The two weeks preceding the return of the unofficial master of the place were, for Oberyn Martell, a test of patience bordering on torture. He was accustomed to the dangers of the desert, court intrigues, and duels to the death. He was not accustomed to comfortable boredom.
The Hollard Keep, under Jem's interim management, was a gilded cage. A cage with hot running water, certainly, but a cage nonetheless.
Outside, the factory-city of Val-Engrenage roared. The *thud-thud-thud* of the power hammers was the valley's constant heartbeat. But the gates to the "Industrial Zone" remained hermetically sealed. Captain Joren of the Steel Guard was marble-polite. Every morning, Oberyn attempted to enter. Every morning, Joren refused, indifferent to the title of Prince as he was to the veiled threat in the Red Viper's eyes.
"My orders are absolute, Prince. No one enters."
Inside, Oberyn's daughters reacted according to their natures.
Obara was a confined storm. She hated everything here. She hated the softness of the beds, the warmth of the pipes, the frightening regularity of the meals. To her, this comfort was a slow poison designed to soften warriors. She spent her days in the small courtyard, smashing training dummies with a brutality that made the few Hollard guards turn pale. She wanted blood and sand, not steam and soap.
Ellaria played a subtler game. She observed. She had noticed that service was not provided by servile domestics, but by efficient employees. She felt eyes on her. Not those of guards, but those of an invisible surveillance system. She had tried to raid Maester Harwin's supplies to find poisons, but had found only antiseptics and acids. It was gross negligence for a place so orderly.
But it was Nymeria who surprised him the most.
The Sand Snake, usually so quick to criticize, had disappeared. She could invariably be found in the school annex: the "Public Library." It was not the Great Library of Sunspear or those of the Free Cities, but it was a cultural shock. Hundreds of books, new, printed on crisp, white paper.
She spent hours there, a manual on *Applied Fluid Mechanics* or *Elementary Algebra* on her lap.
"It is a foreign language," she confided to her father one evening, her eyes shining with fascinated frustration. "There is no beauty or poetry in the narration. They write for the efficiency of action. Look at this, Father." She showed him an equation. "It is baffling to read. Half of these things make no sense."
Oberyn had pushed the book away with disdain. "It is accounting for masons, Nymeria. Do not waste your sharp mind on this."
But he could see she was hooked. Where he saw an insult to scholarship, she saw a puzzle.
Then, on the fifteenth day, the rhythm of the city changed. The background noise intensified. A rider entered the courtyard at a full gallop, speaking to Jem.
The news spread like wildfire, not with shouts of joy, but with an intensification of activity. The king had returned.
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Oberyn and his retinue watched the arrival from the keep's windows. It was not a royal entry. No trumpets, no banners snapping in the wind. It was a logistical operation.
Four armored carriages, painted matte black, entered the courtyard, escorted by a mounted unit of the Steel Guard. The discipline was absolute.
The door of the first carriage opened. Lady Ermesande stepped out. Oberyn immediately noted the change. The last he had heard of her, she was a minor noblewoman married to a drunkard. The woman standing there held the posture of a dowager queen, issuing brief orders to Jem with natural authority.
From the second carriage slipped a shadow. A young woman dressed in functional leather, armed, with short hair. Lira, he presumed. She did not look at the keep. Her eyes scanned the roofs, the shadowy corners, the guards. Ellaria shivered. "That one," she thought, "is the true dagger."
Finally, from the third carriage, he emerged.
Tony.
Obara, who had been expecting a monster of iron, let out a scornful snort. "That's it? He's a kid."
He was fifteen, maybe sixteen. He was of average height, dressed in a black velvet doublet of Braavosi cut, rich but without ostentation. He looked exhausted. His hair was messy, and dark circles marked his eyes.
But when he raised his head toward the window where they stood, Oberyn felt his cruel smile freeze.
It was not a child's face. These were the eyes of a man who had lived two lives. There was none of the fear Oberyn had seen on the ship four years earlier. There was no adolescent defiance either.
There was calm indifference. Heavy authority. He looked at Oberyn the way one looks at a pending file: a problem to be solved, not an enemy to be feared.
"He does not fear us," Ellaria whispered, fascinated. "He does not admire us either. He... assesses us. Interesting."
Tony exchanged a few words with Jem, tapped his lieutenant's metal shoulder amicably, and entered the keep without a backward glance.
An hour later, the invitation arrived. Dinner tonight.
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The dining hall had been cleared of any trace of Dontos Hollard's negligence. The table was set with geometric precision.
Tony presided, Lady Ermesande to his right. Lira stood in the shadows, a silent sentinel.
The meal began in a heavy silence. Oberyn, true to his nature, decided to test the young man's armor. He wanted to see the child, not the mask.
"You have grown," Oberyn remarked, a smirk on his lips, his voice tinged with false benevolence. "The last time our paths crossed, you barely fit in the rowboat. I often wonder... what became of my Gold Dragon? Did it pay for a final meal? Or did it end up in a cutpurse's pocket?"
It was a direct attack, reminding Tony of his position as a beggar, his past powerlessness.
Tony didn't stop eating. He took a sip of water and set his glass down delicately.
"It was invested, Prince Oberyn," Tony replied, his voice calm, almost monotone. "It bought tools. Files, sulfur, nails. It served as seed capital for the first series of traps."
He looked up at Oberyn. No anger. Just facts.
"To date, the return on investment for your Gold Dragon is approximately forty million to one. It is, mathematically, the most profitable investment in the history of Westeros. I thank you for it, Prince. It was an efficient transaction."
Oberyn froze. The barb hadn't found flesh. It had bounced off a wall of numbers. The child didn't feel humiliated; he had turned charity into a statistic.
"You speak like an accountant," Oberyn scoffed, looking for another crack. "Not like a man. I visited your school. I saw what you are doing. You are playing at being the Citadel. It is dangerous."
That was when Tony's mask changed. A hard light appeared in his tired eyes.
"And I read the report on your visit, Prince Oberyn," Tony said, his voice dropping lower without raising in volume. "You frightened eight-year-old children. You interrupted an anatomy class to deliver a philosophical tirade on the 'dignity of knowledge'."
Tony set down his cutlery.
"Your philosophy matters little to me, my Prince. But disrupting the education of our future engineers to satisfy your ego? That is a waste of time. It is irresponsible. It is the act of a bored man who has no enemies his size, so he goes to war against students."
The insult hit Oberyn full force. He had expected to be called a tyrant, cruel. Being called an irresponsible man by a fifteen-year-old boy was unbearable.
"You dare..." Obara began, half-rising, her hand on her dagger.
"Stay seated," Tony ordered without even looking at her. The command was cold, devoid of emotion, but so imbued with authority that Obara, stunned, froze.
Oberyn, sensing he was losing control of the situation in the face of this glacial calm, chose a strategic retreat for the moment. He lowered his voice, a bitter smile on his lips. "I admit... I was vexed. My pride took over. My apologies for the disorder caused to your Maester."
Tony accepted the apology with a brief nod. Case closed.
Nymeria, seeing an intellectual opening, leaned forward. "Steward Tony, I visited your public library. Your mathematics books... they are... perplexing. I do not understand everything. It is another language. Did you study at the Citadel?"
Tony turned his gaze to her. He seemed to evaluate her for a moment, noting the spark of raw intelligence in her eyes.
"No, Lady Nymeria," Tony said. "The Citadel teaches to observe the world as it is. My books teach to reconstruct it as it should be. It is the grammar of industry. Measurement precedes action. So no, I have never been there, and do not intend to go."
He rubbed his eyes, the weight of his journey from Braavos suddenly seeming to crash down on his shoulders. He hadn't slept in two days, managing the gold and the convoy's security being his priority.
He stood up slowly. Lady Ermesande and Lira imitated him immediately.
"I fear I will not be very entertaining company tonight, Prince Oberyn," Tony said. His voice was polite, but firm. There was no room for negotiation. "The road from Essos was long, and my responsibilities do not end upon my return."
He placed his napkin on the table.
"We will have time to discuss your stay and the future in the coming days, should you decide to extend your visit. For now, I must take my leave. Jem will ensure you lack for nothing."
He bowed briefly, a gesture of minimal courtesy to Oberyn's rank.
"Good night, Prince Oberyn. Ladies."
He pivoted on his heel and left the room, followed by his staff, leaving the Martells alone in the silence of the great hall, bewildered by a meeting that had been neither a duel nor a feast, but a simple administrative formality dispatched by a man too busy to play court intrigues.