The Vent Solaire struggled against the waves. The ship, designed for the warm, azure waters of the Summer Sea, seemed to protest the dreary gray of the Bay of Crabs. At the prow, Prince Oberyn Martell stood motionless, his arms crossed. The north wind, laden with a cold humidity, battered his saffron silk cloak, an insolent splash of color in this world of gray.
He hated this place. He hated the cold. He hated being so far from Dorne. And more than anything, he hated being intrigued by an absurdity.
"You haven't said a word since Varest," murmured Ellaria Sand, her warm voice a welcome caress in the icy air. She slipped behind him, encircling his waist, seeking his warmth.
"I am contemplating the improbable," Oberyn replied without turning. His amber eyes scanned the muddy coastline of Maidenpool as it approached.
"You're thinking about that 'Master Artisan'," she said. It wasn't a question.
Oberyn let out a short, dry laugh. "I'm thinking about the insolence of Tyrion Lannister. I'm thinking about my spies' reports. I'm thinking about a damned bar of soap. Soap, Ellaria. Apparently, this upstart's 'Blossom' cleans so well it's making the Imp richer by the second."
That's how the story had begun. An economic rumor. An anonymous "Master Artisan" in Fleabottom, the cesspit of King's Landing, who had suddenly started producing goods of disconcerting quality. Lamps. Washing machines. Then this soap, which had invaded luxury markets all across Essos, distributed with a sneer by the most despised of the Lannisters.
Then the Master Artisan had moved. He had taken a name – "The Steward". He had acquired a lease on the bankrupt lands of a drunken lord, one Hollard. And there, a town named Val-Engrenage had sprung from the earth. The stream of rumors had become a river. They spoke of a town of thousands of souls risen from the mud in less than a year. They spoke of "cement" that paved the roads, of steel production that rivaled the forges of Qohor. They spoke of an economic power so sudden it had broken monopolies and rendered once-secure products obsolete.
It was all fascinating, a potential thorn in Tywin Lannister's side, given that the old lion seemed to disagree with his deformed offspring. A drama to which Oberyn wouldn't have paid more attention.
Until his spies brought him a name. A single word, wrested from the confidences of a well-paid Fleabottom prostitute.
Tony.
A name. A simple name from Essos. It should have held no resonance.
But for Oberyn, it tasted of ash and stale beer.
He closed his eyes. The smell of the gray sea vanished, replaced by the stench of a ship's hold, four years earlier. 284 AC. They were not far from Myr. Boredom gnawed at him. His men had found a stowaway.
Not a man. A child. A boy of barely eleven, small, gaunt, covered in soot and minor burns. He had hidden in the cargo hold, surviving on stolen biscuits and stagnant water. He had fled something. A fire, he had mumbled. A master artisan's workshop.
Oberyn had him dragged onto the deck, expecting tears, pleas.
He got only contempt. Black eyes, too large, burning with a feverish intelligence and pure hatred. The boy wasn't afraid of him. He was furious at having been found.
"What's your name, little rat?" Oberyn had asked, amused.
The boy had stared back at him. "Tony."
"And what were you fleeing, Tony? An angry master?"
"A cruel master," the boy had spat, poorly feigning deference towards him.
Oberyn had laughed. The arrogance was delicious. He had kept the boy on deck, like a strange pet, for the rest of the voyage to Westeros. He had watched him, analyzing every detail of the ship as if he wanted to sabotage it, just in case he had to escape.
A little viper. A brilliant little monster.
When they had sighted King's Landing, the amusement had turned into casual cruelty. He could have kept the boy, taken him to Dorne, made him into... something. But it was too much effort and politics.
He had him put into a rowboat. He had leaned over the railing and tossed a single coin. A Gold Dragon, which landed at the child's dirty feet.
"Survive," he had said, his laughter carrying over the water. "If you're as clever as your eyes claim, find a way."
He had never thought of it again. An eleven-year-old boy, alone in King's Landing. He had been killed, enslaved, or starved to death within a week. A forgotten joke.
And now, four years later, a "Steward" named Tony, who would now be fifteen, was building an industrial town, making Tyrion Lannister rich, and paving the roads of the Hollard lands.
"It's impossible," he murmured to Ellaria. "It's a coincidence of names. A child doesn't do... that."
"Then why are we here?" she asked softly, pressing her cheek against his back.
"Because," said Oberyn, his gaze hardening as the port of Maidenpool took shape, "in the unlikely event it is not a coincidence... I want to see the face of the little monster to whom I gave his first lesson in the world's cruelty. Not even the presence of a vile Lannister will stop me."
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The journey from Maidenpool was the first disruption of his reality. The Kingsroad was a disgrace – a muddy, potholed track winding through the Riverlands. Oberyn cursed every jolt that shook his carriage. His daughters, Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene, endured the journey with the stoic endurance of Dornishwomen, but even young Tyene, only seven years old, sometimes whimpered when the jolts became too violent.
Then they left the Kingsroad for a secondary road leading to the Hollard lands, and the world changed.
"By the Seven Hells, this isn't a road," said Nymeria, who rode beside the main carriage where Ellaria and Tyene were. Her Dornish sand steed, nervous, pawed the ground, perplexed by its hardness. "It's smooth as a floorboard."
The road was made of that smooth, gray rock from the rumors. It was wide, perfectly drained. The carriage didn't jolt; it glided.
"It's orderly," said Obara, her spear resting on her shoulder. At fifteen, she was already captivated by such a level of order. "I can't even imagine how many men and how much gold it took to build such a road in a place so poor."
"Hence father's curiosity," retorted Nymeria, whose ten years had not dulled her quick wit.
"Father," Tyene's soft voice rose from the carriage, "this road... it smells bad."
She was right. The closer they got to the town, the more a smell insinuated itself into the air. It wasn't the stench of life and death from King's Landing. It was a new smell. A smell of burning coal, sulfur, overheated metal.
Then came the sound.
It wasn't loud, but it was deep. A thud... thud... thud... rhythmic, coming not from one direction, but from the ground itself. Like the heartbeat of a buried iron titan.
"What is that noise?" asked Ellaria, her head poking out of the carriage window.
Oberyn didn't answer. He spurred his horse, reaching the crest of the hill overlooking the Hollard valley.
And there, he stopped.
His escort halted behind him. Silence fell, broken only by the wind and that distant industrial heartbeat.
Even Obara held her breath.
It wasn't a town. It was a scar.
Val-Engrenage spread out below them. A once-green valley was now a basin of red brick, gray cement, and black metal. Colossal buildings, larger than most minor keeps, belched thick plumes of smoke that mingled with the low clouds. The thud-thud-thud came from a building near the river, where a hammer powered by water – no, by something more powerful – struck steel in rhythm.
The valley teemed. Thousands of souls, the reports said. They moved with a speed, a purpose, that Oberyn had never seen in Westerosi smallfolk. They didn't loiter. They walked. They pushed carts on iron rails. They wore work uniforms.
"By the Seven Hells," murmured Ellaria. "It's... it's Myr. It's Tyrosh. But here."
"No," said Oberyn, his voice suddenly tense. "It's worse. The Free Cities are ancient. This... this is only four years old."
Their princely convoy, with its banners of the sun and spear, descended into the valley. Oberyn expected curiosity, deference, perhaps hostility.
He got only indifference.
The workers looked up from their work. They saw the prince, the guards, the horses. They assessed. They saw neither a client nor a threat. They saw an interruption. And they returned to their work.
Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, had just been judged less important than a batch of nails. An unusual, cold anger began to simmer within him.
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The Hollard keep was no joke. Oberyn caught his breath, not in admiration, but in stupefaction. It wasn the half-decayed fortress he had imagined. The original structure seemed to have been swallowed by an excrescence of pale marble and glass. Immense bay windows, so clear they reflected the clouds, captured the light in blinding flashes. The lines were bold, clean, with balconies of fine ironwork and a mansard roof of gray slate. No crenellations, no arrow slits, not the slightest sign of defense. It resembled nothing he had seen in Westeros. It was a merchant prince's mansion, designed to dazzle with its wealth and its blatant contempt for military architectural conventions. A statement of quiet opulence, as arrogant as it was effective.
A man awaited them on the steps, fluttering like a headless chicken. He was portly, his face ruddy and bloated by alcohol, his crimson velvet doublet stained and stretched to bursting.
"Prince Oberyn! Prince Oberyn! What an unbelievable honor!" The man rushed forward, bowing so low he nearly fell. "Dontos Hollard, Lord of Val-Engrenage, at your service! Well, it's not really me who serves, it's the Steward, isn't it, ahaha!"
His laugh was wet. Oberyn dismounted with fluid grace, his contempt a shield. The man was clearly drunk.
"Lord Hollard. You honor us."
"Oh, but the catastrophe! The tragedy!" Dontos moaned, ushering them inside. "You arrive, and he's not here! The Steward! Nor my dear wife, Lady Ermesande!"
Oberyn stopped. "Your wife?"
"Yes! Lady Ermesande Rykker! A formidable woman! She manages the household, she's so clever, you see! They've left... gone to Braavos! Business with the Iron Bank, imagine!"
Oberyn felt a shiver run down his spine. The fifteen-year-old boy. Dealing with the Iron Bank. The impossibility of it was so vast it was beginning to feel like truth.
"But come in, come in!" said Dontos. "The keep is freshly renovated, the Steward has worked... wonders."
The interior of the keep was the second shock. It was perfect.
It was warm. Not the stifling heat of a fireplace. A gentle, radiant heat came from discreet copper pipes running along the baseboards. The corridors were bathed in sunlight streaming through the large bay windows.
Dontos led them to their quarters, opening the door with pride. "I hope this will be suitable!"
Ellaria entered first and stopped short, a hand over her mouth.
The chamber was simple, furnished with dark, functional wood. But an adjoining door was open, revealing a small room tiled in white ceramic.
There was an enameled cast-iron bathtub. Pipes emerged from it, with brass handles. Above, a perforated metal showerhead.
But the most incredible thing was in the corner. A white porcelain throne, with a water tank above it.
"What is that?" asked Obara, her nose wrinkled.
Dontos giggled with pleasure. "The water closet! The Steward's best invention! Watch!"
He pulled a small chain. Water rushed from the tank into the bowl with a powerful flush, carrying everything away into the depths of the castle.
Tyene let out a cry of surprise. Ellaria looked at Oberyn, her eyes wide. At Sunspear, servants emptied chamber pots out of windows.
"And this," said Dontos, turning a handle above the bathtub, "is the shower."
Hot water began to rain from the showerhead.
Silence fell. Oberyn approached. He passed a hand under the hot water. It was real.
The factories, the steel, the smoke... that was one thing. That was power. But this... a porcelain throne and hot water on demand... that was arrogance. It was the stinking, filthy stowaway boy vowing never to be so again.
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The next day, Oberyn's investigation began. It ended after ten minutes.
He had dressed to impress, his light armor of polished copper, his charming smile in place. He headed for the main entrance of the industrial complex, "Zone One," where the titan's heart beat the strongest.
A detachment of the "Steel Guard" barred his way. Their armor was standardized, gray, without frills. Their helmets hid their faces. They carried repeating crossbows that seemed strange to him, especially their captain, who didn't seem the least bit concerned.
"Prince Oberyn," said Joren, his weathered face showing no emotion. "The town is open to you. The factory is not."
Oberyn smiled. "Captain, I am not a merchant. I am the Prince of Dorne. I am here as a guest of Lord Hollard."
"You are Lord Hollard's guest at the keep and in the rest of the town, my Prince," Joren replied, impassive. "You are not the Steward's guest in the factories. My orders are clear. No one enters without his authorization, especially when he is absent."
"Do you know who you are speaking to?" Obara hissed, her hand tightening on her spear.
Before she could take a step, the click-click-click of twenty crossbows being cocked simultaneously shattered the silence. The Steel Guard hadn't moved an inch.
"We know, my Lady," Joren said, his voice dangerously calm. "But you must understand. The Steward pays us. You... you merely threaten us. We have a hierarchy and we must follow it scrupulously. Unless you are of the royal council, the royal family, or a director of the company, you cannot enter without authorization."
Oberyn raised a hand, his smile gone. "Obara. Step back."
He stared at Joren. There was no fear in this man. Nor hatred. Just duty.
"You are well trained."
"I am well paid," Joren corrected. "Good day, my Prince."
Oberyn withdrew, furious. He was a Prince, one of the most dangerous men in Westeros, and a salaried guard had just denied him access.
He tried corruption. He offered a bag of gold to a worker to guide him. The worker looked at him as if he were mad.
"Gold? My Prince, the Company gives me a wage, a house with a water closet, healthcare, and my children go to school for free. Why would I risk that for a bag of gold?"
He was hitting a wall. Not a stone wall, but a wall of fierce loyalty, built not on fear, but on prosperity.
Frustrated, he returned to the keep. "Who the hell is in charge here when the Steward is away?" he barked at Dontos.
The drunkard paled. "It's... it's his team! There's Elara, the administrator, but she's in King's Landing... There's Theron, the master smith, but he never comes out, there's Kael but he's always busy... And there's Jem!"
"Jem?"
"His right hand! His first lieutenant! A Fleabottom kid, like him! He handles security and all the logistics!"
"Take me to him," Oberyn ordered.
They found Jem not in a barracks, but in an office in the heart of the town. An office filled with maps, ledgers, and a large blackboard covered in numbers.
The young man who rose was barely twenty. He was lean and muscular, his eyes those of a veteran. He had a scar on his lip. He bowed respectfully, but without the slightest servility.
"Prince Oberyn. Lord Hollard said you wished to see me."
Oberyn stepped forward, ready to shred this boy with words, to find the flaw.
And then, he saw him.
Jem rose from behind his desk. And he rose on two feet.
His left leg, below the knee, did not exist. It was replaced. He, who had seen all kinds of war, could spot it at a glance.
It wasn't a wooden peg. It wasn't an iron stump.
It was a leg. A complex mechanical prosthesis, made of polished steel plates, brass rods, and visible gears.
Jem took a step towards him to greet him.
Clank. Hiss. Thud.
The leg bent at the knee. The artificial foot articulated to meet the floor. The movement wasn't too heavy, not too loud; it was absurdly functional.
Oberyn Martell stopped breathing.
He had seen complex toys in Essos, toys for the rich. They were illusions.
This... this was the recreation of a man.
The factories, the cement, the water closets... all that was nothing. It was the work of a builder, a damn clever engineer.
But this... rebuilding a crippled man...
Oberyn's gaze slowly rose from the metal leg to Jem's hard face.
"You," Oberyn murmured, his throat suddenly dry. "The leg. An attack?"
Jem gave a joyless smile. "An attack. In King's Landing. A long time ago. I thought my life was over." He tapped his metal thigh. "But the Steward doesn't like waste. Especially not that of his friends." he said, walking without a limp.
Oberyn stared at him. A cold, vertiginous certainty settled within him.
"It's him," he said, less to Jem than to the universe. "It's the boy from the ship."
Jem looked at him, impassive. "The Steward does not speak of his past."
Oberyn felt a shiver. "I see."
Jem took another step, the clank-hiss-thud of the leg echoing in the silent office.
"I hope your stay among us will be most pleasant. Tony's return should not be long now. Let us hope we can conclude fruitful business."
A silence fell between them. Oberyn understood now. It was no coincidence. The little monster had survived. And he had built an empire to avenge himself upon the entire world.
The lesson had been understood, far beyond what Oberyn had imagined. Access to the factories was secondary now.