Chapter 188: Solidified Wildfire and the Will
"Exactly, that's it." Dividing identical products into different categories to sell at varying prices was a marketing technique that seemed like a fairy tale to the people of Westeros, but to Egger, a former modern man, it was a common trick. "I am merely providing a way of thinking; you can expand on it. Classification isn't limited to just 'military' and 'civilian'; you can have high, medium, and low grades. Take lipstick, for instance—adjust the pigment, and you have different shades. For soap, you can offer different scents based on the ratio of fragrances... As long as it isn't illegal, or at least not illegal enough to provoke figures like the Hand or the King, methods for making money are never 'too despicable'."
Nina's eyes shone with a strange brilliance. "Understood. I'll record this as soon as I get back and implement it immediately!"
As the wight-killing performance concluded, the announcement for the obsidian products finished, and the auction for the obsidian spear ended, the crowd in the plaza began to disperse. Nina continued to discuss the feasibility of various sales strategies with Egger, clearly energized. Emotionally speaking, simply talking to her idol and crush was enough to make her happy, let alone constantly hearing innovative ideas that broadened her horizons.
In the midst of their spirited conversation, a modestly dressed man approached from nearby, climbed the steps, and greeted them excitedly: "Miss Nina, are you here to see the wight-slaying show as well?"
"Yes." Nina turned and recognized the speaker, quickly introducing him to Egger. "My lord, this is Blair, the man who improved the lipstick paste and soap. I've mentioned him to you. Blair, this is the manager of the Night's Watch industries, Chief Logistics Officer Egger West."
"Lord Egger!" Blair had never met the legendary big boss, but he had no trouble deducing his identity. Nina, who handled his inventions and approved his funding, was already a formidable figure; for such a strong woman to adopt a demure posture and show such admiration, the man before her had to be of an even higher rank. He quickly stepped forward to converse. "I never expected to meet you here. It is a profound honor!"
"Blair, I have heard much of you." Egger nodded at him with a neutral expression. Before him stood the man skilled at turning powders and liquids into solids like pastes and soaps. "How have you been lately? Are you working on any new inventions?"
Life was naturally much better than before. Without the discovery and sponsorship of the Night's Watch industries, he would likely still be a commoner in King's Landing tinkering with useless gadgets. However, Blair knew the Great Man wasn't actually interested in his personal life, so he answered the second question directly: "I have been trying to solidify kerosene. I want to create a substance that provides better, more lasting light than candles but is safer than liquid kerosene."
"An interesting idea, but I must warn you: even if your invention succeeds, it may not replace candles or liquid kerosene simply based on performance or safety if the functions overlap. It might not capture the market or make a fortune." Egger didn't even have to act; he slipped naturally into a leadership role to offer guidance. "Rather than just improving things, the real path to success is inventing something that doesn't yet exist or that others desperately need."
Though he didn't fully understand the business theory, Blair noted that Great Men truly spoke differently. He stared at Egger tensely. "My lord, for example? Could you provide a more detailed hint?"
If I could give detailed hints for everything, what would I need you for? Egger thought it was amusing, but his relaxed brain flickered with an instinctive spark. Where was he standing? On the steps of the Alchemists' Guildhall. Beneath his feet, in deep cellars, were stockpiles of thousands of jars of wildfire—substances far more lethal and terrifying than kerosene, capable of burning all of King's Landing.
Wildfire couldn't be used in conventional warfare because it was too unstable. But what if that flaw could be overcome?
...
"Fine, stop wasting your energy on trifles. I'll give you a task—use whatever method necessary to raise the ignition temperature of wildfire to a safe level. If possible, turn it into a paste or solid blocks... a state that is safer and easier to transport." Egger was startled by his own sudden idea; he should have thought of it sooner. "Nina, can you contact the Alchemists' Guild members remaining in King's Landing?"
"I know where they live. I should be able to find them."
"Have someone find them and get a few jars of wildfire for Blair's experiments. Choose a remote spot in the industrial park outside the city. Prioritize safety." Egger patted Blair on the shoulder. Though he might not be much older than the man, his status made him seem mature. "Work hard, lad. If you succeed, come find me at the office. There will be a massive reward."
After reading the letter brought by the Maester, Eddard Stark sat in his chair, rubbing his temples as he stared at the candle flame on his desk. Although most of the news was good, a sense of depression filled his chest. He wanted to go to the Godswood and kneel before the Heart Tree to pray for the King's recovery, but deep down, he knew it was futile. Even if the Old Gods truly existed, how much power could they have here in the South, so far from the North?
A guard knocked and entered. "My lord, the King summons you."
"Summons me?" Ned repeated in confusion. He didn't know what Robert wanted, but he decided to obey. He stood up. "Let us go."
...
Passing over the dry moat filled with iron spikes and across the heavily guarded drawbridge, Ned entered the castle within the castle: Maegor's Holdfast, the royal residence. After several turns, he arrived outside the King's bedchamber.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood guard. Since the day of the King's attack, the old knight had been mired in deep self-reproach. Despite Ned's repeated assurances that it was his own logistical failure and Janos Slynt's incompetence that had caused the delay, it did nothing to ease the old knight's pain.
He had failed to protect Rhaegar, failed to protect Aerys, and now he had failed to protect Robert... As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, repeatedly failing to fulfill his duty was the greatest agony he could endure. Barristan shook his head wordlessly at Ned. Ned understood the situation had not improved, and his heart grew heavier.
"Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King," the royal steward announced loudly as he opened the door.
"Come in," Robert called out, his voice thick and muffled.
A faint, foul odor drifted through the room, barely masked by the scent of fresh bouquets lining the walls. The smell was somewhat similar to the rot of the wight's arm—what men called the scent of death. It was for this reason that Ned had finally decided to move the wight out of the Red Keep, but it seemed it was either too late or the King's decline was unrelated.
The stab wound on Robert's back had nearly healed, yet for some reason, his physical condition continued to deteriorate. Along with the strange smell, his bowel movements had become increasingly difficult. Due to his size and weight, every trip to the privy was like a battle... Currently, the young Maester replacing Pycelle was in attendance, Renly was pacing anxiously by the window, and Margaery Tyrell sat by the bedside like a devoted wife, her hair disheveled and her face pale with exhaustion.
"Ned, come here," Robert grunted, lying face down. "The rest of you, leave. I wish to speak with the Hand alone."
"Your Grace, you need someone to tend to you..." Margaery started anxiously.
"I wish to speak with the Hand alone." Margaery was not Cersei, after all; Robert repeated himself, and though impatient, he maintained a shred of politeness. "I think a clever girl like you understands the Common Tongue."
Margaery looked helplessly at Ned, stood up, and followed the others out of the room.
Ned watched the young, slender back of the Flower of Highgarden depart. As the door closed, he heard Robert let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "That little rose... her heart is set on being Queen. She's finally getting her wish, though it's a pity... cough... this old dog of a man is failing her."
"Your Grace will recover. We have brought the best healers and Maesters in the Crownlands."
"Save the platitudes, Ned. I can feel it. I'm dying."
"The wound is healing well—"
"But everything inside is rotten! I can feel it!" Robert interrupted irritably. "Life is draining out of me bit by bit. Do you think I can't smell that stench? Why do you think that girl moved so many flowers in here? Because she can't stand it anymore either." He gasped for breath as the effort strained his injury. "Enough talk. Tell me, how goes the war?"
"The siege of the Golden Tooth has begun. Robb wrote to me, swearing he would take it within three days. As for Deep Den, its terrain makes it difficult; it likely won't fall until the Stormlands and Crownlands armies link up. At Crakehall, battle has joined, but it is far; the last report is two days old. By now, it may have fallen, and the Tyrell forces will be closing in on Lannisport."
"Good. The Lannisters..." Robert wanted to say spare none, but remembering his friend's temperament, he only sighed. "Fine. Kill as many as you like, spare as many as you like. Send whoever you want to the Wall. Only one thing: Tywin and those two dogs he sired must die! And it's time for a new Warden of the West!"
Is this a will? Ned felt a surge of unease.
"Don't look at me like that. Yes, it's a will." Robert seemed to read Ned's mind. "If I were you, I'd get paper and ink. There, on the table. Hurry."
Ned hesitated for a few seconds, sighed inwardly, and brought the materials over. "Your Grace, your instructions."
"The following is the will of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the—put in all those damn titles, you know the ones. I hereby appoint Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, as Regent and Protector of the Realm... to rule in my stead... until a new King is crowned. As for who gets the Iron Throne, you know. Write it down."
Stannis Baratheon. Ned's face was full of sorrow, but his hand did not waver. "What else?"
"Write what should be written. Obey, protect, Old Gods and New... all that nonsense. You're the Hand; you know the rules. I'll sign it when you're done. Give it to the Small Council after I'm gone."
"Robert," Ned's voice was thick with grief. "Do not do this. Do not leave me. The realm needs you."
"Hmph..." Robert shook his head, fighting back a wave of weakness. "Ned Stark, you... you truly cannot lie. This realm knows well... what a fool of a king I've been. A fool just like Aerys. No one needs me, except for the string of whores I've bedded... may the gods forgive me."
"No," Ned shook his head. "Your Grace, you are not like Aerys. you are far better."
"Perhaps a little. At least people will say... the last thing I did in this life... was right. I leave the realm to you. You'll hate ruling even more than I did... but you'll do it well. Is it finished?"
"It is, Your Grace." Ned handed the paper to the King. Robert struggled to prop himself up, scrawling a messy signature with one hand before dropping the pen and collapsing back down. "It needs witnesses for the seal."
"Wait a moment. A few more things; just listen. If the Tyrells did their part in this war, give them a seat on the Small Council. Stop them from scurrying around aimlessly. But don't give them lands in the West; the Reach is big enough already." The King hesitated, then sighed as he brought up another matter: "Also, regardless of whose those three children are, let them live. I know it might plant seeds of chaos for the realm... but... never mind, I won't explain. It's out of sentiment; I'm not a cold-blooded animal after all. Use whatever method you want—hide them, send them to Essos, whatever... And... that Targaryen girl, Daenerys. Stop trying to kill her. Gods be merciful, stop it all."
This was a completely different Robert than usual, but Ned felt no joy. If only he had been this rational and calm sooner, how much better things might have been?
"I will, my friend," Ned said. "I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."
"Good. Now, let them in. I'll try to last a few more days to give you time to prepare. You don't need to visit me every day; save your strength for the real work... Also, tell the Tyrell girl she doesn't need to keep watch here. I don't want an outsider watching me make a fool of myself in this wretched state as I die." The King chuckled weakly. "Tell the Maester to give me something for the pain. Robert of House Baratheon, the First of His Name... his last wish is to die in his sleep. May the gods help me not to soil myself when I go... damn it, it's truly pathetic."
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