"Since we can't just throw Gold Dragons at every problem to make it go away, how do you propose we handle the manpower shortage?" Jon asked, leaning back in his chair.
"Regarding that, my Lord, I suggest you make better use of your authority," Qyburn replied, his voice raspy but confident. "I'd wager the dungeons of King's Landing are currently bursting at the seams with 'volunteers'."
He said it with such certainty, you'd think he had just come from a tour of the cells.
Qyburn continued, his eyes gleaming with pragmatic calculation. "As for the supplies... shipping them from King's Landing all the way to the Wall is terribly inefficient. It's a waste of coin and time. From what I know, even the Wildlings beyond the Wall have enough sense to trade directly with merchants from across the Narrow Sea..."
Having said his piece, Qyburn looked up at Jon, seemingly assessing the young man he had chosen to call "Master."
Jon nodded, seeing the logic immediately. He quickly scribbled his signature on a requisition order and handed it to a guard. "Take this to Lady Anya immediately."
With the administrative work done, the conversation between the Baron and the Necromancer came to a lull.
However, the soldier who took the order didn't get far. When he reached Lady Anya's courtyard, he was promptly blocked at the door.
The message delivered by her personal guards was blunt: "If he wants something, tell my fiancé to come down here and ask for it himself. I don't take orders from grunt soldiers."
Jon might have been oblivious to the intricacies of a woman's heart, but the rest of the people in Tampa saw exactly what was happening.
For weeks, the eldest daughter of House Joey had been working herself to the bone. She wasn't just doing it for the gold; she was trying to prove her worth, to carve out her own destiny. But no matter how hard she worked, there was always a shadow looming over her—Wolf Liantang, which was just another mask for Jon.
Although her cross-sea trade network was booming, she didn't fly the banner of Baron Jon Stark. Instead, she continued to operate under the name of her "missing fiancé," Wolf Liantang, ensuring that the profits and the credit went to him.
Everyone knew the score: Lady Anya wasn't serving the Shadow Hand of the Capital; she was serving the man she was technically engaged to. But where that left her—and what title she would eventually hold—was a favorite topic of gossip in the taverns.
Perhaps it was this ambiguity that had the "Fiery Vixen" second-guessing herself.
On one hand, she knew the truth: the commanding Jon Stark who rode into town was the same annoying "Wolf" who had teased and manipulated her.
On the other hand, since arriving in Tampa, this famous "Shadow Hand" had been so consumed by business that he hadn't spared her a single glance.
It made Anya feel like a fool. She felt like a knight who had donned her armor, lowered her lance, and charged heroically across the field... only to realize there was no enemy, no audience, just her galloping in circles like an idiot.
When you mix that feeling with the natural insecurity of a young woman in love, the result is a volatile cocktail.
To make matters worse, Anya had the advantage of being a "local." After the masquerade, her spies had picked up plenty of gossip. While she didn't know every noble guest, two names stood out like beacons.
Sansa Stark was Jon's sister, so she wasn't a threat.
That left the other one. The beauty known across the Seven Kingdoms. The Rose of Highgarden.
And thanks to the loose lips of the Gold Cloaks—who had been paid handsomely and were now drunk on cheap ale—the story of the rescue had been blown out of proportion. In their retelling, Jon wasn't just a commander; he was a tragic hero, fighting off dozens of bandits single-handedly to save the fair Margaery Tyrell.
The story ended with him riding back on a mythical white wolf, the shivering beauty clutched safely in his arms.
It sounded like bad poetry from a drunk bard. Anya knew it was exaggerated. But when you're the one being ignored, even bad poetry stings.
Specifically, Anya was painfully aware of the gap in their status. Margaery was the daughter of a Great House, a potential Queen. Anya was... well, a merchant's daughter from a minor house.
Jealousy didn't just knock on the door; it kicked it in.
So, when Jon's soldier arrived with a dry, impersonal command, Anya refused to execute it. She decided to throw a tantrum, just to see if the stone-faced bastard would actually react.
As she sat there fuming, her cheeks flushed. She couldn't help but remember the day "Wolf" had left King's Landing. He had dumped the entire operation into her lap. At the time, she had felt a surge of pride—a sense of being trusted completely. It was a security her biological father, a flaky and unreliable man, had never given her.
But now? That trust felt like abandonment.
Still, business was business. Even as she seethed, her eyes scanned the contents of Jon's order. Her merchant's brain instantly mapped out the logistics.
Give the list to the family sailors. Crossing the Narrow Sea to Braavos takes a week. Buy the supplies there—cheaper and faster. Rent a medium merchant cog, maybe 500-barrel capacity. Sail north to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
To balance the costs, we trade with the Night's Watch for northern specialties—moose antlers, white bear pelts, tundra herbs. Load the ship for the return trip, sail down the coast, and sell the exotic goods in King's Landing for a massive markup.
The plan was perfect. She knew exactly how to do it.
But she wasn't going to make it easy.
Anya slammed her quill onto the desk. She stood up, kicked her chair back, and grabbed her skirts.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She stomped her heels hard against the wooden floorboards as she marched out of her office. She wanted to make sure everyone—especially him—heard her anger coming from a mile away.
But when she burst into the room where she had last seen him, ready to pick a fight... it was empty.
Fortunately, the guards knew better than to get in her way. Having seen her temper and knowing her importance to the Baron's treasury, they silently pointed toward the back garden, indicating where their Lord had gone.