Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 109: The Red Keep's Ruined Armor and Silent Decline

King's Landing, the Red Keep.

The warm spring sun shone through the tall stained-glass windows, casting colorful dappled light onto the luxurious Persian carpets of the Chancellor's Tower. The room was filled with the expensive aroma of spices from Mil, and even the fireplace burned sweet-smelling applewood.

Petyr Baelish, the Grand Master of Finance who had just established himself at the Council of Kings and was known throughout King's Landing as "Littlefinger," was comfortably nestled in a soft velvet high-backed chair.

But on his expensive desk, carved from a single piece of mahogany, sat something out of place in the room—a wooden box reeking of blood and the stench of rotten mud.

The wooden crate was open. Inside, a dozen or so shattered pieces of plate armor and several broken crossbows were piled haphazardly. On top of these metal fragments, a parchment scroll bearing the seal of the Blue Fork River's double-headed eagle was pressed down.

Little Finger didn't touch the filthy armor. His grey-green eyes held their usual gentle smile as he picked up the letter with his slender fingers and read it softly, word by word.

"...Last night, the southern slope camp was attacked by nearly a hundred heavily armored cavalrymen without insignia. They not only slaughtered the fifty skilled men you sent, but also beheaded them. Such professional, no-survival tactics are not the work of those river bandits who only steal wheat in the Riverlands. This deal concerning raw silver has clearly alarmed a beast more troublesome and with sharper claws than Stannis..."

Upon reading this, Little Finger's perpetually unchanging smile twitched slightly upwards.

"...The camp has been burned to the ground, and the workshops are shut down. Rebuilding the furnaces will require a large amount of gold. If Lord Petyr wants to see the ships of Seagull Town return laden with cargo, I need to retain 80% of the profits. If you find this business too hot to handle, I will find buyers who are not afraid of being burned."

Little Finger finished reading the last word. He gently placed the parchment on the table and slowly stroked the edge of the letter with his fingertips.

"Sir, this is blatant extortion!"

Standing beside the desk, Loso, the white-gloved merchant from Seagull Town, had a fat face flushed red with anger. "What unarmored heavy cavalry! Those fifty brothers were all seasoned veterans who had tasted blood on the front lines. If it weren't for that little baron Hohenzollern tampering with the camp, how could not a single one have escaped?! He not only betrayed our men, but also dared to use this to blackmail us into reducing our commission to 20%! We should immediately cut off the sea route to Seagull Town and let Stannis's search warrant..."

With his little finger slightly raised, Loso's roaring sound was stuck in his throat.

"Losso, if you keep your eyes on these scrap metal pieces, you'll only ever be a bookkeeper in Seagull Town for the rest of your life."

Littlefinger stood up and walked to the foul-smelling wooden box. He held up two fingers and disgustedly picked up a fragment of breastplate with deep, bone-revealing cleavage marks, examining it in the sunlight.

Lothar gasped. "You mean... Tywin Lannister from the Westerlands has intervened?"

"It's obvious. Our country baron not only saw through our use of his silver to pay off the Iron Throne's debts, but he also went to pledge his allegiance to Lord Tywin." Littlefinger casually tossed the nail plate back into the box with a jarring clang. "He borrowed a knife from the Westerlands and chopped off my claws. Then he held this blood-dripping knife to my throat, forcing me to lower my price."

"Then we can't tolerate it even more!" Loso exclaimed urgently, "As long as we cut off the supply..."

"Cut off the supply? And then just watch him hand over that gold mine, along with the money laundering channels we've worked so hard to build, to Casterly Rock for nothing?"

Littlefinger looked at Loso with the look of someone who thought he was an idiot. He went back to his desk and picked up a glass of Green Island wine.

"What's fifty mercenaries dead? In Game of Thrones, anger is the cheapest emotion; only the clinking of gold coins is real." Littlefinger took a sip of his drink, closed his eyes, and said, "The fact that he dares to do business with Tywin means his production capacity has far exceeded our expectations. As long as he can still lay golden eggs, I'm willing to tolerate his occasional mischief."

Little Finger picked up the expensive gold quill pen and smoothly wrote lines of cursive script on the parchment.

"Reply to the baron that I am deeply saddened by his plight. The commission can be reduced to 20%, but the delivery volume next month must be doubled."

The little finger rolled up the written letter and dripped sealing wax onto it.

"Remember this, Loso. A living enemy is always more valuable than a dead friend, as long as you can squeeze something out of him."

……

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in the Blue Fork River Valley.

The spring floods have completely receded. The ice on the river has long since melted, and the Trident River is once again wide and bustling with activity.

A flat-bottomed cargo ship with no family crests and a very deep draft was steadily moored beside the pier by a team of elite, cold-faced sailors.

This is a ship from the western border.

Otto Hohenzollern stood at the end of the pier. He watched the Western Border purchasing officer disembark from the ship. Although the man was dressed in ordinary merchant clothes, his upright back and large joints could not hide the marks left by years of wielding weapons.

"Your Excellency, Casterly Rock extends its spring greetings to you." The purchasing officer nodded slightly. His tone carried the arrogance characteristic of people from the Westerlands.

"Give my regards to Lord Tywin." Otto's voice was as calm as an ancient well. "The last group of bandits who 'cleaned up the trash' on the southern slope must have already taken my sincerity back with them."

A strange glint flashed in the purchasing officer's eyes. He waved his hand, and the sailors on the ship began to unload the heavy wooden crates one by one.

"Castlerock has received your sincerity. The raw silver is of extremely high quality." The purchasing officer looked at Otto. "This is the iron ore you requested, as well as twenty heavy warhorses from the Westerlands. As for the golden dragons, we will settle the account with you at an absolutely fair price when the next shipment is delivered."

"Forty percent of the raw silver produced by the Blue Fork River will belong to the West. As long as the ships from Casterly Rock are not late, this forty percent of the goods will not end up in the pockets of any tax collector in King's Landing."

The purchasing officer nodded in satisfaction and turned to direct the unloading.

Maria, standing behind the window of the tent on the second floor of the stone tower, watched this scene, her hand gripping the brass key slightly tighter.

Meanwhile, in another dark room at the bottom of the stone tower, an assessment of potential internal hazards is underway.

Pollifer pushed a thin ledger covered with symbols in front of Otto.

"Sir," Pollifer's voice was like dry tree bark, "the seventh group in the second shantytown has received oatmeal for fifty people over the past three days, but the amount of refined white salt they've turned in is 20% less than last week. Moreover, the militiaman in charge of overseeing the work said that two or three people in that group always seem to be loitering around the second acid sludge pit after work, as if they're keeping track of our waste dumping shifts."

Otto glanced down at the ledger. The influx of refugees after spring had been overwhelming, a mixed bag of people, and spies from surrounding lords had infiltrated to inquire about the silver mine's details—something Otto had anticipated.

William Charlton, standing to the side, heard this and a fierce glint flashed in his gray eyes. But he did not draw his short sword from his waist as he usually would.

"My lord," William mimicked Pollifer's tone, trying to make his voice sound cold and pragmatic, "they've already affected production. If we don't remove these eyes, the truth will eventually come out. Should I take a few men and take care of those two loitering fellows, then throw them in the river?"

Otto looked up and glanced at William. There was no approval or blame in his eyes, only the indifference of a superior examining the quality of a tool.

"Get rid of them? If you kill them, can you make up for the two hundred pounds of acidic mud they missed digging tomorrow?"

Otto's words startled William slightly.

"A spy is a laborer with two hands and two legs too." Otto casually tossed the ledger aside, his tone extremely rational, to the point of making one's bone marrow ache. "As long as he hasn't sent the message out of this gray stone wall, in my eyes he's just a blind donkey that can still pull a millstone."

Otto turned to Polyver and gave him a cold, hard order.

"Starting tomorrow, transfer all fifty men from Group Seven to the deepest underground mine, Pit Five. They will not be given any protective burlap. The Iron Oath Corps will guard the pit entrance 24 hours a day, and their meals will consist only of watered-down wheat porridge to sustain them for half their lives. Tell them that unless they dig out a fixed amount of raw silver ore, none of them are allowed to climb out of the pit."

Pollifer nodded expressionlessly. "Understood. Down there, they wouldn't even have the strength to orient themselves, let alone swing a pickaxe."

"No matter how many spies are among them, once they go down into that pit, they're just expendable resources who will never see the sun again. After they die of exhaustion at the bottom of the pit a few months later, their bodies, along with the secrets they hold in their hearts, will be buried in the abandoned mine tunnels."