Chapter 3: The First Forging

Chapter 3: The First Forging

253 AC, 8th Moon

The heat was a living thing, a contained and focused god. It was a heat unlike any fire known to Westeros, not the wasteful, flickering orange of a wood fire or the sullen red glow of a smith's forge. This was a silent, white-hot lance of pure energy, a miniature sun held captive in a chamber of fused stone deep beneath the earth. Valerius stood before his creation, feeling the thrum of power not through the soles of his boots, but through the very marrow of his bones. This was not magic as the maesters understood it—some arcane art of whispers and scrolls. This was industrial process control.

His subterranean factory was complete. The main chamber, now dubbed 'the Foundry,' housed the blast furnace he had meticulously crafted. It was a seamless vessel of earthbent stone, lined with a layer of obsidian he had fused into glass with firebending. There were no joints, no mortar, no weaknesses. It was a perfect system, designed for maximum thermal efficiency. A network of air-tunnels, carved with airbending, fed a precise flow of oxygen to the base of the furnace, allowing him to regulate the temperature with a thought.

He raised a hand. From the deep shaft that plunged into the heart of the peninsula, a stream of iron ore flowed upwards, levitating on his will. It was a dark, rust-colored river of rock that poured itself into the furnace's maw. He had spent months mapping the veins below, identifying the richest deposits of iron, the purest seams of silver. This was not mining; it was resource extraction via telekinesis. There were no pits, no slag heaps, no groaning miners coughing their lungs out in the dark. There was only clean, quiet, terrifying efficiency.

With the ore inside, he sealed the furnace and applied the fire. He didn't just create a flame; he became the flame. He focused his will, his very consciousness, into the heart of the furnace, pushing the temperature higher and higher. 1,000 degrees. 1,200. 1,500. He could feel the rock groaning, the impurities—the silicon, the sulfur—beginning to separate. He held the temperature steady, a feat that would have required a team of Qohorik smiths a week of toil and prayer. For him, it was a matter of concentration, like holding a complex financial model in his head.

He let the molten iron pool at the bottom, then siphoned off the slag with a precise application of earthbending, shunting the waste into a designated cooling chamber. What remained was a glowing, liquid heart of nearly pure iron. But he wasn't finished. He introduced a measured amount of charcoal—purchased in bulk by his unsuspecting steward—and manipulated the carbon content with a surgeon's precision. He was not just making steel; he was designing it at a molecular level.

The molten steel flowed from the furnace into a series of molds he had prepared, also of seamless stone. Ingots, perfectly uniform, cooled under his control. He picked one up, still warm to the touch. It was lighter than it should be, yet possessed a tensile strength he knew would be unmatched. He had created a product far superior to anything on the market. This was his proprietary technology, his competitive advantage.

He turned his attention to a smaller, secondary furnace. Here, he refined the silver ore he had extracted. The process was similar, but required a more delicate touch. The gleaming, liquid metal that resulted was 99.9% pure. He let it cool into small, identical discs, each the size of a silver stag. He took one and, with a focused application of metalbending, stamped it. On one side, the coiled serpent on the hook. On the other, a simple numeral: '1'. It was not a coin of the realm. It was a corporate bond. A tangible representation of the wealth of his new enterprise.

He stood back, surveying the first run. A stack of steel ingots that would make a master smith weep, and a small pile of silver coins that represented the beginning of his own private treasury. Phase One of his business plan was complete. He had moved from infrastructure development to production. Now, it was time to deploy the product and consolidate his domestic market.

The harvest of 253 AC was a thing of legend on Massey's Hook. The fields, watered by the miraculous new streams and tilled with strange, impossibly sharp plows that had appeared in the village smithy, yielded a bounty that the oldest fishermen could not recall ever seeing. The grain silos of Pyralis Point were overflowing for the first time in the keep's history. The smallfolk were not just fed; they were prosperous.

Valerius rode through the village, a calculated performance of the benevolent lord inspecting his domain. The change was palpable. The sullen, stooped peasants of a year ago were gone. In their place were men and women who stood straighter, who met his gaze with expressions of awe and gratitude. They were his workforce, and their morale was at an all-time high.

He stopped at the edge of the village, where a new project was underway. Using his foreknowledge of basic engineering and his ability to quarry and shape stone with ease, he had designed new houses for the villagers. They were simple, two-room structures of fitted stone with slate roofs, a world away from the leaky, flea-ridden hovels of wattle and daub they had known. He had provided the materials—quarried and cut overnight by an unseen, tireless mason—and the villagers provided the labor, erecting their new homes with a fervor born of hope.

"My lord," said a man named Hobb, his hands calloused but his face beaming. "Never thought I'd see a roof that didn't weep on my children. The gods are good to us."

"The gods reward hard work, Hobb," Valerius replied, his tone warm and encouraging. "And you have all worked hard. A strong house is the foundation of a strong family. And strong families are the foundation of our strength." It was a simple, effective piece of corporate messaging. He was investing in his employees' well-being to increase their loyalty and productivity.

He had also begun the process of talent acquisition. He spent time observing the young men of the village, not just for their strength at the fishing nets or in the fields, but for their intelligence. He watched how they solved problems, how they interacted, who they followed. He identified a dozen potential candidates for his future household guard. One in particular stood out: a quiet, sharp-eyed youth named Trystan, who had devised a more efficient way to mend nets. He was not the strongest, but he was a problem-solver. A potential middle-manager. Valerius made a mental note to have Ser Gregor begin training him personally.

His steward, Pate, was nearly vibrating with a nervous energy that was now more excitement than fear. The ledgers, once a source of dread, were now a source of constant amazement.

"The surplus, my lord… it's… it's unprecedented!" Pate stammered, pointing a trembling finger at a column of figures in the solar. "We have enough grain to last us three winters! And the tithes from the fishing catch have doubled! The men say the new hooks and nets you designed… they never break, and they bring in twice the fish."

"Good," Valerius said simply. "See that every family has a full larder for the winter. And use the surplus funds to purchase more livestock. I want to see a flock of sheep on every hill by next spring."

Pate just nodded, his mind reeling. He saw a bountiful harvest. Valerius saw a successful vertical integration of his new technology, resulting in a 300% increase in agricultural output and a 200% increase in fishing yields. The numbers were good. It was time to expand into foreign markets.

The ship was a fat-bellied cog from Pentos, flying the banner of a minor merchant family. It had been lured in by carefully seeded rumors, passed along by the fishermen of Massey's Hook to their counterparts in the Wendwater, of a quiet, new harbor that offered fair prices and no questions. The rumors spoke of a young, slightly eccentric lord who had been blessed with a freakish harvest and was looking to sell his surplus without the hassle of dealing with the guilds in King's Landing or Duskendale.

Valerius stood on the stone quay of his hidden cove. The harbor itself was a masterpiece of clandestine engineering. Carved from the cliff face with earth- and waterbending, it was invisible from the sea, shielded by a natural-looking rock formation that was, in fact, a carefully constructed illusion. A deep channel allowed ships to enter at high tide, leading to a calm, protected basin with a sturdy stone dock.

Ser Gregor stood beside him, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his face a mask of grim suspicion. He did not like this. Foreigners, smugglers, docking in a secret harbor. It felt like treason. But his lord had commanded it, and his lord had, in the past year, proven to be wiser than any man he had ever known.

The merchant who came ashore was a man named Kaelo Voronnis. He was in his forties, with a neatly trimmed beard, soft hands, and eyes that missed nothing. He wore fine silks, but his posture was that of a man who was used to dealing with rougher folk. He was a predator, smelling opportunity.

"Lord Pyralis," Kaelo said, his Common tongue accented but fluent. He gave a slight bow, his eyes appraising the young lord before him. He saw a boy of seventeen, dressed in simple but well-made clothes, with a quiet, almost shy demeanor. He did not see the cold, calculating mind behind the boy's placid grey eyes.

"Master Voronnis," Valerius replied, his voice soft. "Welcome to Pyralis Point. I trust your journey was… untroubled."

"The seas are always troubled, my lord. But a wise captain knows how to find the calm waters." Kaelo's gaze swept over the hidden harbor. "You have a most… impressive facility here. Very discreet."

"My lands are poor, Master Voronnis. We must make do with what the sea gives us." Valerius played the part of the humble provincial lord perfectly. "I am told you are in the market for grain. As you can see," he gestured to the sacks of grain piled on the dock, "the gods have been kind this year. More than my people can eat."

Kaelo's eyes gleamed. A naive boy-lord with a surplus. This was going to be profitable. They haggled, a ritualistic dance Valerius knew well. Kaelo offered a low price. Valerius feigned offense, then countered with a price that was still well below the going rate in King's Landing. He was not interested in maximizing his profit on this single transaction. He was investing in a long-term business relationship. The true value was not the gold he would receive, but the information he would extract. 

As the grain was being loaded, Valerius invited the merchant to share a cup of wine. They sat on crates on the dock, Ser Gregor standing a few paces away, a silent, imposing statue.

"It is a rare thing, to have such a bounty," Valerius said, swirling the wine in his cup. "I confess, I know little of the world beyond our shores. Is the winter expected to be harsh in the Free Cities as well?" An innocent question about the weather.

Kaelo smiled, feeling expansive. "The winters are always harsh for those who cannot afford bread, my lord. But for men of business, a harsh winter means high prices. Pentos is stable, for now. The Magisters bicker, as always. Tyrosh, however… since the Blackfyres were driven out, the city is in turmoil. The Archon struggles to maintain control. There are fortunes to be made, and lost, in the Disputed Lands."

Valerius nodded, filing the information away. Instability in Tyrosh. Potential for arms sales in the future.

"And the Iron Bank?" Valerius asked, his voice laced with a touch of feigned awe. "I have heard tales… that they are more powerful than kings."

Kaelo chuckled. "The Iron Bank will have its due, my lord. Always. They have little interest in the squabbles of Westeros at present. Their eyes are on the east, on the growing shadow of Volantis. But they listen. They always listen."

They spoke for an hour. Valerius asked about the price of steel in Myr, the strength of the Sealord of Braavos's fleet, the whispers of dragon eggs in Asshai. He was a sponge, soaking up every drop of market data, political intelligence, and strategic gossip. Kaelo, eager to ingratiate himself with a potential long-term supplier, spoke freely, never once suspecting that the quiet, unassuming boy before him was analyzing his every word, building a comprehensive geopolitical map in his mind.

As Kaelo was preparing to depart, Valerius made a final, calculated move. "A gift," he said, pressing one of his new silver coins into the merchant's hand. "A token of our new friendship."

Kaelo looked at the coin. It was heavier than a stag, the silver purer than any he had seen from a Westerosi mint. And the sigil… the serpent on the hook. It was strange, unsettling. "A new minting, my lord?"

"A personal one," Valerius said with a shy smile. "My father left me some small silver deposits. I had the maester help me fashion a few. A folly, I know."

Kaelo pocketed the coin, his mind already calculating. Pure silver. A private mint. A secret, efficient harbor. A massive grain surplus. This Lord Pyralis was not just a lucky fool. There was something more here. Something worth investigating. Which was exactly what Valerius wanted him to think. He wanted to be an enigma, a whisper on the merchant networks, a minor player whose assets seemed to defy explanation.

As the Pentoshi cog slipped out of the cove and vanished into the narrow sea, Valerius stood on the dock, the setting sun casting long shadows. He held a small bag of gold—the proceeds from the sale. It was a trivial amount, but it was a beginning.

That night, in his solar, he did not look at the gold. He sat with a new sheet of parchment, updating his strategic plan. He had confirmed the political instability in the south of Essos. He had established a baseline for commodity prices. He had planted the seeds of his house's reputation as a discreet and unusual trading partner. And he had acquired a valuable asset: a Pentoshi merchant who would now act as his unwitting intelligence agent, spreading his coin and his reputation through the Free Cities.

The stone of his keep was enduring. The serpent of his ambition had just made its first, quiet strike. The business was growing. And no one, in this world of swords and sorcery, had any idea that the most dangerous player in the game was not a king, a knight, or a dragon, but a ruthless psychopathic CEO with a perfect five-year plan.