward the great hall, already anticipating the evening's performance. Would sit at the high table, discuss harvest yields and road construction, maybe review reports from Wolkan about grain stores and tax collection. All very normal, very proper, very lordly.
And beneath it all, machines turning in secret chambers. Gold accumulating in hidden vaults. Plans advancing toward outcomes nobody else could predict.
This is how you win, Castor thought, approaching the hall's entrance. Not with speeches and honor and noble gestures. With preparation, resources, and the willingness to do what others won't. Build the foundation in shadows, accumulate advantages nobody sees, then strike when the moment's right.
The game's accelerating. Every day brings new capabilities, new power, new pieces moved into position on a board only I can see completely.
And I'm just getting started.
He pushed through the doors into warmth and light and the evening's necessary theater, already thinking three moves ahead.
***
CHAPTER END