The picks woke him.
Night shift still going.
Sun through the flap, hard and cheap.
He rolled over.
The panel opened on time.
[Daily draw.
Now?] Eyes shut.
He tapped.
White.
Dusty.
[Congratulations.
White entry acquired: Miner’s Endurance] Effect: Stamina loss at the face −10%.
Unbroken hours +15%.
He read it once and killed it.
White.
Help work.
Not a throne.
Better than a blank.
He got up and pushed out.
The pit looked like a market that sold rock.
Bronn squatted on the lip with bread.
He saw Lyonel and forgot to chew.
“My lord.
Twelve carts in the night.” “How many.” “Twelve.
All deep.” A thumb at the stack.
“Clef ran them till dawn.
He’s still under.” Lyonel walked the pile.
Gold-green in three rows.
Edges dressed like someone had cared.
The glass did the rest.
[High gold.
Twelve carts.
Average purity 76%.
Call it 1,180 to 1,240 dragons.] [Trade Acumen — Gold.
Error ≤ 3%.
Hold 1,240.] He lifted a piece.
Heavy in a way stone should not be.
Bronn leaned in.
“What’s the number.” “Twelve hundred.” Bronn nearly lost the bread.
“One night.
Twelve carts.
Twelve hundred.” “Dragons.” “I know they’re dragons.” The rest of the loaf went in at once.
Talk came out around it.
“I took blood money in the Vale a year and came home with two hundred.” “You were idle.” “Idle.” Lyonel was already turning.
“Merrick.” Hellstone came at a trot from the far end.
Eyes red.
No sleep in them.
“My lord.” “Weigh it.
Price it.
Write it.
Raven to the Rock.” “Now.” “Now.” Hellstone ran.
Three clerks ran after him.
Lyonel went back under canvas.
Map still open.
Heels on the table.
Outside: shouts.
Iron.
A man finding a tune.
Bronn came in with more bread.
“My lord.
Truly twelve hundred.” “Do the sum yourself.” “You know I can’t.” “Then don’t.” “Then what do I do.” Lyonel looked at him.
“Stand on the pile.
If a piece walks, you stop it.” Bronn saluted with two greasy fingers and took the bread with him.
Lyonel shut his eyes.
Not enough sleep.
Not sleepy.
Silverhill.
The strike.
Sixteen thousand carts if the north branch was not a liar.
Hellstone’s voice carried.
“First cart.
Weighed.
Seventy-six.
Call it a hundred and thirty.” A roar from the crew.
Second cart.
Third.
Fourth.
Every number set the bed off again.
Bronn in the middle of it: “Each one’s fatter.
The rock’s learned to breed.” “Fifth.
Seventy-seven.” “Sixth.” “Seventh.” Noon.
Twelve carts done.
Hellstone shoved in with ink to the wrists and slapped parchment on the table.
“My lord.
The whole.
One thousand two hundred forty.” Lyonel looked at the figure.
Trade Acumen sat on it and did not argue.
“The raven.” “Ready.” “Write: First day.
Twelve carts.
Twelve hundred forty dragons.
Work continues.” Hellstone wrote.
Wax.
Seal.
“My lord.
Only that.” “Only that.
He reads numbers.
Not speeches.” The bird went west.
Lyonel did not wait on an answer.
He took the lip and looked down.
More backs than at dawn.
Clef at the floor, grey as the spoil, grinning like a thief who had found the door open.
“My lord.
North wall’s open.
It’s the same stone.” “Keep on.” “Yes.” The iron doubled.
Dusk brought a second raven.
A scrap on the leg.
Three words.
Keep mining.
No name.
He knew the hand.
Hard.
Sharp.
Each stroke like a knife that had decided not to hurry.
Tywin.
Bronn peered over his shoulder.
“Seven hells.
Three words.” “Mm.” “He didn’t praise you.” “He did.” “Where.” Lyonel folded the scrap into his coat.
“When Tywin spends more than two words, that is praise.” Bronn lost two seconds and then laughed himself onto his heels.
“I’ve ridden with you weeks and you still find a way to win a grunt.” Lyonel was already moving.
The panel wrote.
[Quest: Miners’ Loyalty — 47%.] Halfway.
Twelve hundred on the book in a day.
Tomorrow would add more.
The day after that.
The West was getting heavier where he could see it.
Heels on the table.
Moon coming clean.
Picks not done.
Bronn talking big at the lip—then a shout.
“Another bird—” Lyonel took the second scrap himself.
Same hand.
One more line.
Silverhill’s books are amended.
The hall sits tomorrow.
You will not.
He smiled.
Good.
He was in a dead river taking gold out of a hill, not listening to old men scrape chairs on the Rock’s stone.
Tywin keeping him here meant the hole mattered more than the table.
That was the whole letter.
Bronn’s head in the flap.
“What now.” “Nothing that needs you.” “He want you home to sit.” “He wants me here.” Bronn grinned.
“Then you don’t get shouted at.” Lyonel put the scrap in the drawer.
“Tomorrow we cut.” “How far.” “Until the hill has a hole through it.” Bronn withdrew.
His voice found the crew at once.
“You heard him.
Through the hill.
That is a man who can see past his own boots.” They answered him louder than they had at noon.
Lyonel closed his eyes.
[Westerlands Expansion — Stage One: 32%.] A draw in the morning.
New stone in the morning.
Clerks at the Rock putting twelve hundred forty in a column where men who hated dwarfs would have to read it.
None of that was the work.
The work was the face.
Iron hit the wall.
Once.
Again.
He put his head on his arms.
Twelve hundred today.
More tomorrow.
The days were getting expensive in the right direction.