The Lonely Mountain lands, Ironworks
With the arrival of a new day, the once-silent Lonely Mountain turned noisy again.
Along the banks of the Last River, ten towering blast furnaces rose one after another, their bases ringed with piled iron ore and charcoal. If the mines could supply enough ore, Domeric could have built several more.
"Charge the furnace!"
At the bark of an old master craftsman with graying hair, two workers immediately drove their draft horses forward to pull the iron chains. The chains squealed over the pulleys, hoisting basket after basket of charcoal up to the furnace mouth.
Rattle—rattle—rattle. Charcoal poured into the furnace.
Each basket held more than a hundred pounds of charcoal, and each furnace swallowed thirty baskets per charge.
Like the charcoal, iron ore was tipped in from the top hatch as well—one layer of charcoal, one layer of ore. Each round of loading took more than an hour.
Driven by the draft horses, the bellows began to turn—slowly at first, then faster and faster.
With a roaring rush, wind blasted through the hot-blast chamber and into the furnace. Flames leapt skyward, painting every face nearby a blazing red.
As the fire burned longer, the temperature climbed. The red flame tongues surged several feet high, then gradually shifted into a deep, eerie blue.
Through the furnace seams, they could see the ore inside beginning to soften and melt.
Compared to the traditional smelting methods of Westeros, blast-furnace iron not only multiplied output severalfold—it also improved quality and efficiency.
By the time the first run of molten iron of the day—glowing red—gushed down the channels in a bright stream…
…it was just noon.
At the same time, Domeric arrived at the mining site under heavy guard.
The mine alone filled an entire mountain hollow.
Miners in short work tunics covered the ravine from end to end, scattered like ants across the slopes, the constant clang of hammers and chisels echoing without pause…
The miners were split into two types: the hammer-men were mostly big-bodied and strong; by contrast, the men who held the iron drills were much leaner.
They crouched against the vein. One braced the drill with one hand, and the big hammer-man brought the sledge down—
CLANG!
Sparks sprayed. Stone chips flew everywhere as cracks widened in the rock. One drill-man failed to dodge in time; a shard sliced his cheek open, leaving a fresh, bloody gash.
Domeric stepped closer, checked the injury, then went around offering a few words to several wounded miners, rewarding each with a few silver stags.
"Thank you, merciful lord!"
"Our lord is like a second father to us…"
"May the gods bless our lord!"
…
A crowd of miners dropped to their knees in gratitude.
"Where is Lord Karstark?" Domeric looked around and asked.
The mine overseer hurried over at once. "My lord—this way, please."
Following the overseer's guidance, Domeric and his men climbed to a mid-slope ledge.
A massive man sprawled in a wooden chair so heavily the chair looked half-crushed beneath him.
He was thick-limbed and broad as a bear—long arms, heavy shoulders. He wore his hair long and kept a beard, with brown hair and blue-gray eyes, a huge head and a thick neck. His short miner's tunic hung open, exposing a dense patch of black-and-white chest hair.
While other miners chipped and dug across the slope, this "miner" lounged like a lord, as if napping, with a mug of hot milk set beside him.
If not for the miner's work tunic, he would have looked more like the overseer than the workforce.
This was Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold—the one many called "Old Karstark."
In the original course of events, Old Karstark would answer Robb's call and march south to fight in the War of the Five Kings. Later, driven by vengeance for his sons, he would kill captives without permission—and Robb would personally sentence him to death.
Even as he died, Old Karstark would curse Robb, declare him no king of his, and—because of the blood tie between Stark and Karstark—call him a kinslayer.
Notably, Old Karstark had been among House Stark's most loyal bannermen. His death would also help set the stage for the Red Wedding…
"Lord Rickard," Domeric said, smiling. "Resting out here, are you?"
Old Karstark grunted. He didn't even lift his eyelids. He shoved a huge hand under his clothes and scratched himself, making it clear he had no interest whatsoever in conversation.
Domeric pulled the overseer aside and hissed, "What did you do to offend Lord Rickard? Do you have any idea who he is—Lord of Karhold?"
The overseer's face twisted as though he'd bitten into something bitter—eyes and nose scrunched together in misery.
A few months ago, he had tried to throw his weight around and force Old Karstark to work—only for Old Karstark to snatch the whip and beat him half to death with it…
Before the overseer could even speak, Old Karstark roared, "I'm doing just fine here. No one offended me. If you've got questions, ask them to my face—what's the point of whispering behind my back?"
The shout cracked like thunder, buzzing Domeric's ears.
Domeric chuckled. "So that's how it is. I thought someone had wronged you."
Then he got to the point.
"Lord Rickard—no dancing around it. You've heard the news: I'm marching beyond the Wall soon. Interested?"
"War?" Old Karstark rolled his tiger-eyes and snorted. "Not going."
He gave a sharp laugh through his nose. "You want me to bleed for you? Not a chance."
Under Lord Eddard's mediation, Domeric had waived House Karstark's ransom and released them.
But Domeric claimed his lands had suffered "enormous losses" and demanded one hundred thousand gold dragons in compensation.
Poor House Karstark—its annual revenues barely reached five thousand gold dragons. To repay such a sum would take twenty years.
Worse still, Karhold had already been stripped bare by Wendel and his men. Old Karstark and his people had no way to pay—so they were forced to work in the Lonely Mountain lands to pay down the debt.
"You and your people have no future rotting in a quarry as miners," Domeric said calmly. "Come beyond the Wall with me. Two or three months, and we're back. I'll handle supplies and logistics.
Win glory, and I won't be stingy with rewards. Hell—you might even take some plunder."
He spoke patiently, coaxing rather than pressing.
Old Karstark yawned wide, showing teeth. "Plunder what? What's there worth stealing from wildlings?"
So—refusing the toast, choosing the lash instead.
Domeric's face turned cold.
"Lord Rickard—you marched into my lands and attacked without cause. I retaliated and defeated an invader. Was I wrong?
And if it weren't for Lord Eddard…" Domeric's voice sharpened. "You'd be a corpse already."
"You—" Old Karstark choked on rage for a moment before forcing the words out. "Winners write the history. Fine. I'm not pretending otherwise!"
Domeric stepped forward and raised the stakes, voice hard as iron:
"March with me, and the debt is wiped clean. All of it."
Old Karstark looked as though he'd been waiting for those words. He slapped his palm—broad as a paddle—down on the chair with a BANG, then surged up to his feet.
"Deal. We fight this war for you—win or lose—and what we owe you is settled."
The crushed chair squeaked like a living thing, springing back a little the moment his weight lifted…
"Of course," Domeric said, smiling faintly.
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