In the private, austere quarters that served as his office within the East Barracks of the City Guard, Captain Valerius turned the object over and over in his hands with an almost religious fascination. His quarters were Spartan — a camp cot, a work table, a single chair and a chest for his personal effects — but impeccably ordered. Not a speck of dust dared settle on the dark wood of the furniture or on the carefully swept floor. It was an island of control in the ocean of chaos that was King's Landing.
The object he held, however, was an anomaly, a dissonance in that perfect order. It was one of the "Black Widow" crossbows, the very one his sergeant Hake had retrieved from the Fleabottom boy during the last collection of the "tax." It had lain on his work table for two days, and Valerius did not tire of studying it.
At first he examined it with a soldier's eye. The feel in the hand was astonishing. Unlike the heavy, unwieldy crossbows of the Guard, this one was designed to be shouldered, like a longbow, but with unparalleled steadiness and ease of aiming. The pistol grip, carved to fit the palm, offered instinctive control. The weight, though significant because of the steel, was distributed so expertly that it felt lighter than it was. It was a weapon made not only to kill, but to be used with deadly fluency.
Then he studied it with the tactician's eye. The lever-action reloading mechanism was disarmingly simple once you understood it. Hake had brought back Tony's instructions: a short, sharp back-and-forth motion. Valerius tried it unloaded. The metallic clack-clack was satisfying, powerful. He pictured one of his men, well drilled, able to fire fifteen bolts in less time than it took an archer to nock three arrows. Fifteen bolts capable of piercing chainmail. It was the firepower of a small squad concentrated in the hands of a single man. He imagined a line of Gold Cloaks armed with these holding a street against a cavalry charge. The idea sent a chill up his spine.
Finally, he looked at it with the politician's eye, the eye of a survivor of the slums. This weapon was not merely a technical marvel. It was a statement of power. A power born in the mud, forged in secrecy, and capable of toppling the established order. The boy, Tony, was not just an upstart tinkerer. He was a potential warlord, an innovator whose genius could reshape the balance of power in the city — perhaps the realm. And that genius, for now, was his ally. His unofficial vassal. His most valuable and most dangerous investment.
The door opened quietly and Sergeant Hake came in, carrying a steaming tankard. He set it on the table next to the crossbow.
"Your drink, Captain. As you like it — well spiced."
Valerius did not take his eyes off the weapon. "Hake… look at this. Have you ever seen anything like it?"
Hake regarded the crossbow with a fearful respect. He was the one who had felt its weight while bringing it in. "No, Captain. Never. It… it sends a cold through the bones, to be honest. Looks like it came from the Seven Hells."
"It comes from Fleabottom's hell, which is almost the same thing," Valerius murmured. He sipped the wine; the warm, spiced liquid contrasted with the chill of steel beneath his fingers. "Fifteen bolts. Tempered steel. Able to pierce armor. Produced in quantity by a boy who was ruling a heap of filth three months ago."
He finally raised his eyes to his sergeant, a loyal but simple man whose frankness he appreciated. "Tell me, Hake. What should I do with it?"
Hake frowned, uncomfortable. "Well… the regulations, Captain. A weapon of that power, unregistered, made clandestinely… We should confiscate it. And report it to the Commander. It's a threat to the King's peace."
Valerius let out a small, dry laugh, joyless. "The King's peace? In Fleabottom? Don't be naïve, Hake. The only peace that exists there is the one I permit. And this weapon… this weapon is the guarantee of that peace. My peace."
He stood and began pacing the small room. "Report it to the commander? And what do you think he'd do? First, he'd take credit for the discovery. Then he'd send two hundred men to burn the boy's workshop, torture him for his secrets, and hang him for treason. And after? He might end up with a few crossbows, but he would have killed the goose that lays the golden eggs. He would have destroyed the mind that made them. He would have ruined my investment."
He stopped in front of Hake, his steel-gray eyes gleaming with a calculating light. "This boy, Hake, is a gold mine. A gold mine that also spits steel fangs. As long as he pays his due — which I intend to raise soon — as long as he keeps order in his rat-hole, as long as his inventions improve the life of this city without directly threatening the powerful, he is my asset. I am his shield against the wider world."
He placed a hand on the crossbow. "And this… this is my insurance. It is the constant reminder that, brilliant as he may be, he remains under my control. If he steps out of line, if he becomes too ambitious, if he forgets who lets him breathe… I will only need to show this to the Commander, or better yet, to the King himself, and his little kingdom will collapse."
"So… you won't say anything?" Hake asked, stunned.
"I will put it away," Valerius said as he lifted the weapon. "In my personal chest. No one must know it exists, Hake. No one. It's a secret between the boy, you, and me. A secret that guarantees us a comfortable future. Understood?"
Hake swallowed and nodded. He did not understand all the subtleties, but he understood command. And he understood the threat. The Captain was no longer merely playing the corruption game. He was playing a far more dangerous game: technological power whose rules he did not wholly master.
Valerius carefully stowed the crossbow in his chest, beside his personal savings and a few compromising dossiers. He closed the heavy lid and turned the key. The sword of Damocles was in place. He could now focus on harvesting the fruits of his investment.
—
The next day, the atmosphere in the Midges' headquarters was electric. The great room had been cleared of its improvised benches and tools. Twenty men and women sat on benches or leaned against the walls, their faces closed, betraying a mix of anxiety and resentment. They were the neighborhood "notables": Milon, the corpulent tavern-keeper of the Laughing Gardon; Anya, the stern matron of the only brothel that sold more than disease; old Maester Willem, a herbal healer who had lost his license but not his clientele; Kedge, the sour owner of a fish warehouse by the quay; and a handful of other pawnbrokers, fences and petty traders who formed the backbone of the neighborhood's underground economy.
They had not come willingly. Each had received an "invitation" from Jem, whose mere presence now chilled the blood. They expected the worst: the imposition of a new levy, heavier than Groleau's. Rumor had it the new leader, the boy Tony, was clever, but hunger makes all wolves alike.
Tony entered the room, followed closely by Lira and Theron. He did not look like a gang leader. He was clean, his black hair cropped short, wearing a simple but well-made wool tunic. No visible weapon. His calm stood in stark contrast to the tense air.
He climbed onto a small makeshift platform. Jem and Lira stood on either side of him, silent, hands not far from their weapons. The threat was there, subtle but unmistakable.
"Thank you for coming," Tony began, his clear, measured voice carrying easily in the silent room. "I know many of you are worried. Groleau is dead. His reign of terror is over."
A murmur rippled through the assembly. It was the first time the new power had addressed them directly.
"I am not Groleau," Tony continued. "I do not believe in extortion. I do not believe you can build anything on fear and daily squeezes."
The faces remained wary. It was too good to be true. Milon, the tavern-keeper, spoke first, his voice trembling despite his size. "So… what do you want from us, boy? We have hardly anything. Groleau bled us dry."
"I know," Tony replied. "And I am not here to take the little you have. I am here to offer you a deal. An investment."
He signaled to Elara, who brought forward a large slate on an easel. With quick, precise strokes, Tony began to draw. It was not a map. It was a simplified diagram of the "Spinner."
"This," he said, pointing at the drawing, "is a clothes-washing machine. It cuts laundry time by ten, saves water, and preserves fabrics."
A perplexed silence met his words. A washing machine? What was he talking about?
"The washerwomen are your customers, Milon," Tony said, turning to the tavern-keeper. "They come in for a drink after a backbreaking day. Imagine if they could do the same work in two hours instead of twelve. They'd have more time, more money. They'd spend more at your tavern."
He looked to Anya. "Cleaner sheets, faster, for your girls. Fewer illnesses. Happier clients."
He met Maester Willem's eyes. "Fewer women with hands eaten away by soap and backs broken by labor."
Slowly, the idea took hold. They did not understand the mechanics, but they understood the consequences.
"But to build these machines, to start this industry, I need capital," Tony went on. "That's where you come in."
He produced a sheaf of rough parchments. "I am not asking for a tax. I am asking for a loan. Each of you will contribute according to your means."
Protests erupted.
"A loan? We're supposed to give you our money?"
"And what if it fails, your machine?"
Tony raised his hand and silence fell again, aided by Lira's cold stare sweeping the room.
"This is not a request," he said, coldly. "This is a contract. A 'Fleabottom Promissory Note.'" He handed one to Milon. "For every silver staggard you invest today, this note guarantees you two in return in six months' time. Not three years. Six months. You can exchange it for hard coin, or use it as credit to rent my machines or to buy other goods my future workshops will produce."
He paused, locking eyes with each person in the room. "You have a choice. You can refuse. You can keep your money under your mattress and hope the Skeletons or some other gang don't take it tomorrow. Or you can invest in a project that will not only secure this quarter, but make it prosper. One that will pay you back double in six months."
He let the unspoken threat hang: refusal would mark you an enemy of the new order. They all remembered what had happened to the Black Dogs. Paying a single hefty sum now, with a promise of return, suddenly seemed preferable to the daily terror Groleau had exacted.
And then there was the machine. The idea was mad, but tangible. They saw the diagram. They saw Theron, a respected smith, standing beside the boy as a silent guarantee of technical feasibility. They were terrified, but they were intrigued. If this kid could take down Groleau, maybe he could really turn mud into gold.
Milon was the first to give in. He sighed loudly, pulled a small purse from beneath his tunic and tossed it on the table. "Very well, boy. Take it. But if I don't see double in six months, I…" He left the threat unfinished, meeting Jem's gaze.
One by one, the others followed, reluctantly but following nonetheless. They emptied their savings onto the table or arranged to hand over sums later, receiving in return a scrap of parchment stamped with the gear emblem. It was an act of forced faith, a gamble on the uncertain future of Fleabottom, a bet on the terrifying genius of a child who had just raised the funds for his first industrial revolution.
Tony watched the pile of coins grow, his face unreadable. He had his capital. The construction could begin. The hardest part was only just starting: keeping his promise.