Elara's office, in the administrative building, was an island of order in the constant turmoil of their nascent empire. Neatly bound ledgers lined shelves. Maps of Flea Bottom and the surrounding areas were pinned to the wall, covered in annotations. On the wide, dark wood table, piles of correspondence (mostly purchase orders and foreman reports) awaited her signature. Three months had passed since Tony's departure for the Hollard lands. Three months during which Elara, barely sixteen years old, had assumed the role of unofficial regent of the King's Landing operations.
It was not an easy task. Jem managed production and security with an iron fist, but she was the one who held the purse strings, who negotiated with suppliers (who were increasingly numerous and demanding), who managed the wages of hundreds of employees, and who ensured that the financial flows between the capital and the secret project in the Hollard lands remained constant and discreet. Lira traveled back and forth, bringing crucial information from the court and the wealthy districts, but the day-to-day management rested on Elara's shoulders.
Tony had not left her unequipped. Before leaving, he had entrusted her with a small personal library: treatises on accounting (which he had had to translate and adapt himself from an unknown language), books on inventory management, and above all, notebooks filled with his tight handwriting, detailing possible scenarios, negotiation strategies, and crisis protocols. Every evening, after a grueling day, Elara immersed herself in these readings, striving to absorb the cold, relentless logic of her absent mentor. A young assistant, Pip, one of the first Gnats to learn to read and count under Tony's tutelage, helped her sort the mail and maintain the simplest ledgers, but the mental burden remained immense.
That morning, as she was checking the production figures for the 'Blossom' soap, a guard posted at the office entrance announced an unexpected visit.
"It's... Lord Tyrion Lannister, Mistress Elara. He's asking to see you. On business, he says."
Elara felt her heart skip a beat. A Lannister. Here. The name alone was enough to chill the blood. She knew the House's reputation: wealth, power, cruelty. She thought of Tony's scenarios: "Unexpected high-ranking visitor." Protocol: buy time, reveal nothing, remain polite but firm, refer to a higher authority.
She smoothed her simple but clean dress, took a deep breath, and ordered the visitor to be shown in.
Tyrion Lannister entered, preceded by his reputation and followed by a single, massive guard wearing Lannister colors. The dwarf was dressed in dark silk, a faint, ironic smile on his lips. He swept the room with a quick but penetrating gaze, noting the order, the ledgers, the annotated map. Nothing escaped his sharp intelligence.
"Mistress Elara, if I'm not mistaken?" His voice was deeper than she would have imagined, imbued with a natural authority despite his size.
"Tyrion Lannister. Allow me to congratulate you on the remarkable quality of your... products. The 'Fleuron' soap, in particular, is a blessing for those of us who still appreciate cleanliness in this city."
Elara curtsied slightly, her heart pounding. "Lord Tyrion. This is an unexpected honor. How may I be of service to you? Our Company rarely deals directly with Lords of your rank."
Tyrion gave a small laugh. "Precisely. Which is why I am here. I have been so impressed by the quality and the... let's say, efficiency of your operations, that I would like to discuss a mutually beneficial business arrangement." He signaled to his guard, who placed a heavy sack on Elara's table with a dull thud. "This, Mistress Elara, contains one thousand gold dragons."
Elara looked at the sack, then at Tyrion, suspicion warring with stupor. One thousand gold dragons... It was a colossal sum, almost the equivalent of several months' profits from all their operations.
"One thousand dragons... for what, My Lord?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts.
"For your soap," Tyrion replied with a disarming smile. "Your entire current stock of 'Fleuron' and 'Docker's Scour.' And to guarantee exclusivity on your production for the next six months. House Lannister is always looking for quality products for its own estates and... let's say, to diversify its investments. Consider this a down payment. We will pay the rest upon delivery, at a... generous price, of course."
The trap was enormous, almost crude in its enormity. Buy the entire production? Exclusivity? It was a blatant attempt to seize control of their most valuable asset, to insinuate himself into their operations, to find out who was really pulling the strings. Tony had warned her: "Be wary of offers that are too good to be true. The brighter the gold, the deeper the trap."
Elara felt sweat bead on her temples. Refusing a Lannister was dangerous. Accepting was suicidal for their independence. She forced herself to breathe calmly, searching for the counter in Tony's scenarios.
"Lord Tyrion," she began, in a voice she hoped was steady. "Your offer is... extraordinarily generous. And House Lannister's interest in our modest products does us great honor." She paused, choosing her words with care. "However... Our Company has pre-existing commitments. Contracts with numerous merchants and guilds in King's Landing, who depend on our regular deliveries. Breaking our word would ruin our nascent reputation."
She gestured to the ledgers on her table. "Furthermore, our production capacity, while growing, remains limited. We physically could not satisfy an exclusive demand of your scale without neglecting our current clients. As for accepting such a sum of gold..." She lowered her eyes, feigning humility and a hint of fear. "Such a decision exceeds my authority. I am only the manager. I would have to refer to the Council of Master Artisans who lead the Company."
Tyrion listened without interrupting, the faint smile still on his lips. He wasn't fooled. Pre-existing commitments? Council of Master Artisans? Polite excuses, but transparent. The girl was intelligent, well-briefed. She wasn't panicking; she was buying time. And above all, she was confirming that there was indeed a higher authority, a hidden decision-making power.
"A Council, you say?" he repeated lightly. "Fascinating. I would very much like to meet these Master Artisans whose ingenuity is transforming Flea Bottom. Perhaps you could arrange an interview? The gold I bring could certainly facilitate their deliberations."
The pressure mounted. Elara felt a drop of sweat run down her back. "Alas, My Lord, the members of the Council are very discreet men, unaccustomed to the ways of the court, and some are not present. They prefer... to delegate negotiations. But I will not fail to convey your extraordinarily generous proposal to them." She rose, signaling the end of the interview. "The Company will inform you of its answer at the earliest opportunity."
Tyrion rose in turn, his smile widening slightly. He had gotten what he wanted: confirmation of an invisible command structure, and proof that this "manager" was just an intelligent facade. He didn't press.
"Very well, Mistress Elara. I shall await the answer from your mysterious Council with great anticipation." He left the sack of gold on the table. "Consider this a sign of our good faith. Use it as you see fit. House Lannister is patient... up to a certain point."
He gave her a final ironic bow and left the room, leaving Elara trembling, her gaze fixed on the cursed gold sitting on her table. The game had just been raised to a new level. She had to warn Tony. Immediately.
-------------------------------------------------
While Elara confronted the Lion in King's Landing, Tony Stark fought against more primitive but just as stubborn adversaries in the Hollard valley: wild nature and human inertia. Three months had passed since his arrival and the signing of the absurd agreement with Ser Dontos. Three months of relentless effort to transform this sleepy valley into the future base of his empire.
The first results were visible. The initial camp of tents had given way to the foundations and first walls of permanent housing, built from greyish cement blocks made on-site. The hydraulic sawmill, near the river, ran day and night, its shrill cry devouring tree trunks and spitting out standardized planks and beams. The charcoal kilns smoked on the slopes, producing essential fuel. Nearly five hundred people now lived and worked in the town, a mix of Flea Bottom veterans and a few locals drawn by the regular wages.
The main victory of the third month had been the neutralization of the local "bandits." Joren, the mercenary captain, had led a swift and brutal campaign. Using information provided by local guides (happy to be rid of these predators), his men had tracked down the small groups infesting the surrounding hills. The few clashes had been brief; the discipline and superior equipment of Tony's men left no chance for the disorganized brigands. The rare survivors had fled the valley. An armed, precarious, but real peace now reigned over the Hollard lands.
But the main construction site was moving at a pace that exasperated Tony. The construction of the factories was a colossal challenge. Theron and Tony supervised the work with fierce energy, but they constantly ran up against the lack of skilled labor, the difficulty of training new arrivals in modern construction techniques (handling cement, assembling the metal structures of the blast furnace), and supply delays for specific parts that still had to come from King's Landing.
Tony spent his days on the sites, correcting a plan, explaining a technique, pushing the men to work faster, smarter. His presence was a constant source of pressure and innovation. Admittedly, the people of Westeros had a good work ethic, but it was unsuited to his conception of work. They worked hard, but not efficiently, and that was the problem.
Families continued to arrive from King's Landing in small groups, escorted by Jem's men. Their settlement was organized: allocation of housing (however basic), registration, assignment to a work team. But the constant influx strained the limited food resources (despite the new agricultural tools loaned to local tenants, the harvest was not yet in) and drinking water (He was working on an adduction and filtration system, but it was still embryonic). Diseases began to appear, a sign that precarious hygiene and overcrowding were causing problems despite the abundance of soap.
It was in the midst of this constructive chaos that an unexpected visit arrived. One afternoon, while Tony was supervising a crucial construction site, he was interrupted unceremoniously.
"A visitor, Master Tony. Calls herself Lady Ermesande Rykker, from Duskendale. She asks to see Ser Dontos, she says, for a courtesy visit. But she's asking a lot of questions about our work."
Tony frowned. Rykker. A more or less important house of the Crownlands, whose lands were less than two days' ride to the north. Why the sudden interest? He climbed down from the scaffolding, wiping soot from his hands onto his breeches.
"Where is Dontos?"
"In his tower, Master Tony. Probably drunk as usual."
"Good. Let him stay there. Take Lady Rykker to the great hall of the keep. Offer her wine – the best we have, not Hollard's swill. Tell her Ser Dontos is... unwell, but that the Supervisor of works will be happy to receive her on his behalf. I'll join you in ten minutes."
He quickly washed his face and hands, swapped his work tunic for a cleaner, though still simple, shirt. He wouldn't try to impress with finery, but with substance.
He found Lady Ermesande Rykker in the gloomy great hall of the keep, seated in the only chair that was more or less intact, a cup of wine placed before her. She was not a classic beauty, appearing to be in her early twenties – her face was rather severe, her features angular – her gray eyes were sharp, intelligent, and observed every detail with keen attention. She was accompanied by two guards wearing Rykker colors.
"Lady Rykker," Tony said, bowing soberly. "I am Tony, supervisor of the works you visited, and to a lesser extent, temporary steward of House Hollard. Ser Dontos regrets he cannot receive you, his health is fragile today. May I be of service to you?"
Ermesande looked him up and down, noting his youth, his hands still dirty despite the quick wash, but also the quiet confidence in his eyes.
"Steward Tony," she replied, her voice clear and steady. "I was in the area and heard tell of the new activity on Ser Dontos's lands. Simple neighborly curiosity. What are you building here with such fervor? There is talk of hundreds of workers."
"We are harvesting the forest, My Lady," Tony replied vaguely. "A Company, which I represent, by the way, has signed a lease with Ser Dontos. We are building a sawmill, workshops for wood processing, and housing for our workers. A modest enterprise, but one which we hope will bring a little prosperity to this forgotten valley."
"A sawmill that requires a furnace of that size?" Ermesande retorted, her eyes shining with an ironic light. She had clearly already done her own reconnaissance. "And those strange gray blocks your men are assembling? That is not wood, Steward Tony."
Tony remained unfazed. "The furnace is for tools, My Lady. Axes and saws wear out quickly. We prefer to forge them on-site. As for the blocks... an experiment. A mixture of lime, clay, and sand to build faster. Without much success for now," he lied without blinking.
Their conversation continued this way for half an hour, a subtle game of questions and evasions. Ermesande was clearly intelligent, well-informed, and skeptical. She asked precise questions about the Company, its backers ("Merchants from King's Landing, discreet but wealthy," Tony replied), the destination of the wood and charcoal ("Mainly for the capital"), the nature of the "specialized workers" ("Families looking for work, fleeing the city's poverty"). Tony remained polite, outwardly deferential, but revealed nothing of substance.
He sensed she wasn't fooled. She saw the scale of the work, the organization, the presence of men like Theron whose expertise exceeded that of a simple blacksmith catapulted into a backwater. She understood that something far more important than a simple logging operation was happening here.
When she took her leave, her thanks were polite, but her gaze was calculating. "A fascinating project, Steward. I hope your... experiments bear fruit. My big brother, Lord Rykker, will no doubt be interested to learn of this valley's renewal. We wish you good luck."
Tony watched her ride off, escorted by her guards. He knew this visit was not trivial. The Rykkers were a powerful house, influential for minor lords like Hollard. Their curiosity was a danger. The isolation of Val-Engrenage was already compromised. He returned to the construction sites, a new urgency pressing him. Six months. He might not have more time than that before the outside world came knocking harder at his door.