Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 112: Three Blind Tents and the Embers of Cold Iron

In early spring, news of the change of ownership of the Liulin mining area spread like wildfire throughout the northern part of Hejian.

But within the gray stone walls of Blue Fork River, this impressive armed debt collection operation brought no celebration.

Deep within the Stone Tower cellar, in the confidential document room that can only be opened with three keys, the air is thick with the smell of ink and the musty odor of parchment.

The clerk, Pollifer, knelt before the large stone table, his thin, long face etched with weariness.

Opposite him, Maester Elion, once Riverrunner's informant and now a master forger of Bluefork River, was carefully scraping away the ink from a parchment scroll with a sharp little silver knife.

"Tywin Lannister has too big an appetite."

Pollifer pushed up his brass-rimmed glasses and lowered his voice.

"The purchasing officer from the Westerlands will be coming next month to receive the share of raw silver, and also to take stock of the rich iron mine we acquired from Willowwood. They are bringing with them the accountant from Casterly Rock."

Without even looking up, Maester Ilion continued to scrape away at the numbers on the account book with his silver knife.

"That lion of the West is no ordinary country bumpkin from the Riverlands who only know how to drink ale."

"If they see that we are using the same group of refugees and consuming the same amount of timber and quicklime to mine both raw silver and iron ore at the same time, the accountants they bring can tell that we are concealing the production of raw silver just by doing a quick mental calculation."

"Once Tywin finds out that we're secretly keeping Petyr Baelish, that greedy wolf..." Polliff shuddered.

Therefore, the old hybrid accounting system must be completely abandoned.

The Maester of Ilion put down his silver knife and placed three distinctly different, heavy parchment books on the stone table.

"Three dead accounts must be made that are physically completely isolated."

The bachelor's tone carried a coldness that came from having abandoned all academic honors.

"The first one is the iron ore ledger, for the accountant in the western border to see. It lists the rations for two thousand refugees and the losses incurred during land reclamation."

"The second book, the white salt and shipping ledger, is for Loso of Seagull Town to see."

"The third book, the real secret ledger of raw silver, can only be seen by the three of us."

Pollifer looked at the three ledgers, his dry lips twitching slightly.

"Those lowly laborers who, in the dead of night, sorted high-purity raw silver from ordinary scrap metal and packed it into boxes..."

"They won't live to see the Western Reich's accountant arrive."

Maester Ilion's voice was as calm as if he were discussing the disposal of a few frozen rats.

"The adults' meaning is very clear. Every two months, those sorting workers will be buried in the abandoned mine tunnels under the pretext of 'mining accident' or 'acid poisoning'."

"In order to keep the secrets of these three accounts, this hidden loss of human lives is the price we must pay to maintain the balance between the two lines."

Outside the stone tower, however, the spring chill remained biting.

The Iron Oath Regiment soldiers, who had just completed a slaughter, were now taking their daily rest on the training ground.

Instructor Torun stood on the high platform, looking down at the more than one hundred soldiers in full armor.

As a veteran of the North who had sworn an oath to the Old Gods, the bravery and pride he once had when he formed his thirty-man warband were gone from his eyes.

The massacre at the Liulin Iron Mine a few days ago left a deep mark on this army.

The training ground wasn't deathly silent, but it exuded a sense of order that was even more chilling than deathly silence.

The soldiers stood in long lines, no one boasted about their military achievements, no one gambled, and they barely even talked.

At the very front of the line, one of Poliver's deputies sat behind a wooden table, holding a roster and a wooden plaque filled with supplies.

"Martin the Spearman," the second-in-command said expressionlessly.

A young soldier strode forward.

Toren recognized him; it was this seemingly dull young man outside Willow Grove who mechanically plunged a spear into the back of a fleeing soldier.

"In the Battle of Liulin, the formation remained intact, and not a single step was retreated."

The deputy drew a checkmark on the parchment.

"According to the rules of the adults, your family will be exempted from 10% of the land rent for the farmland on the south slope this year, and will also be given an extra half bag of white salt."

"As long as you are in the Iron Oath Order, your mother and brother's rations will not be interrupted."

Martin's hands trembled violently as he took the wooden plaque representing rent exemption and white salt, his eyes reddening.

Instead of shouting for honor like a knight, he turned around, knelt down, and kowtowed in the direction of the stone tower.

Torren stood on the high ground, watching this scene, a chill running down his spine.

The Old Gods will not protect such an army.

Toren walked to the edge of the training ground under a withered birch tree.

Outside the medical tent not far away.

One-eyed blacksmith Cole was leading two apprentices in unloading a cartload of broken weapons that had just been transported back from the Willow Grove mining area.

To expedite the production of iron picks for mining, the fire in the blast furnace burned day and night.

"ah--!"

A scream rang out.

A young apprentice was working the bellows when his leather apron was burned through by flying hot slag, leaving a bloody pit on his arm.

"Stop yelling! Wipe the blood away!"

Cole didn't even glance back at the apprentice.

In his only remaining right eye, there was only a numb pursuit of deadlines and output.

"Get to the medical tent for bandaging, and let someone else operate the bellows!"

"If I don't finish using these pickaxes tonight, the adults' whips will be lashing my back!"

The apprentice, clutching his arm and with tears in his eyes, ran towards the medical tent.

Gareth carried a bucket of freshly brewed hemostatic herbs and came out, lifting the curtain.

He greeted the apprentice and skillfully cleaned the charred wound with strong liquor, then applied crushed herbs.

The apprentice was in so much pain that his whole body was convulsing, and he was biting down hard on a piece of broken wood.

But with his only intact hand, he clung tightly to Gareth's mud-stained white cloak as if grasping at a straw.

"My lord knight..."

The apprentice was covered in cold sweat from the excruciating pain, but the first question he uttered made Gareth's heart clench.

"My hand... isn't useless yet, right?"

"The injury is very deep; the skin and flesh are burned. You need to rest for half a month."

Gareth pressed down on his trembling shoulders and whispered words of comfort.

"No! We absolutely cannot rest!"

The apprentice's eyes suddenly flashed with terror. He struggled desperately to stand up, ignoring the fact that his wounds were reopening and bleeding.

"If I can't operate the bellows, Master Cole will cross me off the technical roster!"

"Once I lose my apprentice craftsman's rations, Steward Pollifer will send my sister to dig the acid mud pit first thing tomorrow morning!"

"Sir, please, tie it tighter! I can pump the bellows even with one hand or by biting the rope!"

Seeing this boy who, in order to protect his sister's food rations, was willing to drag his crippled arm and cry out that he wanted to return to the blast furnace to embrace the high temperature, Gareth's prepared words of comfort were stuck in his throat.

Gareth remained silent, took out a clean piece of linen, and, at the apprentice's request, forcefully tied a tight knot over the charred wound.