Chapter 734

“This... is a cannon?” Robb Stark asked, his voice hoarse as he struggled to suppress the tremor in his tone.

“For now, it’s not for sale. But if any lord here is truly interested, I’d say... one million gold dragons would be a fair price.”

Tyrion never once mentioned the Bloody Gate by name, but he didn’t need to. The message was as clear as day to the two Vale nobles and every other Northern and Riverlands lord present: this was a veiled threat—an implicit warning that, should the need arise, this weapon would be part of any campaign against the Vale.

“Lady Anya, I’ve made my proposal. What say you? If the terms are broadly acceptable, I can arrange to meet with Her Majesty tonight.”

The signal flags waved again. A final, sharp note rang from the trumpets before every soldier, engineer, and observer—even the trumpeters themselves—dropped whatever they were holding, crouched low, and clamped their hands firmly over their ears.

There was no doubt about it: this cannon, with its astronomical cost and ludicrous weight, was laughably impractical in actual combat. Its reliability was dubious at best, its real battlefield value negligible.

But that hardly mattered.

It had been built not to fight, but to intimidate.

Even using expensive, reliable bronze as its material, the first of these super-cannons had gone through multiple failures before its final, barely successful casting.

Tyrion smiled. “Good. The sooner we secure peace across the realm, the better for the people of the Seven Kingdoms—and, of course, for all of us here.” Powder and shot, it seemed, had a remarkable way of making men more reasonable. “Alright, let’s inform everyone it’s time to head back… I believe the kitchens at the Black-Walled Keep should have a fine feast waiting for us.”

A keen eye might have noticed something curious, though.

This cannon was bronze. Not iron.

It had not—could not—have been forged from the melted remains of the Iron Throne.
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While the final preparations for firing continued in the background, Tyrion led the tour group a fair distance away from the cannon, stopping behind a waist-high barricade of thickly stacked sandbags positioned opposite the gun’s muzzle.

From the carefully orchestrated build-up on the way here, to the excessive pre-launch procedures that seemed more ceremonial than functional—everything had been designed to amplify the drama of this demonstration, to maximize the sheer pressure exerted by “King’s Might.”

And yet, for all the theatrics, nothing could compare to the impact of the final result: a smoldering, gaping crater in the earth, large and deep enough to serve as Tyrion’s own tomb.
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The quoted price was outrageous, a blatant show of bad faith—yet no one dared scoff. Instead, whispers spread among the gathered lords. Edmure Tully, serving as the middleman for this meeting, exchanged a glance with Lady Anya Waynwood before stepping forward.

There was no question about it—the Bloody Gate could never withstand a weapon like this.

During the Faith Militant Uprising, the garrison had sealed the passage and reinforced the gates in an attempt to hold out against Robert Baratheon’s forces. But against this? Against something that could reduce even stone fortifications to rubble? The old defense strategies were meaningless.

“Then there’s Gulltown,” Tyrion continued. “As the Vale’s largest city and commercial hub, I doubt anyone here is eager to simply hand over its port. However… to my understanding…”

He deliberately let slip certain classified information—that the Queen was preparing for an expedition against Braavos. Then, with an air of casual suggestion, he offered an alternative:

“If the Vale voluntarily offers up its port as a temporary staging ground for the Royal Navy’s campaign against Braavos… provides full logistical and financial support for the fleet… and even commits its own best warships to the effort… well, I highly doubt the Queen would be so callous as to insist on reclaiming it once Braavos has fallen and the Iron Bank is ours.”

A pointed pause.

“First—Targaryen bonds.”

Tyrion acknowledged that demanding the Vale—never known for its wealth—to immediately cough up a sum close to a million dragons was unreasonable.

But…

He then explained how, once the bonds were integrated into the royal exchange, they would become tradeable assets.

“In truth,” he summarized, “though this ‘protection fee’ may seem immense, a good seventy to eighty percent of it can be regained almost immediately through resale. The actual cost to the Vale would be closer to twenty or thirty percent of the listed sum. And if the lords of the Vale can afford to be patient, they might even recover the full amount within a year or two—perhaps even turn a profit.”

A sharp, blinding flash.

Then—

The roar of the cannon.

The very earth trembled. The air shook. The deafening explosion slammed through flesh and bone, rattling through skulls and ribcages with such force that it left even the most battle-hardened among them momentarily disoriented.

Those who hadn’t covered their ears?

They were no doubt regretting it.
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The cannon, King’s Might, was over four meters long, with a muzzle diameter exceeding half a meter—wide enough for Tyrion to crawl through upright.

Compared to Earth’s legendary super-cannons—like the Great Turkish Bombard or the Tsar Cannon—it was unimpressive.

But here, in this world, with its sister cannon Truth still unfinished, it was undoubtedly the most powerful non-magical weapon ever created by human hands.

Tyrion was the first to uncover his ears. Only then did the others dare to follow suit.

A thick, acrid cloud of white smoke billowed around “King’s Might,” obscuring it from view. The pungent stench of sulfur and burnt powder filled their nostrils.

There were no mountains to reflect the sound, yet even now, some swore they could still hear the echo of the shot ringing in their heads.

A minor issue.

Tyrion already had a solution to explain away the discrepancy between the Queen’s original decree and the cannon’s actual composition.

Officially, the cannon was bronze-clad—but inside the metal walls, its core contained remnants of the melted Iron Throne.

And since no one would ever have the opportunity—or the courage—to saw it open for verification…

Well, who was going to call his bluff?
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“Yes, Lord Stark,” Tyrion said with a grin, deliberately emphasizing one particular word. “It is a cannon.”

He gestured grandly toward the engineers and artillerymen.

“Gentlemen—let’s serve the main course.”
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Of the three original demands:One would be scrapped.Two would be significantly softened.

This went beyond what the Vale’s delegation had hoped for—and even past the Queen’s lowest acceptable terms.

The reason was simple.

With the expedition against Braavos suddenly escalated on the agenda, the Royal Navy’s need for a nearby staging port had skyrocketed.

Even Aegor, with all his battlefield genius, could not realistically gather the manpower, resources, and logistics to fight a second war against the Vale in such a short time.
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Even those familiar with cannons—who had seen them in battle—were left speechless by the sheer size of this monstrosity.

Tyrion feigned ignorance to their thoughts.

With a bright, cheerful tone, he clapped his hands together.

“Well then! Let’s fetch the horses, shall we? It’s time to go see what that cannonball just did.”