A year and a half later.
The middle of the year 286 After Aegon's Conquest found King's Landing true to itself — a boiling cauldron of commerce and intrigue beneath the sun of an endless summer. Yet in its darkest hollow, Flea Bottom had become an anomaly. Nearly two years after Groleau's fall, the quarter no longer smelled of misery, but of industrious smoke. The air, heavier by the month, carried the sharp, clean scent of pine soap, mingled with the sweeter aroma of freshly cut wood and the metallic heat rising from the forge by the docks.
Tony Stark's informal empire, on the eve of his fourteenth birthday, ran at a frantic pace. The "Churners" whose low thunder had become the new soundtrack of the Néra's banks, generated a steady flow of rental income and lucrative sales for the domestic models. The Soapworks flooded the city with its "Docker's Scrubber," while The Blossom — with fragrances imported from the Reach and its soft floral notes — had found its way into the most luxurious apartments of King's Landing and beyond. The Ropeworks produced ropes prized by sailors and merchants alike; though the market was competitive, they had carved out a solid share for themselves.
Innovation didn't stop there. Faced with the exorbitant cost and poor quality of tallow candles, Tony had launched the Vision lamp. It consisted of a simple thin-metal base, a waxed wick made of braided beeswax for a stable flame, and, most importantly, a curved metal reflector pressed from Theron's new molds. For only a few extra coppers above the price of a common lamp, the Vision offered light three times brighter, cleaner, and longer-lasting. It had only begun its conquest of modest homes and artisan workshops, but its potential was immense. Especially since Tony sold not only the lamp but also the remarkably efficient oil that fueled it.
At the same time, the foundations of a chemical industry were taking shape. In a discreet workshop, two former alchemists — Lorcas and Pollitor — now freed from their guild's dogmas, supervised the large-scale production of purified white vinegar. It was essential for "Fleur de Néra," a textile softener already popular among the wealthier laundresses, but also served as a preservative and cleaner. The extraction and refining of glycerin — once considered a waste product of saponification — were now mastered, providing the base for the "Artisan's Hands" balms beloved by manual workers, and for a new line of cosmetics in development.
Alcohol distillation was advancing rapidly as well: one stream produced a robust industrial-grade alcohol for cleaning and as a solvent, while Pollitor — guided by Tony's surprisingly refined palate (being a former alcoholic had its advantages) — perfected a spirit of remarkable purity, though its destiny remained uncertain. Each innovation, each product, strengthened Tony's economic grip on the city. He had begun with mundane things, but they quietly revolutionized daily life. His idea was never to dazzle — it was to weave himself into the fabric of existence so deeply that when the time came for something grander, people would accept it without question.
For Tony's inner circle, this meteoric rise was an unimaginable blessing — an escape from the hell they had known. Satisfaction reigned. The world seemed within reach. The past was immutable, yes, but the future was theirs, and they would fight anyone who tried to take it.
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Jem, nearing eighteen, was the arm and iron will of the enterprise. As Director of Operations, he maintained the new order of Flea Bottom. He commanded hundreds of workers — many recruited from the very brutes he had once fought — with a natural authority none dared contest. He oversaw the labyrinthine logistics of raw materials and finished goods, kept production quotas on track, and enforced discipline through his internal militia and the occasional intervention of the Crow's mercenaries. Challenges arose daily — a cart stuck in the mud, a quarrel between crews, an attempted theft — but he handled them with pragmatic efficiency. Money flowed, lives improved. To Jem, Tony's plan was flawless. The thought that there could be a structural flaw never crossed his mind.
Lira had become the elegant, formidable ambassador of this empire born in mud. As head of sales — especially for the booming luxury line — she spent her days beyond Flea Bottom, clad in expensive silks, negotiating with haughty stewards, calculating merchants, and whispering ladies-in-waiting. Tony had taught her the codes, the masks, the delicate game of dealing with the powerful — lessons that only deepened her fascination with him. Channeling her fierce nature, he had made her head of counterintelligence — a term she barely grasped, though she fully understood the idea: to neutralize, prevent, or buy off those who sought to sow chaos in their affairs. Her growing network of informants now stretched across the city, feeding her word of courtly intrigues, jealous competitors, and the mounting curiosity surrounding the "miracle of Flea Bottom." She relished the power and respect she had earned — and she had no intention of stopping.
Elara, the quiet secretary, might have been the only one who shared Tony's measured enthusiasm. Armed with the accounting principles he had taught her, she fought to maintain order amid the swelling tide of finances. Her mathematical rigor could not be swayed by euphoria. The ledgers multiplied, the numbers grew dizzying. Money poured in, yes — but so did expenses: pricier raw materials, heavier security, and above all, the ever-rising cost of bribes needed to appease the guards and bureaucrats. She admired Tony's genius, but the complexity and fragility of their vast, rapidly built structure filled her with unease. Alongside Kael, she was Tony's sharpest mind — a gift and a curse. She could not share Jem's or Lira's carefree pride. She wondered how Tony truly felt beneath his calm.
Kael, the silent craftsman, found joy in precision. He oversaw the assembly workshops of the Churner s, trained the few workers capable of delicate work, and spent endless hours with Theron refining new prototypes of machine tools — a steadier lathe, a guided hand drill. He was fascinated by the "Freewheel" ball bearings, whose production had just begun but promised to revolutionize simple mechanics. The challenges Tony posed — to build faster, finer, using only local resources — were to Kael both torment and inspiration. Though they were of similar age, Kael regarded him as a spiritual father.
Theron, the Master Founder, lived a second youth. His forge-factory was the beating heart of the empire, supplying steel for machines, tools, and Tony's secret projects. He was respected, prosperous, proud to pass his craft to a new generation of apprentices. He sometimes worried at the boy's dizzying speed, but his loyalty was absolute. He saw the concrete results — the tangible improvement of life around him — and that was enough. Wealth, knowledge — even wisdom unknown to the Citadel's ancient tomes — had come his way.
As for Valerius, he counted his gold dragons with dull monotony. Thirty a month had become the norm — a fortune that made him untouchable within the City Watch. He had tried to renegotiate for a subtler arrangement, but Tony had laughed in his face. He was trapped by his own greed. Now he was just another employee — paid to ensure protection, to grease the right palms, to look the other way at the docks. He had no power. He saw Tony's empire spill beyond Flea Bottom, becoming an economic force unto itself, and he knew his role as intermediary was eroding. Whatever bluster he maintained, he was a small fish in a deep ocean. The sharks had scented blood. Hake, poor fool, had likely paid the price for trying to take his place.
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On the rooftop of his headquarters, beneath a low, gray sky, Tony Stark watched the ant-like movement below. The smoke of the workshops, the endless traffic of carts, the clang of hammers… It was the sound of success. A brilliant, undeniable success. Yet to Tony, it was only a stage — and he felt, with painful clarity, that this stage was nearing its end.
He wasn't surprised. He had always known. Flea Bottom had been the perfect crucible — a lawless void, a desperate labor force, wasted resources. The ideal launch pad for a quiet industrial revolution. But he had also known that the crucible had limits — physical, political, inevitable. That moment had come.
Space was the first wall. Every alley was a bottleneck, every warehouse full to bursting. He couldn't build larger, couldn't move faster. To achieve the mass steel production he envisioned, to expand into true industrial chemistry, he needed land — wide, open land, with abundant water and broad roads. Flea Bottom was saturated. So was the rest of King's Landing.
Resources were the second wall. His factories' hunger outpaced the city's supply. Wood, tallow, the specific ores Theron required — all had to be bought from afar, hauled at great expense, drawing eyes he didn't want. Valerius's arrangement had outlived its usefulness.
Labor was another. Training skilled hands like Kael took time. He needed engineers, chemists, administrators — talents that didn't exist here. To bring them in from elsewhere would be to sound the alarm.
And then came hostility — quiet, but growing. Competitors — chandlers, weavers, tanners, vintners — hadn't forgotten. They were losing coin, and influence. Their noble patrons were starting to murmur at court. Sabotage attempts grew bolder. The Faith — no doubt paid by jealous hands — gained ground through fiery septons condemning his machines as "demonic" and his prosperity as "blasphemous."
It was an ideological threat — one no logic or sword could quell. And corruption, that endemic leech of King's Landing, was hungrier than ever. Valerius could no longer stem the tide. Every delivery, every inspection, every phantom permit required its own bribe. Money left as fast as it came — no longer as investment, but as blood loss.
No, Tony wasn't surprised. He had foreseen this ceiling. Flea Bottom had always been a launch phase, never a permanent base. For months now, behind the frantic expansion, another operation — far more secret — had been unfolding.
He went back down to his austere office, atop the refurbished building. Two maps awaited him — not of King's Landing, but of the Crownlands and the neighboring lordships, including the Vale. They were covered in cryptic annotations — the fruit of quiet investigations led by himself and a handful of agents recruited by Lira.
A soft knock sounded. Lira entered, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes gleaming with restrained excitement. She held a sealed scroll.
"Tony…" she began quietly, making sure the door was closed. "I think we've found two possible sites. One in each region."
She unrolled the parchment across the map. It was a detailed report, with a rough sketch.
"The Hollard lands," she said, pointing to a zone north of King's Landing, near the Néra's source — technically part of the Crownlands but bordering the Kingswood. "An old house, nearly extinct — loyal to the Targaryens once, but ruined after the Darklyn rebellion against the Mad King. The last heir, Ser Dontos Hollard — a drunken, childless fool, deep in debt. His only claim to fame is having escaped the Red Keep during the Rebellion, which earned him back his lands. Vast territory, mostly forested, with a river and, according to ancient mining records, unexploited iron veins. No one goes there. It's considered cursed — worthless." She looked up. "Rich in resources, poor, indebted, and empty. The perfect match."
A slow, cold smile curved Tony's lips. He studied the map, his mind already sketching the blueprints for the future — steelworks, laboratories, factories rising upon those forgotten lands.
King's Landing had been the incubator.
Now it was time to build the fortress.