The paper between Tony's fingers was on the verge of tearing. He folded it, unfolded it, twisted it with a feverish nervousness, his knuckles white with the effort. The anger within him was a contained furnace, a magma seeking an outlet. The walls of the private room at "The Smiling Mermaid" seemed to close in, the rancid smell of sour wine and fish grease coating his throat.
The door opened without a knock. Tyrion Lannister entered and dropped heavily into the chair across from him. He eyed the martyred paper, then Tony's closed-off face.
"You look like a man who just bit into a rotten fruit," observed the Dwarf, pouring himself a cup of wine. He took a long swallow, savoring the hostile silence. "My ears have been... whispering. You wanted names. Here they are, or what's left of them."
He counted on his fingers. "Lord Gyles Rosby. Died a week ago. His cough finally took him, it seems. A sudden, fatal worsening. Septon Torren, the one who shouted so loudly against your impious inventions near the Mud Gate... drowned. An unfortunate fall on a foggy night. He was drunk, they say."
Tyrion continued, his sharp gaze capturing every micro-expression on Tony's face. "Ser Harys Swyft and Ser Jon Bettley, two landed knights with estates well-placed on the northern route... hunting accidents. One lost control of his horse, the other took an crossbow bolt in the back. The responsible squire is said to be wracked with remorse."
He emptied his cup and set it down on the table with a sharp crack.
"In summary,the little clique of nobles who had lost money because of you, who were complaining the loudest in everyone's ear, and who had, incidentally, the means and the motive to command all the attacks... has been wiped from the face of the world. In less than a fortnight. An epidemic of sudden, devastating misfortune, isn't it?"
The paper in Tony's hand was now a compact ball. His calm was that of a frozen pond, ready to crack.
"That wasn't me," he said in a low, hoarse voice.
"I doubt it," retorted Tyrion. "Your style seems more... direct. This is the work of a gardener. Someone who pulls weeds out by the root, with elegance, without dirtying their hands. Someone who is watching you. And who decided you were worth far more than those stinging hornets."
It was at that moment that Tony reached out and deposited the crumpled ball of paper in front of Tyrion.
"Read that,"he proposed.
Intrigued, Tyrion carefully smoothed out the sheet. The handwriting was fine, elegant, impersonal. The message was of a chilling clarity:
"We have ensured the neutralization of the threats looming over you. They threatened the King's peace, and threatened you while you have the realm's best interests at heart. We have also relieved you of the burden of dirtying your hands with blooded nobles. Consider this a favor, which will be called in when the time comes, when the realm has need of you."
There was no signature.
A slow, wide, and dangerous smile stretched Tyrion Lannister's lips. A smile full of troubled knowledge and macabre amusement. He guessed the fingerprint, the meticulous and elusive style. The Spider. Varys. The eunuch was no longer content to observe; he was investing. He was building a debt for Tony with the blood of his enemies.
"A benevolent protector," said Tyrion, letting a heavy irony linger. "And so generous! He cleans your pigsty and promises only to claim his due for a noble cause. Who could refuse?"
Tony stood up, his chair scraping the floor. The humiliation of feeling like a pawn, a commodity being fought over in the shadows, was more biting than the anger.
"A favor," he repeated, the word tasting like poison. "The price is never listed on that kind of favor."
He walked towards the door, then turned back, his gaze as hard as Valyrian steel.
"The next time you see your informants, Lord Tyrion, tell them to find the name of the one who signs his favors with the absence of his name. I hate debts. Especially to a ghost."
Tyrion remained seated, contemplating the closed door. The smile still hadn't left his face. The information was far more valuable than he had hoped. Not only was Varys interested in Tony, but he had shown his cards, in a way that only a discerning eye could decipher. Tony had recognized the threat, but he didn't yet see the web he had just fallen into. And Tyrion, he was now in the delicious position of seeing both the spider and the fly.
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The manor on Visenya's Hill smelled of death and medicinal herbs. Tony ignored the fearful looks of the servants and went straight to Jem's room. He found him bedridden, his face emaciated, a blanket concealing the lower part of his body. Tony's rage, so cold in front of Tyrion, turned into a dull ache. Pip, Pock... they were like younger brothers. Jem... Jem was his first true ally, his shield.
Jem tried to push himself up on his elbows as Tony entered,a grimacing smile on his face. "So, Tony... you're back. Don't worry about me. I... I'll be back on my feet soon. Well, on one foot. I can still manage the teams from here. I..."
"Quiet, Jem," Tony cut in. His voice wasn't harsh, just tired. He sat on the stool near the bed. "You're trying to put on a brave face. It's useless. You're maimed. It's a problem."
Jem looked at him, his single fist clenching the sheet, expecting pity, or worse, to be cast aside.
Tony pulled a measuring tape from his pocket – the same one he used for his blueprints – and a notebook. "You can't run a logging operation from a bed in King's Landing. I need you at Val-Engrenage."
"But...my leg, Tony..."
"Yes. Your leg." Tony threw back the blanket, exposing the bandaged stump below the knee. He examined it with clinical objectivity, as if it were a defective machine part. "It's an engineering problem. And I solve engineering problems."
He began taking measurements. The circumference of the thigh, the length of the stump, the strength of the remaining muscles. Then he measured Jem's good leg, noting the length of the tibia, the size of the foot, the knee joint.
Jem watched him, stunned. "What... what are you doing?"
"I'm building you a new leg," Tony replied without looking up from his notes.
"A wooden leg? A pirate's peg? I don't want that shit, Tony..."
"No," said Tony, finally looking up, and for the first time, Jem saw that familiar gleam in his eyes, that burning intensity of the inventor. "Not wood. Steel. Light. With joints. Springs for impulse. Leather straps and articulated steel for the knee and ankle. It won't be like the old one. It will be something worthwhile. Stronger. You won't be a cripple, Jem. You'll be the first enhanced man."
He finished his measurements and stood up. "Rest. Heal. Let the anger fuel you. I have work to do. You will too, soon."
He left, leaving Jem alone, tears in his eyes for the first time since the attack, not of sorrow, but of a mad and terrifying hope.
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A week later, Tony Stark's fortified convoy left King's Landing once more. But this time, a second luxury carriage, discreetly bearing Lannister colors, followed closely, like a pilot fish attached to a shark. Tyrion had negotiated his presence as a condition for the continuation of their "partnership". Tony, reluctantly, had accepted, judging it safer to keep this unpredictable ally under his eye than to let him investigate alone in King's Landing. Anyway, the genius was out of the bottle; a city built on trade and industry wasn't meant to be hidden. He sensed that his famous protector would curb any foolish impulse Tyrion might have to cross him.
The journey was without incident. The roads were strangely calm, as if the echo of the previous massacre had scared off all the highwaymen. When they finally arrived at the pass overlooking the Hollard valley, Tony called a halt. He got out of his carriage and invited Tyrion to join him.
Tyrion Lannister emerged from his vehicle, stretching and complaining about the discomfort of the journey. "So, this is it? Your famous logging operation? I hope the view is worth..."
He stopped short.The words died in his throat.
Below, stretching for miles across the valley floor, was not a lumberjack camp. It was the skeleton of a city. A planned, geometric, functional city, teeming with frantic activity.
His Lannister eyes,accustomed to assessing wealth and power, tried to take in what he saw. The river, massive, was no longer wild; it was contained by a dam of wood and earth that channeled its force towards a huge building from which came the shrill scream of a hydraulic sawmill and the heavy, regular THUMP... THUMP... THUMP of trip hammers.
Further away, a monster of brick and iron belched thick, black smoke into the sky: the blast furnace, whose heat radiated almost up to their position. Beside it, sheds, workshops, chimneys... Theron's forge, but multiplied, monstrous.
He saw quarries on the hillsides,mines from which carts emerged on wooden rails. He saw the cement works, a dusty complex where kilns turned relentlessly. And he saw the city itself: rows upon rows of small, identical grey houses, aligned along wide, straight streets. Thousands of people were active there, moving materials, building, forging.
The sound.It was the sound that struck him most. Not the hubbub of King's Landing, but the sound of industry: a deep rumble, a constant hammering, the hiss of steam, the shriek of metal. It was the sound of a new world being born.
For the first time in years, Tyrion Lannister could not mask his astonishment. His ironic smile had vanished, replaced by gaping disbelief.
"By the Seven Hells..."he murmured.
He had expected a larger Flea Bottom.More squalid workshops, more soap, more rope. He was not prepared for this. This wasn't an enterprise. It was a fortress. A base capable of producing steel, wood, machines... weapons.
"You..." he said, turning to Tony, his voice suddenly lower. "You didn't tell me about this."
At that moment, a group of riders came up the trail from the valley, alerted by the convoy's arrival. At their head were Theron, looking harried but proud, and Lady Ermesande Rykker, dressed in practical riding clothes, her hair up.
Ermesande froze upon recognizing the visitor. "Lord Tyrion?" Her voice betrayed her total shock. What in the seven hells was the Lannister Dwarf doing here?
Lira and Kael, who were getting out of the other carriages, had the same reaction of stupefaction and mistrust. Why had Tony brought him here?
Tyrion ignored the newcomers. His mind was spinning at a frantic pace, recalculating everything he thought he knew. This kid was not a simple prodigy artisan. He wasn't a lucky gang leader. He had been completely wrong; he understood Varys's move now. Someone capable of building a city from nothing, in less than a year, in the utmost secrecy. His potential was terrifying. The thousand dragons he had "invested"... it was a joke. A drop in the bucket.
"You don't just make soap, do you, Master Tony?" asked Tyrion, his gaze plunging into the impassive one of the adolescent.
Tony turned towards the valley below, a broad gesture encompassing the smoking factories and the buildings under construction.
"I accepted your gold,Lord Tyrion. I accepted your help. You wanted to be 'in the know'." He gave him a cold smile. "Welcome to Val-Engrenage. The future."
Tyrion Lannister understood in that instant that the game he thought he was playing had just changed radically in scale.It was no longer about controlling a small luxury business. It was about the birth of a power that could one day rival that of a Great House. And he was there, on the ground floor. The excitement, pure and dangerous, overwhelmed his initial stupefaction.
"My faith..." he said at last, recovering a semblance of his irony. "It would seem my investment has been... judicious. Very judicious indeed."