The heat radiating from the newly constructed foundry complex outside Ascalon's inner walls was unlike anything the old world had ever known. It did not smell merely of burning coal or peat, but of superheated iron and molten slag.
Inside the grand brick structure, giant cast-iron cauldrons hung suspended by heavy iron chains and pulley systems. High above the floor, air was blasted directly into the bottom of the vessel, oxidizing the molten pig iron in a roar of blinding white light and showers of orange sparks.
Baldwin stood upon the high steel walkway overlooking the operation. His silver mask was off, slung over his shoulder by its leather strap, letting the humid sea breeze cool his healed, unblemished face. Beside him,Minister Menon held a parchment blueprint, his hands trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the raw,ecstatic realization of what they had achieved.
"The oxidation process takes less than twenty minutes, Your Majesty," Menon spoke up over the deafening roar of the blast air. "What used to take weeks of painstaking labor by hundreds of smiths in individual hearths... we now produce in tens of tons per batch. Pure, low-carbon steel. Uniform in density. Free of slag pockets."
"And the tensile tests?" Baldwin asked, his voice low, piercing through the noise with calm authority.
"Beyond our highest expectations," Menon replied, pointing toward a line of cooled ingots being transported on heavy wooden carts below. "The blacksmiths in the armor works report that plates forged from this batch can be drawn thinner, lighter, and yet resist heavy crossbow bolts at point-blank range without shattering."
"Good," Baldwin said, his dark eyes reflecting the molten glow below. "Increase the coal shipments from the northern roads. I want five more converter vessels operational by next month. The army will not march on leather and iron scrap. Every man under my banner will be clad in steel."
"It shall be done, My Lord," Menon bowed deeply as Baldwin pulled his mask back over his face, the cool silver metal snapping into place, hiding the man once more behind the divine monarch.
In the grand reception hall of the former Prince's Palace, the atmosphere was far less warm.
Two men stood beneath the towering banners of the Red Cross and the Amal Empire. One was Ser Willis Whent, an envoy dispatched by the Queen Regent and the Small Council of King's Landing, dressed in velvet heavily trimmed with Lannister crimson. Beside him stood a nervous scribe clutching a sealed royal scroll.
Standing opposite them was Tiberias, his hand rested on the pommel of his longsword, flanked by four Praetorian guards clad in polished plate that shone like silver under the vaulted chandeliers.
When Baldwin entered, his heavy cloak sweeping behind him, the Westerosi envoy did not bow. Ser Willis merely straightened his back, attempting to project the martial pride of the Seven Kingdoms.
"King Baldwin," Ser Willis began, his voice echoing in the marble hall. "I bring greetings from King Joffrey of House Baratheon, first of his name, and Queen Regent Cersei."
Baldwin ascended the dais and took his seat upon the iron-bound throne. He did not speak, leaving the silence to stretch until the envoy shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
"Speak your piece, Westerosi," Tiberias commanded coldly.
Ser Willis cleared his throat, unrolling the parchment. "It has come to the attention of the Iron Throne that merchant fleets bearing the sea-seal of Ascalon have been docking regularly at White Harbor and Dragonstone. You are supplying grain, salt beef, and forged tools in massive quantities to the rebel Robb Stark and the traitor Stannis Baratheon."
"Trade is the lifeline of my empire," Baldwin replied, his voice echoing smoothly through the silver mask. "We sell to those who possess the coin and raw materials we require. Your King's Landing buys our grain as well,does it not? To feed the starving mob that threatens to pull your red keep down brick by brick?"
Ser Willis flushed. "The Iron Throne will not tolerate its trading partners actively arming and feeding our enemies in the field. House Stark pays you in raw iron and copper—iron that feeds your foundries while their armies march on the Westland borders. My Queen demands an immediate embargo on all shipments to White Harbor and Dragonstone."
Baldwin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring down at the knight.
"Demands?" Baldwin repeated softly.
The temperature in the room seemed to plunge. The four Praetorians stepped forward in unison, the heavy clatter of their steel boots resounding like a drumbeat.
"Let me make something abundantly clear to you, Ser Willis," Baldwin said, his tone devoid of anger, replaced only by absolute, iron conviction. "You stand in the capital of the Amal Empire. My realm stretches from the Narrow Sea to the depths of the Grass Sea. I do not take orders from a boy sitting on a chair of melted swords,nor from a court that bleeds itself dry in petty, squabbling greed."
"Is that a declaration of hostility against the Iron Throne?" Ser Willis challenged, his hand instinctively twitching toward his sword belt.
"It is a fact," Baldwin stated calmly. "Your Iron Throne holds no sway beyond the waters of your bay. If King's Landing wishes to purchase our grain, you will pay the market price in gold, as you have done. If you attempt to stop our trade with the North or Dragonstone, your ships will be seized, your merchants expelled, and your port cut off from our stores entirely. Return to your Queen and deliver those exact words."
Ser Willis opened his mouth to retort, but Tiberias drew his blade an inch from its scabbard, the sharp scraping of steel signaling that the audience was at an end.
"You have your answer, envoy," Tiberias growled. "Leave before the Emperor's mercy expires."
Late into the night, inside the Emperor's private sanctum, a single candle flickered against a wide map of Essos laid out on the oak table.
Baldwin sat alone, reviewing a thin parchment that had arrived by fast courier from the East. The wax seal bore no crest—only a subtle imprint of an olive branch over a broken chain.
It was from Ishtar mo Rakhaz.
To My Savior and Emperor, the letter read in low Valyrian script. The Great Masters of Meereen grow more paranoid by the day. Word of the Dothraki Khals being slaughtered in the western plains has reached the noble houses. They speak of building higher walls and doubling the slave levies. Yet beneath the surface, the city is a powder keg. My freedmen and loyal houses have begun stockpiling weapons in secret cellars throughout the lower districts.
The time draws near. When your steel legions cross the Valyrian roads, Meereen will not need to be broken from without. We shall open the gates from within.
Baldwin folded the letter and held it over the candle flame, watching the parchment turn to ash before dropping it into the brass brazier.
He walked over to the tall balcony windows, opening them wide to gaze out over Ascalon. The city below was quiet, save for the rhythmic distant thrum of the new foundries and the clinking of hammer on anvil that never ceased, day or night.
The foundation was built. The steel was forged. The East was ready to fall.
For advance chapters you can join my P@treon: Gs9gosohard