Men detached the hose, and the blast of air stopped. A new chain, one that ran through a pulley attached to the overhead rail, was hooked onto the base of the crucible, and men standing well away from the molten metal pulled on it. Slowly, the crucible was tilted until the metal started pouring out of it. It splashed down onto the prepared troughs in the sand, flowing down the channels and into the ersatz molds. Finally, the last of the molten metal drained out, and the crucible was allowed to return to an upright position. Smoke and steam wafted off of the rapidly cooling metal.
"That went quite well, don't you think?" I asked Maester Luwin.
"There were no accidents at least," he agreed. "Though the question remains if you made proper steel, or merely iron."
"We'll find out soon enough," I replied. "Once it has cooled, I'll have Mikken and a few other blacksmiths examine the metal to determine if we were successful or not."
Luwin nodded; the plan made sense.
"In the meantime, I need to go congratulate the crew," I said. "For the first burn and first tap, they did quite well."
I stood to the side of Mikken's workshop as he examined the recently cast axe head. He had tapped it, heated it, quenched it, and polished it with just a touch of oil of vitriol.
"Well?" I asked. "What do you think?"
"It's brittle, milady," the blacksmith replied. "See here? The blade chipped a bit when I struck it. Good steel wouldn't have done that."
"Damn," I cursed. "So, how can we improve the process?"
"Well, if this has been done by one of my apprentices, I'd say he didn't work the metal long enough," he replied.
"It's not a case of impurities in the metal?" I asked.
"No, milady. The quality of the iron is quite good, it's just… too hard still," he replied with a shrug.
"I see," I murmured.
'So, is it a question of nitrogen from the air in the metal, or did we not fine it long enough?' I wondered, referring to the process of blowing air over it to remove extra carbon. 'I'll talk to Corin and have him try fining it a little longer with the next tap.'
A week later and I was back in Mikken's forge with another newly cast axe head. Mikken used the same process to check it, taking just as long as before.
"It's steel," he eventually concluded. "Not quite as good as castle forged steel, but decent enough."
"How is it different from castle forged steel?" I asked.
"It's not as flexible," he replied. "If this had been a sword rather than an axe, the blade would flex a bit, but it would snap before long. A good castle forged blade could bend a lot further before it breaks, milady."
"I see," I murmured.
'Still too much carbon, then…'
Another week, and this time I came in with a sword blade rather than an axe head. It was a single edged sword with a false curve, making it look rather like an oversized Bowie knife. This style of sword was common in late medieval Germany, and was called a langes messer, German for long knife. I'd had Garalt carve a piece of wood into the right shape for the combined blade, crossguard, and tang, all as a single piece. A wooden handle could be bolted to the tang, and a simple end cap fitted to reinforce the grip. It was a simple, but effective weapon… assuming I finally got the steel right.
"How is this one, Mikken?" I asked, having grown somewhat weary of experimenting to get the right quality in the steel I was casting.
"Good. Very good," he replied with an approving nod after he had examined it. "Not a masterwork, mind you, but solid journeyman work. See here?"
Mikken placed the tip against the floor, braced his knee against the flat, and bent the blade. He held it there for a few seconds, then relaxed. The blade snapped right back into proper shape, like good steel was supposed to.
"For a single edged blade this thick, it is quite flexible, yet it should hold an edge quite well," he complimented my work. "It needs some work; a handle, of course, and some of the rough burrs here and there need to be ground down, and it needs to be sharpened, but otherwise it is good work."
"Thank the Old Gods," I huffed in relief. "I think we've finally found the right time to stop the fining process."
"That is good," the old blacksmith replied. "Do you intend to cast ingots? Having access to this quality of steel would make my work much easier."
"Of course we will," I replied. "And of course, I will make sure you have as much as you need. You're Winterfell's blacksmith, after all."
"Thank you, milady!"
"Alright, I'm here," King Robert huffed, partially in irritation and partially from lack of breath. It was clear to everyone except the man himself that he was going to seed. Too many nights spent feasting, drinking, and whoring and not enough time spent in the training yard had built up a band of fat around his midsection, and greatly shortened his wind.
The King heavily dropped into his chair at the head of the table and leaned back in it. With a snap of his fingers, a serving girl was there by his side, placing a golden goblet of wine in his hand. Robert took a big sip, belched, and sighed, smacking his lips at the flavor.
"Now, what bit of infernal copper counting needs my attention?" he demanded.
"There is an… issue, your Grace, that requires your direction," Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, replied. "To present the issue, may I present your new Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish?"
"Your Grace," Petyr stood and gave a half bow.
"Alright. Say your piece," Robert said with a negligent wave of his hand.
"Your Grace, the budget of the realm is… strained," Petyr began. "The tax revenue received from the Great Houses has decreased. The reasons why are varied, of course; an increase in the price of iron, a drop in the price of grain, and with the availability of linen from the Riverlands and wool from the North, the smallfolk are having a harder time meeting their tax obligations. As a result, the total amount of taxes the Crown receives has dropped by a fair amount. I'm afraid that the Crown has been presented with three choices."
"And those are?" Robert said, then took another swig of his wine.
"The Crown could, of course, cut expenses. Reduce the frequency of tourneys, and reduce the purses of those that you still hold, reduce the size of the Royal Navy, and so on," Petyr examined, waving his hand as if dismissive of that solution. Robert snorted, seemingly in agreement. "You could, of course, increase taxes. However, given how all the Kingdoms save for the North and, to a lesser extent, the Riverlands are struggling, your Wardens and Lords Paramount may… protest such a decision."
"And the third option?" Robert gruffly said, making a minute gesture with his cup.
"Borrow the money, your Grace," Petyr said with a faint smile. "Your goodfather, Tywin Lannister, could front some of the costs, of course, but the Iron Bank is capable of lending a greater sum on short notice."
"Borrowing money would not be wise so soon into your rule, your Grace," Jon stoically protested. "Cutting expenses would be the wiser choice."
"The people are still restive, your Grace," Varys cut in. "Your tourneys and festivals do much to reassure the smallfolk that your rule is stable and prosperous. A change at this junction would be ill advised."
"There have been an unusual number of attendants at the Sept for my sermons…" the High Septon idly murmured, a befuddled but thoughtful look on his face.
"Then we'll raise taxes," Robert huffed. "The Gods know all of you popinjays strut around in your expensive clothes and jewels…"
"That would not be a wise decision either, your Grace," Grand Maester Pycell simpered. "The nobility are struggling due to the drop in the price of grain and the reduced tax income from smallfolk homespun cloth. Raising taxes on the nobility would mean raising taxes on the smallfolk, and as Lord Varys said, they are rather restive…"
"Then what option does that leave me!" Robert thundered, slamming his cup down on the table. "I can't borrow the money, I can't reduce spending, and I can't raise taxes?! What the bloody hells am I supposed to do, then?!"
"There… may be another option, your Grace," Petyr replied, a thoughtful look on his face.
"Well?" The King demanded. "Out with it!"
"The Riverlands and the North are the source of most of this… disruption," he answered. "The fine linen coming out of Riverrun has undercut the income of the smallfolk, your Grace, as has the woolen cloth from the North. And the price of grain has been dropping because much of the North has been buying less. And with the other trade goods the North has started selling, more trade flows through their land than ever before."
"Get to your point," Robert commanded.
"Those two realms are prospering more than the others," Petyr concluded. "Thus, is it not appropriate that they should shoulder a greater portion of the burden?"
"What, do you want me to demand more tax from the two realms who helped put me on the throne?"
"Not necessarily," Petyr countered. "Rather, place a special tariff on cloth, your Grace. Those realms have grown rich on textiles; shouldn't the Crown take its fair share of that prosperity?"
Robert leaned back, stroking his beard. From the shape of it, it was clear he was frowning.
"That would be an adroit solution," Varys agreed. "Let those who profit most pay the most."
"It might also help stabilize the other realms," Pycell agreed. "With the tariffs, locally produced cloth would be less expensive than imported cloth once more. It would begin selling again, putting more coin in the hands of the smallfolk. That coin, and the tax revenue owed to the nobility, will greatly relieve their burdens…"
Robert harrumphed, but a quick glance around the table at the rest of the Small Council made it clear that everyone supported this path. Everyone except for one member.
"Jon?" Robert prompted. "What do you think?"
"While this would go a long way to bringing solvency to the treasury," Jon said, picking his words carefully. "I feel it may… strain your relations with the realms that helped you win the Rebellion."
Robert picked up his cup, swirled it, and stared into the depths for a long moment. Finally reaching a decision, he drained it. "Ned will understand," he murmured to himself.
"Baelish, figure out how large of a tariff we need," the king ordered. "Jon, you write up the order and send it to me. I will sign it."
Jon frowned, but nodded his head. "I will see to it, your Grace."