Chapter 66

Taking on this new apprentice, Arya Stark, Aegor rubbed his temples in exhaustion. His workload had only increased, and it was overwhelming.

Born into a peaceful, prosperous modern world, Aegor’s nutrition growing up had been comparable, if not better, than most nobles in Westeros. His superior physical constitution made him stronger and quicker than many veterans of the Night’s Watch, provided he trained consistently. But that was his limit. To the craftsmen and bureaucrats of the Watch—or the wildlings beyond the Wall—he might seem like a formidable ranger. Yet, across all of Westeros, he was merely a disciplined, slightly more experienced soldier, no match for true elites.

Even someone like Jory Cassel, the captain of Eddard Stark’s household guard, would utterly outclass him in skill.

Fortunately, Arya was still a naive and trusting girl. With half the effort he used to win over Tyrion’s attention, Aegor could charm her easily. By teaching her basic sword grips, stances, movements, and the fundamentals of attack and defense, he could maintain her trust for a long while. By the time she became skilled enough to realize he wasn’t the master swordsman she imagined, she would already see him as a reliable mentor—a second Jon Snow.

And if Arya proved persistent about advancing her training, Aegor could always find her a better teacher—someone like Jaqen H’ghar or even the Braavosi water dancer who was originally meant to mentor her... What was that guy’s name again? Syrio Forel? Or something close to it. He dismissed the thought; it didn’t matter.
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After sorting out their arrangement, Aegor and Arya left the back office. The Night’s Watch recruitment office was still sparse, with little to entertain the restless girl. Arya roamed around curiously, examining furniture before quickly growing bored again.

Thankfully, Eddard Stark soon returned with his retinue to retrieve his daughter. The faintly thoughtful expression on the Hand of the King’s face suggested that Littlefinger’s manipulations were beginning to take hold. If left unchecked, the seeds of trust between Eddard and Littlefinger would soon blossom into a dangerous alliance.

Aegor clenched his fists. His plan to sow discord between them had to begin immediately—nothing else could take precedence.
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With the day’s tasks mostly done, Aegor handed Jack a few silver stags to purchase some lightweight practice swords. He was about to close up shop and return to the inn to strategize when he heard a familiar voice call out.

“Aegor!”

Tyrion Lannister arrived at the doorstep, breathless and accompanied by Morrice. Dismounting from his horse, he hurried into the office.

“I was just heading back to the inn. What’s so urgent that you couldn’t wait?” Aegor asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tyrion waved a hand, still catching his breath. “Let’s talk inside. This is serious.”

Curious and a little anxious, Aegor followed Tyrion to the back room and sat across from him, waiting for an explanation.
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After a lengthy recounting of events, Aegor finally understood the problem. The local paper merchants couldn’t provide the “cheap, stable, and abundant” paper they needed. In fact, Westeros lacked any form of developed papermaking industry.

Books in Westeros weren’t printed on manufactured paper but meticulously handwritten on parchment—actual treated animal hides. The high cost of books wasn’t due to scribes’ wages, as Aegor and Tyrion had assumed, but rather the cost of the parchment itself. Without a viable alternative material, their grand plans for printing would be dead on arrival.

“Honestly, I only found this out today,” Tyrion said with a sheepish shrug. As a noble accustomed to convenience, he’d never bothered to think about the price of parchment. Whenever he needed writing materials, he simply handed Morrice a gold dragon to fetch supplies, never questioning the cost.

Now, with ambitions of starting a profitable printing business, the limitations of his funds—and the inefficiency of the system—were glaringly apparent. His father, Tywin Lannister, might tolerate Tyrion’s indulgent spending but would never fund what he’d see as a frivolous venture.

The realization had doused Tyrion’s enthusiasm like a bucket of ice water.
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“This doesn’t make sense,” Aegor muttered, frowning deeply. Given that Westeros resembled Europe during the late Middle Ages, papermaking should have already been introduced. Then it hit him: introduced. This world had no China, no Cai Lun, and no Arab traders to serve as intermediaries. Without those historical influences, the invention of papermaking had never occurred here.

The revelation filled him with frustration. Papermaking wasn’t some unattainable high-tech process. Couldn’t these people invent it themselves? But as Aegor thought more about it, he realized the entrenched “live for today” mindset—born of erratic seasons and survival struggles—had stifled innovation in this world.
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“Tyrion,” Aegor said, his expression serious. “Doesn’t the paper merchant have any alternative suggestions?”

“Apparently, there’s a young man outside the city experimenting with making paper from grass. But according to the merchant, ‘the results aren’t even fit for wiping your ass.’ I was planning to visit him and see for myself.”

“Paper from grass?” Aegor’s mind raced. Though he wasn’t an expert, he knew modern paper relied on plant fibers processed chemically. If this young man was even attempting such a method, he might be on the right track.

“This could be promising,” Aegor said, his voice firm. “Here’s what we’ll do. Take someone with you tomorrow to find this young man. If his process involves nothing more than drying large grass leaves into sheets, it’s useless. But if he’s breaking the grass into fibers and using some sort of binding process, then hire him immediately. Offer him whatever he wants—gold, resources, anything. We’ll invest in his research and refine his methods until he produces usable paper.”

“You really think it’s worth it?” Tyrion asked, skeptical but intrigued.

“If we succeed, we’ll control the entire process—from raw materials to finished books,” Aegor explained, his excitement growing. “Forget printing alone; owning the whole supply chain is where the real profit lies.”

Tyrion grinned, his earlier disappointment fading. “I like that. A complete supply chain, you called it? That’s a damned good term.”

“If that young man’s method has potential, don’t let him slip through our fingers,” Aegor said firmly. “Draw up contracts, enforce confidentiality, and make sure we keep all trade secrets secure.”

“Understood.” Tyrion’s grin widened. “I’ll see to it personally. This might just be the most fun I’ve ever had.”
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As the two conspirators discussed the future of paper and printing in Westeros, Aegor couldn’t help but marvel at how a casual comment about paper had turned into a potential game-changer. Perhaps the key to success in this world wasn’t grand technological innovations but introducing small, overlooked conveniences.

With the right tools and a bit of ingenuity, he could reshape Westeros—one sheet of paper at a time.