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It had been a few days since I had left King's Landing. King Robert had about three hundred men in his precession, mostly soldiers. Some were knights, some were sellswords, and some were freeriders. I hoped to network with the knights and sellswords. The knights to gain a line of communication with the king, and the sellswords for their services. As the Salamander Corporation grew we would need more and more men to guard our facilities and resources. I had spent some time watching how the soldiers interacted with one another, learning their vernacular, their jokes, their common points of conversation. Not so I could make some fraudulent attempt to copy their habits, but simply to further my understanding of people who I hoped to establish a working relationship with. For his part, Pa seemed determined to stay close to the meat wagon, and had made numerous mentions that my wanderings were foolish. Very wise, of course. If only the Empire's leadership had been so cautious. If our meat- the king's meat- were to be stolen our heads wouldn't be long for our body. As a former officer though, I knew how to evaluate a conflict. If it came to violence I'd stand little chance against someone in armor, and in my current body I'd not act as much of a deterrent to any would-be thief. My talents were best utilized as a networker.

"How did you come to join the king on his journey to Winterfell, sir?" I asked a soldier in full plate armor, probably a knight.

He looked down from his horse, shriveled his nose, and spurred his steed to a gallop to the wealthier wheelhouses near the front of the convoy. Hardly surprising. I hadn't much enjoyed conversations with civilians when I had been a soldier either. I wasn't so pathetic as to need affirmation from strangers, his rejection had ultimately cost me nothing. It was only logical to try again. I chose another soldier, his plate armor polished but worn, without a horse. The road was mostly mud, but there were a few rocks that made the wagons creak and wobble.

"Why do we make wheels out of wood, sir?" I asked the soldier. "It must be quite difficult to carve and it isn't very durable. We've already had to stop three times from broken axels. Would it not be faster and better to cast from molten iron?"

The soldier scoffed and marched away.

I sighed. I had hoped he might be enticed into a conversation by the question, but instead he had taken me for a fool. If the prices of knives and hooks were any indication, iron was prohibitively expensive. Steel coincidentally was about fifteen times as expensive as iron. Someday, someone might make a fortune by converting iron to steel. However, I thought it unlikely that I could recreate the Bessemer Process in my lifetime. Perhaps if I had majored in engineering rather than just dabbling in a few courses for fun, perhaps if I had worked for the resources procurement division of Toyota rather than simply attending a few meetings out of curiosity, perhaps if I had done more than simply study the causes of the industrial revolution out of a hobbyist's fascination, but even then it would be unlikely given this world's current level of technology.

"Do you know if the foundry which forges your armor uses charcoal or coal, sir?" I asked another soldier. If this world hadn't yet developed coal based steel production I might make a fortune yet.

"Move along," he said.

I went on my way, but continued to ask the soldiers about the prevalence of coal. Most ignored me, instead choosing to gaze at the endless fields of wheat, separated into small strips partitioned without physical barriers, but I followed the scent of gold diligently.

Finally, a middle-aged soldier approached me, his horse trotting beside him. "Little dove, you ask such strange questions. I know something about steel and armor, but I'd ask that you answer some questions of mine in return."

I nodded. "I am Tanya, sir." I held out my hand. The soldier ignored it, but smiled at my name.

"Lother Brune. No need to call me ser, I'm no knight. You smell of blood and meat. Would I be safe to assume you're the daughter of the Demon of Flea Bottom?"

I scowled at the pseudonym. The goal of any business was to dominate the market, Pa had done nothing illegal. If our competitors had been wiser they'd have learned his methods rather than resorting to name-calling. Maybe then they wouldn't be penniless street urchins. Humans were such irrational creatures. "Yes. Do you know if steel refineries use coal or charcoal to heat their furnaces?"

"Charcoal," said Lother Brune succinctly. "I've never heard of anyone using coal, although it is an intriguing idea. The Demon of Flea Bottom's rise was almost unheard of. Flea Bottom is low, and other than Ser Davos, has produced nobody of note. It was even beneath the notice of the butcher's guild, up until he drove them to ruin. But what of your story, little dove, what was your role in his rise?"

"I acted as an advisor," I said blandly. "I thought up ideas that might make the corporation more profitable, and converted those ideas into actionable plans. Pa, like most business owners, was so focused on the day-to-day that he had little time to come up with ideas to increase efficiency, although he surely could have. I like to think that I played a small role in his rise, but anyone can come up with plans, Pa was the one who actually executed them."

"I see," said Lother Brune. "If you come up with the plans, you must know why the Salamander Corporation exchanged all their slaughterhouses for a large property in Flea Bottom. People called him mad, but the meat arrives at the market everyday, the cuts perfect and precise, and the prices down a full star. What remained of the guild was wiped out in months, but the prices haven't risen. Indeed, they dropped another groat. I've heard several lords claim your father is consorting with a witch, and I've half a mind to believe them. It defies common sense."

Was there a question in that statement? I wouldn't have answered it regardless. "Where is coal mined?"

Lother Brune chuckled. "You're a sharp one. I'll have to handle you with caution. Coal is primarily mined in the North. There are mines near Ramsgate, Hornwood, Karhold, although the largest is near the Bolton's and the Dreadfort. Harrion of Karhold is probably the safer lord to deal with. Roose Bolton is more ambitious, so he may be more open to your idea, but you'd be wise to be cautious around him. Regardless of who you choose to deal with, answer shouting with shouting, and don't be overly concerned about a raised knife, Northmen are a rowdy bunch and always respect strength over weakness, even among the common folk."

He smiled at me expectantly. He'd given me a lot of detail in his answer, and had clearly understood and anticipated my goals. Lother Brune would make an excellent employee, he was wasted as a soldier. Perhaps after I had accumulated more capital and prestige, I would hire him on as an ambassador and advisor. In any case, Pa's dominance over the meatmarket was secure, and one of his butchers would surely let slip our superior deployment of human resources anyway. There was little harm in answering Brune's question.

"Tell me Brune, why does an army have archers, cavalry, and foot soldiers? Why not have everyone do everything, surely it would make for a more flexible fighting force."

Brune frowned. "No. It would be a mess. Sure it sounds good in theory, but you don't usually need archers to handle a sword, and you don't need your foot soldiers worrying about firing arrows. It takes years to become competent in any single area of combat, to gain the experience to keep a level head when the man next to you is being disemboweled, when you've got a line of screaming spearmen marching towards you. That's not even going into coherent planning and formations. It would be a waste of men."

"Butchering is no different. Why have one man go through the entire process of dressing and carving an animal? Why not have one man for dressing a pig, another a cow, another a lamb? Why not have one man for skinning a pig, another a cow, another a lamb? For that matter, why not have each man specialize in one small task? A line of workers, each performing one cut, one action in the process, each a cog in the Flea Bottom butchering machine. One man might be able to prepare meat from two pigs in one day. Ten men, working together, might be able to prepare meat from a hundred pigs in one day. And a hundred men- all working together, all completing one small part of the process- might be able to prepare enough meat for an entire city. The property in Flea Bottom is cheapest, which more than offsets the cost of hiring a few sell swords to handle security. That, Lother Brune, is why Pa purchased his factory in Flea Bottom."

Lother Brune smirked. "So you employed battlefield tactics to the butchershop. Seven hells, no wonder you slaughtered the guild. A mob of peasants is no match for a trained battalion."

Lother Brune had an innate sense of capitalism, and would make a fine associate. Indeed, we chatted often from then on. As I suspected, he did ask Pa several questions when I introduced them. I had little doubt that his aim had been to contact Father through me. Entirely self interested, he was a man after my own heart. He was very helpful, answering my questions about farming techniques to the best of his ability. He didn't know how to reach the king, but he did not advise against it as Pa did.

"Your daughter's right. You'll need to meet the king eventually," Lother Brune explained to Pa. "You made too much money, too fast. If I know the nobility at all, some are jealous, some are worried, and some are already plotting to steal your company for themselves. Men in Flea Bottom aren't supposed to be wealthy, aren't supposed to rise in station, it defies their natural order. You must convince the king it's in his best interest to leave you in charge, or you'll find yourself penniless if you're lucky."

"How do I make sure I don't offend him?" I asked. "How do I make him respect me?"

Lother Brune shrugged. "Don't know. Never met the king. In my travels, I've learned it's best to treat a man by what he does, rather than who he is. Robert Baratheon conquered the Seven Kingdoms by defeating Rhaegar Targaryen in combat. I can only speculate that he thinks like a soldier. That's how I'd treat him if it were me."

Interesting. But I still didn't know how to get a meeting with him.

My breakthrough came one afternoon when I was delivering meat to the precession's cooks in preparation for dinner. As always I offered to show them the new recipes the Salamander Corporation had developed, and as always they rejected me. This time, however, one cook took me up on my offer.

"This seems mighty dangerous," said the cook, Martha, as she plopped a strip of dried potato into a kettle of oil heated over a fire. "How in the seven hells did ya come up with this?"

"A hunch," I said. "And of course the hard work of several valued employees. The Salamander Corporation invested in a handful of struggling restaurants, and worked with their personnel to develop a few recipes that might give us an edge in the marketplace. We gave them a broad idea of what we wanted and left the chefs to it. This is the result of our guidance, our chefs' expertise, and naturally feedback from the market itself."

I'd lived alone in my first life, and was enough of an adult to gain competence in cooking. It was simply survival, and I didn't consider myself anything more than a glorified home cook. In my second life, it hadn't been a skill with much utility, but in my third I'd been able to use it to escape the dreadful dishes of a world which unironically considered lamprey pie to be a delicacy. Ma had advised me to monetize the skills, and I knew a good idea when I heard one. I guided Martha through the preparation of cod, tartar sauce, and ketchup. The chips had been easy, the cod was more difficult but still doable, but the ketchup and tartar sauce could only have been recreated with the help of the Salamander's chefs. A good use of our human resources.

"Juicy yet crunchy. Sweet yet salty. Tanya, this is delightful," said Martha, as we sat beside each other in a grassy meadow, eating food straight off a single plate. "Is it really okay to just be sharing this? You never know who might be watching."

"I'd hoped you might pass the meal along to the king," I said, dipping a chip in ketchup. "Along with which corporation developed it. If possible, let him know that my father and I would like to meet him."

"So that's what you really wanted." Martha said, looking solemnly at a group of children in the precession playing tag. "I can't get you an audience with the king. But… I know somebody who could. However, if I'm to facilitate this meeting, I need to know more about you."

She ran from my gaze. I tried to be polite anyways. "Ask away." I ate my chip.

"Why do you want to meet the king?" Asked Martha, still looking at the children.

I dipped my strip of cod in tartar sauce. Utterly flavorless, as expected. Even deep fried, cod was still cod. This interview was clearly some sort of vetting process. Unsurprising, it was only common sense that meeting a VIP required a background check. I could lie to ensure my success, but I believed in signaling theory. If telling the truth barred me access from the king, it would be for the best. Better I never meet the king than risk offending him. I shared with her what Lother Brune had told me.

Martha fiddled with her thumbs. "Yes… Yes, that's probably the truth of it. Us small folk are but toys for the nobility. Of that I'm certain. You're right to be worried… Still though… What if the meeting with the king goes well? Do you wish to work for him? …Advise him, maybe?"

I chortled at the preposterous notion. "No. I've no wish to be a civil servant . I just wish to establish good relations with him, and show him our value when provided with autonomy."

Martha let out a breath, and finally looked at me with a relieved smile. "Good. That's good. Just one last question. What do you think makes a good king? What kind of king would you wish to serve?"

I shrugged. "He leaves me alone. He keeps the realm peaceful. He protects me from those who might wrongfully rob me."

"Just what your father said, although I suspect most small folk think the same," said Lother Brune, chuckling, and sitting down beside me. "Finally found you. What are the two of you chatting about?"

I explained that I was interviewing for a meeting with the king.

Lother Brune smiled and stood. "You've secured a meeting with the king? You'd be wise to make a good impression."

Martha watched him go. "Don't you want more than that?" She whispered. "Be honest Tanya. In a perfect world, what would you want from a king?"

"Favorable business policies," I said again. "Enforcement of human rights, property rights, and intellectual property rights. That he leaves me alone, and that he doesn't get the country in any wasteful wars. I suppose in a perfect world I'd like one who funds a basic education for the truly destitute. It doesn't seem just that an orphan might have only one path in life."

"What of goodness?" Asked Martha. "Righteousness and strength? Doesn't a king need to be able to protect his people?"

"That's what his generals are for," I said, shrugging. "That's why we have soldiers. Lother Brune needs to be able to swing a sword, Robert Baratheon does not. He doesn't even need a mind for military strategy, so long as he picks good generals. As for goodness, a king doesn't need to be good. What he does on his own time is his business, so long as it doesn't affect his job performance."

Martha was back to staring at the children. "I'll try to setup a meeting with the king. Good luck."

I smirked. It appeared the interview had gone well. "Martha, you've dealt with the king. How do I treat him politely? How do I earn his respect?"

"I wouldn't know how to earn his respect. If I were to guess, he's like any other man. He loves his food and especially his drink. These new dishes of yours would be a good start. Beyond that… I do know he respected the late Jon Arryn and he respects Ned Stark."

ooOoo

"What is this, Butcher?" Asked King Robert Baratheon, rolling a fillet of deep fried cod across his plate suspiciously. We had been on the road for about two weeks, and Martha had come through for me. We had at last been granted an audience with the king. "It looks like shit."

"Err… Fish and chips," said Pa nervously. "It's err… A uh…" He glanced at me for support. I rolled my fingers in a circular motion, he just needed to stick to the script we'd gone over. "A new dish our company has created, yeh'll like it sir, and that's a promise."

"It's good your grace," said a blonde soldier who had acted as a poison tester. "If a little strange."

Yes, yes, trying to bribe a politician with fish and chips of all things might seem nonsensical at best and insulting at worst. But remember, this was a world which seemed to resemble medieval England, and Englishmen had a certain predisposition to deep fried fish. Martha had seemed to like it, and she'd all but told me to serve the dish to the king. She'd been the one to arrange the meeting, the only one of my contacts who actually knew the king, so it seemed wise to take her advice.

"Aye, well at least it's something new." King Robert said, plopping a fish strip in his mouth. He shrugged and reached for some chips. "Bout as good as you can make fish I s'pose, but it'll never be a proper meat no matter how much face powder you put on the hag. Now then, who's yer girl?" Flecks of half eaten cod leaked from King Robert's mouth. While it would be tempting to consider King Robert a buffoon, a lack of decorum was not unusual even among modern politicians. A certain communist leader was famous for banging his shoe against his desk during a UN meeting after all, and he'd been a vast upgrade over the previous secretary who'd been mad.

"I am Tanya, sir," I said, introducing myself with a crisp salute. "I like to consider myself a small part of Pa's company. This meal is a display of how the Salamander Corporation is innovating the meat market. Under the guilds, butchers had no incentive to experiment with their cuts, preparations, or anything else. Yes the butchers were paid well, but the consumers were the victims of the horrible stagnation of the market. Under Pa's leadership that's all changed. Pa believes in letting the franchisees compete. His role is to create an environment that fosters research and development and honors fair competition. One way he does this is by strictly enforcing intellectual property. If one of his franchisees creates a new method of preparing meat, in this case battering and deep frying cod and potatoes, they alone can use the method for five years, even if a rival franchisee is able to reverse engineer the recipe. This is but one example of Pa's excellent stewardship of the meat sector of King's Landing."

Perhaps it was unwise to so quickly share my political opinions, but I wanted to establish my competence and knowledge. People who shied away from sharing their best ideas in front of VIPs never got anywhere in life, no matter the world. I had to show that the rise of the Salamander Corporation was not due to luck or happenstance, but skill.

King Robert blinked. "How old are you, girl?"

"I am eleven sir," I said, standing at rest like a model soldier.

"I'll get you a fine doll for you to play with," said King Robert, warming to the meal, and stuffing another piece of cod into his mouth. He shook his head at Pa. "You live up to your name, Demon of Flea Bottom. I see your game. Her mouth moves, but I hear your voice, trying to talk your way into my favor. You may be common folk but this is a move fit for a Lannister." He drained his cup of wine. "Well, say something Butcher!"

Crap!

I'd made a miscalculation. Apparently the king despised sycophants, and perceived me to be a manipulative brown-noser.

Pa shook. "I'm sor-"

"Might I try a sip of your wine?" I asked King Robert. "Sir."

King Robert laughed loudly. "The child requests a drink. Aye, that'll liven this up. Fetch her a drink, pour one for The Butcher, and yourself too, Lannister."

I smiled pleasantly. I had to prove my honesty. In Japan, there was a process known as nomikai, in which business colleagues drank copious amounts of alcohol together. Many businessmen wouldn't trust you until they'd seen you drunk. King Robert certainly appeared the type to enjoy a drink together, he'd already had three goblets of wine, and appeared to be a habitual drinker based on his build.

I took a sip of the wine from the cup the blonde soldier had poured me. It tasted rancid and sour, and, if the lack of burning in my throat was any indication, it didn't have much alcohol. Even with my current body, I'd have to drink a few more cups to get properly inebriated. Perhaps the king wasn't as much of a drunk as he appeared.

"Well," said King Robert eagerly. "Royal wine. You don't have stuff like this in Flea Bottom, do you?"

"No sir," said Pa, draining the cup with more gusto than I could manage, giving King Robert what appeared to be a genuine smile. I glanced at Pa respectfully. If I hadn't tried this vinegary piss myself, I wouldn't have known he was lying. "Thank you sir. I ain't tasted wine this fine b'fore."

Still, I found myself disagreeing with Pa's approach. I'd had positions in leadership. I'd known the military leaders of the strongest country in a far more developed world. Flattery was usually appreciated, but an underling could take things too far. If the king said the sky was brown he probably wasn't looking for you to agree with him.

"And you Lannister," said King Robert. "Going to let a little girl outdrink you? Drink! Your king commands it!"

"Of course, your grace." The soldier grimaced, and drained his cup. Poor man. In the imperial army drinking on duty would have led to a dishonorable discharge. He was clearly someone of great professionalism.

"Well?" Asked King Robert.

"It's wine, your grace," said the soldier, shrugging carelessly, displaying as much honesty as he could manage to his superior.

King Robert scoffed, that hadn't been the answer he was looking for. "I suppose you drink that honeyed shit from Lann-"

I poured the remains of my wine into the meadow, the sound of it splattering against blades of grass effortlessly cutting through the argument.

King Robert, the soldier, and Pa were all staring at me wide-eyed. I shook the cup, until it was completely emptied of the vile purple fluid.

"Rancid and weak," I said mildly, gazing at King Robert. "Let me guess, my king, even if you drink this wine all day you fail to feel its effects. Wine like this fills your belly with liquid rather than fire. It's not your fault, and it's not due to tolerance either. The distilleries of King's Landing are to blame. They have grown fat. Lazy. Inefficient. They coast on their reputation and a lack of competition. The Salamander Corporation can do better. Give us four years, and we'll have a drink far stronger and cleaner. Give us your trust, and you won't have to suffer this low quality wine anymore, sir."

King Robert stared at me, unblinking. I stared right back. I could feel the soldier tense beside me. Utterly unimportant.

"Careful girl," said King Robert seriously. "This is your king you're speaking to."

"I know sir." I met his gaze evenly. I was a veteran of the front lines of the most horrific conflict humanity had ever seen, and I had complete trust in my instincts. Despite the king's sternness I knew I was in no danger. I heard the soft screeching of a blade being unsheathed. I didn't so much as blink.

"Put the sword away, Lannister." King Robert sighed. "I'm not going to have a child killed for disliking my wine. I am no mad king." He stared back at me, more intensely now. "So, four years?"

"Four years," I said. "Sir."

"Four years." King Robert said, meeting my gaze. He took a sip of wine. "Four years, and I'll be able to drink myself to an early grave at last. You get this done, girl, and maybe I'll make you my Master of Coin." He barked a laugh.

"Sir," I said respectfully, saluting and turning to leave.

"Wait," said King Robert. "Your name."

"Tanya," I said.

"Tanya," said Robert. "I'll remember it."

I smiled, pleased with myself. While my actions could have been interpreted as disrespectful without context, all parties in the altercation had known that the wine was piss that could only be the result of market stagnation. Instead I had displayed brash truthfulness in line with what the king had requested. A certain leader of the free world had once stated that when dealing with dictators it was best to be straightforward with your intentions, rather than trying to intimidate or befriend them. They dealt with enough flatterers and belligerents. Good advice, it appeared. In a strange manner, by being so blunt I had shown my respect and willingness to work with the government. Rather than trying to show my value through honeyed words, I would show it through my actions. Robert would test the Salamander Corporation with an ambitious new project, promising us his favor upon completion. Truly a win-win proposition.

I'd have to speak with Lother and Martha to learn where I might purchase a supply of grapes or a wine manufacturer. Lother seemed to find the promise I'd made the king amusing, and Martha had seemed terrified on my behalf. No need. I'd toured my share of vineyards in my firstlife, so I had a layman's understanding of 21st century winemaking. Still, I was no entrepreneur but a salaryman. I'd find an existing vineyard and partner with them.

At our next stop, The Inn at the Crossroads, I would visit the local taverns, sample their selection, and inquire about the manufacturers of their finest wines.

Now that we had introduced ourselves as a competent corporation to Robert, our best approach was to respectfully avoid nobility for the remainder of the trip. There wasn't much good they could do for us, but their power meant they could do us a lot of harm for even a minor slip of the tongue. They lived in a different world, it was far safer for us humble small folk to simply have nothing to do with them. Pa chuckled when I shared my valuable insight with him.

"Aye, finally figured that out have yeh?" He rubbed my head in some kind of strange power play. "I reckon too late, though."

I bristled indignantly. Pa must have offended someone from the gentile class earlier in the business trip, as I couldn't recall interacting with any nobility prior to our meeting with the king. I bore Pa no ill will, not everyone could be as socially conscious as me, but I wish he had had enough trust to confide in me earlier.

The blonde girl, Tanya, was very odd for a small folk, perhaps that was why Jaime had recommended that Tyrion meet her. She knew how to read and write, taking a sip from each new bottle and recording her observations on a piece of parchment, suggesting she was intelligent and meticulous. She was handing out silver stags to various strangers on the street and returning the bottles to them after taking a single sip, a truly shameless display of wealth. And the bottles were full of red wine, bought from the most popular tavern in the Crossroads, showing she was a fool. Tyrion could observe the farce no longer.

"Enough," said Tyrion, breaking his cover, and grabbing the parchment from the girl's hands. She'd graded each wine on a scale of one to ten for an assortment of parameters including acidity, price, taste, and estimated alcoholic content. Obviously, the marks were accurately low across the board. A foolish waste of time and energy. "Keep trying wine from The Reach, and you'll be searching all day. Everyone knows that wine from The Reach is little more than red water. "

And that was putting it mildly. Vinegary piss would be a more apt description, although only the Dornish would be foolish enough to say such things aloud about the king's favored beverage. Tyrion suspected that even the king was only pretending to like it, as a surprisingly effective slight to his sister.

"Lannisport wine, that's what you're looking for," said Tyrion, in a display of filial loyalty that would make even his father proud. "Sweet, honeyed, it has the finest flavour in all the Seven Kingdoms. Or, I suppose you might try the Dornish reds. They're the strongest I've ever had, although a little sour for my liking."

"Thank you," said Tanya dryly, snatching back her parchment with a shocking display of speed and dexterity. "You know a lot about wine."

"Knowing things is what I do," said Tyrion. "What do you do?"

"My specialty is the utilization and management of human resources. More generally I advise Pa in ways he can make his company run more efficiently," said Tanya proudly, a blonde curl of hair seeming to emit a single sparkle of smug self satisfaction.

"Do you," said Tyrion. He frowned. She had been systematic in her evaluation of the wine. Perhaps this was some kind of childish game? It sounded fun actually. He found himself playing along. "Allow me to be of service. How might I help you, m'lady?"

"It's Tanya," she said sourly. "I'm no lady, as I stated earlier, I'm a salaryman. What's your name?"

"I go by Imp," said Tyrion.

Tanya rolled her eyes and glared at him.

"Fine, you're right, nobody calls me Imp. It's The Imp."

Tanya crossed her arms.

"Half Man," said Tyrion lightly. "Dwarf. Bastard."

Not even a hint of a smile.

"Come now, that's what my father calls me."

"I didn't ask what your father called you," said Tanya, ironically sounding exactly like him. "I don't care what your friends call you. How can I trust anything you tell me if you won't even give me your name?"

He'd half a mind to turn and leave. But he was fascinated by the dichotomy of her utter lack of humor, her dedication to decorum, and the fact that she was shamelessly paying strangers to help her get very, very drunk. She was a mystery, and Tyrion did so enjoy a good mystery.

"As you wish, m'lady. My name is Tyrion, at your service."

Tanya jumped and examined him more closely. Ahh yes, there it was. The son of The Mighty Tywin. The supposed heir of Casterly Rock? Perhaps not, but women everywhere were interested in his name and his heavy purse regardless. Now she'd surely pretend to laugh at his clever japes.

"I'd like to know the locations of the finest wineries in the Seven Kingdoms," said Tanya briskly.

"That is largely accepted to be in Arbor. A small island just off the Southern coast. The private stock of Lord Runceford Redwyne is said to be the finest in all the land."

"Runceford Redwyne ," said Tanya skeptically.

Tyrion smiled and found himself relaxing. "Yes, yes, the gods do love their puns, but that truly is his name m'lady. There are also wineries in Highgarden and Lannisport. Whitewalls makes a decent red, at least for the piss produced up North, but it can't be compared with anything made down South." That earned him a flew glares by some passerbys. "What? I mustn't lie to the impressionable youth."

Tanya seemed altogether unimpressed with his antics. She thought him childish? Perhaps he ought to hold up a mirror. "Why do you need to know all this?" Tyrion asked rhetorically. "Because your father is planning on hosting a party. Some meeting of rich men who fashion themselves nobles. You're going about this all wrong. Arbor Gold is what is expected, everyone knows it's the best, no matter the taste. In this world, appearance is what matters most. A name means everything."

"Of course." Tanya said lightly, her face closed. "Thank you for your time and wise counsel, sir."

He watched her disappear into the tavern. He'd disappointed her? So what? He was used to being a disappointment. No, he certainly didn't care what the child thought of him. What bothered him was that he still hadn't solved her mystery. Perhaps she was trying to help her father start a new pub? It was the only guess that made any kind of sense, but even that didn't seem to fit. He needed more information.

"I'd like a Dornish Red, a bottle of Butterwell's finest, some sweet honey from Lannisport, and of course your finest Arbor Gold," Tyrion told the bartender. He handed the man a silver moon, and handed the bottles to Tanya. "Let's test for ourselves the most famous wines in the realm."

"Y-you can't do that, m'lord! She's just a child!" Blustered the bartender sanctimoniously.

Tyrion flipped him a gold dragon. "For your understanding." That quieted the bartender. Tyrion found them a table near the back corner of the tavern. The table was occupied of course, but an exchange of silver for some privacy solved that. He did love an honest trade.

Tanya tried a sip of each wine, and carefully capped them. She wrote her observations. Ouch. She wounded him. Lannisport wine a four out of ten on flavour? An unclean taste? Crystals in the liquid? At least it scored higher than Arbor Gold. All of the finest wines in the seven kingdoms were judged harshly. This was a girl who looked at the world and found it severely lacking.

"Do you have any more questions for me, m'lady?" Asked Tyrion pleasantly.

"Where are the grapes for wine grown?" Tanya asked, folding her fingers together, gazing up at him.

Strange question. If she were trying to help her father start a pub why would she need to know such things?

"All over. The best grapes, as with all produce, are grown in the South. But a decent crop of small, tart grapes good for producing wine are grown just a few days East of here, in an upthrust island called the Quiet Isle."

Tanya made a note on her paper. "What do you know of the process of fermenting grapes?"

Tyrion paused. Why would she want to know that? Did she want to start a brewery of her own? If so, it did make sense to scout the competition. But only an arrogant fool would attempt to break into a market of which they knew nothing. "You first. What do you know about making wine?"

"Wine begins with harvest," said Tanya. "The grapes are the most important part of the process. The growth of the grape vines, their layout and pruning, and choosing the correct time to pick them are essential to making good wine. After the grapes are harvested they are prepared for fermentation…"

As Tanya continued, Tyrion's brow furrowed. She was indeed correct, although she'd added a few steps he'd not read about before. He'd solved his initial question, she clearly wanted to create a wine of her own, but another, larger mystery had taken its place. How in the seven hells did she know all this? That last step, about adding a gas to the bottled wine to keep it from aging, was not something he'd ever heard of. She also described how a machine could be used to crush the grapes more thoroughly and quickly, allowing for grapes to be picked at peak ripeness, which would lead to a wine that had the strength of a Dornish Red, the flavour of a Lannisport Honey, and the depth of an Arbor Gold.

More details, all spoken of clinically, holding none of the passion of a true connoisseur. How workers could be assigned particular tasks to increase efficiency, how maesters and craftsmen could be brought in to create a crusher, potential estimates for logistics over the transport of grapes from The Reach to Casterly Rock. Rudimentary financial estimates for how much it would take to employ these changes, how long it would take to see the investment paid back in full, strategies for what to do in the case of success and failure.

"And of course, we mustn't forget the honey," said Tanya. "Tell me Lord Tyrion, have you heard rumors that bees fear smoke? I've an idea of how that might be exploi-"

Tyrion cleared his throat. This would be tricky. He wanted to learn more about the girl, perhaps even work with her in the future. Tanya clearly wanted to partner with him, why else would she be sharing her plans in such detail? She was intelligent and imaginative, and he couldn't quite put a finger on why any of her plans wouldn't work, but… She was what, nine? He couldn't partner with a nine year old smallfolk girl. It was simply out of the question. But how to reject her without offense?

"I've heard enough," said Tyrion. "You speak well, you propose clever plans, but words are one thing, action is another. You're young. You have no track record. I need evidence that you can actually get this done. Take one of your ideas and make it a reality. I'll give you five gold dragons as an initial investment. By the time you've returned to King's Landing make it ten, and I'll grant you partnership with the Lannisport winery. Oh, and do remember that a Lannister always pays their debts."

Yes, well spoken. Rather than reject her, he'd given her an impossible task and not-so-subtly threatened severe punishment upon failure. Tanya had shown herself to be a clever girl. She would reject the offer of her own volition.

"I'll get it done," said Tanya, giving him a single determined nod. What? Wait what?

"Good," Tyrion said automatically. Huh? What in the seven hells? Was she absolutely mad?

She tilted her head respectfully and accepted the dragons. "This should be simple enough. I look forward to doing more business with you in the future."

She must not have understood the threat. She probably hadn't even considered the implications of his words, she was merely a child. Thankfully, he'd had the foresight to avoid witnesses, so when she inevitably failed he could give her a stern lecture or something of the sort. Tyrion found himself smiling at her youthful optimism. She was clearly the type who enjoyed being given challenging tasks.

ooOoo

"This is completely impossible," I complained, despair overwhelming me. And yet if I didn't succeed, I was dead! I felt like I was back in the Empire, being sent to the frontlines, wondering why no adult aside from Lergen ever attempted to put a stop to the madness. If only CPS existed in these trying times. "Why does this keep happening to me?"

"Yeh've only yerself to blame," said Pa cruelly.

"I didn't realize he was a noble!" I protested. "Let alone the lone heir to the most powerful house in Westeros!"

"Was that before or after you all but proposed a partnership with him?" Lother Brune asked, shaking his head. His horse trotted beside him, the snow of the northern King's Road just another sign of my ticking clock.

"First I have to revolutionize the wine industry," I grumbled, ignoring Brune's unimportant quibbles. "Now I have to turn a profit of five dragons in what? Six weeks?" It was roughly equivalent to requiring me to make 50,000 US dollars over the course of a road trip! The only way that would have been possible would be through gambling, and they didn't even have any proper sports in Westeros! "I don't even have access to Salamander Corporation resources! I can't perform miracles! Why the fuck do these things keep happening to me?!"

I knew why. My actions had been entirely rational, to be punished so harshly could only be the work of the accursed Being X!

"None of this would happen if yeh'd just act yer age," said Pa gruffly. "Yeh should be playing with the other kids, not powerful lords."

I watched three boys from the king's precession engaged in a rock fight. A literal rock fight. As in throwing rocks at each other. It was nothing like growing up in modern Japan, with all the toys and games. This was a world where the height of children's entertainment was stabbing at each other with sticks. There was nothing I could do with them…

Wait… Huh…

I smirked as an idea came to me. Maybe this would be possible after all. Yes, yes, the entire camp had taken to fish and chips, and I knew something the Brits of my first life had enjoyed even more. It even fit well into the Salamander Corporation's portfolio, although the actual product would be too easy to replicate to make us much money. Still, if I made it clear that we'd invented it, it would surely be good press for the corporation as the product proliferated throughout the seven kingdoms, and I ought to be able to make five dragons before people figured out how easy it was to produce.

"Pa, we kept the bladder of the pig we slaughtered yesterday, right? I'd like to blow it up."