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Chapter 61
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 21:09:07 +0000 UTCAt night, rest was still out of the question. Aegor and Tyrion crowded into the room, working by the light of a dozen candles to create the first-ever Night’s Watch bonds.
A stack of the finest vellum available in King’s Landing sat on the table. After finalizing the bond’s content, they began their work. Tyrion’s appearance might not inspire confidence, but his handwriting was surprisingly elegant. Aegor, in contrast, had grown reliant on computers in his previous life, making even his Chinese handwriting abysmal, let alone the script of Westeros. Thus, the task of writing the first bond fell entirely on Tyrion. He copied the draft line by line with utmost care, not daring to make a single mistake—far more meticulously than he ever had when writing letters for his father, Tywin.
“Phew…” Tyrion finished the first bond and carefully lifted it by its edges, blowing on it gently before setting it aside to dry. He then placed a second sheet in front of him. It had been a week since his return to King’s Landing, and he hadn’t visited a single brothel in that time—a fact so unbelievable even he found it hard to fathom. Yet the feeling of purpose, of having something meaningful to do, filled a void within him that had long been empty.
Across the table, Aegor hunched over a draft filled with scribbles, making edits that he could never quite be satisfied with. The bond was only a single sheet, far too small to list every term and condition. Instead, he planned to create a broadside—a large notice to post on the walls of the Night’s Watch office. Visitors could read it as he explained the terms in detail.
“Just write a few as placeholders and call it a night,” Tyrion suggested, his tone practical. “The bond’s content isn’t the key. The signatures, seals, and anti-forgery measures are what really matter.”
“Fair point. Tomorrow, I’ll hire someone to handle the rest.”
“Hire someone to copy bonds? Why go to the trouble? Just have a shop print them—” Aegor’s words faltered, his sentence trailing off as he realized he didn’t know the Common Tongue word for printing.
“What are you trying to say?” Tyrion asked, confused.
Aegor struggled to explain, but no matter how he tried, Tyrion couldn’t grasp the concept. In the end, Aegor resorted to a metaphor. “Let’s put it this way: imagine making a giant stamp of the bond’s content and pressing it onto sheets of paper, one after another.”
“Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?” Tyrion’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Is this another one of your homeland’s inventions? The people of Qarth must be incredibly clever. Sometimes, I’m grateful there’s a Sunset Sea between us.”
“Wait—Westeros doesn’t have this technology? How do you make books?” Aegor asked, startled.
“By copying them by hand. There are scribes who make a living doing it, though it’s painstaking work…” Tyrion replied absentmindedly, only to pause, his expression turning to shock. “Wait a moment. That’s… not right, is it?”
At that moment, Aegor realized why he couldn’t recall the Common Tongue word for printing—it didn’t exist. Printing technology simply hadn’t been invented in this world.
They exchanged a stunned glance, their expressions mirroring the same thought: this was a golden opportunity.
Aegor immediately delved deeper into the subject, questioning Tyrion about the production and cost of books in Westeros. He learned that books were entirely handwritten, with their price determined by factors such as the scribe’s penmanship, the quantity and accuracy of the content, and the quality of the binding. Depending on these factors, a book could cost anywhere from a few silver stags to several gold dragons. Some volumes were so rare and expensive that calling them luxury items wouldn’t be an exaggeration.
“Seven hells. Is this why your homeland is so advanced?” Tyrion muttered, quickly grasping the revolutionary potential of printing. “With this technology, knowledge and culture could spread like wildfire, transforming society. We should build a printing press immediately. I’ll even fund it myself if necessary—there’s no time to waste!”
But Aegor shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Printing isn’t necessarily cheaper in a low-tech society like this. Creating the molds would be labor-intensive, and if we only print a few dozen or even a few hundred books, hiring scribes would still be more economical. Printing large quantities comes with its own challenges—who would buy them?”
Tyrion, ever the idealist, envisioned a literate and cultured populace. But Aegor had to think pragmatically. His priority was to make his funds work, to keep the financial game alive without turning it into an outright Ponzi scheme. He needed ventures that guaranteed profits—not a mountain of unsold literary or educational texts that might benefit society in the long run but offered no immediate returns.
In simpler terms, Aegor knew his place. He wasn’t part of the ruling class, and worrying about grand cultural contributions was a waste of energy.
After a moment of reflection, he thought of several practical and profitable applications for printing: calendars, copies of the Seven-Pointed Star, and collections of simple, entertaining folktales. These were items with a broad appeal and a guaranteed market. By partnering with the Faith of the Seven, traveling minstrels, and other groups, he could ensure that his investments yielded tangible results.
The realization hit him like a spark of inspiration. He grabbed his quill and struck out one of the entries on his project list.
“What did you cross out?” Tyrion asked.
“I initially planned to limit the number of bonds we’d issue,” Aegor explained. “Without a way to make the money grow, expanding the fund too quickly would make the scheme unsustainable. But now that we have a viable profit-making venture, that limitation no longer applies.”
His excitement was contagious as he continued, “We know exactly what to do with the first round of funding. Tomorrow, we’ll start hiring craftsmen skilled in carving seals. We don’t need the expensive professionals from King’s Landing’s seal shop—apprentices or moderately experienced workers will do. Then, we’ll negotiate with paper merchants for a steady supply of cheap, quality paper. We’ve got work to do.”
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “You really thought people would line up to lend you money? That’s ambitious.”
“If things go smoothly, I’ll raise the interest rates. By then, the line of creditors wanting to lend me money will stretch from the Red Keep to the Gate of the Gods,” Aegor boasted. “But for now, let’s call it a night. Tomorrow, we split up and get to work.”
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In countless "farming" transmigration stories, protagonists used their knowledge of their original worlds to quickly earn their first fortune. Yet, now that it was Aegor’s turn, he realized how difficult it was to turn knowledge into tangible wealth. He understood combustion engines, generators, and even how planes and spacecraft worked—but what use was any of that in a world like this? Knowing principles was one thing; building the tools from scratch was another. Even the simplest part, like a screw for an airplane, was beyond Westeros’ materials and industrial capabilities.
And then, out of nowhere, a casual conversation revealed an opportunity. The backwardness of this world far exceeded his expectations. To make money here, he didn’t need advanced knowledge. Even the simplest, most outdated technologies from his past life were revolutionary here.
