***
Three days later, Castor descended to the workshop with Jeren following silent behind him.
The printing press stood complete in lamplight, its wooden frame dark with linseed oil that made the oak gleam. Harren and Tym waited beside it, both men looking exhausted but quietly proud. Neither had slept much, Castor guessed—too anxious about whether their work would actually function or explode spectacularly.
"Show me," Castor said.
Harren moved to the type case where hundreds of metal letters sat organized in compartments. "We've set the word you asked for, m'lord. 'Bolton.' Five times across the frame, like you specified."
Start simple. Test consistency before trying anything complex. Same principle as software debugging—isolate variables, confirm basic functionality.
The carpenter lifted a wooden frame from the press bed. Metal letters gleamed in neat rows—B O L T O N repeated five times, each letter locked into place with small wedges. "Ink goes on like this." He used a leather pad soaked in black liquid, dabbing it across the raised letters until they glistened. "Then the paper."
Tym positioned a sheet carefully over the inked letters. "Has to lay flat, m'lord. Any wrinkles and the impression won't be clean."
Harren began turning the screw mechanism. The pressure plate descended with smooth precision, pressing paper against inked metal with gradually increasing force. He counted under his breath—"One, two, three"—then reversed the screw.
The plate lifted. Tym carefully peeled back the paper.
Five perfect impressions. BOLTONBOLTONBOLTONBOLTONBOLTON. Black letters on white paper, crisp edges, identical spacing.
Holy shit, it actually works.
Castor kept his expression neutral. "Again. New paper."
They repeated the process. Same result—five perfect copies. Then again. And again. Ten sheets produced in the time it would take a maester to write one careful line.
Jeren made a sound—half surprise, half something like awe. "M'lord, this is..."
"Efficient," Castor finished. He took one of the papers, examining the letters up close. No smudging, no gaps, pressure distributed evenly across every character. "How many copies before you need to re-ink?"
"Tested fifty yesterday, m'lord," Harren said. "Quality stayed consistent through forty. After that, letters started showing faint."
Forty copies per inking. At maybe two minutes per sheet including setup, that's eighty copies an hour. Versus a scribe's maybe one page every two hours if they're fast.
Productivity increase of like 160x.
Industrial revolution in a medieval basement.
"Different test," Castor said. "I want a full document. Trade manifest for Bolton goods shipped to White Harbor. Harren, can you set type that complex?"
"If you tell me what to write, m'lord. Takes time to arrange the letters, but aye, I can do it."
"Jeren." Castor turned to his lieutenant. "Dictate a standard trade manifest. Quantity of ale, furs, whatever we normally ship south. Make it believable."
Jeren nodded, understanding immediately what this was really testing. "Aye, m'lord. 'Shipped this day from the Dreadfort, fifty barrels of Bolton Black ale, twenty bales of winter furs, ten crates of iron tools...'"
It took Harren an hour to set the type, arranging letters into words and words into lines. His scarred hands moved with surprising precision, placing each piece of metal into the frame with careful attention to spacing and alignment.
Tedious as fuck. But once it's set, he can print hundreds of identical copies. That's the breakthrough—high setup cost, zero marginal cost for additional units. Economics of scale in document production.
When the frame was ready, Harren inked it and made the first impression. They all leaned in to examine the result.
Perfect. A complete trade manifest, formatted correctly, looking exactly like something Maester Tybald would laboriously hand-copy for official records.
"How long did that take you by hand before?" Castor asked Jeren.
"Writing a manifest? Maybe half an hour if I'm careful. Longer if my hand's tired or the ink's poor quality."
"And now you can make ten copies in ten minutes once the type's set." Castor picked up the paper, feeling the slight texture where ink had pressed into fibers. "Jeren, you understand what this means?"
"Aye, m'lord." The lieutenant's voice was quiet. "Any document we need. Bills of sale, shipping records, official correspondence. All identical, all perfect, all impossible to distinguish from real."
Not just impossible to distinguish. They ARE real. Real ink on real paper, formatted correctly, bearing proper seals. The only difference is they document transactions that never happened. But who's going to check? Who even CAN check when we control the records?
"I want dies made," Castor said. "Seals for House Bolton, House Stark, major merchant houses in White Harbor. Wax impressions that look genuine."
Tym spoke up nervously: "M'lord, I can cast those from real seals if you provide templates. Same technique as the coin dies—make molds, pour metal, carve detail."
"Good. Start with Bolton's seal. I want to test forgery detection—see if anyone can tell a printed document from a hand-written one when both carry proper seals."
Harren and Tym exchanged glances. Both understanding now, fully and completely, what they'd built. Not just a copying machine. A reality-editing device. The ability to create documentation that rewrote history, made false transactions real, gave legitimacy to wealth that had no legitimate source.
"M'lord," Harren said carefully, "this could... if others learned of it..."
"They won't. Because you're going to keep building, keep improving, and keep absolutely fucking silent." Castor's voice was calm but carried weight. "We clear?"
"Yes, m'lord."
"Jeren, I want production started immediately. Trade manifests first—documents showing increased commerce between Bolton lands and White Harbor. Make it gradual. Last year's records show modest trade, so this year shows twenty percent increase. Year after that, another twenty percent. Build a paper trail that explains growing wealth."
"Understood, m'lord." Jeren was already calculating, Castor could see. "We'll need variety. Different merchant names, different goods, different dates. Can't have everything too perfect or it looks suspicious."
Smart. Introduce noise into the data. Real records have inconsistencies, mistakes, variations. Too much perfection is its own tell. Jeren gets it.
"Exactly. Randomize details but keep overall trajectory consistent." Castor turned back to the craftsmen. "This machine doesn't leave this room. You don't discuss it with anyone, you don't demonstrate it, you don't even hint it exists. Understood?"
"Aye, m'lord," they chorused.
Castor picked up the trade manifest again, studying the printed text. Each letter identical to its fellows, each line perfectly spaced, the whole document looking more official than most hand-written records precisely because of its mechanical uniformity.
This is information warfare. Control the narrative, create the evidence, make people believe what you want them to believe. Orwell would be proud. Or horrified. Probably both.
"Keep practicing," he said. "I want you able to set complex documents efficiently. Letters, ledgers, official proclamations. Anything I might need produced quickly."
"How quickly, m'lord?" Harren asked.
"How long to set type for a full page of text?"
"Depends on complexity. Simple text, maybe two hours. Complex formatting with numbers and tables, three or four."
Still faster than having scribes produce it. And infinitely more secure—no maester wondering why he's copying so many suspicious documents.
"Good enough. Start with basic templates—trade formats, shipping records, tax receipts. Master those first." Castor moved toward the door where Jeren waited. "Send word when you're ready for the next test."
"Aye, m'lord."
As they climbed back toward main levels, Jeren spoke quietly: "This changes everything, doesn't it? The ability to forge records nobody can question?"
"Yeah. It does." Castor's mind was already running through applications. "Any transaction we want to claim happened, we can document. Any trade, any agreement, any payment. Create the paper trail first, then live the fiction until it becomes real."
"The Starks—"
"—have no reason to question trade records from a loyal bannerman showing modest prosperity. Especially when we're careful about it. Slow growth, plausible numbers, backed by actual goods moving through White Harbor."
This is the foundation. Can't build an empire on gold bars sitting in a vault. Need to convert that wealth to usable power—soldiers, ships, infrastructure. And you can't do that without explaining where the money comes from.
So we fake it. Create a history of successful commerce that justifies the spending. By the time anyone looks close, the web of false documentation will be so complex they'll give up trying to untangle it.
They reached ground level. Jeren hesitated before leaving. "M'lord, permission to speak freely?"
"Go ahead."
"This—the machines, the gold, everything you're building. It's brilliant. And terrifying. I just want you to know... whatever you're planning, whatever this is all leading toward, we're with you. The men who know, I mean. We understand we're part of something bigger than ourselves."
Loyalty bought with fear and gold and purpose. Same formula that's worked for every successful tyrant in history.
"Good," Castor said simply. "Because we're just getting started. Now go make me some trade records."
Jeren bowed and left.
Castor stood alone in the corridor, one hand resting on the forged manifest in his pocket. Just paper and ink. But that paper could become anything—proof of wealth, evidence of trade, documentation of transactions that never existed.
Gutenberg gave humanity the printing press for knowledge and enlightenment. I'm using it for fraud and empire-building.
Pretty sure that's not what the Renaissance was supposed to be about.
But fuck it. This is Westeros, not Earth. And in this world, the only rule that matters is winning.
He headed toward the next workshop where the hydraulic press waited.
***
The hydraulic press occupied a different chamber, deeper underground where the sound of running water echoed through stone channels.
A mill wheel turned in darkness, driven by a diverted stream that fed through the Dreadfort's foundations—old engineering from the Age of Heroes, repurposed for modern ambitions.
Tym was there when Castor arrived, along with two other men Castor didn't recognize. Young, both of them, probably brought in because they had strong backs and knew how to keep their mouths shut.
"M'lord." Tym bowed quickly. "It's ready for testing. Mounted the water wheel connection yesterday. Pressure seals are holding."
The press itself looked like something between a wine press and a torture device. Steel cylinder mounted vertically, piston rod extending up through leather seals, connected via gears to the water wheel outside.
The mechanical advantage was visible in the gear ratios—small wheel on the mill, progressively larger gears transferring force to the piston.
Fifty-to-one force multiplication. Physics is beautiful when you're the only one who understands it.
"Show me the operation," Castor said.
Tym moved to a lever that controlled water flow to the wheel. When he pulled it, the wheel began turning faster, and the gears started moving with smooth precision. The piston descended into the cylinder with slow, inexorable force.
"We put the die at the bottom, m'lord. Gold blank on top of the die. When the piston compresses, it stamps the design into the metal." Tym demonstrated with empty cylinder first, showing how the mechanism worked.
"Force is distributed even across the whole surface. No hammer marks, no uneven impressions."
Perfect standardization. Every coin identical to the last. That's the key—medieval coins vary because they're hand-struck. These won't. Too perfect, actually. Might need to introduce slight variations so they don't look suspiciously uniform.
"Load it. Real test."
One of the workers—barely twenty, scared eyes—placed a die at the bottom of the cylinder. Tym produced a gold blank from a box, setting it carefully on the die face. Then he engaged the lever.
The water wheel turned. Gears meshed. The piston descended with mechanical inevitability, pressing gold against engraved steel with tons of force.
Five seconds of pressure. Then Tym reversed the lever, the piston rose, and he carefully extracted the newly-minted coin.
Braavosi honor. The Titan's head in perfect relief, details crisp, edges clean. Indistinguishable from real coin except for one thing—it was real currency.
Real gold, real weight, real design. Just minted in a Bolton basement instead of a Free City mint.
Castor took the coin, feeling the weight. Standard honor was about a quarter ounce of gold. This matched exactly—Tym had calibrated the blank weight precisely.
"How many per hour at full operation?"
"Three hundred, m'lord. Maybe more if we get efficient with loading and unloading. Limiting factor is how fast we can swap dies and position blanks."
Three hundred coins per hour. Ten hours a day, that's three thousand coins. Run it for a month and that's ninety thousand coins. Enough to flood regional markets, create the appearance of thriving trade, pay for basically anything without raising suspicions about source.
"And you can mint different denominations?"
"Aye, m'lord. Have dies for Braavosi honors, half-honors, and copper pennies. Pentoshi coins in three denominations. Myrish coins too. Can mint whatever you need."
Castor examined the coin more closely. The detail was perfect—every line of the Titan's face, every letter of the surrounding inscription, the subtle wear pattern that made it look like it had been in circulation. Tym had even thought to age the die slightly so new coins wouldn't look fresh-minted.
Kid's a natural counterfeiter. Shame he's stuck in medieval times. Would've made a fortune in organized crime back on Earth.
"Issues?" Castor asked. "Anything that didn't work as expected?"
"Die wear, m'lord." Tym's voice was apologetic. "Steel's soft enough to engrave detailed, but that means the dies wear down after maybe five thousand impressions. Have to recast them regularly."
Five thousand coins per die. At three hundred per hour that's... seventeen hours of operation. Not ideal but manageable. Just need to keep recasting dies, which means keeping the templates secure.
"Can you recast from the originals?"
"Aye, m'lord. Long as we keep the master templates, I can make new dies whenever needed. Takes about a day per die."
"Do it. I want spare dies for every denomination. If one wears out, we swap it immediately without stopping production."
"Yes, m'lord."
Castor walked around the press, examining the mechanism from different angles. The engineering was crude by modern standards but sophisticated for medieval tech. Water power converted to mechanical force through simple machines—wheel and gears and leverage. No steam, no electricity, just physics and clever design.
This is what technological advantage looks like. Not magic, not dragons, just understanding principles nobody else has figured out yet.
Give me another year and I'll have assembly line production of weapons, standardized coins flooding markets, and documents backing all of it up. Industrial revolution in miniature, hidden in a dungeon.
Castor turned back and asked Tym. "Who else knows about this?"
"Just us four, m'lord. The two workers"—he gestured at the scared young men—"were recruited by Jeren. No families, no connections outside the Dreadfort. They understand the stakes."
Castor looked at the two workers. Both flinched under his gaze, heads bowing immediately.
Orphans or disposable men. Makes sense. Can't risk anyone with relatives who might notice sudden wealth or ask uncomfortable questions..It's not as if they dare question a Bolton lord..But to not let info fall in hands of "little birds"...
"You two," Castor said. "Names."
"Rolf, m'lord," the older one said quickly.
"Dag, m'lord," the younger one whispered.
"You know what you're making here?"
"Coins, m'lord," Rolf said. "For trade. Braavosi coins to pay for goods from across the sea."
Good answer. Technically true, leaves out the fraud part. They've been coached.
"And you know what happens if you talk about it? To anyone?"
Both men nodded frantically. "Yes, m'lord. We've seen... in the courtyard..."
Berk. Still hanging there, still serving his purpose. Best investment I ever made—one corpse buying absolute silence from dozens of men.
"Then we understand each other. Do your work, take your pay, keep silent. Simple rules."
"Yes, m'lord."
Castor turned back to Tym. "I want production started immediately. Braavosi honors first—mint five thousand over the next two weeks. Store them here in locked chests. When we have enough volume, Jeren will start introducing them into circulation through White Harbor merchants."
"Five thousand honors, m'lord?" Tym's eyes widened. "That's... that's a fortune."
"That's the point. We're building a fortune from gold nobody knows we have, converting it to coins nobody can trace." Castor picked up the minted coin again. "This is real gold in real denominations. Only difference is where it's minted. And since nobody's checking mint marks from Free Cities, nobody will ever know."
Money laundering, medieval edition.
Take illegal wealth—or at least wealth you can't explain—and convert it through legitimate-looking channels.
Real coins + fake documentation = clean money that can be spent anywhere.
"How long until you can run this operation independently?" Castor asked.
"We're ready now, m'lord," Tym said. "Just need authorization to begin."
"You have it. Start today. I want daily production logs—coins minted, dies used, any issues that come up. Jeren will collect reports weekly."
"Yes, m'lord."
Castor spent another few minutes watching them work through the process. Loading dies, positioning blanks, engaging the press, extracting finished coins. After the first nervous attempts, they developed a rhythm—one man loading, one operating the lever, one collecting and sorting output. Production line efficiency even with just three workers.
This is what manufacturing looks like. Not individual craftsmen making unique products, but standardized processes producing identical units. They don't understand they're part of an industrial system. They just think they're following orders.
Perfect.
"One more thing," Castor said as he prepared to leave. "Mix in some Northern coppers too. Small denominations for local use. I want a variety of coins flowing through Bolton lands—looks more natural than just Braavosi gold."
"I can do copper blanks easy, m'lord," Tym said. "Dies take less detail since coppers are rougher. Maybe double the output rate."
"Good. Prioritize variety over volume. I want it to look like we're getting paid in mixed coins from diverse trade, not minting a fortune in one denomination."
Verisimilitude. That's the trick. Real trade produces mixed results—different coins, different conditions, irregular amounts.
Too much uniformity is its own kind of evidence. Introduce noise into the data, make it look organic.
"Understood, m'lord."
As Castor climbed back toward daylight, his mind cataloged the progress.
Printing press operational—could forge any document needed.
Hydraulic press running—could mint currency that would fund everything.
Gold mine producing steady supply of raw material.
All the pieces connecting, systems interlocking, power accumulating in forms nobody else could even perceive yet.
Two machines. That's all it took. Two machines and the knowledge to use them. Information control plus currency production equals the ability to reshape economic reality.
The Lannisters think they're rich because they have gold mines. They don't understand that controlling the documentation and the minting process is worth more than the gold itself.
He emerged into afternoon light, blinking against the brightness. The Dreadfort's courtyard was busy with normal activity—soldiers drilling, servants hauling supplies, smiths working at forges.
Everything looking perfectly ordinary while underneath, literally underneath their feet, systems operated that could destabilize the entire Northern economy if fully deployed.
Not yet though. Can't flood the market too fast or people notice. Slow deployment, gradual introduction, building the infrastructure while maintaining plausible deniability.
Another year of preparation, maybe eighteen months, then we'll be ready to really move.
Jeren appeared from somewhere, falling into step beside him. "The printing test went well, m'lord?"
"Perfectly. And the hydraulic press is operational. We're starting coin production today."
"How much?"
"Five thousand Braavosi honors over two weeks. Plus mixed copper denominations. Variety matters more than volume initially."
Jeren nodded, understanding the implications. "I'll need to establish payment channels through White Harbor. Merchants who can accept 'Braavosi trade proceeds' without asking too many questions."
"Use the Manderlys' network where possible. They're already dealing in Braavosi coinfrom legitimate trade. Our coins get mixed in with theirs, nobody can distinguish the source."
Hiding in plain sight. That's the beauty of this approach. Don't try to create a completely new financial system—just add your forged coins to the existing one. Like diluting wine with water. Done carefully, nobody notices until it's too late.
"I'll make arrangements, m'lord."
They walked in silence for a moment. Then Jeren spoke again, voice lower: "My lord,
This is going to work, isn't it? All of it. The gold, the machines, the plans for Essos. You've actually found a way to—"
"To build something unprecedented? Yeah." Castor smiled without humor.
"The Starks think in terms of honor and duty. The Lannisters think in terms of gold and power. But neither of them understand what I'm actually doing here. They're playing the same game that's been played for centuries. I'm playing a different game entirely."
"And when they figure it out?"
"They won't. Not until it's too late to stop." Castor looked up at the Dreadfort's towers, stark against pale sky. "By the time anyone realizes what House Bolton has become, we'll have dragons."
Jeren's expression was unreadable. "Dragons, m'lord?"
"Eventually. First we need the girl who can wake them. That's next year's problem." Castor turned toward the great hall. "This year, we build the foundation. Gold, coin, documentation, military power. Everything we need to support what comes after."
"Understood, m'lord."
Pieces moving. All the pieces moving exactly as planned. Another six months and the infrastructure will be solid. Another year and we'll have operational capabilities that dwarf anything in the North.
Two years and we'll be ready for whatever the War of Five Kings brings.
And through it all, everyone will think we're just a reformed young lord making modest improvements to Bolton lands.
That's the real genius. Not the machines or the gold. The misdirection. The performance. Making them see what I want them to see while hiding everything that actually matters.
He smiled as he entered the great hall, already planning the evening's theater.
***
CHAPTER END