Chapter 39:
Winterfell, a private council chamber in the main keep.
The fire in the hearth burned brightly. Thanks to Victor's designed flue system, the entire room was as warm as spring.
But the atmosphere inside the room was colder than the ice and snow outside the Wall.
A long table.
Three seats.
Daenerys Targaryen sat on the right. She had changed out of her armor and wore a black-and-red velvet gown. Her silver-gold hair was braided in an intricate style (symbolizing victory). Behind her stood the fully armed Jorah Mormont and Grey Worm.
Sansa Stark sat on the left. She wore gray-white furs embroidered with a wolf's head, her red hair falling over her shoulders, her expression cold and stern. Behind her stood "the Beauty" Brienne and a group of fierce-eyed Northern lords.
And Victor Pompey sat in the middle.
He brought no guards and wore no armor — just a comfortable white shirt, holding… a thick notebook.
Tyrion Lannister and Jon Snow were present as observers.
"I feel like I should go feed the dragons," Tyrion muttered softly. "That would be safer than here."
"Let's begin."
Daenerys spoke first. She folded her hands on the table, her queenly aura fully on display.
"The Night King is dead. Our alliance has fulfilled half its purpose."
"Now, shouldn't we discuss what you also promised me — the ownership of the Iron Throne?"
Sansa let out a cold laugh and slammed her wolf-head scepter on the ground. "Targaryen, this is the North. Our warriors shed their blood not so you could sit on that broken chair. The North will never kneel!"
"What did you say?!" Grey Worm raised his spear, and the Unsullied formation instantly locked into battle stance.
"Want to fight?!" Jon Snow, though reluctant to start a civil war, instinctively stepped in front of his sister, Longclaw drawn.
The smell of gunpowder instantly filled the air.
Allies who had just fought side by side were now ready to draw blades against each other. This was true human nature.
"Enough!"
A thunderous shout interrupted the confrontation.
Victor Pompey closed his notebook with a crisp sound.
"Have you finished arguing?"
He poured himself a cup of water and took a slow sip.
"Two noble ladies, before we discuss who should be queen, I think we should first talk about something more urgent."
Victor pushed the notebook to the center of the table.
"What is this?" Daenerys frowned.
"This is the bill."
Victor pointed at the numbers on it.
"In this war, to produce that 'artificial sun' (thermobaric bomb), I exhausted five years of inventory from the Pompey Industrial Group. To keep two hundred thousand troops fed, clothed, and supplied in the North, I now owe the Iron Bank three million gold dragons."
"Right now, my cash flow… is broken."
Victor spread his hands with a helpless merchant's expression.
"In simple terms, we are going bankrupt."
Both Daenerys and Sansa were stunned.
They were used to talking about glory, bloodlines, and loyalty, but no one had ever brought money directly to the negotiation table.
"So?" Sansa asked warily.
"So, if we still want to fight a civil war…"
Victor pointed at Daenerys. "Your Grace, your Unsullied and Dothraki consume thirty tons of grain every day. Without my logistics, they will be starving in three days — or they will have to rob Northern civilians. And then the North will fight you to the death."
He then pointed at Sansa. "And you, Lady Stark. If I stop paying wages, how long will your bannermen remain loyal? Doesn't Winterfell need money for reconstruction?"
"Can money solve problems?" Daenerys said with some disdain. "I can simply take it. Casterly Rock has gold mines. Highgarden has grain."
"That's called robbery, Your Grace. How would that make you any different from the Mad King?"
Tyrion delivered a timely stab from the corner. "Besides, Cersei has already emptied the gold from Casterly Rock to hire the Golden Company."
Victor knocked on the table, drawing everyone's attention back.
"I have a proposal."
"A proposal that will prevent us from going bankrupt and allow us all to get rich together."
He took out a pre-prepared map from his bosom.
On the map were several thick black lines running across the continent of Westeros.
"What is this?" Jon asked curiously as he leaned in.
"Railways."
Victor's eyes gleamed with fanaticism.
"I want to lay two steel roads between the North and King's Landing. Using steam trains, we will transport the North's coal and iron ore south, and bring the South's grain and silk north."
"Once these lines are open," Victor looked at Sansa, "the North will no longer be a barren wasteland. You will become incredibly wealthy."
"Once these lines are open," Victor looked at Daenerys, "your rule will no longer rely on your dragons flying everywhere. Your army will be able to reach any corner of the kingdom in three days."
"But…" Victor's tone shifted.
"Building these lines requires an astronomical amount of money, absolute peace, and unified coordination."
He stood up, placed both hands on the table, and leaned forward with an oppressive presence as he looked at the two women.
"So, I propose the establishment of the [Westeros Post-War Reconstruction Committee]."
"Temporarily set aside the dispute over the throne."
"Queen Daenerys will provide aerial security (dragons) and part of the startup capital (loot brought from Essos)."
"Lady Sansa will provide labor (wildlings and Northern commoners) and resources."
"I, House Pompey, will provide technology and coordination."
"The three of us will each hold 33% of the committee's shares."
Victor raised three fingers.
"Profits will be shared. When enemies appear (Cersei/Euron), we fight together."
"Once the railways are built, the economy recovers, and Cersei's head rolls…"
Victor smiled slightly.
"Then we can discuss who sits on that chair. How about it?"
The room fell into silence.
Only the crackling of firewood in the hearth could be heard.
This was an extremely tempting "business merger."
It transformed a deadly political struggle into a community of shared interests.
After a long pause.
Sansa spoke first. She looked at the black lines on the map passing through Winterfell. As the ruler of the North, she could not refuse an opportunity that would make her homeland prosperous.
"The North… agrees to join the committee. But until a formal coronation, I will not recognize Daenerys as my queen."
Daenerys looked at Victor.
She found herself understanding this man less and less. He clearly had the power to take everything for himself, yet he insisted on pulling everyone into the game together.
Was this arrogance? Or another form of conquest?
"Fine."
Daenerys raised her chin. "For the sake of the people, I accept this… 'transitional plan.' But Victor, remember — I am the blood of the dragon. I will not share the world forever."
"Of course, Your Grace."
Victor raised his water cup.
"Then let us… wish ourselves a pleasant cooperation."
…
The meeting ended late at night.
Victor's bedroom.
He had just prepared to rest when the door was quietly pushed open.
Sansa entered wearing a thin nightgown, her long hair loose, barefoot. At this moment, she had shed the cold hardness of the day and gained a touch of feminine charm.
"Victor."
She walked to the bedside, her fingers tracing across Victor's chest.
"What you said at the meeting today… were you helping that Targaryen woman buy time?"
"I was trying to keep you from dying, silly girl."
Victor took her hand. "Her dragons are injured, but if she really fights desperately, Winterfell will become a sea of fire."
"I'm not afraid."
Sansa leaned close to his ear, her breath warm and fragrant.
"As long as you're by my side… tonight, I want you to teach me how that 'railway'… actually moves?"
Victor smiled.
This little she-wolf had learned to be naughty.
Just as the atmosphere grew increasingly intimate —
Knock knock knock.
The window was tapped.
Victor startled. Sansa froze as well.
This was the third floor!
Victor walked over and opened the window.
A green albatross (not a raven, a seabird) stood on the windowsill with a damp message tube tied to its leg.
The tube bore a golden kraken emblem.
Victor untied the tube and unrolled the parchment.
The handwriting was wild and scribbled, carrying the salty smell of the sea and the madness of its writer:
To the lad who killed the Others:
I am Euron Greyjoy.
I found something good in Oldtown. Much more fun than your cannons.
That bitch Cersei says you're very powerful. I don't believe it.
I'll be waiting for you at the Shield Islands. Bring your queen and her dragons.
If you don't come…
I'll use this horn to make her dragons my mounts.
— King of the Drowned God, Euron.
Victor looked at the letter, his eyes instantly turning cold.
The intimate atmosphere vanished completely.
"What's wrong?" Sansa sensed something was off.
"Nothing."
Victor placed the parchment over the candle flame and watched it turn to ash.
"Just some suicidal pirate who wants to give our new railway… some raw materials (meaning steel warships)."
Victor turned around, a flash of killing intent in his eyes.
Euron Greyjoy.
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