Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 121: Mill's Brass Ruler and the Echoes of Castamere

The black wooden fence surrounding the Willow Grove mining area. Two full months have passed since the arrival of the Mir craftsmen bearing the golden lion mark of Casterly Rock.

In these two months, old Muldur demonstrated patience and restraint to the core.

Every day, he treated the three Mil craftsmen and twenty red-robed guards to the finest aged wheat and roasted meat, personally accompanying them as they worked in the designated shallow iron ore pits.

During this time, three ravens flew to the Westerlands carrying a letter personally signed by the craftsman of Myr.

The letter was monotonous and repetitive: "Iron ore production is stable, with no abnormalities observed."

Old Muldur's extremely realistic obedience earned him a group of safe and harmless endorsements for Casterly Rock.

But the fox can never outsmart the hound's nose.

In the dead of night, the door to Mudd's cabin was flung open in the fir forest. Two trusted confidants of an old soldier, both blind in one eye, rushed in, exuding a chilling aura. One of them carried a blood-dripping dagger.

"Something has happened, sir."

The confidant's chest heaved violently, and his voice was kept extremely low.

"The old soldier who was washing raw ore inside the high walls of Willow Grove couldn't stand the acidic smell, so he escaped by climbing over the wall in the middle of the night. He had just crawled into the woods when he bumped into the captain of the Western Border Guard who was getting up to urinate in the middle of the night."

Mud sat up from the wooden bed, and a chillingly fierce light suddenly flashed in his gray eyes, which had been stagnant for years.

Where are they?

"That old bastard thought the Westerners had come to rescue him, and in exchange for food, he spilled all the secrets of the acid baths and pure silver bricks inside the high walls!"

The confidant gritted his teeth, the veins on the back of his hand bulging.

"Those Myr people got the acid residue samples from the veteran. They used a brass ruler and a balance scale to calculate it, completely exposing our concealment of production! The Western Frontier captain has already written the letter, is sealing it with sealing wax, and is preparing to release the ravens to Casterly Rock tonight!"

A sickening grinding sound came from Mudd's jawbone.

It was no longer speculation; the Myrs had irrefutable evidence. Once that raven flew out of the willow grove, by tomorrow morning, the death penalty for hiding a massive amount of silver at Bluefork would be on Tywin Lannister's desk.

What awaits them is a Castamere-style flood and massacre.

"Hide the young master in the cellar."

Mudd did not draw his sword to charge; instead, he calmly put on the heavy old chainmail.

"Go to the refugee camp and remove the warning sign for the collapse of the newly excavated No. 5 pit. Gather ten suicide soldiers, take torches and ropes, and follow me."

An hour later, deep in the mining area.

The captain of the Western Guard, accompanied by the Myr craftsman, was escorting the trembling, fleeing veteran to the pier to release the ravens.

Old Mudd, accompanied by his confidants, emerged from the muddy path, sweating profusely and carrying torches, blocking their way.

"grown ups!"

Mud's face was filled with urgency and fear, and his acting was flawless.

"A large, high-quality silver vein has suddenly been discovered in Pit No. 5! However, my inmates don't know how to mine it, and a small section has already collapsed. I implore you all to go down into the mine immediately to inspect it. If the vein is damaged, we cannot bear the responsibility!"

The captain of the Western Frontier sneered, holding the letter that was about to sentence Lan Chahe to death in his hand, his eyes revealing an arrogant condescension.

"Sir John, it's too late to try and curry favor with us now by mentioning the new mine. However, since there's a top-quality silver mine here, we might as well go down and take a look. Lead the way."

For these self-important Westerners and Myrs, they simply did not believe that a peasant knight would dare to lay a hand on the Lannister delegation, especially since Pit 5 was newly excavated and even the wooden pillars were new.

They followed Mudd into the bottomless tunnel.

The muddy water at the bottom of the pit was ankle-deep. Twenty red-robed guards, three Mil craftsmen, and ten Willow Forest loyalists responsible for guiding the way were all crammed onto that dark and damp work surface.

"It's just ahead."

Mude held up a torch and pointed to a main load-bearing wooden pillar supporting the top of the pit.

Just as the Western Border Captain approached the wooden pillar.

The one-eyed confidant beside Mude seemed to slip, his entire body, along with the heavy iron pickaxe, crashing heavily into the load-bearing wooden pillar that had already been hollowed out.

"Snap!"

A chilling cracking sound echoed through the sealed tunnel.

Thousands of tons of black rock, soil, and groundwater crashed down like a collapsing sky. Screams didn't even have time to escape their throats before being utterly crushed by the massive roar.

When the collapse occurred, Mud did not take refuge in the safe side tunnel.

He swung his pickaxe and, without blinking, smashed the right leg of the confidant who had slipped. Immediately afterward, he charged towards a rolling boulder.

"Bang!"

A dull thud of bones shattering. The boulder smashed right through Muld's shoulder, breaking two of his sternums. He coughed up a mouthful of blood and, along with the Western Frontier captain and the fleeing veteran, was buried under the rubble.

three days later.

Blue Fork River Fortress, top floor of the stone tower.

Pollifer held a messenger document stained with mud and blood in his hand, his gaunt face twitching slightly.

"Pit No. 5 has completely collapsed."

Pollifer's voice was low and tense.

"The Western Craftsmen and the Red Guards were all killed. We dug old Mulder out from under the rubble. His shoulder was broken, his sternum was fractured, and he was on the verge of death, but he was still clutching the deserter's body tightly in his hand, having buried the written secret letter and the brass ruler in the deepest part."

Otto sat behind the mahogany table, listening quietly to the battle report pieced together from blood and flesh.

The scene contained only fallen rocks and dozens of bodies mixed together, with no signs of sword or knife wounds. Even if Tywin sent men to investigate, he would only find a horrific mining disaster so devastating that even the Lord of Willowwood nearly perished.

Moreover, Tywin still possesses the three letters of reassurance personally signed by Master Mill. If he were to pursue the matter relentlessly, he would be overturning his own calculations.

"Drafting documents."

Otto remained expressionless and quickly began cleaning up the mess.

"Hold a funeral for Casterly Rock. Tell them that Lord Willowwood strongly advised against it, but the distinguished guest from the Westerlands, eager to explore new mineral veins, insisted on going down into the mine and unfortunately encountered a mining accident. Bluefork River is willing to bear all compensation and search and rescue costs."

"Lord Tywin won't believe it."

Pollifer pushed up his brass-rimmed glasses.

"He doesn't need the pension; he knows we're lying to him."

"Of course he knew. But he's a businessman, and businessmen only care about profit."

Otto took a pre-prepared parchment from the drawer and threw it on the table.

"Send this contract, along with old Muldur's bloodstained letter of apology, to Casterly Rock. Tell Lord Tywin: He may be gone, but the silver veins remain. For the next ten years, half the silver produced in the Willow Grove mines will be delivered directly to the treasury of Casterly Rock at the lowest possible market price."

Otto used the enormous profits of the next decade to fill the lion's heart with doubt and anger.

While the dead cannot be brought back to life, this continuous and massive infusion of funds is enough to make any lord who wants to turn against the government reluctantly return to the negotiating table.

When Tywin Lannister, far away in Casterly Rock, received the report, he did not furiously gather a large army as legend had it.

He sat in that huge, carved chair, his gaze coldly scrutinizing the impeccable supply order.

A few days later, a raven flew back from Casterly Rock to Bluefork.

The reply was not stamped with sealing wax; it contained only a short line of text, carrying the Lannister family's characteristic, accounting-style blackmail.

"Contract received. No more artisans will be sent from the Westerlands. However, in light of the losses from the mining disaster, the next shipment of silver will be delivered a month earlier, and its purity must be increased by half a percent. The Lannisters are obligated to pay their debts."

As Pollifer stared at the words, his palms broke out in a cold sweat.

There was no flood of Castamere, no clash of swords. Tywin Lannister told Otto in the coldest of ways: the Westerlands would remember this debt of lives.

He will use these stringent delivery deadlines and quality standards to squeeze out the interest, like cutting flesh with a dull knife, slowly and for a long time.

Otto stood in front of the mahogany table, looking at the reply.