GERION
"The red house yonder," Oberyn Martell suddenly spoke up, his smooth voice carrying clearly over the market din. He pointed with his chin toward a three-story building painted a striking wine-red, from within drifted the sounds of flirtatious music and the high, shrill laughter of women. "I hear it is a place of some passion, Gerion," Oberyn grinned, his hot, Dornish smile playing on his thin lips.
"Their lovely women," he continued, his dark eyes glittering with mischief, "are rumored to be as spirited as mares. They can keep a man company from dusk until the dawn breaks again, without pause. Ah, if only our own vigor could match theirs, life would be far more pleasant, would it not?"
Gerion Lannister gave a small laugh and shook his head, his thick golden mane swaying slightly. He was well accustomed to the Dornish Prince's ribald jests. "Such affairs are better savored no more than once a sennight, Oberyn. Consider it. You can gather your strength, build the anticipation, and then spend it all in one memorable night. It makes the prize far sweeter. It is a boon for patience, like a fine wine, cellared for years before it is uncorked."
"I suppose our paths diverge, Gerion," Oberyn said with dramatic flourish, as if his heart had just been broken. "I find no burning passion in you. You think too much, too much strategy even for the bedchamber. And that is a great pity, for I have greatly enjoyed our travels together of late. Perhaps... perhaps it is time we parted ways."
Gerion knew it was only a jest.
They had been traveling together for the better part of a year, a friendship forged in dust and bargaining. Gerion had found Oberyn in Oldtown. The young prince had sought Gerion out as soon as he heard the rumors of his nephew's wondrous paper.
Oberyn had wanted to see and hear about Jaime's paper from Gerion's own mouth. With a burning intensity, he had asked how it was made, its raw materials, the process. Of course, Gerion had only answered vaguely; it was a valuable Lannister trade secret, not something to be shared, not even with Jaime's friend.
Oberyn was 'studying' at the Citadel at the time. He was mastering the art of poisons, at least that's what he proudly claimed. He said that if the world was going to insist on calling him the 'Red Viper'—a nickname he had earned from the rumored killing of Lord Yronwood, he might as well master it fully. He would wear the moniker with pride, make it a weapon, rather than be like a sniveling child whining about slander.
But Gerion knew that Oberyn bored quickly. So, when the prince heard that Gerion was planning a trade journey to Essos for House Lannister, Oberyn immediately volunteered to come along. Gerion, who always appreciated a clever and slightly dangerous drinking companion, had readily agreed. Of course, Gerion told no one about his infamous traveling partner, especially not Tywin in his reports. As far as Westeros knew, Prince Oberyn Martell was still safely buried in the Citadel's libraries in Oldtown.
"I thought our friendship ran deeper than that?" Gerion acted in kind, placing a hand on his chest. "But if it is your deepest wish, Oberyn, I cannot stop you. But know this, you will always be in my deepest heart."
Oberyn truly clutched his own chest, his eyes welling with mock tears. "Your words wound me, Gerion. So poetic. Perhaps I will stay with you a while longer. Just to see if you are still worth fighting for."
"I will prove it tonight," Gerion smiled, amused. "With the finest wine gold can buy."
They continued on their way, their laughter fading. Behind them, a dozen Lannister guards followed quietly, their hands ready on the hilts of their swords, their eyes warily scanning the foreign crowd. They were a stark contrast to the thin silk garments and olive skin of the local populace.
Currently, Gerion was in Myr on official business, representing the trade interests of House Lannister. He was scheduled to discuss the price and export volume of paper with one of the wealthiest Magisters in the city, a man named Lorras.
As they moved deeper into the heart of the city, the sights began to change. Gerion's laughter and jests slowly faded, replaced by a discomfort that gnawed at his stomach. In Myr, as in many of the Free Cities, there were slaves. It was a sight that made Gerion deeply uncomfortable every time he saw these human beings, marched through the streets with their necks bound by iron collars, and given only tattered rags to cover their bodies.
They were treated like filthy animals. No, Gerion corrected himself internally, even animals were treated with more respect. Horses, for example. His guards' horses were well cared for; their coats had to be brushed regularly, their hooves needed to be trimmed and shod, and they were also fed plentifully to keep them healthy and strong. Horses were an investment.
But these slaves? They were thin, their eyes dull and empty. They received none of that. All the basic things that even the poorest man should have, freedom, dignity, they could not have. It was a sickening sight.
They finally arrived at the gates of Magister Lorras's complex. The contrast with the squalid streets they had just passed was striking. The building was large, magnificent, and had an admirable architecture, a private palace built from expensive, yellowish-brown stone. A high, sturdy wall surrounded the property to protect the wealth within. At the main gate, stood two gate guards. They wore brightly polished armor and featureless masks, making them look like lifeless metal statues. They were as still as stone, not even blinking as the Lannister party approached.
"We come here at the invitation of Magister Lorras," Gerion said, his voice clear and firm. "We have some business to discuss."
One of the masked guards looked at him for a moment, then gave a single, wordless nod, and the gate began to open, granting them entry.
Inside, there was a courtyard so perfect it seemed unreal. It was something isolated from the chaos and suffering of the city outside. The courtyard was vast, and the grass was trimmed with impossible precision, its color a deep emerald green. A large pool in the center reflected the blue sky, its water so clear that Gerion could see the intricate stonework bottom beneath.
And the smell. The scent in the air was so fragrant, a soft aroma like the most expensive perfume made from rare flowers. It was subtle, it was calming... and to Gerion, it felt nauseating. This paradise, he thought bitterly, was bought with the suffering of the slaves he had just seen.
When they stepped into the manse itself, a coolness immediately enveloped them, a welcome contrast from the heat outside. Magister Lorras greeted them in a marble-lined atrium. He stood there with his arms open wide, a smile blooming on his well-groomed face, which was slightly wrinkled around the eyes and featured a neatly trimmed mustache.
He wore clothing clearly designed to display wealth without looking garish; the finest black silk robes, embroidered with fine gold and silver thread in intricate geometric patterns. Behind him stood several masked guards identical to the ones at the gate, and several serving women who kept their eyes downcast, almost invisible.
"Welcome to my humble abode, Lord Gerion Lannister. I hope your journey was pleasant," Lorras said, his voice smooth and practiced. He bowed slightly for a moment, a calculated gesture of respect.
Gerion returned the smile, the smile of a Lannister trained in diplomacy. "My journey was indeed pleasant, Magister. I saw many sights that do not exist in Westeros, and it was very entertaining."
'No,' his mind whispered sharply, 'seeing men chained like hounds is not entertaining in the slightest.'
"Ah, yes!" Lorras gave a small laugh, as if Gerion had shared a private joke. "Because of the efforts of many Magisters to build this city, the sights have indeed become very beautiful, have they not? Everything is made with care, from every stone that is laid, the artisans who carve them, and even the placement of the gardens. We all think about it very carefully."
Lorras proudly led them into a larger room, a luxurious receiving room filled with plush sofas and silk cushions. A low table sat in the center. "Sit, my lords, do not be shy. It is rude to start a conversation without a drink to smooth the throat, is it not?" He gestured to the sofas. "What do you prefer? Tea? Fresh fruit juice? Or perhaps Dornish wine? I have a very fine vintage."
"Orange juice, if you have it," Gerion said, choosing something simple. "It is quite hot today, and I think that would be very refreshing." He and Oberyn sat on the sofa opposite the Magister.
"And your friend...?" Lorras gestured to Oberyn, his sharp eyes observing the quiet prince.
"Marwyn," Oberyn lied smoothly, his voice flat. "Of course I want wine. Who refuses wine at this hour?"
"Ah! A connoisseur. I like that!" Lorras agreed with a laugh. He then clapped his hands twice. "You heard them! Prepare drinks for our polite guests. And do not forget the honey cakes!"
Several serving women who had been standing silently in the corner of the room immediately moved, their steps soundless on the thick carpet, then left to the back, following the order.
A brief silence fell as the servants disappeared. Lorras leaned forward slightly, his friendly smile fading, replaced by a sharp business expression.
"So," he said, getting straight to the point, no more pleasantries. "What about this 'paper'?"
Gerion felt the small adrenaline rush of negotiation begin. He shifted on the cushion, his relaxed demeanor hardening into a merchant's focus. Beside him, he could feel Oberyn just watching with amusement behind his calm gaze.
"As you might expect, Magister, business is very good," Gerion began, his voice confident. "We have a plentiful supply. As you know, the paper has already spread throughout Westeros with surprising speed. We have just completed the construction of two more mills in Lannisport to meet the demand."
"Good, good. Seizing an opportunity," Lorras nodded, his fingers tapping on the armrest of his chair.
"Not just seizing, Magister. We are dominating," Gerion corrected him subtly. "Currently, we are the only known maker of quality paper. Of course, we guard that secret closely." Then he thought. 'Jaime and Kevan assume that some worker might be bribed and the recipe will leak, but for now, it has not. And we will crush anyone who tries.'
"So yes," Gerion continued, "as it stands, paper has almost replaced parchment at the Citadel and among the maesters in a single stroke. This is something rarely seen in centuries. When something comes and changes life so quickly, is it not?"
"Precisely. That is why I am interested in this," Lorras admitted, his eyes glittering with undisguised greed. "It has great potential. Very great. And I want to be the one to maximize that in Essos."
"In that case, let us discuss the price first," Gerion said, just as the drinks arrived on an engraved silver tray, served by the same silent servants. He took his cold, dewy glass of orange juice. "As you know, the price of paper has decreased and become more affordable over time as more mills have been built. The retail price of paper per sheet today in Lannisport is 8 coppers. One ream, containing 500 sheets, costs 65 Silver Stags."
Gerion sipped his juice. Sweet and tart, very refreshing. "Of course, if you truly intend to be our main distributor in Myr, the price will be much lower. Let's say... 55 Stags per ream."
Magister Lorras gave a small, dry, hoarse laugh. "55?" He shook his head slowly, while Oberyn sipped his wine leisurely, his eyes dancing between the two negotiators. "That is too expensive, Lord Gerion. Far too expensive."
"Expensive?" Gerion raised an eyebrow. "Magister, this is a product that is revolutionizing the way men record history. 55 Silver is a very low price for a monopoly."
"It may be cheap in Westeros," Lorras countered sharply. "But here, I am the one bearing all the risk. The cost of shipping across the Narrow Sea, the risk of pirates, harbor tariffs, and I have to create a new market to compete with cheap parchment. I offer 35 Stags."
Now it was Gerion's turn to laugh. "35? Magister, at that price, I would be better off burning it to warm my castle in winter. I will not sell it below 50. That is already a very generous offer."
"40," Lorras said quickly. "And I will guarantee a minimum purchase of 1000 reams every two months. That is a very large volume, Lord Gerion. Guaranteed cash for your new mills."
Gerion pretended to think hard. 1000 reams was a very large amount. It would stabilize production and secure a large, consistent profit. Tywin would be pleased with such a contract.
"You drive a hard bargain, Magister," Gerion said, letting out a false sigh. "Very well. But not 40. We meet in the middle. 45 Stags per ream. That is my final price. Take it or leave it."
Lorras stared at him for a long time, his sharp eyes calculating the numbers in his head. Gerion stared back, not blinking, maintaining his calm smile.
Finally, the Magister broke into a wide grin, showing his slightly wine-stained teeth. "Lord Gerion, you are a formidable negotiator, just like your brother, I hear." He held out his hand. "45 Stags per ream, for 1000 reams, first shipment to begin in two months."
Gerion shook the well-manicured hand firmly. "You have a deal, Magister Lorras."
After leaving the Magister's stuffy manse, Oberyn finally spoke after a long silence, the fresh air in the street feeling like a gift. Gerion, who had been holding his breath inside the room, felt the same relief.
"That conversation was so dull I could not bring myself to interfere," said Oberyn, waving his hand as if to brush off the lingering remnants of boredom. A cynical smile played on his lips. "I almost fell asleep in that chair, and that would have been an unforgivable insult to the honorable Magister."
Gerion laughed crisply, his voice echoing between the dense stone buildings of the Free City. He glanced at Oberyn, admiring the man's audacity in speaking such blunt truths. "You were right not to interfere, Prince," Gerion replied, clapping Oberyn on the shoulder. "That was a dance I had to perform myself. You know, the dance of merchants and politicians."
Oberyn nodded, his sharp gaze sweeping the street crowd, observing the busy merchants and locals. "As luck would have it, I would rather clean a stable than continue staring at him," he said, his expression turning to amusement. "At least there is a more honest smell there, and more genuine filth than the horseshit we just heard." Gerion could only shake his head, a smile still playing on his lips. Oberyn always had a way of lightening the mood, even after the most exhausting of meetings.
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