The manor atop Visenya's Hill offered a breathtaking view of King's Landing—a tangled sprawl of rooftops cascading down toward the glittering bay. It stood as a symbol of their ascension, far removed from the filth of Flea Bottom. Yet it was in the council room of that same manor, modestly furnished but comfortable, that Tony Stark was about to announce the end of the first era—an announcement he knew would displease many.
Around the large polished oak table, his lieutenants were gathered. Jem, whose bulk filled his chair, radiated quiet confidence. Lira, elegant in a dark wool dress, watched Tony with her usual sharp focus. Elara, seated beside him, had her ledgers open and quill poised. Kael and Theron, summoned from their respective workshops, completed the circle. The atmosphere was relaxed; the latest production reports were excellent, profits exceeding every forecast.
Jem had just finished his report on the manufacturing of the Churners and the growing efficiency of Fondcombe's internal logistics.
"...and Kael's teams are now turning out nearly ten 'Laundry' machines a week, not counting the smaller domestic models," he concluded with obvious pride. "We don't even know where to put all the money anymore, Tony."
A pleased smile touched Lira's lips. "The Fleuron sells so well I've had to refuse orders from the Reach. And the glycerin lotions… the court ladies are obsessed. We could easily double the price."
Tony let the echoes of their success linger before speaking. His face was serious, his tone measured. "What we've accomplished here, in less than two years, is… remarkable." He paused, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "We've turned a dying slum into an economic engine. We've given work, dignity. We're rich—and, on our scale, powerful."
He rose and walked to a large map of King's Landing pinned to the wall. "But we've hit a wall. An invisible one—but very real."
He pointed to Flea Bottom. "This place was our crucible. But it's full. Every alley is packed, every warehouse overflowing. We're running out of space to build bigger, more efficient. We're running out of local resources—wood, fat, even ash are becoming logistical and financial burdens. We're running out of skilled labor we can train fast enough or bring in without drawing attention."
His expression hardened. "And attention, we already attract too much of it. Merchants whisper. Nobles whose profits we've eaten into are stirring. The Faith denounces us. Corruption is becoming a tax on survival—we spend almost as much on bribes as on wages."
He turned back to them. "Continuing to expand here, in King's Landing, is dangerous. We have no political power—and trying to buy it now would bankrupt us. A single royal decree, a noble's scheme, and everything we've built could be seized or burned. Our next innovations—mass steel production, industrial chemistry—are too visible, too strategic to develop under the Crown's nose without its direct control."
A stunned silence followed. Only Lira seemed unsurprised—proof she'd been briefed beforehand.
"What are you saying, Tony?" Jem frowned. "We're abandoning Flea Bottom?"
"No, Jem. Never," Tony assured him. "Flea Bottom remains our commercial heart—our center for finished goods: soap, lamps, cosmetics. It'll stay the seat of craftsmanship, under Kael's direction. It'll be your kingdom to manage." His gaze swept the room. "But heavy industry, the mass production of raw materials—the next phase—must happen elsewhere. Out of sight."
He returned to the table and unrolled another map, this one of the Crownlands. "For months, Lira and I have searched for a place. Isolated. Rich in resources. Under the rule of a weak or desperate lord. And we found it."
He pointed to a forested area north of the city. "The lands of House Hollard. Once loyal Targaryen bannermen—almost wiped out. The last lord is a broken drunk, heirless, drowning in debt. His lands are vast, covered in forests, crossed by a river, and likely rich in iron ore. An economic wasteland. The perfect spot. If that fails, we have another lead in the Vale."
He laid out his plan: establish a commercial front, lease a vast portion of Hollard land, build planned villages, and relocate a large part of Fleabottom's surplus population there.
"There, we'll build our industrial charcoal pits, our sawmills, perhaps even a new forge—larger than Theron's. We'll control our own raw materials. We'll have space for real factories. And we'll do it quietly—under the guise of a simple forestry venture."
He then addressed the growing social strain in Fleabottom. "You've all seen it. Since work became plentiful, people have been flooding in—from across the city and beyond. They're desperate for a chance. But we can't hire everyone. The slums are creeping back. Petty crime is rising. This new base will let us offer an alternative: stable work, decent housing, away from the misery of King's Landing—for those willing to leave and build with us."
He concluded, meeting their eyes one by one. "I know this is a major change. A division of our forces. But it's necessary for survival and long-term growth. In two weeks, I'll leave for the Hollard lands with the first team—Theron, Lira, you'll come with me to assess the site in detail. Jem, Kael, Elara—you'll stay here. Keep King's Landing running. Maintain discretion. Any questions?"
The room erupted in controlled reactions—surprise, worry, muted anger. Jem, reassured about his command in the capital, was already mentally mapping logistics and security, though he disapproved. Lira, though in the know, worried about dividing forces and Tony's distance. Theron and Kael, aware of the challenge, seemed energized by it. Elara said nothing, already calculating the financial ripples. Tony answered each concern, eased every doubt, reaffirmed his vision. The decision was made. The empire would expand—slowly, but surely.
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While Tony planned the future of his hidden kingdom, Tyrion Lannister had been in King's Landing for a month—officially to represent his house at court, unofficially to escape his father's suffocating shadow at Casterly Rock. Yet he was bored to death. Court intrigues were dull, courtiers predictable, the King an even drunker, more debauched brute than he was. His sharp mind craved a puzzle—a game worthy of his intellect, something beyond his sister's petty theatrics.
He spent his days wandering the city—observing, listening, drinking. And over time, he began to notice anomalies, small inconsistencies in the filthy tapestry of the capital.
It started with soap. In a respectable tavern near the docks, he noticed that the water jug set out for patrons was accompanied by a yellowish bar of soap smelling faintly of pine. When asked, the innkeeper shrugged. "Docker's Cleanser. Everyone uses it now. Comes from Fleabottom, I think. Cleans better than anything else."
Fleabottom ? Tyrion frowned.
Then came the lamps. In artisan workshops, in the corridors of brothels he frequented, he noticed new oil lamps—simple, yet with a polished reflector that cast a remarkably bright glow. He bought one. The craftsmanship was solid, functional. The merchant praised its waxed wick and gave the name: Vision. Origin? Flea Bottom, again.
Next, he overheard gossip about the Churners. Two matrons near Mud Gate complained about the high prices charged by laundresses but admitted the laundry had never been cleaner or faster. The reason? "Miraculous" machines from—Fleabottom. There were a few in the Red Keep, sure, but seeing large ones in the hands of washerwomen caught his attention.
Tyrion began connecting the dots. Effective soap, advanced lamps, revolutionary washing machines… all from the poorest, filthiest corner of the city. It made no sense. Flea Bottom was supposed to produce thieves, beggars, and disease—not industry. And yet, the products were cleverly tiered—commoners, merchants, nobles—all using versions of the same invention, scaled by quality.
He began discreetly investigating. Watching the outskirts of Fleabottom, he noted how the district had changed since his last visit years ago—the stench had lessened. Less despair, more structure. Carts loaded with goods came and went with clockwork regularity. Armed men patrolled—better equipped than the usual thugs. On some crates, he spotted an engraved mark: a simple gear.
His mind raced. This wasn't chance. There was an intelligence behind it—a single guiding hand. Someone, hidden in the shadows of Flea Bottom, was building an economic empire right under the noses of the Crown and nobility. A player both invisible and efficient.
Who? How? Why? Tyrion's boredom dissolved, replaced by hungry curiosity. At last—a mystery worthy of him. A game whose rules he didn't yet know, whose opponent remained unseen. He smiled, a carnivorous glint in his eye. He would find out who this ghost was—this spider weaving its web. Not to expose him—where would the fun be in that?—but to understand. To observe. And perhaps, just perhaps, to play a move or two on this new, fascinating board.
His strolls through King's Landing had just found a purpose.
The hunt was on.