They were barely back in the camp on Silverhill’s skirt, Blum’s sketch still damp, when grey banners came up off the east track.
The lord came himself.
Forty, thick through the chest, a rusted longsword slung from the saddle.
Twenty men behind him with picks on their shoulders and knives in their belts.
Miners if you only looked at the tools.
“Who opened my vein.” He hit the ground clean and walked through the cookfire ash.
Black dust lifted.
Blum gave half a step.
Bronn’s hand found the hilt.
Lyonel sat on a crate with the last of the morning’s bread and did not stand.
“Yours.” Hellstone came on, stopped five paces out, and looked down.
Dwarf on a box.
Boots swinging.
Bread in his fingers.
“Mine.
Both banks of that bed for three miles.
Hunting ground.
My house has held it since—” The panel cut in.
[Combo: Financial Mastery × Trade Acumen] [Silverhill’s old hunt-line dies eight hundred yards east of the wash.
The bed itself is outside it.
He is lying.] Lyonel finished the bread, swallowed, and slapped the crumbs off his palms.
“Where does that hunt-line sit.” Hellstone blinked.
“…Three miles.” “Which way.
East.
West.
North.
South.” “East and west.” “Blum.
The map.” Blum drew the sheet from his coat.
Denys Prester’s gift.
West holdings.
Red and blue lines cut clean.
Lyonel spread it on his knees and put a finger on the dotted mark outside Silverhill.
“Your hunt-line runs west to Blackstone Creek.
East it dies eight hundred yards short of the bed.
Your grandfathers did not own the wash.” Hellstone bent over the parchment.
Three seconds.
Ruddy to paper.
“Where did you get this.” “Denys Prester.
Golden Tooth.” “That fox—” “He keeps books for me now.” Hellstone shut his mouth.
Lyonel folded the map, dropped off the crate, and stood in front of him.
He had to look up.
He did it anyway.
Green eye.
Black eye.
The lord felt the cold go down his back and did not know where to put his hands.
“I put three blows in that ground.” “I walked the strata.” “Your own line says the land is not yours.” “So tell me.
On what paper is it your vein.” Hellstone’s mouth opened twice.
The third try found words.
“…It sits under my sky.
Only my men dig under my sky.” “Your men.” Lyonel tipped his head at the twenty behind him.
“Did you bring them to work or to cut me.” The miners looked at each other.
No one spoke.
Sweat started on Hellstone’s brow.
Lyonel’s voice dropped half a step.
“Denys tried to eat my silver.
He kneels and adds columns now.” “Do you want the same lesson for a hole in a river.” Hellstone’s knees dipped.
He did not go down.
He got shorter.
“…Lord Lyonel.
How is the vein… how do we settle it.” Lyonel gave him five seconds.
Then the smile.
“Three terms.” “One.
The right to take it is mine.
Casterly Rock holds the claim.” “Two.
Your men work it.
Labor comes out of the yield.” “Three.” Palm up.
“We split the take even.
Rock half.
Silverhill half.” Hellstone’s eyes went wide.
“Half.” “Half.” “You—you don’t want seventy.” Lyonel tipped his head.
“If I take seventy you send men under the ground to make it fall in every third day.
I spend the extra on corpses and timber.” “Half, and you work with me.
Shoring holds.
The men swing like the coin is theirs.
I leave thirty on the table and buy the whole crew.” “Can you do that sum.” Hellstone stood there.
Lips moved three times.
Then he stepped back half a pace and bowed from the waist.
“Merrick Hellstone, Lord of Silverhill.
I stand ready.” Lyonel reached up and patted the shoulder once.
“Don’t bend like that in front of the men.
It teaches them the wrong math.” “Go tell your crew: from tomorrow an extra meat ration.
Pay up a fifth.
Yield commission, no cap.” “From today their purses run through you.” “Your men are your life.
Act like it.” Hellstone’s back went down another three inches.
“…Yes.” [Subordinate acquired: Merrick Hellstone — Silverhill, mine labor.] [Current subordinates: 6] [Westerlands economic index +18%.] [Westerlands Expansion — Stage One: Silverhill vein registered.
Quest open: Miners’ Loyalty.] Lyonel took the saddle the way Basic Horsemanship had taught him—ugly body, clean seat.
Two steps out he looked back at the still-bent spine.
“Merrick.” “Here.” “The hunting-ground story.
Yours, or did someone put it in your mouth.” A hitch.
Something off in the face.
“…Mine.” Lyonel did not push.
The panel did.
[Note: possible third hand behind Silverhill.
Watch the other houses in the hills.] He shut it and rode into the camp.
Bronn came up on the right, voice down.
“My lord.
That face—” “I saw it.” “Someone stirring.” “Maybe.” “Maybe what.” Lyonel checked the horse and glanced over.
“Maybe a man.
Maybe he just hates being caught.
Leave it.
We dig first.” “Until twenty thousand dragons are out of the ground, nothing else is work.” Bronn gave it two seconds and a thumb.
“You’re the purse.” They took the bed toward Silverhill.
Lyonel looked back once.
Grey wash.
Innocent in the sun.
Two and a half yards down: silver packed with gold, waiting on iron.
Twenty thousand.
Half.
Ten for him.
He looked at his hands.
Black dust still in the seams from the morning’s three blows.
“Blum.” “Here.” “Letter to the Rock.
Tell my father we found a rich silver with gold in it on Silverhill’s skirt.
Worth twenty thousand and up.
Claim written.
Crew goes in tomorrow.” Blum had the quill already.
“Exact words.” “Exact.” “Write: Father.
I opened a vein.
It outruns the Tooth.” The nib froze.
Blum looked up as if he had swallowed a live fly.
“My lord.
If this reaches Lord Tywin he will—” “He will what.” “Crumple it.” “Let him crumple it.
So long as he knows I dug.” Lyonel put his heels in.
Hooves on river stone.
Clean sound.
The panel held a low light.
[Westerlands Expansion — Stage One: Golden Tooth held.
Silverhill vein registered.
Miners’ Loyalty in work.] [Next node: Lannisport.] He let the corner of his mouth tick.
Tomorrow the picks went in.
In the white house Shae was still learning to put his name on a page.
The under-road at the Tooth sat empty and earning.
Bronn had twenty thousand dragons in a saddlebag and called it a rock.
Lyonel wrapped the reins and looked at the sky.
No cloud.
Hard blue.
He took a breath.
Iron on the wind.
Mine-dust already.
Fifteen.
A hole.
A crew.
A letter that would make an old lion’s hand close.
The rest could wait until the first cart came up heavy.