Tony's office, located on the top floor of the keep's renovated administrative tower, looked nothing like a lordly council chamber. There were no tapestries recounting glorious battles, nor any hunting trophies. The walls were covered in what Tony called "Whiteboards"—large slabs of slate upon which chalks of various colors traced complex diagrams, production curves, and lists of imperative tasks.
In the center of the room, a heavy oak table, reinforced with steel, groaned not under the weight of a feast, but under open chests from the Iron Bank.
The gold of Braavos had a particular luster, duller and heavier than the gold of Westeros, but it carried within it the promise of unlimited power.
Tony Stark stood before the window, looking down at the town below. He wore his work attire: a white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up, and a dark leather vest. He turned back to his staff.
"Six hundred thousand dragons in line of credit and cash," he said, his calm voice cutting through the studious silence of the room. "It's enough to buy a small army. But we are not buying men today. We are buying time."
Around the table, his inner circle was complete. Jem, sitting with his mechanical leg extended, was consulting a large ledger. Lira, leaning against the wall, was mechanically sharpening a dagger, her eyes scanning the exits out of habit. Lady Ermesande, impeccable in a grey wool dress, held a quill, ready to note down political directives. Theron, the master smith, looked ill at ease so far from his furnaces.
"The gold is here," Tony continued, "but the Iron Bank does not give; it lends. And it expects results. The contract is not an empty promise. We must deliver."
He pointed at Jem. "Status on the glass stocks?"
Jem tapped his ledger. "Safety stock is full, Boss. We have two thousand Grade A lenses, polished and packed. Five hundred plates of flat glass for luxury windows. And the prototypes for the one-way mirrors are ready."
"Good. The shipment leaves in three days for Braavos," ordered Tony. "This is not a standard delivery. This is our proof of reliability. Lira, I want your men to secure the convoy all the way to the port. If a single lens arrives scratched, they'll think we are amateurs."
Lira nodded, without ceasing her sharpening motion. "The road is safe. My scouts have cleared the woods. No one will touch those wagons."
"Perfect." Tony turned to the large blackboard. He erased a turbine schematic to draw a brutal rectangle. "Now, the big piece. Glassworks Number 2."
He sketched rapidly. "Demand is going to explode as soon as the first deliveries reach Essos and King's Landing. Our current workshop is a toy. I need a dedicated factory. Four continuous furnaces. An annealing zone of fifty meters. And I want it operational in one hundred and twenty days."
A stunned silence greeted the announcement. Theron, the smith, cleared his throat. "One hundred and twenty days? Tony... that's impossible. Just to line the furnaces with refractory bricks takes a month. And the structure... it's a massive building. The carpenters won't keep up."
"We won't use carpenters for the structure, Theron," Tony cut in. "We will use steel and prefabricated concrete. Jem, I want you to divert 40% of the cement production to Site B. Theron, you are going to cast me standardized I-beams. We don't build stone by stone. We assemble a skeleton and fill it in."
"But the manpower..." began Ermesande, concerned with human logistics. "The teams are already doing double rotations."
"Hire," said Tony. "There are thousands of unemployed men and landless peasants in the Riverlands and the Crownlands. Let it be known that Val-Engrenage pays in gold and feeds three times a day. I want three eight-hour shifts. The construction site never stops. Not night, not day."
He placed his hands flat on the table, his gaze sweeping over his lieutenants.
"We have opened Pandora's box with the Iron Bank. If we slow down, we get crushed by our own debt. In two months, I want to see glass flowing like water. Questions?"
No one answered. The urgency was palpable. This was no longer craftsmanship; it was industrial warfare.
"Good," concluded Tony. "Ermesande, prepare the employment contracts. Jem, logistics. Theron, heat up your crucibles. Dismissed."
As the room emptied, Tony remained alone for a moment facing the gold of Braavos. He did not smile. He knew that this gold was fuel, and that if he stopped moving forward, the machine would explode.
--------------------------------
Two days later, the frenzy of the meeting had given way to a grey and calm afternoon. Tony, having delegated the supervision of the earthworks for the new glassworks, had allowed himself a rare break.
He had found Nymeria Sand in the keep's small winter garden, a glass-enclosed space (one of his first experiments in insulation) where a few medicinal herbs grew. She was reading, as always.
"Books don't hit back, Lady Nymeria," he said as he entered, carrying a polished wooden box under his arm.
The eleven-year-old girl jumped, then quickly recovered, her face resuming that mask of Dornish seriousness that amused him. "Steward Tony. I didn't know you had time to loiter."
"I'm not loitering. I'm recharging my batteries," Tony replied, placing the box on a small wrought-iron table. He opened it, revealing a complex game board and pieces carved from onyx and ivory. "Do you know Cyvasse?"
Nymeria's eyes lit up. "It's a strategy game. My father taught me the basics. But no one here wants to play with me. Obara says it's for cowards who don't dare to bleed."
"Obara confuses courage with stupidity," said Tony, setting up the pieces. "Sit down. You take Black."
The game began. Tony played fast, fluidly. Nymeria, however, was intense. At eleven years old, she already possessed a frightening capacity for concentration. She calculated, she chewed her lower lip, her slender fingers hesitating over her Dragon.
She played well for a child. She knew the classic openings. She attempted an "Elephant Charge," an aggressive maneuver intended to break Tony's center.
Tony let her do it. He pulled back his Crossbowmen, sacrificed two Spearmen, and let his center open up.
Nymeria, seeing the breach, smiled—a triumphant child's smile—and pushed her Dragon. "Check to the King," she announced proudly.
Tony simply moved a Catapult he had positioned three turns earlier, in the shadow of his Mountain.
"The Dragon is dead," he said calmly, knocking over the onyx piece. "And your King is exposed by his own attack."
Nymeria's face fell. She looked at the board, tracing back the moves. She saw the trap. She saw that she had been guided into this corridor of death.
"But... I had the advantage," she whispered, frustration making her voice tremble. "I had more strong pieces."
"You had the force, but you didn't have the structure," explained Tony, resetting the pieces. "You play to take pieces. I play to control space. That is the difference between a battle and a war."
Nymeria crossed her arms, sulking, but her intelligence prevented her from overturning the board. "It's unfair. You have more experience."
"Experience is just the name we give to our past mistakes," said Tony. "Let's play again."
During the second game, as she was losing more slowly this time, Nymeria broke the silence.
"Why?" she asked suddenly.
Tony moved a Spearman. "Why what? Why do I sacrifice my pawns?"
"No. Why all this?" She made a vague gesture encompassing the garden, the factories in the distance, the comfort of the keep. "Father says you are an upstart. That you want to humiliate the nobles. But... that's not it. I can see it. You don't hate us. You don't even seem to notice us most of the time."
Tony stopped, a piece in hand. He looked at the eleven-year-old kid. She was perceptive.
"I don't want to humiliate anyone, Lady Nymeria. Humiliation is a waste of energy. I just want to... optimize."
"Optimize?" She frowned. "That's another mason's word."
"It is the most important word in the world," corrected Tony. "Look at this board. If I let my pieces do whatever they want, it's chaos. If I organize them, it's a machine. The world, out there... Westeros... it's a waste. People starve when there is land. People freeze when there is coal. Brilliant minds like yours are bored learning embroidery, poison, and court intrigues when they could be building bridges."
He placed his piece. Checkmate.
"I am not building all this to fight against your father or any other noble. I am building this because inefficiency makes me sick. It's an itch I have to scratch."
Nymeria looked at her fallen King. She didn't cry. She nodded, assimilating the information with disturbing maturity.
"You are not a knight," she said softly. "You are a fixer. You want to repair the world like one repairs a cart."
"Something like that," smiled Tony, a real smile this time, touched by the accuracy of the analysis. "But the world is a very, very heavy cart, Little Asp."
----------------------------------------
"She has a remarkable mind," said a voice behind them.
Tony did not jump. He knew Oberyn Martell had been watching them from the doorway for ten minutes. The Prince of Dorne stepped forward, his supple gait contrasting with the rigidity of the industrial setting.
"Prince Oberyn," greeted Tony without rising. "You should play with her. She has Dornish aggression, but she is beginning to understand patience."
Nymeria stood up hurriedly, curtsying to her father. "Father. I... I was learning."
"I see that," said Oberyn, placing a protective hand on his daughter's shoulder, but his eyes fixed on Tony. "Go join your sisters, Nymeria. Ellaria is looking for you."
The little girl hesitated, looked at the game board, then at Tony, and slipped away, taking her unsatisfied curiosity with her.
Once alone, silence settled in. Tony began packing the pieces into the box.
"So, Prince," said Tony. "Is curiosity satisfied? You came to see if I was the kid from the boat. You have seen. You stayed to see if I was a threat. You have seen my works. What do you really want?"
Oberyn sat in the chair left empty by his daughter. He did not touch the pieces.
"I don't know," admitted Oberyn, and the admission seemed to cost him. "I came looking for an enemy, or an ally. I found... an anomaly. You are not playing the Game of Thrones that characterizes these lands. You are playing something else."
"I play Cyvasse while you play dice," replied Tony. He closed the box with a sharp snap. "And since we are speaking frankly... let's talk about Nymeria."
Oberyn stiffened. "What does she have to do with this?"
"She is bored, Prince Oberyn. She is suffocating," said Tony brutally. "I have seen her. She has the mind of an engineer trapped in the body of a warrior princess. In Dorne, she will learn to wield a spear, to dance, and perhaps to mix a few poisons. It's a waste."
Tony leaned forward, his eyes locked with the Prince's.
"Entrust her to me."
Oberyn blinked, as if he had been slapped. "Pardon?"
"Leave her here. Under tutelage. For ten years," continued Tony, as if proposing a business contract. "I will not make her a hostage. I will make her a maester such as the Citadel will not produce in a century. She will learn chemistry, physics, logistics. She will learn to build cities, not just defend them. She has the potential to become the brightest mind of her generation. But if you take her back to the desert, that potential will evaporate."
Oberyn stood up abruptly, nearly overturning the chair. Fury colored his cheeks.
"You dare?" he hissed. "You dare ask me to hand over my own daughter? Like a tribute? So you can mold her in your cold, soulless image? Dorne does not abandon its own. And certainly not to an upstart engineer who thinks a Prince's education is insufficient!"
It was pride speaking. The wounded pride of a father and a lord being told he wasn't good enough for his own child.
Tony did not move. He did not seem impressed by the Red Viper's anger. He sighed, like an adult facing a temperamental child.
"That is exactly what I thought," said Tony calmly. "Pride before logic. You see an insult where there is an opportunity."
He stood up in turn, taking the game box under his arm.
"I don't want your daughter as tribute, Prince Oberyn. I don't care. I just wanted to avoid waste. But if you are so sure that my world is 'cold and soulless,' and that your education is superior..."
Tony paused, a defiant smile dawning on his lips.
"...then have the courage to see exactly what you are refusing."
"What do you mean?" asked Oberyn, suspicious.
"Tomorrow. I am doing a full inspection of the Industrial Zone. Not the tourist tour for merchants. The whole thing. The foundries, the chemical labs, the assembly lines. Come. With Nymeria. With your whole family."
Tony stepped closer to Oberyn, until he was eye-level with him.
"Come see the machine from the inside. See the power I was offering her. And then, if you still want to take her back to learn knitting and stabbing, you may leave. But at least, you will know exactly what future you stole from her."
He skirted around the Prince and headed for the garden exit.
"Inspection starts at dawn. Don't be late. The machine waits for no one."
He left Oberyn alone amidst the medicinal plants, anger throbbing in his temples, trapped between his outraged pride and the terrifying certainty that Tony Stark's challenge was the most dangerous he had ever had to face.