As the sound of a faint fizzling reached Samwell's ears, he watched the "firework" before him sputter and fizzle out with a barely audible pop. His mouth twitched.
The usually composed Maester Qyburn actually looked slightly embarrassed, coughing lightly before explaining, "My lord, at this stage, this is the best we can achieve. Its power might not reach the levels you mentioned, but it serves as a fairly reliable igniter. Certainly, it's no wildfire, but it has the advantage of being easy and relatively inexpensive to produce."
Samwell sighed, not wanting to be too critical. To distract Maester Qyburn from his darker experiments, he had tasked him with researching black powder—a pursuit that Samwell himself only understood in vague terms.
Qyburn had actually followed his haphazard instructions with surprising diligence, creating a rudimentary black powder mixture. Unfortunately, it had the explosive power of little more than a sparkler—hardly the battlefield weapon Samwell had envisioned.
Still, he hadn't held high hopes from the start. Without the proper scientific foundations, it was a challenge to climb the tech tree. He almost thought it might be easier to find and train a dragon.
Yes, a dragon might be more feasible, Samwell mused with a small grin—especially with the red comet soon approaching.
Nonetheless, he intended to keep Qyburn on the task. Even if this "black powder" didn't yield grand results, it would at least keep Qyburn occupied and prevent him from returning to more questionable pursuits.
"Not bad," Samwell encouraged. "Keep experimenting. Try different ingredient ratios to increase its power. Oh, and work on ways to contain the explosion within a sealed space—that might amplify the force."
Qyburn's face lit up thoughtfully. "Yes, my lord. I will try different methods."
Samwell eyed Qyburn, struck by the notion that perhaps one day, the maester might indeed surprise him. After all, this was the same man who had once created reanimated soldiers—who knew what he might devise next.
Leaving the maester's tower, Samwell walked to the main hall of the castle, where about a dozen well-dressed merchants were waiting.
When they saw the young lord arrive, they quickly rose to bow.
"Please, gentlemen, have a seat," Samwell said, waving them back down as he took his place at the head of the table.
A serving girl poured a glass of wine for him, then quietly withdrew.
Taking a sip, Samwell began, "Gentlemen, I know you are esteemed wine merchants, and I've invited you here to discuss a significant business opportunity."
A plump merchant leaned forward. "My lord, I understand you're interested in purchasing fresh grapes, is that correct?"
"Yes." Samwell nodded.
Despite the best efforts, the vineyards on Eagle Nest were still maturing slowly, there's much to be desired. Meanwhile, Eagle's brandy had quickly become popular across Westeros, with demand from House Hightower, Arbor, and even Highgarden skyrocketing. Leyton Hightower had even proclaimed that he would buy as much as Samwell could produce.
The limiting factor? Not manpower nor equipment, but simply grapes. And until his own vineyards fully matured, he had no choice but to buy grapes from other regions.
It would raise his costs, but there was still ample profit to be made. And so long as there was profit…
"I need large quantities of fresh grapes," he continued. "At present, I estimate about 50,000 pounds each month, though this may increase. I'm looking for a steady, reliable partner for the long term." He cast a calm gaze around the room.
As expected, the merchants' eyes lit up with barely-concealed greed.
"My lord! Our vineyards on Arbor produce the finest grapes in all Westeros. You won't regret choosing us!"
"My lord, our wine hall provides top-quality grapes at the best prices!"
"My lord, our grapes from Golden Grove are all handpicked by young maidens!"
Samwell raised a hand, silencing the clamor with a smile.
"Gentlemen, you've already passed the initial selection process, so I have no doubts about the quality and volume of your grapes. However, since I'm looking for a stable, long-term partnership, there are a few additional terms I need to discuss."
"Whatever you need, my lord!"
Samwell's expression turned serious. "First, given this is a long-term deal, I propose we settle accounts every six months."
"Six months?"
The merchants exchanged uneasy glances. They understood this meant they'd have to front the costs for half a year's worth of grapes—a considerable sum.
"Yes, every six months," Samwell confirmed. "If that's a problem for any of you, you're free to withdraw now."
He took another sip of wine, waiting.
When he set the cup down, all the merchants remained in place. They were willing to bear this risk in exchange for a deal of this size with a lord of growing influence.
"Good," Samwell said with satisfaction. "It's reassuring to see you place such faith in my credit." With a nod to the serving girl, he continued, "I'll only be selecting three partners. I ask that each of you write down your price for supplying the grapes."
The merchants froze, then their faces darkened in understanding.
"You have one chance," Samwell said. "No discussion. Write down your price."
As his words sank in, some of the merchants began grumbling under their breath but could do little but comply.
They cursed him in their minds—this devious young lord was forcing them into a price war. But knowing they couldn't resist, they gritted their teeth and wrote down their lowest bids.
Once the offers were collected, Samwell dismissed those with unreasonably low bids and chose the three lowest from the remaining group, passing them to Gavin, his steward.
Gavin read out the names of the three chosen merchants, who wore conflicted expressions—pleased to secure the deal, yet now unsure if their bids had been too low.
The unselected merchants looked crestfallen, though Samwell quickly offered them a gracious parting gift.
"For those not chosen this time, I still consider you friends of Eagle's Nest. I'll have a barrel of brandy sent to each of you in thanks for your trouble."
The merchants' expressions softened, and they showered him with praise for his generosity.
After giving Gavin instructions to finalize the contracts, Samwell left the hall, only to encounter a middle-aged man in a clerical robe.
"Lord Caesar, I am Ivan, servant of the Seven," the man introduced himself with a solemn bow.
Ah, so they're here already, Samwell thought. The followers of the Faith.
"Brother Ivan," he acknowledged, managing a polite smile. "You've just arrived?"
"I came half a month ago," Ivan replied. "I've spent some time touring your lands and just returned toEagle Nest."
"Excellent. I hope you've enjoyed your time here," Samwell replied offhandedly, ready to excuse himself.
But the septon wasn't done. "Lord Caesar, I need your assistance."
"Go on," Samwell replied, maintaining his composure.
"I must say, my lord, your lands have developed at an extraordinary pace. But in your expansion, I fear you may have overlooked a serious matter. Many of the new residents are wildlings, and they persist in worshipping their heathen gods. This is both an insult to your piety and an affront to the Seven."
Samwell's face remained neutral as he replied, "Brother Ivan, let me be frank. When I brought those wildlings into my service, I promised them they wouldn't be forced to change their beliefs. It's largely thanks to that assurance that my lands have flourished. So if you're asking me to issue a decree to force them to adopt the Faith, I'm afraid I can't break my word."
The septon gave a serene smile. "Lord Caesar, I have no intention of making such demands."
Samwell blinked, caught off guard. "Then what do you want?"
"My request is simple," Ivan said. "First, I ask that you build a sept for worship here and grant me the freedom to preach. Second, I ask that you attend worship services regularly. Third, I ask that you make the customary tithe of a lord to the Faith—and, of course, should you feel moved to give more, the Seven will surely bless you."
Samwell was mildly surprised; the demands were modest. Other than the North, it was standard for Westerosi lords to have a sept on their lands and to attend services. And a small lord's tithe amounted to only ten silver stags per month.
It wasn't the exorbitant demand he had feared.
He glanced at Ivan's small pendant, a tiny lantern symbol representing the Crone. Seemingly, this septon served the Crone, the Seven's aspect of wisdom.
"As long as you don't try to force my people into the Faith, I accept your conditions," Samwell replied. He had no desire for conflict with the Church if it could be avoided.
"Of course," Ivan assured him. "Faith is never about compulsion. Only by gentle guidance will your people eventually come to the light of the Seven."
Samwell merely inclined his head, not quite convinced.
Just as he felt relieved to have resolved the issue peacefully, Ivan added, "One more small request, if I may."
"Let's hear it."
"I'd like to oversee the orphanage children's early education."
Samwell looked at him closely, then shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, Brother Ivan, but I've already arranged for the children's lessons."
The septon simply smiled, nodding without further protest.
(End of Chapter)