A YEAR LATER
In the solarium of Casterly Rock, the setting sun's light struck the tall Myrish windows, casting golden reflections on the polished stone floor without managing to warm the room. Tywin Lannister stood there, motionless, his back to the sea, contemplating not the landscape but the reflection of his own power in the tinted glass. The air was cold, still, much like the master of the place.
At his side, his brother Kevan, as reliable and dull as lead, finished his report. His monotone voice recited facts, figures, and agents' observations.
"...and he spends less and less time in King's Landing itself, My Lord," Kevan concluded. "Our agents confirm he now uses his own allowance, and no longer yours, for his travels. He has been seen in Maidenpool, in the Vale, and appears to be the main financial partner of this new... 'Company' operating in the Hollard lands."
Tywin did not turn. His jaw tensed imperceptibly, a simple muscular twitch betraying the cold fury rising within him. Tyrion. The name resonated in his mind like a persistent insult. The humiliation of his birth had been a burden he had borne with icy repugnance. His son's antics—his insatiable appetite for whores, wine, and gambling—had been a constant source of shame. But it was a predictable shame. A vice he could despise, quantify, and even use as a leash. A rabid, limping dog is still a dog on a leash, as long as it depends on the hand that feeds it.
But this... this was new. It was intolerable.
"He spends less in the brothels, then?" Tywin asked, his low voice a mere whisper that cut the air like broken glass.
"Far less, My Lord. Almost not at all, in truth," Kevan answered cautiously. "Our agents report he spends his nights reading ledgers or meeting with merchants. He seems... invested."
Invested. The word grated on Tywin. A Lannister did not "invest" in filth, and coin-counting. He did not consort with upstarts from Flea Bottom and lesser lords, regardless of their sudden wealth. And Tyrion was growing rich. That was the supreme insult. He was no longer content to waste his family's gold; he was earning his own. He was emancipating himself. He was slipping his leash, not through open rebellion—which he could have understood, and crushed—but by the worst means possible: competence. A despised and reviled son who shined was an insult.
On a cedar side table, next to a stack of correspondence, rested a glass bottle of perfect clarity, its shape elegant and unusual, containing an amber liquid. Tyrion had sent it to him. A "gift from the Hollard valley," he had written.
Tywin had tasted it, just once, out of pure curiosity. It was a spirit of a purity and strength he had never known. Not a crude brandy, but a drink produced with an alchemist's precision. It was refined, powerful, and it came from the same place as Cersei's soaps and the rumors that made the court shudder.
It was the symbol of the intelligence Tyrion had managed to ally himself with. An intelligence that produced tangible results. An intelligence that did not come from him, Tywin, but from elsewhere.
"He thinks he has become a player," Tywin mused aloud, his voice filled with a cold venom. He finally turned, his pale green eyes locking onto his brother.
"He thinks this money gives him weight. He forgets that the only weight that matters is his name. A name he continues to dishonor, no longer through debauchery, which was pitiful, but through misplaced ambition, which is intolerable."
Kevan nodded, only half understanding. "What do we do, My Lord? Shall we cut off his funds? Order him to return?"
"No," Tywin snapped. The very idea of giving Tyrion an order he might publicly disobey was unthinkable. Forcing him to return would be an admission that he had slipped from his control.
"Let him play. Let him stir in his gilded muck. The money he earns is still Lannister gold, no matter whose hand holds it."
He paused, walking toward his desk. "But I want to know who is behind all this. Truly. Not the rumors. Not the facades. This 'Lady Hollard,' this Rykker woman who married a drunkard... is she the mind, or the puppet? And this invisible 'Master Artisan' the reports from Flea Bottom speak of... I want a name. I want a face."
He sat, his hands joining.
"Tyrion is a defective tool, but he has sniffed out something. He has attached himself to a new source of power. I want to know what that source is. I want to understand it. One cannot control what one does not understand. And I *will* control everything that touches the Lannister name. Send new men. More discreet men. They are not to approach Tyrion. They are to observe his associates. I want to know where the gold comes from. I want to know where *everything* comes from. I want to know the root of the problem."
Kevan bowed. "Yes, my brother."
As Kevan departed, Tywin's gaze fell once more on the bottle of spirits. He was furious, not because his son was a failure, but because he was threatening to succeed without him. To seize the importance he had always denied him.
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Cersei Lannister watched her brother from the balcony overlooking the training yard. The morning sun flooded the yard, glinting off the armor of her oafish husband as he trained noisily with Ser Barristan. But it wasn't Robert she was watching. It was Tyrion. The Imp. He was crossing the yard, his gait abnormally assured, almost arrogant, his uneven footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. He was not alone. He was flanked by two businessmen from King's Landing, textile merchants who seemed to hang on his every word, laughing with obsequious respect at some bawdy joke he had just made.
A cold, familiar contempt washed over Cersei. She had always hated the "monster," the grotesque creature who had killed her mother in childbirth and who sullied the Lannister name with his very existence. But her recent hatred was different, more visceral, more... bitter. The old Tyrion was a fool. A lecherous, drunken whore-monger, easy to despise, easy to manipulate, an insignificant pawn in the great game. He was an embarrassment, but a predictable one, a constant reminder of the cruelty of the gods and the injustice of her father.
But this new Tyrion was a threat.
The change had occurred insidiously over the last year. It had started with that ridiculous soap. She herself used it now—the "Blossom," white and scented with asses' milk and rose, was of a quality that even Essosi imports could not match. One of her ladies-in-waiting had even remarked that her skin seemed softer. She had slapped her for the insolence. Then came the creams, the lotions, a host of products for skin and hair that made everything so smooth, so perfect, that it angered her more than anything.
Especially since it all seemed to come from Flea Bottom. From that cesspit. And it was all tied to Tyrion.
He had seized upon these commoner innovations and turned them into gold. His gold. He no longer seemed to care about their father's gold. He had his own income, an income that, it was rumored, was beginning to rival that of some mid-level houses. And this money gave him a confidence she had never seen in him. He walked as if he owned the world. He spoke at court no longer with the caution of a tolerated pariah, but with the authority of a merchant prince. Lesser lords fawned over him. Merchants begged him to invest. Even Robert, her fool of a husband, had laughed when he heard that Tyrion was "finally doing something useful with his ten fingers" by selling soap.
The irony burned her. She, the Queen, the embodiment of Lannister beauty and power, had to fight for every ounce of influence, for every glance of approval from her father, to maintain her place in a world of men. She was chained to a drunken brute, forced to scheme in the shadows to secure her children's future. And he, the runt, the misshapen dwarf, was gaining power and respect simply by associating with grimy artisans from Flea Bottom and House Hollard.
It wasn't even his own intelligence. He had just been lucky enough to stumble upon this "Master Artisan," this "Tony" of whom the rumors spoke. And now, he was preening. Rumor had it he was the main partner of the "Company," the mysterious entity that had secured exclusive rights to the Hollard lands and had built some sort of new town in the forest. A town that, it was said, produced steel and strange machines.
She hated this alliance. She hated Tyrion's wealth, because that wealth made him independent. She hated his influence, because that influence gave him a voice at the Council that her father would soon be unable to ignore. Tywin respected wealth and power above all else. What if... what if one day, her father began to see Tyrion not as the failure of his life, but as the most Lannister of all his children—ruthless, intelligent, and incredibly rich?
The thought was so vile, so unbearable, that she clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. No. She would not let this monster steal her birthright, her prestige, her father's respect. She might have underestimated the Imp and his alliance with the mud. But she would not make that mistake twice. She would find a way to ruin him. Ruin his prestige, ruin his business. She had to find out who this "Tony" was. She had to find the heart of this network and plant a dagger in it.
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The air in the Keyholders' Chamber of the Iron Bank was not merely cold; it was dead, vacuumed of all life, all superfluous emotion, like a corpse prepared for a long journey. The gray and black marble of the walls and floor seemed to absorb the light from the few torches, creating a solemn and intimidating gloom. The silence was so absolute that Tony could perceive the faint hiss of burning beeswax.
Across from him, behind a bare, gleaming ebony desk, sat three bankers, the Keyholders. Their faces were masks of wrinkled parchment, their eyes like ancient, dull coins. They were not hostile. They were far worse: perfectly neutral. Lady Ermesande, at his right, was a pillar of fierce calm, her presence an anchor of noble legitimacy in this temple of money. Lira, at his left, motionless in a sober gown, was a concealed knife, her eyes scanning the room, assessing the shadows.
"Master Tony," began the central Keyholder, his voice the dry rustle of parchment.
"You have obtained this audience. A fact in itself. Your affairs in Westeros are... documented. You deposit much gold with us. That is the basis of all banking operations. Beyond that, your famous printing press, your paper, and the resulting books are all the rage across the continent. Not even in the archives speaking of Valyria are these methods and inventions mentioned."
The Keyholder on the right, a man with ink-stained fingers, spoke. "Knowledge is a commodity. Rare. Not always true. Subject to change. These books you produce... they are different. The knowledge they contain appears to be systematic. Repeatable. Why should we listen to a man who has sold it to the first bidder? That seems like poor business sense."
Tony inclined his head. Their research was good. He had deliberately allowed these technical books to filter into Essos, bait for sharper minds than the stubborn lords of Westeros.
"Gentlemen," Tony said, his young voice carrying an authority that seemed misplaced in this ancient place. "I have not come for a loan, make no mistake. I have come to offer you a partnership to control the future of knowledge and perception."
He gestured. His assistants placed several objects covered in black silk on the ebony desk.
"You mentioned my books," Tony continued. "Their existence is the product of two things: a regulated-speed printing press, and paper made from wood pulp, not rags, allowing for mass production and negligible cost. But anyway, that is a topic for another time, let's get to the essential part."
He removed the first covering. Beneath it lay flasks, beakers, retorts, and glass tubes of such perfect clarity and regular shape that they seemed like artifacts from another world.
"Your trade networks with Myr cost you dearly for their glass," Tony stated.
"A tinted glass, mouth-blown, full of bubbles and imperfections. Each piece is unique, like a mistake. That is craftsmanship. This," he tapped a beaker, which rang with a crystalline sound, "is industry. Purified silica glass, cast and polished according to mathematical processes. It withstands extreme heat and thermal shock. It is perfectly inert. It is the basis of all serious alchemy. Myrish glass is the price of blood—the blood of slaves suffering in dusty workshops, the blood shed for defective products that explode in the fire. My glass is the price of intelligence. It is born from calculation, not sweat."
He let his words resonate in the silence. The Keyholders did not move, accustomed to pompous speeches, but their attention was now sharp as a razor's edge.
He turned to the second covering. "But glass is only a means. Its ultimate purpose is to reveal what is hidden."
He removed the veil, revealing two main instruments. The first was a spyglass, but of a much sturdier and more precise design, mounted on a brass tripod. The second was a smaller, more complex object with several rotating objective lenses.
"This," he said, indicating the spyglass, "is an astronomical telescope. It is not just for seeing ships on the horizon. It is for seeing the horizons themselves. Besides, we can glimpse the moon today, so it's ideal."
He gestured to the central Keyholder. "Look. Now. In broad daylight!"
Intrigued despite himself, the old banker stood and approached. Tony had aimed the instrument not at the sea, but at a high point in the pale blue sky. The banker put his eye to the eyepiece.
He remained motionless for a long moment. His back, usually straight, hunched slightly. A ragged breath escaped him. He stepped back, his parchment face turned to ash. He looked at Tony, then at the telescope, with an incredulity mingled with fear.
"...craters," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I see shadows on... on the Moon. Like scars. What sorcery is this?"
A chill ran through the room. Seeing the Moon was nothing. Seeing its details, its mountains and valleys, in broad daylight, was like stealing a god's secret.
Without a word, Tony turned to the second instrument. "And this is a microscope." He had prepared a slide with a drop of water taken from a Braavosi canal. He invited the ink-stained Keyholder to look.
The man leaned in, skeptical. He remained frozen even longer than his colleague. When he straightened up, his face was undone.
"There is... life in there, little monsters are moving in it!" he shouted. "Creatures that swim. That spin. In a single drop of water!"
He looked at his own hands with sudden horror, as if seeing for the first time the invisible worlds they might host.
Tony let the terror and wonder set in. He removed a third covering, revealing a system of lenses and mirrors mounted in a box, with a light source—an improved oil lamp.
"This is a light projector," he explained. "It can focus the light of a simple flame to illuminate an entire hall, or project enlarged images of text or diagrams onto a wall. Imagine being able to train your accountants, your captains, your architects, not with a single book passed from hand to hand, but with a giant, clear image, visible to all simultaneously."
He now stood before them, no longer as a supplicant, but as a prophet of a new age.
"You spoke of my books, gentlemen. Those books are the symptom, not the disease. The disease is ignorance. Ignorance is expensive. It sinks ships, collapses bridges, fails harvests, and kills men from diseases we could understand and treat. Your business is to finance the world. But you are financing a blind world."
He placed his hands flat on the cold desk.
"I am offering you the chance to finance a world that sees."
He detailed his offer. A new entity, "The Optics of Val-Engrenage." The Iron Bank would not invest in a simple company, but would buy a majority share in this new subsidiary, becoming its principal shareholder and exclusive financial distributor for all of Essos and beyond.
"In return," Tony continued, "you will gain a de facto monopoly on the tools that will redefine science, medicine, navigation, and education. In ten years, no serious warship will set sail without our telescopes. No scholar from Pentos to the Citadel will be able to do without our microscopes. No palace will be lit without our optical systems. You will not be selling products, gentlemen. You will be selling vision itself. You will become the bankers not only of gold, but of the mind."
He paused, letting the weight of the proposal settle in the tomb-like silence.
"Myrish glass is the price of blood and uncertainty; it does nothing special, it is flawed. My glass is the price of certainty and progress. Which do you prefer to buy?"
The three Keyholders did not even look at each other. A silent understanding, born from decades of shared calculations, passed between them. The eldest, the one who had seen the craters of the Moon, spoke at last.
"Your proposal... transcends commerce, Lord Tony. It touches the balance of power. It requires deep consideration."
Tony nodded, a faint smile on his lips. He had cast the greatest lure of all: not wealth, but the mastery of reality itself. Besides, they had just called him 'Lord,' proof that they were more shaken than they wanted to admit.
"Consider it, gentlemen," he said, preparing to leave. "But remember that the future is not negotiated. It imposes itself. And those who see it coming first are the ones who set the terms."
He left the Chamber of Accounts, leaving behind the richest men in the world, confronted not with a request for money, but with an offer to buy the eyes of humanity. And for the first time in a long time, they felt poor. Poor in vision.