Tony's return to King's Landing, less than five days after receiving Elara's tragic message, was as discreet as his departure, but infinitely more charged with menace. He did not return by the main road, but via an isolated cove south of the city, disembarking from a small, fast vessel with Joren and a handful of his most reliable men. Theron remained in Val-Engrenage—construction could not stop—but Tony's heart was heavy with a cold, calculating fury.
He found the manor on Visenya's Hill in a state of silent siege. The guards had tripled, and mistrust was palpable in the air. Elara, pale but resolute, greeted him in the entrance hall. Her red-rimmed eyes betrayed the tears she had shed, but her voice was firm as she delivered her report. The attack had been insidious: the poison, a rare and hard-to-trace concoction, had been introduced in a wine shipment intended for the quarters of the oldest Gnats, those still living at the manor. Only Elara's paranoia, which had recently insisted on a taster checking all food and drink entering her office (a directive inspired by the texts Tony had left her), had saved her. But Pip, Pock, the young Flick—who had become a promising artisan after overcoming his impatience—and three other original Gnats had not been so lucky. They had died in agonizing pain before anyone understood what was happening.
Jem had been indirectly affected. Desperately trying to rescue his agonizing comrades, he had slipped on poisoned vomit and cut his leg open on a shard of broken pottery. The infection, swift and necrotizing due to the poison, had necessitated an emergency amputation to save his life. He was now out of danger but confined to bed, amputated below the knee, his morale at its lowest.
Tony listened to the account without saying a word, his face a blank canvas where only a slight clenching of his jaw betrayed the internal storm. After Elara's report, he went to Jem's bedside. The colossus was diminished, a shadow of his former self, but the sight of Tony seemed to revive a spark in his eyes. Tony offered no empty words of comfort. He simply placed a hand on Jem's good shoulder.
"You will recover. Stronger. I have ideas for that." Then, quieter: "I will find them, Jem. They will pay."
That evening, Tony held a funeral. Not the swift, anonymous burials of the slums, but a dignified, almost noble ceremony in the manor courtyard. The bodies of the six fallen Gnats were washed, dressed in new clothes, and placed on funeral pyres. Tony himself delivered the eulogy, his calm voice resonating in the moved silence of the assembly—the surviving Gnats, foremen, and most loyal workers. He spoke not of vengeance, but of sacrifice, of construction, and of the future they were building together, which no one could steal from them. Then, he personally lit the first pyre. The flames rising to the night sky were a silent promise.
The next day, the purge began. Tony wasted no time on circuitous investigations. He knew the poison had come from within, via the supply chain or a corrupt servant. He activated a counter-espionage protocol he had prepared for such an eventuality, relying on the network of loyalties and discrete surveillance that Lira and Jem had woven over the years.
It was swift, brutal, and executed with ruthless efficiency. Targeted interrogations conducted by Joren and his toughest men. Cross-referencing information. Delivery verification. In less than a week, the chain was traced back. A dodgy wine supplier on the docks, paid by an anonymous intermediary. Two manor servants, indebted from gambling, who had facilitated the introduction of the poisoned crate without knowing its exact contents. More disturbingly, a small cell of five former Gnats, recently recruited but never fully integrated, who had begun asking too many questions, criticizing the leadership, and had been approached by a "merchant" promising gold in exchange for information on Tony's "secrets." They hadn't directly participated in the poisoning, but they represented an unacceptable security flaw.
Their fate was sealed with the utmost discretion. They vanished. Simply. As if they had never existed. The wine supplier had an unfortunate "accident" on the docks a few days later. Fleabottom was purged of its dubious elements with chilling speed. The message was clear: betrayal would not be tolerated.
But the source, the mastermind, the head, remained invisible. The intermediary who paid the supplier had used a false name and vanished. Valerius, summoned by Tony, proved perfectly useless. The Captain was terrified by the attack, aware that his own position (and his head) were at stake if his "partner" were weakened, but his contacts in the slums and even within the City Watch yielded nothing. No one knew anything. The operation had been carried out by professionals, or at least, commissioned by someone powerful enough to erase their tracks. Rosby? Another lord? Rich merchants? Impossible to say.
Tony found himself at a frustrating dead end. He had secured his base and avenged his men in his own cold way, but the enemy remained hidden in the shadows, ready to strike again. He needed information he couldn't obtain on his own. Information from the high spheres, the circles of power where plots were whispered. There was only one person in King's Landing who possessed the intelligence, the access, and potentially the motivation to help him. One person he would have preferred to avoid, but whom he now desperately needed. It was time to cash in on Tyrion Lannister's forced investment.
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The meeting took place in a private room at "The Smiling Mermaid," a respectable but discreet inn near the harbor, known for its clientele of merchant captains and its willingness to overlook confidential conversations. Tony chose the location: neither his territory nor the dwarf's. Neutral ground.
He arrived first, accompanied only by Joren, who remained outside the room, vigilant. Tony wore simple but well-cut, clean clothes, without ostentation. He sat at the table set for two, his back to the wall, facing the door. He waited, calm, sipping a glass of water.
Tyrion Lannister arrived a few minutes later, escorted by a giant bodyguard. He waved the latter away and entered the room alone, a curious smile on his lips. He quickly assessed Tony: the age—barely fifteen, perhaps younger—the average height for his age, the short dark hair, the sharp, dark eyes glowing with keen intelligence. But what struck him most was the complete lack of reaction to his own deformity. Most people either looked away, displayed condescending pity, or unhealthy curiosity. The boy looked him straight in the eye, as he would any other man. Interesting. Very interesting.
"Lord Tyrion," Tony said as a greeting, without standing. His voice was calm, measured, that of an adult.
"Tony, I presume? Or should I say... Master of the Council?" Tyrion retorted, sitting down across from him, discreetly using a low stool to reach the chair height. "Your administrator, Mistress Elara, is an exceptional negotiator. She defends the interests of your... Company with admirable loyalty."
"Elara is competent," Tony conceded. "She followed my instructions. Instructions which included accepting your gold and granting you privileged status, as agreed in the contract you signed."
"A contract that refuses exclusivity," Tyrion noted with a hint of irony. "A commendable caution. But let's get down to business. You requested this meeting. I doubt it's to discuss the scent of your next soap."
"Indeed," Tony said. "My organization has suffered an attack. A poisoning. Several of my oldest collaborators are dead. My operations chief was gravely injured." He recounted the facts, briefly, without apparent emotion, but with a clinical precision that chilled Tyrion more than an outburst of anger would have.
"A regrettable affair," Tyrion commented, his expression suddenly serious. The mention of poison put him on alert. It was a coward's weapon, often used in court intrigues. "And you suspect...?"
"I do not suspect. I seek," Tony cut in. "My own sources identified the local perpetrators, who have been... neutralized, as well as the various nobles who took part. But my investigation revealed a more discreet mastermind, who remains in the shadows. The attack was professional. The poison is rare. This points toward someone with resources and contacts. Someone who doesn't appreciate our success."
"The list of the discontented must be long," Tyrion remarked. "Wronged merchants, competing nobles... even the Faith is said not to hold you dear."
"Precisely. And that is where you come in, Lord Tyrion." Tony stared at him fixedly. "You invested a thousand gold dragons in my enterprise, ostensibly because you wanted our products. You asked to be kept informed. Consider this your first opportunity to protect your investment."
Tyrion smiled wryly. The boy was direct. He was using his own bait against him. "Protect my investment? By playing the spy for you? That is a bold request, Master Tony. What would my father or my sister think if they learned I was collaborating with the... 'lowborn from Fleabottom'?"
"What they think matters little," Tony countered. "What matters is that you have access to information I do not. The rumors of the court, the secrets of the alcoves, the schemes hatched at private dinners. You hear the whispers. You know the players. I want to know who commissioned this attack. Who supplied the poison. How it entered my residence. I want names."
"And what do you offer in exchange for this... service? Besides the satisfaction of seeing my 'investment' prosper?" Tyrion asked, his eyes narrowed.
"Access," Tony replied without hesitation. "You wanted to understand my enterprise? Very well. In exchange for reliable and verifiable information leading to the mastermind, I will open a window for you. Not the keys to the shop, don't dream of it. But a glimpse. The actual production figures. The short-term expansion plans. An understanding of the scale of our operations. Enough to satisfy your curiosity... and perhaps enough to impress your father with your knack for lucrative ventures."
Tyrion remained silent for a moment, evaluating the offer. It was exactly what he wanted. A gateway into this mysterious new empire. Information for information. A dangerous game, but potentially highly profitable. This boy was a clever, ruthless beast, but he was cornered and needed him. It was the perfect time to negotiate.
"Access is tempting," Tyrion admitted. "But insufficient. I want more than a glimpse. I want to be 'in the know,' as you put it. Regularly informed. Not just the numbers, but the strategies. The challenges. The opportunities. Consider me a... silent consultant. A non-voting partner, if you prefer."
Tony assessed him. The dwarf was greedy. He wanted to insinuate himself, to understand, perhaps to better control things in the long run. It was risky. But the need to identify his enemy was pressing. And having a Lannister, even a despised dwarf, as a "consultant" could have its advantages. A form of indirect protection? A continuous source of information?
"A silent consultant..." Tony repeated, thinking aloud. "Whose advice will not necessarily be followed. And whose discretion must be absolute. If a word of our exchanges reaches other ears—your father, your sister—the agreement is broken. And the consequences would be... unpleasant. For all of us." The threat was veiled but clear.
"My discretion is legendary, Master Tony. As is my capacity for survival," Tyrion assured him with a knowing smile. "So, do we have an agreement? You provide me with privileged access to your world. I provide you with the keys to navigate mine and unmask your enemies." He extended his small hand across the table.
Tony hesitated for a fraction of a second. He hated depending on anyone, especially a nobleman, a Lannister. But the situation demanded it. It was a pact with the devil, perhaps. But a clever devil could be useful. He shook Tyrion's hand. The grip was surprisingly firm.
"Agreement concluded, Lord Tyrion. I await your first information with impatience. I hope your quest proves fruitful and swift."
"Oh, I rarely disappoint, Master Tony," Tyrion replied, his eyes shining with intense intellectual excitement. "Especially when the stakes are so high. And this one promises to be particularly... entertaining."
The unlikely alliance was sealed. Two of the sharpest and most dangerous minds in Westeros had just engaged in a complex dance of mutual interests and reciprocal mistrust.