Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 120: The Golden Dragon of the Blackwood River and Mil's Ruler

After more than a year of relentless high-pressure operation, the once empty, muddy ground surrounding the inner fortress has been filled with four giant blast furnaces that constantly spew black smoke.

The pungent smell of sulfur and coal ash scorched the surrounding birch forest.

In the study on the second floor of the stone tower, a carriage without any family crests stopped at the hidden side gate of the inner fortress late at night.

Pollifer sat at the elegant mahogany table. A year had passed, making the head butler's cheekbones more prominent, and his eyes behind his brass-rimmed glasses more like a dried-up well.

Opposite him sat a middle-aged man with a stern face. Beneath the gray cloth cloak on the man's chest, the black, withered tree emblem of the Blackwood family was faintly visible.

"Two boxes of San Francisco Dragons, a total of two hundred."

The butler in Blackwood pushed the heavy money bag to the center of the table, his voice trembling slightly with humiliation.

"Where is the Baron? Lord Tethos has ordered me to speak with Hohenzollern in person..."

"The adults are inspecting the No. 1 flood control canal and have no time to see guests."

Pollifer didn't look up; he simply opened the heavy parchment book in his hands.

"Blue Fork River's rule is that money matters, not people. Two hundred gold dragons can be exchanged for six hundred iron spears, plus sixty sets of crossbow parts from Mil's Workshop."

The butler in Blackwood clenched his teeth, his cheek muscles bulging.

The year-long war of attrition at Widow's Mill depleted the Blackwood family's steel weapons.

Faced with Brecken's battle formation built with cheap spears from the Blue Fork River, Tytos Blackwood realized that his speed of forging a sword with three gold dragons was no match for Brecken's speed of buying ten spears with three gold dragons.

In order to avoid being worn down, the proud Kuroki River had no choice but to bow down to his most hated enemy.

Before the butler arrived, he was prepared to be ripped off and even humiliated. He had expected Hohenzollern to triple the price to vent his hatred for their mortal enemy.

But he was stunned when he saw the supply contract that Pollifer pushed towards him.

The price did not double. There were no harsh political conditions attached. It was exactly the same market-standard contract as the Brecken family's.

"You...aren't you going to raise the price?"

The butler couldn't help but speak, his tone filled with disbelief.

"Aren't you afraid that Blackwood River, with these spears, will pierce Breken's belly and then turn around and raze your stone towers to the ground?"

As Pollifer's quill pen made its final stroke, the sound was like dry firewood snapping.

"The output and depreciation of the blast furnace are fixed, and the consumption of transport animals is also fixed. This price is just enough to maintain Blue Fork River's operating profit."

Pollifer looked up, his dead fish eyes peering at the butler through his brass-rimmed glasses.

"Bluefork River only sells ironware. Where the spear is thrust is the choice of the one wielding it. Lord Tethos paid the full amount of gold dragons and deserves goods of equal quality. Recalculating the price is a waste of time."

The butler looked at the affordable contract and felt a chill that was even deeper than being humiliated.

He realized that the Blackwood family had always treated Hohenzollern as a mortal enemy and were wary of them. But the people in this stone tower didn't consider them enemies at all.

In this cold ledger, the noble Blackwood and the peasant Brecken are no different; they are both just a string of numbers representing fuel to keep the blast furnace running.

This utter objectification sent a chill down the butler's spine. Without another word, he signed his name, grabbed the supply order, and hurriedly left the stone tower.

As soon as the butler left, the hidden door behind the mahogany study was pushed open.

Otto emerged, wrapped in a thick, dark gray woolen overcoat. William Charlton followed behind him, his gaze calmly sweeping over the golden dragon on the table.

"Sir, the order for Blackwood has been delivered."

Pollifer locked the gold coins in the tin box under the table.

"In this way, the two biggest mad dogs in the river region are now tied to our blast furnace."

Otto didn't even glance at the gold coins. He walked to the table and tossed a parchment stamped with a golden lion wax seal onto the mahogany table.

"A letter from the West."

Otto's voice carried an unprecedented solemnity.

Pollifer's gaze fell on the letter, quickly scanning the words on the parchment.

The letter was written by a high-ranking knight under Tywin Lannister. It made no accusations of discrepancies in the accounts of the previous shipment of silver, only a polite yet undeniably authoritative statement:

"Castlerock is very pleased with the output of the Willow Grove mine. To further improve mining efficiency, the Westerlands has specially hired three of Mil's top smelting masters, along with twenty guards, to provide free technical guidance to the Willow Grove mine. They will arrive soon."

Pollifer showed no surprise; he simply adjusted his brass-rimmed glasses, tapped his fingers twice on the table, and rapidly built a new risk control model in his mind.

"Lord Tywin is using the guise of technical assistance to test our bottom line."

Pollifer's voice sounded like he was analyzing a typical messy account.

"If those three Milers enter Willow Forest and take a look at the quality of the ore and the number of carts they push each day, our trick of concealing production will be completely ruined. Sir, should we have old Muldur stage an accidental bandit raid on the road to wipe this debt clean?"

"Killing Tywin's men will give Casterly Rock an excuse to send troops."

Otto leaned back in his chair, directly rejecting this crude violence.

"We must swallow the bones the Lannisters have given us. But how we swallow them is up to us."

Otto picked up his quill and pulled out a new parchment.

"Send a fast horse to the Willow Forest mining area and deliver this sealed order to Old Mude in person."

Otto issued a clear order for physical distancing.

"Tell Mudd. These Mil experts have entered the mine and are being treated like honored guests. But Mudd must accompany them every time they go down a mine shaft; your deputy must be present when they look through the ledgers."

"Except for the designated shallow mines No. 2 and No. 3, they are prohibited from stepping into any deep pit marked 'dangerous collapse'."

Otto looked up, his grey-blue eyes chillingly cold.

"If they just look and don't speak, let them look. If they dare to contact the refugees without permission, or force their way into the pit..."

Otto folded the command.

"Tell old Mudd, kill without mercy. I'll take the blame."

In the dead of night, the fir forest in the Liulin mining area groves creaked and groaned in the wind.

Old John Mudd stood in a wooden hut that reeked of decay, and by the dim light of an oil lamp, he read Otto's warrant.

Opposite him, little John was sitting by the fire pit, holding a charred branch, practicing Mill's arithmetic symbols he had learned during the day in the training camp on a wooden board.

After more than a year of being tempered by the Blue Fork River, this wild child from Pentos has lost some of the slickness of the marketplace in his eyes, and gained an unsettling indifference and focus.

Mudd didn't speak. He slowly folded the warrant and tucked it into his close-fitting leather armor.

His jaw muscles clenched in the dim light. For over a year, he had squeezed the refugees dry with whips and unpaid labor, barely managing to keep the Liulin mining area running smoothly on paper and build a legitimate business for his son.

Now, a group of Westerlands people and Mil experts are coming to his territory to interfere.

Mud's rough right hand rested on the hilt of the sword at his waist. The counterweight on the hilt creaked slightly beneath his large knuckles, which were deathly pale.

But he did not draw his sword.

Having spent half his life among piles of corpses, the old soldier knew better than anyone what endurance meant. He looked at his son, who was focused on arithmetic by the brazier.

As long as these Mill experts don't touch those deep pits that hold production secrets, and as long as they don't touch his son and his business, he can remain a silent stone, accompanying them in their charade in this muddy mess.

Go to sleep.

Mude loosened his grip on the sword hilt, his voice hoarse as if he were chewing on gravel.

Little John threw away the branch, wrapped himself tightly in the wool blanket, and closed his eyes.

Mudd turned around, pushed open the door of the cabin, and walked into the dark fir forest.

He gazed in the direction of the stone tower at the Blue Fork River headquarters. This long-running tug-of-war over production volume and bottom lines had only just begun.

Tywin Lannister's lion eyes were already fixed on the throat of this tiny empire.