After finalizing the land deals, I returned to Dragonstone. The biting salt air was the same, but it felt... different. Like the quiet before a storm, or maybe the calm before something entirely new.
Meeting Lord Bartimos Celtigar was... illuminating. When I told him I wanted to buy land, he didn't even bother asking which plot or how much I was offering. He just offered this slow, benevolent smile, a look that said, clear as day, 'Bless your heart, child, playing at being a merchant.' He saw me as a naive princeling with more coin than sense, no doubt expecting me to burn through it and eventually come crawling back for favors. He even insisted I stay for dinner with his family. It wasn't on my schedule, but there was a calculated warmth to his invitation. A chance to gauge the peculiar little prince playing at business, I supposed. A small mercy, perhaps, that not everyone here was openly hostile. Yet. So, I obliged. Best to play along for now.
That's where I met Lady Saelora Celtigar. A widow. She ran the local orphanage, a charity Lord Celtigar likely funded more for appearances than genuine piety. Saelora was young, maybe five-and-twenty. Her movements were quiet, almost subdued, yet her eyes—they weren't soft. They watched everything, assessing, missing nothing, holding the weight of what she'd seen. When I asked if she'd consider working for me, managing the new soup kitchens and shelters that would fill Queen Alysanne's void, she hesitated. I expected it. A small, six-year-old prince asking her to trade a comfortable, if constrained, life for the chaos of my ambition. But then Lord Celtigar murmured something, a subtle nudge for her to accept, and a flicker of something, perhaps desperation or a quiet resolve for the children she cared for, crossed her face. She agreed. We spoke for only a moment. I didn't give her a grand speech about peace and prosperity. I just told her I aimed to fix what was broken, to build something lasting. Then I left. No ceremony, no fanfare. Just a quiet nod from her that felt like an unspoken understanding of a shared, hard purpose.
And then, the real work began. Our temporary quarters stank of too many hours of pointless chatter. Naming the company became an infuriating battle. Perestan, Bealor, Theon, and Alister—my chosen few, bless their hearts—were brimming with suggestions, each worse than the last. 'Dragon's Hoard Ventures,' 'King's Coin Enterprises,' 'The Golden Quill Company'... one of them even suggested 'Aemon's Shiny Bits.' I barely bit back a groan. They meant well, I supposed, but their minds were still mired in the petty concerns of this world.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I slammed my hand on the table, rattling the last of the stale bread. 'AemTech Ventures,' I declared, cutting through their excited babble. 'Aem,' for Aemma. My mother. And 'Tech' because... well, they'd understand soon enough. Or they wouldn't, and it wouldn't matter. The secret was mine.
Word went out to King's Landing and Duskendale. Not through grand proclamations, but plain notices nailed to posts: 'AemTech Ventures is hiring. Fair pay, honest work, steady hands.' The wages were clear—a silver stag a week for basic labor, up to five for skilled roles. Our job postings promised factory doors opening in five moons. A tight deadline, maybe, but I meant to keep it. Every single day.
Building started immediately. The first factory would be simple. Just a big rectangle. No towers, no fancy carvings. There was a windmill nearby, and a river just beyond it—perfect. Later, I'd add a water wheel, run a few machines with it. But first, we needed walls.
We used what was available, what made sense:
Stone and mortar for solid outer walls. Build them thick. Timber for beams, floors, roofs. Strong, cheap enough. Iron and bronze for internal bracing, for the tools we'd need. Clay tiles on the roof. Crucial. Fire was an ever-present enemy. Ropes, pulleys, chains. To lift, to pull, to move everything. Basic mechanics, but essential.
But the one thing that truly gnawed at me was disease. I'd read enough history. Filth killed faster than any sword, any battle. So, I had the workers dig out a proper sewage system across the whole damned factory ground. It cost extra, a painful drain on the coin, but I knew, with absolute certainty, it would save lives. Still, even with that, the factory wasn't finished in three moons like I'd planned. That wouldn't do. I doubled the workforce immediately, bought every tool we could get our hands on, set up more workstations, and pushed them. Hard.
When the fifth moon finally rolled around, they came. Not a trickle, but a deluge. Over a thousand people, a sea of worn faces, all looking for work. I stood there, a six-year-old prince, suddenly understanding the hell an HR manager must live through. But I had no resumes, no algorithms. Just my own buzzing mind and two hands that were starting to ache just thinking about it.
For thirteen days straight, I sat, trapped in that chair, interviewing them one by one. I asked about their skills, their families, anything to get a read. I looked for honesty, for a flicker of common sense, for hands that looked capable of more than just a plow. By the end, I was utterly spent. My voice was a rasp, my back screaming. All I wanted was to run 'home'—wherever that was now—and sleep for a week.
But there was no time for rest. I had gold to make.
The Factory Floor and a Glimpse of Tomorrow
I split the factory into six distinct sections:
First, Pen-Making. Thirty workers, focused on crafting the nibs and assembling the pens. We aimed for fifty a day, and they'd earn between two to five silver stags.
Next, Ink Production. This was the tightest ship, the most guarded. Only fifteen people, handpicked, sworn to silence under penalty of death. They made five silver stags each. Worth every coin to keep that formula secret.
Then, Paper Production. Our biggest crew, seventy strong. They made the paper. Didn't know what went into it, just followed my instructions. One to three silver stags for them.
Logistics & Sales was Perestan's domain. Four of them, managing the ledgers, keeping inventory, mapping out delivery routes. My numbers man.
Overhead & Maintenance had seven workers. Their job was simple: keep the place clean, fix what broke. Three silver stags for that.
Finally, Security. Twenty guards. Keep order, stop anyone from stealing, watch everything.
The factory hummed, a new kind of living thing. Hammers clanged, voices shouted, laughter cut through the din. Fires roared, heating metal. People had work. They had food. They had purpose. They didn't call me "prince" here, not anymore. They called me "Master Aemon" or "the Factory Lord." I didn't care what they called me. What mattered was the look in their eyes—respect, yes, but more than that, hope.
And for the first time since I'd landed in this damned world, I felt it too.
We weren't just stamping out pens and paper. We were building something real. A future. For them, for me, for all of Westeros. A future where anyone could learn to write their name, where knowledge wasn't just for lords and maesters, where gold wasn't the only thing that moved the world.
This was only the beginning.