Aegon's Calendar, 286 AC
Deep within the Goose Mountains, at the foot of an unremarkable low hill, Ser Arthur personally stood guard with five hundred elite soldiers.
Watch posts had been established on the surrounding peaks as well.
Every man stood vigilant, eyes sharp, discipline flawless, as if they were guarding a mountain of gold.
Behind them, within a cavern carved into the rock, a group of craftsmen labored with feverish intensity.
Ink stained their hands and faces. Crumpled sheets of ruined paper littered the ground.
Their dedication was not driven solely by the great heap of gold stacked in the center of the cavern.
It was because the king himself was present.
Adrian Celtigar, the Old Crab, stood beside Viserys, witnessing the birth of the printing press.
He was a miser, but his mind for business was second to none.
The moment Viserys described the function of the press, Adrian realized that House Targaryen had uncovered a mine greater than the gold veins of Casterly Rock.
And this mine would never run dry.
"Your Grace, every craftsman who has touched this machine must be strictly controlled.
Should any attempt to leave Gohor without permission, they must be executed immediately."
The Old Crab's face had never looked more ruthless.
Viserys accepted the advice.
Still, he knew the technological advantage would last perhaps ten years.
At most twenty.
Once printed materials began circulating widely, others would begin experimenting, investing coin into research.
But ten years were enough.
Not only to dominate printing technology.
He would use the wealth to build foundries, armories, armies, and civil infrastructure.
Gohor had to grow quickly.
The Tenth Free City was not his ambition. Mastery of the Rhoyne was.
The machine itself resembled a large oil press.
Viserys was a teacher of letters, not an engineer. He could provide ideas and funding, not technical blueprints.
But that was enough.
After a year of work and thousands of golden dragons spent, the Targaryen Printing Press, modeled after Gutenberg's design, was finally complete.
A Rhoynar craftsman inked the movable type, placed paper upon the press plate, and turned the threaded screw.
Pressure descended.
The plate was lifted.
A clean, orderly printed sheet emerged.
The craftsman handed it to Viserys.
[Long live Viserys. Long live Targaryen.]
Viserys smiled faintly. There were always those who understood courtly flattery.
"Good. Reward him."
He stepped closer to the machine, eyes gleaming.
This was not a printing press.
This was a mint.
"Ser Adrian, begin production at once. One hundred presses. No—three hundred. The first books printed shall be The Seven-Pointed Star and The Scripture of R'hllor.
The bindings must be exquisite. We will position them as premium works."
"Your Grace may rest assured," Adrian declared confidently.
Faith in Westeros centered on the Seven. In Essos, belief was diverse, though the Lord of Light held significant sway.
Viserys had already sent envoys to Volantis to obtain a copy of the R'hllor scripture from the High Priest Benerro.
Benerro had believed Viserys intended to convert and lent him the most ancient and accurate version.
Before printing the R'hllor texts, Viserys had instructed his maesters to revise the Seven-Pointed Star in ways favorable to House Targaryen.
Benerro's scripture would likewise be carefully edited.
At first, Viserys had considered merely hinting that the prophesied savior would arise from House Targaryen.
But Maester Faelor and Maester Xavier knew the cultural level of Westerosi lords well.
Subtlety would be wasted. So the revisions were direct.
Targaryen equaled the savior.
The Usurper would meet a grim end.
Adrian understood the economic power of printing. The maesters understood the cultural dominance it would bring.
Within two years, the revised Seven-Pointed Star would spread throughout Westeros.
From landed knights to great lords, every household would own a copy.
Under religious markup alone, profits could reach hundreds of thousands, perhaps over a million golden dragons.
After that would come the Gospel Series and the Mythic Series.
Viserys would squeeze every rebellious lord's coffers dry.
"Within half a year, the first batch will reach the Seven Kingdoms," Adrian promised as they left the cavern.
"Good. You oversee production. Ser Davos will handle distribution."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The true profits would not be visible for months yet.
For now, Viserys's priority was his second coronation.
This time, not only his own vassals would attend. Nobles from the Seven Kingdoms and envoys from other Free Cities would be present.
Most important of all, Braavos would deliver the final dragon egg.
The three eggs lost during the reign of Jaehaerys I would soon be restored to their rightful house.
Another matter concerned him as well.
The list of Westerosi houses attending the ceremony.
He had given them one year.
If they did not come, he would have every justification to strip lands and titles in the future.
As he exited the cavern, Mathos handed him a parchment.
The list of attending houses.
They had reached an unspoken understanding.
Viserys had not required them to appear openly. If they would not come even under such discretion, they would suffer later.
The houses were grouped by kingdom.
The West and the North had sent the fewest.
One each.
From the Westerlands came House Westerling of the Crag. From the North came House Bolton of the Dreadfort.
The Boltons had long resented the Starks. Perhaps they sought to hedge their bets.
The Vale and the Riverlands together had sent fewer than ten houses.
"The Reach has sent the most, Your Grace," Mathos whispered. "Though House Tyrell has dispatched only two bastards."
"It is understandable," Viserys replied calmly.
He knew Mace Tyrell's heir was still a boy of barely ten.
The heir could not leave Highgarden.
When he examined the list of Dornish attendees, however, Viserys felt a flicker of disappointment.
If even the house bound to him by marriage hesitated, then it was clear.
The time for reconquest had not yet come.
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