There were not many craftsmen in White Harbor who worked with glass.
Glass itself was precious.
That did not mean they knew nothing about it.
Bennett had handled glass all his life. He had learned from his father, who had learned from his own father. From color and movement alone, he could judge how soft the glass in a furnace had become; from the pull of the lump hanging at the end of a blowpipe on his wrist, he knew when it was time to shape it. He knew how to blow a bottle wall evenly, cut a pane to fit a small window, and split glass beginning to crack in the direction that would waste the least.
White Harbor's glassworkers were such men.
But the glass they handled was already glass.
Good sheet glass, clear chunks of glass, shards, and half-finished products arrived by ship. They melted them down again, blew them, flattened them, and cut them into cups, bottles, small windows, and ornaments. If broken pieces were in decent condition, they melted and used those as well.
Making glass from sand and ash from the beginning was another field entirely.
The place most famed for that craft was Myr.
In Myr, glass was not treated as merely one export among many. Clear glass, intricate mirrors, lenses, and telescopes had long been goods that represented the city. Craftsmen handed the formulas and furnace methods of their workshops down to family and apprentices, while merchants sold that reputation as part of the price. On both sides of the Narrow Sea, seeing a fine lens or mirror and thinking of Myr was only natural.
To them, glassmaking was both money and pride.
What a city was famous for was, in the end, tied to how its people saw themselves. To a Myrish craftsman, making glass was not simply a skill for earning bread.
A craftsman in White Harbor did not need to know the whole process.
Fine glass kept arriving from Myr.
That was simply how the world worked.
Just as the miner who dug ore was not the smith who forged swords, and the man who raised sheep was not the artisan who wove fine cloth, there was no reason the art of creating glass and the art of working it had to rest in the same hands.
Bennett had thought so as well.
Until Wyman Manderly brought a three-year-old child into his workshop.
*
"Lord Wyman."
Bennett hurriedly brushed ash from his apron and bowed.
"You could have sent for me, and I would have come to New Castle."
"It was decided suddenly. There is no need to fuss."
Wyman looked pleased.
Three Manderly guards entered behind him. They bore spears and their house's badge, so there was nothing strange in that.
What Bennett found strange was the child standing right beside Wyman.
He was small.
Very small.
His black hair was neatly kept, and his clothes were plainly made of fine fabric. His skin was pale, and his hands bore none of the calluses of a craftsman.
A young lordling from a fine house.
He looked like nothing more.
Has he brought him to look around?
A glass workshop was entertaining to children. There were red-hot furnaces, molten glass stretching like syrup from the ends of blowpipes, and skilled craftsmen breathing round bottles and cups into existence before one's eyes.
Wyman pointed at the child.
"This is Daemon."
The child stepped forward and suddenly folded himself deeply at the waist.
"Hello! I'm Daemon. I look forward to working with you!"
For an instant, Bennett thought the child was going to fall forward.
His body nearly folded in half before springing upright again.
The workshop fell quiet.
Bennett bowed before he knew it.
"...Yes."
Wyman seemed already accustomed to it.
"For a while, assist the boy in what he means to do. Prepare whatever materials and hands he requires, and let him use the furnace. Send the costs to me."
Bennett's expression stiffened.
"You mean... we are to take orders from that young lord?"
Wyman smiled.
"I wore that same face at first."
It was no comfort whatsoever.
"You will grow used to it soon enough."
That was hard to believe as well.
Leaving the soldiers who had accompanied him to see to Daemon's safety, Wyman ruffled the boy's hair once.
"Do not get hurt."
Daemon looked up at him as if he had said something strange.
"Why would I get hurt?"
"That is what I wonder too."
"What a strange thing to say."
Wyman laughed and turned away.
He truly left.
What remained were six glassworkers, three soldiers, and one three-year-old child.
Bennett stared at the closed door, then slowly turned his head toward Daemon.
Daemon was already inspecting the workshop.
The furnace.
The worktables.
The blowpipes.
The tongs.
The lumps of glass and broken shards piled against the wall.
Within minutes, the questions began.
What glass they brought in, and from where.
How hot they heated the furnace.
Whether broken glass was reused.
How sheets were made and bottles blown.
At first, Bennett answered diligently.
Only after the conversation continued did Daemon learn one important fact.
Bennett was skilled with glass.
So were the people in the workshop.
But none of them had ever made glass from sand.
To Bennett, that was not shameful.
"Fine glass comes from Myr. We are the people who melt it down and make it into whatever we need."
Daemon looked at a clear lump of glass on the worktable.
"So you have never seen it made from the start?"
"No."
"Not even your father?"
"Not as far as I know."
Daemon thought for a moment.
Seeing his expression, Bennett thought the child was disappointed.
He was not.
"Good."
"...What is?"
Daemon looked at Bennett.
"It's the first time for you too, and the first time for me."
Bennett did not find that welcome at all.
Following a list Daemon had written beforehand, Wyman had prepared several materials.
Sand dredged from a riverbank near White Harbor.
Sand from the coast.
Pale sand brought from the North.
And sand acquired through merchant ships from other ports.
There was wood ash, ash from various burned plants, dried seaweed and its ash, and lime.
Daemon opened the sacks one by one.
Not every kind of sand was suitable as a material for glass.
What mattered in making glass was not the name sand, but the silica contained within it. In nature, quartz was usually the source, and sand rich in quartz particles was therefore favorable for glassmaking.
The problem was that natural sand was not made only of quartz.
Feldspar and clay, fragments of shell, various minerals, and impurities including iron could all be mixed into it. In particular, too much iron readily gave finished glass a greenish or brownish cast.
That did not mean one could scoop up the whitest sand by the roadside, toss it into a fire, and produce a transparent block of glass.
No such method existed.
Daemon was not an alchemist from some animated tale.
He knew that himself.
Sand with plenty of quartz.
He remembered that much.
He remembered that too much iron could add color.
He vaguely recalled that alkalis such as soda or potash made it easier to melt, and that lime was needed as well.
He did not know the precise proportions.
He did not know which region's sand was best.
And naturally, he could not look into a sack and identify its mineral composition.
"We'll have to separate them and try."
Daemon muttered as if to himself.
Bennett asked, "Does it differ by the sand?"
"Probably."
"Probably?"
Daemon looked up.
"I told you it's my first time too."
Bennett's mouth closed.
"So do not mix them. We need to see which one comes out less filthy."
Then came the ash.
Making glass from silica alone required temperatures too high for the furnaces of that age to manage. Ash or minerals containing alkalis were therefore added to disrupt the silica structure and allow it to melt at lower temperatures. Yet too much flux made glass weak and less durable against water and damp. Lime-based materials helped make such glass more stable.
Daemon did not remember the chemistry precisely.
What remained in his mind was much simpler.
Sand alone will not melt easily.
Add something like ash, and it gets easier.
Lime goes in too.
So he did not insist that seaweed ash alone was the answer.
Wood ash too.
Other plant ashes too.
They would try every variety.
It did not take a long conversation to explain that.
Bennett had many complaints, but Wyman's orders were plain, and Daemon did not pretend certainty where he had none.
The trouble was that their standards differed.
To Bennett, good work meant a craftsman using the method he knew best through experience.
To Daemon, a good trial meant changing one condition at a time and recording the result.
They clashed often from the first day.
Daemon ordered labels attached to each sack and records kept of which sand and ash were used, and in what quantities.
To Bennett and the other glassworkers, it was excessively troublesome.
To Daemon, not doing it was far harder to understand.
They endured the first two days, at least.
On the third day, trouble broke out.
Daemon stood motionless for a long while before a bin in one corner of the workshop.
"...Who mixed this?"
One of the younger glassworkers raised his hand.
"I did."
"What did you mix?"
"The northern sand and the river sand."
Daemon's eyes slowly narrowed.
"Why?"
"There was little left of each, so I put them together in one bin."
A brief silence passed.
"I told you to keep them separate."
"They are both sand anyway, are they not?"
Daemon closed his eyes.
He took one breath.
"No, fuck."
The workshop fell silent.
Daemon pointed at the bin.
"They gave different results."
"We do not know whether that was because of the sand."
"That is why I kept them separate—to find out."
His voice rose.
"One came out far greener and the other less so. If you mix them, what the hell are we supposed to compare now?"
The young craftsman bristled.
"There was barely any left."
"Then leave the small amount alone."
"In a workshop, we usually—"
Daemon's face twisted.
"Ah, stop saying usually."
The glassworker shut his mouth.
"Are we making glass from the beginning by doing things the way we usually do?"
"..."
"No, we are not."
Daemon looked down at the sand bin and scratched his head furiously.
"Why did you have to touch it? I said not to mix it."
He was not angry because a few handfuls of sand had been lost.
To compare different materials, every other condition needed to remain as equal as possible. The moment they were mixed, comparing them directly with previous results became difficult, and whether the attempt succeeded or failed, they could no longer know what had caused the difference.
But in Daemon's head, the explanation was much shorter.
Now we have to do it over again, fuck.
That was all.
The young glassworker raised his voice too.
"We are craftsmen as well. We are not men who know nothing and merely move our hands as ordered."
"I know."
Daemon admitted it at once.
"You are much better than me at blowing and shaping glass."
The other man paused at that.
"That's why I listen to you when it comes to that."
Daemon pointed at the mixed sand.
"But leave this as I ask you to. I'm doing it to see why the results change."
Bennett watched them from a distance.
He did not like the child's manner of speaking.
He cursed.
His temper was foul.
But at least he did not dismiss their skill.
That much was unexpected.
Afterward, fewer people touched the sacks of sand.
It did not stop entirely.
Whenever it happened, Daemon's swearing increased.
For several days, the results were wretched.
What emerged from the crucibles were blackened lumps, unmelted sand, and residue with only a slight glasslike gleam. Some were too cloudy, some cracked into pieces, and some stuck to the crucible walls so badly that removing them was work enough.
For the first few days, Bennett quietly regained his confidence.
As expected, he thought, glass was not made this way.
Daemon grew irritated whenever he heard that, but he was less shaken by failure itself than Bennett expected.
He changed the materials.
He changed the proportions.
He extended the time.
He tried again.
Then, one day, Daemon's attention shifted from the ingredients to the furnace.
The child squatted before it and stared at the fire for a long time before asking, "What did you say this furnace was originally used to melt?"
"Glass that has already been made."
"And that melted well?"
"It has all my life."
Daemon said nothing for a while.
Remelting finished glass and making glass for the first time from raw ingredients were not the same task.
Existing glass had already chemically combined into a vitreous structure and would soften and melt again when sufficiently heated. Raw materials such as sand, ash, and lime, on the other hand, needed to be heated, reacted, and melted thoroughly before they became a single uniform glass.
The necessary heat.
The necessary time.
The conditions demanded of the furnace.
All were different.
Daemon was no glass engineer.
But fire, heat, and the flow of air were much closer to his own field.
Unlike the uncertain expression with which he had studied sand for days, he judged the furnace quickly.
The air intake was narrow.
Smoke escaped, but the exhaust was too constricted to sustain strong combustion for long.
Heat was escaping through gaps in the door and walls.
Daemon circled the furnace once and said, "We have to fix this first."
Bennett's face hardened.
"We have used this furnace for a long time without any trouble."
Daemon looked at the furnace.
Then at Bennett.
"When you were melting glass that was already made, sure."
"It is a furnace for melting glass."
"We are doing something different now."
Bennett could not accept it readily.
He was being told to dismantle equipment that had worked without issue for years because a three-year-old said so.
The argument was not long, but it was rough.
Bennett argued that they could simply add more firewood. Daemon finally frowned.
"If you cram in more wood, will the fire gather its strength and work overtime?"
Bennett was speechless.
Daemon pointed at the intake.
"Air needs to get in properly before anything can burn. What is the point of stuffing in wood?"
"Then what do you intend to do?"
"Widen the intake, work on this part, and seal the places where heat escapes."
Daemon peered into the furnace.
It bore the marks of long use and many repairs.
"We also have to see whether the inside can endure greater heat for longer."
Bennett still looked displeased.
Daemon had been watching that expression.
At last, he spoke first.
"Mister."
"Yes."
"You know how to blow glass, right?"
"Of course."
"And you are better at shaping it and flattening sheets than I am?"
Bennett's expression eased slightly.
"I am."
"I'll listen to you about that."
Daemon tapped the furnace.
"So listen to me about this."
This time there was no curse.
Yet for some reason, the words weighed more heavily on Bennett.
After watching him for days, Bennett had learned something.
The child retreated surprisingly easily in matters he did not know.
But where he was certain, he held on with terrible stubbornness.
Bennett looked at the furnace.
He saw the soldiers too.
He remembered Wyman's order.
And above all, there were the crucibles that had failed to melt properly for days.
A long sigh escaped him.
"...Where do we start taking it apart?"
Daemon's face brightened at once.
"That's more like it."
"I truly dislike that tone."
"And I dislike you always saying, 'Usually, usually.'"
The negotiation was concluded.
Part of the furnace was dismantled.
They widened the intake, adjusted the exhaust flow, reduced gaps, and refurbished areas directly exposed to high heat. Daemon did not know every material, so Bennett and the other craftsmen made more of the actual decisions about which stone and clay would best endure fire.
They added bellows as well.
On the first day they stoked the fire, the workshop's mood was different.
Even the sound of burning wood had changed.
The flames were drawn in more fiercely, and the sense of heat surging within the furnace was stronger. Opening the door made one draw one's face back from the heat.
Bennett stared at the fire for a long time.
The material in the crucible began to move differently as well.
The surface where sand grains had remained intact gradually collapsed, and thick, viscous masses merged together.
It was not perfect.
But for the first time—
It was truly melting.
Daemon folded his arms at his side.
"See?"
Bennett did not answer.
"The furnace was the problem."
Still no answer.
Daemon could not restrain himself any longer.
"What did I tell you?"
Bennett slowly turned to him.
"Young lord."
"Yes."
"Could you simply remain quiet for this moment?"
Daemon shut his mouth.
The corners of his lips were raised.
Seeing that face, Bennett first felt the truth of fifty golden dragons slipping from his hands.
The wager had begun a few days earlier amid an argument between Bennett and Daemon.
Ten days.
For that time, the craftsmen would not alter the conditions Daemon set on their own. And if, without adding a single piece of imported Myrish glass, they could not make something that anyone would call glass starting from raw materials such as sand and ash, Daemon would pay Bennett fifty golden dragons.
At first, Bennett had asked whether the child knew the value of that money.
Daemon said he would pay it from his own share of the earnings from heating.
And if Daemon won—
Bennett would receive ten strikes to the backside.
Bennett was forty-two.
Daemon was three.
That was why he had accepted.
Now he regretted it bitterly.
On the ninth day, glass emerged.
It was far from perfect.
It had a pale green cast and many bubbles. Some traces of incompletely melted material remained, and the sheet they had forced flat varied in thickness. Its surface rippled, and any face seen through it was distorted.
Compared with good Myrish glass, it was crude.
But light passed through it.
Bennett held the pane in both hands and tilted it toward the window.
He could see his fingers beyond it.
He could see people's faces too.
The people in the workshop approached one at a time.
"...It's glass."
Someone said it.
Another stretched out a hand.
"It's real."
Bennett could say nothing.
They had not remelted glass imported from Myr.
They had not gathered broken bottles and fused them together.
In his own workshop.
With his own furnace.
They had begun with sand and ash.
They had made glass from the beginning.
When he realized it, something in his chest burned strangely hot.
His father had never done it.
His father before him likely had not either.
All their lives, they had waited for glass to arrive from Myr, thinking that was simply the natural order of the world.
Today, that order had broken once.
"Young lord."
Strength entered Bennett's voice despite himself.
"We did it."
There was no reply.
Bennett turned around.
Daemon was staring at the glass pane with a face as though he had bitten into shit.
Left.
Right.
He turned it over once.
Then held it to the light again.
Bennett knew that expression now.
It was ominous.
"What is wrong?"
Daemon pointed to one side of the glass.
"The color is way too strong."
Then the bubbles.
"Too many of these too."
The edge.
"This part is not fully melted."
Bennett's face hardened.
"Young lord."
"Yes."
"We made glass."
"I know."
"Starting from sand."
"I know that too."
"Without a single Myrish craftsman."
"You did well."
Daemon said it as though it were obvious.
"But are we going to sell this as it is?"
Bennett was speechless.
Daemon lifted the glass again.
"Getting the first one is good, but we can see the problems. So we reduce them in the next one."
"It is our first product."
"Which is why there needs to be a next one."
The pride boiling in Bennett's chest collided with irritation at the same time.
"Young lord, do you understand how remarkable this is—"
"I know."
"It does not seem you do."
"Ah, not this again."
Daemon's brow furrowed.
"Something can be amazing and a complete mess at the same time."
Bennett stopped.
Daemon shook the pane.
"Making glass from the start is amazing. But it is also true that the color is strange, there are too many bubbles, and the thickness is a disaster."
He was not wrong.
That made it more irritating.
Daemon carefully set the pane down on the worktable.
Then his expression suddenly changed.
Bennett's spine chilled.
"Mister."
"...Yes."
"What day is it today?"
Bennett closed his eyes briefly.
"The ninth."
"We did not add Myrish glass, right?"
"...Right."
"We started from sand?"
"We did."
Daemon pointed to the pane.
"This is glass, right?"
Bennett did not want to answer for a very long time.
But the entire workshop was watching.
"...Yes."
Daemon's face lit up.
"Then I won."
At that moment, Bennett vowed that if he could return ten days in time, he would break his own wrist before allowing that handshake.
A small broom was prepared.
Bennett braced both hands on the worktable.
"Must we truly do this?"
"If you had won, you would have taken my money."
"That is..."
It was true.
"Let's get this over with."
Daemon held the broom, only a little shorter than himself, in both hands.
The first blow fell.
Thump.
It did not hurt at all.
That made it more humiliating.
"When I tell you not to mix sand, do not mix it."
Thump.
"And do not change things on your own."
Daemon added a remark to each strike through the third.
After that, perhaps because he was beginning to run out of breath, he said less.
That was fortunate for Bennett.
A broom wielded with the arm strength of a three-year-old did not hurt in the least. But the silent sight of the workshop's craftsmen and Manderly soldiers watching struck a man's pride far more effectively.
By the fifth blow, Bennett almost wished someone would laugh.
No one did.
That was worse.
At the ninth blow, Daemon had begun panting too.
He raised the broom above his head for the last strike.
"And stop saying, 'Usually, usually.'"
Thump.
"I came here and put up with this bullshit because usually it cannot be done!"
"Ten!"
Silence fell.
Daemon drew breath, his little shoulders heaving.
Bennett remained leaning against the worktable.
His body was fine.
Only his dignity had died a little.
"Mister Bennett."
"...Yes."
"I won, right?"
Bennett gritted his teeth.
"Yes. You won, young lord."
"That's right."
Daemon set down the broom with a deeply satisfied expression.
Then the child who had just struck a forty-two-year-old craftsman ten times before a crowd picked up the first glass pane as though nothing had happened.
"All right. Break this."
Bennett's head snapped up.
"What did you say?"
"Break it and put it back in. We need to make the next one."
"This is the first glass."
"That is why we kept records."
"As a keepsake—"
"Mister."
"..."
"The color is strange."
Bennett stared at the pane for a long while.
A few hours ago, he could never have broken it.
But now it was a little different.
Until yesterday, they could not make glass.
Today, they could.
It was terrible.
But clearly.
Perhaps the fact that they could make a second pane mattered more than the first pane itself.
Bennett picked up a hammer.
Crash.
The first glass broke.
Looking at the shards, Daemon spoke immediately.
"Try the northern sand again. Use a little less ash this time."
Bennett habitually began to argue, then closed his mouth.
Daemon noticed at once.
"Why? Do you have something to say?"
"...No."
"Really?"
"Yes."
Only in his heart did Bennett say it.
That little bastard was truly fucking awful.
His temper was foul.
His mouth was filthy.
But he had to admit one thing now.
He had produced results.
Bennett was not foolish enough to deny even that.
The first glass was not the end.
Rather, that day was when the real work began.
Daemon came and went from the workshop nearly every day, but he gradually clashed directly with everyone less than before.
Because Bennett began standing between them.
When Daemon said sands from different places must never be mixed, Bennett repeated the instruction to the craftsmen. When the formula changed, he had them record at least approximate amounts. Records remained even on days Daemon did not come.
In turn, Daemon listened to Bennett when they actually handled glass.
"If we take it out now, it is too soft."
"How much longer?"
"It would be better to wait a little longer."
"Then we'll do that."
Blowing glass.
Stretching it.
Flattening it.
Cutting it.
In those matters, Bennett and the workshop craftsmen were far better.
Daemon did not pretend to know what he did not.
Likewise, on questions of fire, furnaces, and changing test conditions, Bennett began to heed Daemon before anyone else.
Failures continued.
One sand made glass far too dark green, while one formula melted well but became too weak after cooling. Some retained unmelted particles, and many panes kept their bubbles.
Once, a pane that came out quite clear cracked with a sharp snap the following morning.
Daemon studied the crack for a long time.
"Did we cool it too fast?"
Bennett asked, "Can the cooling be a problem too?"
Glass was not complete simply because it had been removed from the furnace.
If the outside and inside of hot glass cooled at different rates, stress could remain within it. If that stress was great enough, even a pane that did not break at once could crack later, or under a small blow.
That was why annealing—letting glass pass slowly through a proper range of temperatures instead of cooling it sharply—was important.
Daemon remembered the word annealing.
He knew the principle roughly.
He did not know at which temperature to hold it, or for how long.
"Then let's cool it slowly."
That was all.
They prepared a space at one side of the workshop to use the furnace's residual heat and stopped exposing finished glass immediately to cold air.
The next pane did not crack.
After that, such things repeated.
Sometimes a craftsman kept opening the furnace door because he was curious about the condition inside and drew Daemon's curses for letting out the heat. Sometimes someone altered a mixture by instinct and could not remember the amount, earning Bennett's rebuke before Daemon could speak.
"I put in a little more."
"How much is a little?"
"Just a little..."
Before Daemon could open his mouth, Bennett cut in.
"Remember the amount first."
The young craftsman flinched.
"About two spoonfuls."
"Write it down next time."
"Yes."
Daemon looked at Bennett from beside him.
"Oh."
"What is it?"
"This is convenient."
Bennett pretended not to hear.
After several weeks, patterns slowly appeared in the records.
Which sands produced relatively paler color.
Which ashes made glass melt more easily.
How long it needed to sit for unmelted grains to diminish.
Which cooling method produced fewer cracks.
They had neither chemical analysis nor thermometers.
It would have been difficult to call it a precise experiment in the modern sense.
Still, they repeated it.
They repeated the successful attempts as well.
One success could be chance.
Only when similar results began to emerge repeatedly under the same conditions did it become useful information.
And eventually, before Daemon could ask, the craftsmen began speaking first.
"The northern sand had less color last time."
"When we used much of this ash, it became weak after it cooled."
"The furnace is heating faster than usual today."
Daemon checked the records and answered, "Then try it once more as we did last time."
Listening to that, Bennett slowly began to understand.
Daemon was not a person afraid of failure itself.
He hated not knowing why something had failed.
The same was true of success.
If he did not know why it had gone well, he did it again.
And again.
It accumulated.
Several weeks later, Bennett held a finished pane in both hands and gazed at it for a long time.
A very faint green remained.
It was not clear as water like Myr's finest wares.
But it could not be compared with the first.
Large visible bubbles had greatly diminished, and the surface had been flattened much more evenly. Light passed well through it, and one could recognize the shapes of people and objects beyond the glass without trouble.
It could be used for windows.
For a greenhouse, it was more than enough.
And above all—
It could be sold.
The craftsmen gathered one by one.
"This is enough."
"It is more than sufficient for windows."
"And certainly for greenhouses."
Calculations began naturally in Bennett's mind.
The price of imported glass.
Freight.
The amount broken during the voyage.
The share taken by middlemen.
The problem of not being able to get the goods at all when ships were delayed.
If they could make it in White Harbor, all of that changed.
Daemon accepted the pane.
He held it to the light once.
Turned it over.
Tilted it sideways.
Bennett waited silently.
"Oh."
At that single word, every eye in the workshop gathered.
Daemon nodded.
"Now this is starting to look like glass."
Bennett closed his eyes.
Starting to.
For them, it was the product of overturning the common sense of a lifetime.
For Daemon, it was simply glass much improved from the first pane.
He was still not accustomed to that difference.
Then, a few days later, something emerged that Daemon had not planned.
There was a craftsman in the workshop accustomed to making small mirrors. He had selected and polished relatively fine sheets imported from Myr, then attached reflective surfaces behind them to make hand mirrors and decorative mirrors.
A mirror was not an object whose glass itself reflected light.
Since long ago, people had used polished metal surfaces such as bronze or silver as mirrors. Once glassmaking developed, they also used relatively flat, transparent glass with a highly reflective metal layer placed behind it, viewing the image through the front face of the glass.
The glass protected the surface and provided a flatter face. What actually reflected the light was the metallic backing.
To make a fine mirror, the flatness of the glass was important too.
If the glass was uneven, the reflected face would be distorted as well.
Daemon knew that principle.
A reflective layer behind the glass.
There had been some method using silver, he thought, and another using mercury that he had seen somewhere.
What exact process it was.
What metal had to be applied, and to what thickness.
He remembered none of it.
He had not come to the workshop to make mirrors in the first place.
So when the craftsman who had received the new glass took one small pane away and returned with it made into a mirror several days later, Daemon was sincerely surprised as well.
"Young lord."
A cloth was pulled away.
A human face was reflected.
It was not perfectly clear.
It was somewhat distorted, but easily recognizable.
Daemon said nothing for a moment.
He held up the mirror.
Left.
Right.
He touched his cheek once.
Then his nose.
"...I really look fucking young."
The craftsman who had made the mirror answered with a hollow expression.
"You are three."
"I know."
For Daemon, that was the end of it.
For Bennett, it was not.
His expression changed as soon as he took the mirror.
The other glassworkers were the same.
They passed it around one by one.
Daemon asked as though they were strange, "What is wrong?"
One craftsman said without taking his eyes from the mirror, "This will sell dearly."
"For how much?"
"Set it before noblewomen once."
Another man joined in.
"They will fight to have it first."
Daemon looked at the mirror again.
"For this?"
All six glassworkers stared at the child at once.
Daemon took a step back.
"Why?"
At that instant, Bennett was certain.
The child knew what he had accomplished technically.
He did not understand well what value it would become in the world.
Wyman was different.
The instant he heard that stable enough sheet glass to sell had been made, and that mirrors had been created from it as well, he acted.
He had the surroundings of the workshop cleared, had the best finished sheets selected and stored separately, and prepared several sheets of Myrish glass for comparison.
At first, Bennett thought a few members of House Manderly would come to inspect the results.
On the morning of the day, carriages arrived.
One.
Then another.
And another.
Manderly banner houses.
Great merchants of White Harbor.
Prominent men who owned warehouses and docks.
Knights and maesters.
Several noblewomen.
And even the current Lord Manderly.
Valena arrived as well.
As usual, Raymund took his place a little distance from Daemon.
Only then did Bennett realize.
Wyman had not called people merely to show them a few panes of glass.
He was setting the board.
No one was greatly astonished when the glass was first revealed.
It was good glass.
That was how it appeared.
One merchant held a pane to the light.
"Is this a Myrish shipment that came in recently?"
Wyman smiled.
"No."
"Then from Lys?"
"Not that either."
The merchant's brows rose.
"Where is it from?"
Wyman deliberately waited a moment.
Only after enough eyes had turned toward him did he answer.
"White Harbor."
Silence fell briefly.
Someone gave a small laugh.
"You mean it was worked here."
"No."
Wyman was calm.
"It was made here."
The laughter stopped.
The maester reacted first.
"You do not mean glass brought from Myr and remelted?"
"That is correct."
Another immediately asked, "Did you bring in craftsmen from Myr?"
"No."
"Then did you lure away even apprentices?"
Wyman smiled.
"Do you think the Myrish would so readily send men trained in their craft all the way to the North?"
No one replied.
The question itself showed how Myr's glassmaking was regarded.
To Myrish craftsmen, glass was not merely a livelihood.
It was the skill that had made their city's name.
Lenses.
Mirrors.
Clear glass.
The name Myrish itself, stamped upon such things, created value.
No one expected its methods to be freely revealed to every craftsman on the street.
Wyman called Bennett.
"Bennett."
"Yes."
"Are there any craftsmen from Myr in this workshop?"
"None."
"Were there ever?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Then the men working here now?"
Bennett looked at the people of the workshop.
"They are craftsmen who have worked glass in White Harbor from the beginning."
The murmuring grew louder.
"Then what did you make it from?"
Just as Bennett was about to answer without thinking, Wyman spoke first.
"That, I cannot tell you."
Eyes gathered on him.
"You summon us all here and mean to conceal the method?"
"What I am showing you today is not the method."
Wyman's smile did not waver.
"It is the fact that White Harbor can now make glass as well."
"Even the materials are secret?"
"Myrish craftsmen do not go shouting their formulas and furnace methods in the middle of the market. There is no reason we should either."
No one could readily argue with that.
The demonstration followed the same principle.
The exact materials and formulas were not revealed.
Prepared ingredients were brought into the workshop, and visitors only saw the furnace being operated, the craftsmen handling molten glass, and sheet glass that had already been sufficiently cooled.
Bennett, rather than Daemon, provided the explanations.
One merchant saw the record board beside the furnace and asked, "Do you write down all of this too?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Bennett was about to answer, but glanced at Daemon without thinking.
The child was at a distance, holding a new pane to the light.
"To confirm whether similar results come again when we use the same method."
After saying it, Bennett felt oddly strange.
Not long ago, it had been the task he hated most.
Now he was explaining its purpose to others.
One lord pointed at Daemon.
"Then what has that child done here?"
As though he had been waiting, Wyman called the boy.
"Daemon."
Daemon looked up.
"What?"
"People are wondering what you did."
Daemon considered it briefly.
"Suggested we try making it from the beginning?"
Murmurs rose around them.
"That child?"
"Is he not three?"
Wyman smiled.
"That was my reaction at first too."
He did not exaggerate.
He explained only that Daemon had proposed making glass from raw ingredients, had made them repeat their trials, and had suggested modifying the furnace.
Daemon discreetly raised a hand.
"I practically fixed the furnace all by myself, though."
Bennett cut in immediately.
"We were the ones who actually took it apart."
"I was the one who told you to."
"That is true."
Laughter ran through the crowd.
The short exchange was stronger than any long explanation.
The sight of a forty-two-year-old craftsman conversing so naturally about technique with a three-year-old was proof enough.
The maester asked with interest, "Then can you explain the principle?"
Daemon opened his mouth without thinking.
"First, with the sand—"
Wyman's hand immediately came down on the child's shoulder.
"Do not say that."
Daemon looked up.
"Why?"
"Because it is a secret that makes money."
"Oh."
His mouth shut at once.
"Then I will not."
This time, laughter burst out among the merchants.
When the mirror was revealed, the mood changed further.
It was not a large hand mirror.
But the eyes of noblewomen and merchants changed far faster than they had for sheet glass.
One noblewoman accepted it first.
"Was this made using glass made here too?"
The glassworker who made it puffed out his chest a little.
"Yes."
"Without using a Myrish pane?"
"That is right."
The mirror quickly passed through many hands.
Faces showed fairly clearly in it.
They were a little distorted, but it was sufficient for ordinary use.
One merchant asked the first practical question.
"How much do you intend to sell it for?"
The glassworkers looked at one another.
They had not yet decided a price.
Daemon spoke from the side.
"We need to calculate the cost first."
The merchant looked down at the child.
"You think of that first?"
"Otherwise we lose money."
Some people laughed.
More did not.
Calculations had already begun in their minds.
Windows.
Greenhouses.
Mirrors.
How much import they could replace.
The price for selling to other northern holdings.
The profit to be made sending it south.
There were too many paths branching from one craft.
The current Lord Manderly too held a pane up to the light for some time.
Then he called his son.
"Wyman."
"Yes, Father."
"I understand why you called these people now."
Wyman smiled faintly.
"Was it too grand?"
The old lord looked through the glass at the workshop and answered shortly.
"No."
He set the glass down.
"Something like this deserves grandeur."
With those words, the atmosphere changed.
It was no longer merely Wyman's curious private investment.
It had become a matter for House Manderly.
When more people came, admiration was not the only thing that increased.
Greed followed.
One banner lord quietly asked Bennett, "Have you any thought of building a workshop like this on our lands? We can pay more than you earn now."
Before Bennett could answer, Wyman's voice intervened.
"Let us leave that talk there."
The banner lord smiled.
"It was a joke."
"That is fortunate."
Wyman smiled too.
His eyes did not.
"The craftsmen of this workshop are under House Manderly's protection."
The surroundings grew a little quieter.
The current lord looked at the banner lord as well.
"As my son said."
That was enough.
Coveting something and reaching for it were different matters.
Wyman turned his eyes to Daemon.
"And the same is true of that clever little gentleman."
Daemon looked up.
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Why all of a sudden?"
"Stay still."
"All right."
Wyman addressed those gathered.
"Daemon is a guest of House Manderly and enjoys our protection."
Do not tempt him with money.
Do not send men to investigate him.
Do not think to quietly take him away.
There was no need to explain it so fully.
In noble society, saying someone stood under one's protection had meaning in itself.
Daemon did not look as though he understood every implication.
He looked once at Valena.
When she gave a slight nod, he turned his attention back to the pane of glass.
Valena smiled at her son.
She was proud.
He had the same blood as his father.
Perhaps dragon's blood too.
But Daemon did not first turn that hot nature toward a sword.
When he saw a hearth, he thought of ways to live less coldly. When he saw fire, rather than ways to burn men, he thought of how to make a furnace hotter. Seeing glass, he had thrown himself into trying to make it himself.
If that blood burned within the child, then this was a far better way for it to burn.
She could not say how fortunate that was.
But today, too many people had seen Daemon.
They had heard his name.
They had remembered his face.
And they had calculated his worth.
Valena knew such eyes well.
She was a merchant's daughter.
At some point, the eyes looking at the glass and the eyes looking at Daemon had become alike.
Precious.
Useful.
I want it.
As she realized it, a cold feeling joined her pride.
She understood why Raymund's face was rigid as he stood by the wall.
As people began dispersing one by one, Wyman approached Valena.
"My lady."
"Lord Wyman."
"Today, I believe I should offer you congratulations."
"To me?"
"For raising your son so well."
Valena looked once at Daemon.
The boy was already asking Bennett something.
"I do not know whether I can accept the credit."
Wyman looked toward the child too and smiled faintly.
"I understand that sentiment somewhat."
That was the end of the light conversation.
"My mother would like to meet you once."
Valena understood his meaning at once, but her expression did not change.
"Me?"
"There are several noblewomen at my mother's side who receive guests and spend their days in conversation with her. She would be pleased if you became one of them."
It was a good offer.
Too good an offer to accept at once.
"You honor me. I am only the daughter of a merchant from across the sea, not a woman from a family renowned enough to stand at Lady Manderly's side."
Wyman watched Valena for a moment.
"If you truly think that, I shall be somewhat disappointed."
Valena's eyes narrowed.
"What do you mean?"
"It does not seem you are refusing because you do not understand my meaning."
A short silence.
Valena spoke the name first.
"Daemon."
"Yes."
Wyman did not hide it.
"It is because of the boy."
"You are honest."
"Having called everyone here today, it would be more ridiculous to pretend otherwise now."
Valena looked around.
The Lord Manderly.
Banner lords.
Merchants.
Knights.
Maesters.
"You arranged today's gathering deliberately as well."
"Yes."
"To show them the glass."
"That is right."
"And to show them Daemon."
Wyman smiled.
"That is right too."
"And you likely wished to show who first saw his potential and put up the money."
"I will not bother denying it."
The corner of Valena's mouth lifted slightly.
"You are greedy."
"Naturally."
His answer came quickly.
"I want the boy to continue working in White Harbor."
"And you want him to make the North wealthy."
"Yes."
"You do not want another house to take him."
"Very much so."
"What if it is the south?"
"Even less."
Valena found the honesty more comfortable.
Someone who did not conceal his greed was easier to deal with than someone offering clumsy kindness.
After a moment, Wyman's expression grew more subdued.
"But I did not arrange a gathering such as today solely out of my own greed."
"Is that so?"
"When the people who saw this today return home, stories will spread. First that White Harbor made glass from raw materials, and then that a three-year-old child was deeply involved in achieving it."
Valena did not answer.
"I do not think it will end within the North."
"It will go south."
"Yes."
"And cross the sea as well."
This time, both knew what place they were thinking of.
Myr.
Valena had grown up in Tyrosh.
Though she had not lived in Myr itself, she knew how merchants of the Free Cities regarded their city's signature goods and craftsmen.
Wyman said, "I have heard glass is a great trade for the Myrish."
Valena nodded.
"It is not merely that."
"What do you mean?"
"It makes money, but it is pride too."
Myrish glass and lenses had long been sold together with the city's name.
Craftsmen took pride in their methods.
Merchants used that reputation to raise prices.
When people in other cities envied fine mirrors and clear lenses, the Myrish considered it one of the proofs of their superiority.
"From their perspective, the city at the far northern end that bought their wares has suddenly begun firing its own glass."
Wyman said, "At first, they will laugh."
Valena answered calmly, "While the quality is poor."
"And afterward?"
"Once prices fall and quantity rises, they will begin to pay attention."
Valena glanced toward the workshop.
"They will not send men to kill people from the start."
"I think so too."
"They may sell more cheaply, try to buy away the craftsmen with money, or send people to pry out the method."
"We must begin by making the workshop people keep their mouths shut."
"Yes."
Valena paused.
"And if that fails."
There was no need to explain at length what might follow.
Kidnapping.
Arson.
Murder.
Those were not methods men had newly invented when enough money was at stake.
They had existed for a long time.
Wyman's eyes went to Daemon.
"In the end, we must also consider what the easiest target would be."
The smile vanished from Valena's face.
"One child."
"I will not rule out the possibility."
That was enough.
There was no reason to make a fuss that Myr would send assassins at once.
But believing such a future would never come was foolish too.
Wyman added, "Nor are the dangers only across the sea."
Valena understood that as well.
They were still outsiders in the North.
White Harbor was more open than other places because it was a port, but that was entirely different from being accepted as one of its own.
"You are from Essos."
"Yes."
"And Daemon was not born in the North either."
"That is so."
Wyman chose his words briefly before adding, "And I know, at least, that there are circumstances the two of you do not speak of."
Valena's smile grew a little thinner.
"You investigated us."
"Would it not be stranger if I wondered nothing about such conspicuous mother and son living in White Harbor?"
Wyman continued at once.
"I do not know precisely what it is. Perhaps you were caught in political strife in Tyrosh, or perhaps something unpleasant occurred between merchant families."
That was all.
Valena released a small breath inwardly.
Of course.
Who would look at the three-year-old son of a wealthy widow who had come from Tyrosh and think him the last male-line descendant of Maelys Blackfyre?
"Raymund as well."
"What of him?"
"I have scarcely seen him take his eyes off Daemon."
Wyman glanced once at Raymund by the far wall.
"It is rather excessive even for overprotection."
Valena did not answer.
"I also know you rarely speak of your husband."
Again, silence.
"I will not press you."
Wyman said, "Everyone has circumstances they do not wish to tell."
Valena asked quietly, "So you are telling us to accept Manderly protection?"
"That is one of the reasons."
Wyman's expression grew more serious.
"But Manderly favor is not a thing handed out to anyone in the market."
"You are pressuring me."
"I am explaining."
"Are those so different?"
Wyman gave a short laugh.
"Today, let us say they are somewhat different."
He turned his gaze toward White Harbor for a moment.
"Our house was not originally of the North either."
Valena already knew.
The Reach.
The Mander.
Exile.
Refuge.
The North.
"Our ancestors too lost their homeland and came all the way north. The Starks received them and gave them the Wolf's Den."
There was pride in Wyman's voice.
"And we did not forget that favor."
He looked at the city before him.
"Now, no one here calls us outsiders."
Valena understood what he meant.
He was not simply telling her to accept protection.
He was telling her to remain.
To put down roots.
"Who knows?" Wyman said.
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps you and Daemon may become the same."
Valena did not answer at once.
"You look quite far into the future."
"Because he is three."
The words carried more weight than expected.
Wyman looked at Daemon.
"The boy is only three years old."
Heating.
Glass.
And now mirrors.
"I do not know what he will do next."
Wyman smiled faintly.
"Perhaps he does not know either."
That was true.
Daemon had been arguing with a glassworker for some time over how to flatten a large pane without making it break so easily.
"But I know he has potential. And I am not arrogant enough to think I will be the only man to recognize it."
There were many wealthy men in the south.
The Reach.
The Westerlands.
Oldtown.
King's Landing.
Even the Free Cities across the sea.
Wyman continued, "If the boy continues to benefit the North, then one day it would not be strange for him to gain a place of his own in the North."
Valena's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Are you promising land to my son now?"
"No."
Wyman smiled at once.
"I have no authority to do that."
"That is fortunate."
"I am speaking of possibility."
House Manderly itself was proof of such possibility.
Exiles driven from the south had found a place in the North, and centuries later had become one of its richest houses.
Valena thought that future dangerous.
At the same time, she had to admit it was appealing.
Wyman hesitated slightly before adding, "And it is not only my greed."
"There is more?"
"I like the boy personally."
That was somewhat unexpected.
Valena raised a brow.
"Daemon?"
"Yes."
"His mouth is foul."
"I know."
"He is stubborn too."
"I know that very well."
"And he talks back to adults terribly."
"I am a victim of it."
Valena finally laughed.
Wyman laughed with her.
"Even so, I like him."
This time, he was not joking.
"He truly enjoys what he does. When he does not know something, he says he does not know, and he is not ashamed of it."
Valena listened quietly.
"But he does not quit merely because he does not know, either."
A smile returned to Wyman's lips.
"Especially when I say I will fund him."
Valena laughed like a sigh.
"That, I know well too."
Wyman looked again over the people gathered that day.
"That is why I deliberately drew attention."
Valena's expression became a little more serious.
"Rather than hide him?"
"It seems difficult to keep hiding him now."
"So instead, show him to everyone."
"Yes."
Who he was.
What he could do.
And—
Who stood behind him.
"When there are many eyes, at least it becomes harder to touch him openly."
Valena said at once, "Openly."
"That is right."
Wyman admitted it readily.
Many things happened where no one could see.
That was why protection was necessary.
Protection was not merely an emotional word.
It raised the cost.
Making an unknown child from Essos disappear, and laying hands on a child House Manderly had publicly declared under its protection, carried entirely different risks and prices.
"If anything happens to him," Wyman's voice lowered, "people will now wonder who did it."
And—
"The Manderlys will wonder too."
Valena considered those words for a long time.
It was a promise.
And at the same time, a tether.
One called protection.
"If you remain at my mother's side, it will become somewhat easier to enter northern noble society. Daemon will not appear merely to be the child of an outsider of unknown origins."
"A child protected by the Manderlys."
"At first, yes."
"And after that?"
Wyman smiled.
"That is for the future."
Then he said once more, "After all, he is only three."
This time, the words sounded different.
Three years old.
There was far too much time remaining.
Potential too.
Danger too.
Valena searched for Raymund without thinking.
He still stood by the wall.
His face was stiff.
He could not possibly like today.
Too many people had seen Daemon.
Too many had remembered his name.
Raymund believed hiding was safer.
He was not wrong.
But Valena looked at her son again.
Could she tell Daemon never to make anything?
Tell him not to read books.
Tell him to pretend to be foolish before people.
Tell him to spend his life quiet, pretending not to know what he knew.
She could never do that.
Then another way was needed.
Not making the child smaller.
Making it so he could not be easily touched even as he grew.
Money.
Connections.
Reputation.
And, if necessary, a house.
For now, the Manderlys could become a very fine wall.
"I will consider it," Valena said.
Wyman did not press further.
"That is enough."
"I may refuse."
"Of course."
Valena watched his face for a moment.
"You do not believe that."
Wyman gave a short laugh.
"If you refuse, I will come persuade you again."
"I thought as much."
That ended the conversation.
Wyman returned to the crowd.
Valena remained there a little longer.
Daemon's voice reached her from afar.
"The large panes still break too easily."
A merchant asked, "Does that mean they can become better in the future?"
Daemon answered as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"We have to fix them."
The people around him stirred again.
Daemon looked as though he did not understand why they reacted so strongly.
Valena smiled faintly at the sight.
She was proud.
And anxious.
But between those two feelings, what she had to do was becoming clearer.
If Daemon was the one who made new things, and Raymund the one who hid and guarded him, then when money, greed, and power began clinging to what Daemon created, arranging the space between them would ultimately be her task.
Valena slowly turned her gaze.
White Harbor's pale sunlight streamed long across the new glass pane standing beside the workshop window.
Comments (0)
Please log in to leave a comment. Login or Register