Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 46: The Steaming Soil and the Stone Mill of the Watermill

The first light snowfall of early winter did not immediately plunge the Trident River basin into severe cold.

Instead, a few days of unusually warm weather followed. The sun rose again, evaporating a layer of pale yellow mist from the muddy water accumulated on the riverbank. The air was humid and stuffy, mixed with the lingering musty smell and the stench of rotten mud under the windbreaks.

Otto Hohenzollern sat behind a wooden table at the bottom of the stone tower.

He wore a rough linen shirt, and the wound on his left shoulder had just been re-dressed, with traces of blood still visible beneath the linen bandage. The pain of having his flesh cut open and bone scraped hadn't completely subsided; every breath or the slightest movement of his arm would trigger a piercing, throbbing agony.

But he didn't lie in bed.

There are over four hundred mouths and over four hundred pairs of eyes in this muddy field, watching him every day.

Pollifer walked in from outside, carrying the walnut wood memo pad.

"The south wall of the warehouse is leaking," Pollifer said, pushing up his tattered brass-rimmed glasses held together with twine. His voice was dry and strained. "The two hundred-odd bags of old wheat at the bottom have grown mold. Two people died from eating them yesterday."

Otto looked at Pollifer.

More than two hundred bags of wheat. This is one-tenth of their winter rations.

"Grind it up," Otto said without hesitation, his voice hoarse. "With river water."

He pulled a rough parchment from under the table and pushed it in front of Pollifer.

It was a simplified drawing of a waterfront building. It was a blueprint for the Citadel that he had obtained from the Maester of Ilion in exchange for two jars of fine salt and several bowls of thick broth.

Pollifer glanced at the waterwheel structure on the blueprints, nodded, and turned to leave.

……

For the next six days, the banks of the Blue Fork River turned into a noisy mud pit.

Dozens of shirtless strong men were gathered on the mudflats where the river had the greatest drop. Standing in waist-deep, icy water and silt, they shouted work songs as they hammered thick old elm logs deep into the riverbed.

Someone slipped and fell headfirst into the rushing muddy water. Someone next to him grabbed his hair and pulled him up. The man spat out a mouthful of mud and sand, wiped his face, and turned back to continue hugging the log.

The evening of the sixth day.

With a dull groan of wood rubbing together, the huge wooden waterwheel slowly began to turn under the impact of the water flow.

The waterwheel's axle was connected to a makeshift stone mill at the base of the stone tower. The heavy granite millstone made a rumbling grinding sound, crushing the moldy, green-haired rye, along with the bran, into a coarse powder.

The coarse powder was spread on dry straw mats on the roof of the windbreak and left to dry in the warming sun. Then it was mixed with fish oil scooped from the river and a little coarse salt, poured into several large iron pots, and boiled in boiling water to make a thick paste.

The high temperature and the constantly boiling water killed off the deadly mold and mildew. The richness of the fish oil masked the remaining musty smell.

Under the windbreak, a sallow-faced, emaciated woman held a broken wooden bowl. She cautiously tasted a mouthful of the grayish-black, coarse paste.

She frowned.

The smell was earthy and burnt. But she said nothing, just tightly clutched the wooden bowl in her hands, and turned to walk back to her thatched hut.

……

The food crisis had just been brought under control, but Otto gave no one a chance to catch their breath.

"Drive out everyone who can still lift a hoe," Otto said, looking at Pollif. "Clear the land."

Fifty relatively strong farmers, leading four emaciated oxen, walked out of the newly closed rammed earth wall.

They used the cast iron plows they borrowed from the bottom of the Lancha River to cut deep into the scorched wasteland outside the boundary marker.

The dark red clay was turned over little by little.

The tip of the iron plow scraped through the soil, occasionally producing a dull thud. That was the plowshare hitting half-buried bone fragments, gnawed by wild dogs.

An old farmer driving an ox glanced down at the pale bone that had been turned upside down. He didn't stop, nor did he pray. He simply lashed the ox's back with his whip and continued on his way.

Otto stood on the high ground, looking at the turned-up land.

He divided the cleared wasteland into three parts, following the three-field method of the Citadel that he had taken from Ilion.

A plot of land was planted with early-maturing oats and turnips.

One plot was planted with peas and alfalfa. People ate the beans, and the livestock ate the grass.

The remaining portion was mixed with quicklime and wood ash, and after being turned over, it was left to dry in the sun.

Old Matt stood at the edge of the field, leaning on his hoe.

He stared at the vacant land that had been tilled but was not allowed to be planted and could only be exposed to the scorching sun for a while.

Old Matt pulled the hoe out of the mud, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and turned to walk towards the next patch of wasteland.

……

Ten days later.

A cargo ship with a very deep draft, flying the flag of the Southern Border Merchant Guild, slowly docked at the Blue Fork River pier.

This time, the dock was no longer filled with the panic and vigilance of before, when everyone was ready to fire arrows at any moment.

Pollifer stood in front of the gangplank, holding the shipping manifest for verification.

Five thousand pounds of wrought iron. Thirty bundles of bear skins and ox horns. Eight heavy wooden crates filled with hard cowhide boards.

Pollifer crossed out the bill of lading, confirming the delivery was correct. Then, he tucked the bill into his pocket and turned to walk towards the earthen kiln in the corner of the earthen wall.

Cole was already there waiting.

The one-eyed blacksmith, along with twelve veterans who had lost limbs in battle and were no longer able to do heavy farm work, plunged into the sweltering, hellish kiln.

For a full seven days and nights.

The fire in the earthen kiln never went out for a moment. The thunderous sound of hammers striking anvils echoed day and night throughout the camp at Lancha River.

By the fifth day, the red blood vessels in Cole's only remaining eye had merged into one.

Pollifer handed Cole a ladle of well water. Cole took the ladle, tilted his head back, and gulped down a large mouthful.

But the hammer in his hand did not stop.

The morning of the seventh day.

Sixteen pairs of fish-scale armor, made with hard cowhide as the base and layers of wrought iron riveted together, were neatly arranged on the drill ground.

Beside it were twelve iron hook-and-sickle spears with barbed blades, four short swords for close combat, and heavy square shields with iron edges wrapped in raw cowhide on all four sides.

Before leaving, the manager of the Southern Border Merchant Guild caught a glimpse of the sixteen veteran soldiers who had just donned fish-scale armor on the training ground. Twelve of them carried long hook-and-sickle spears, while the remaining four held square shields and short swords, protecting the flanks.

The foreman's gaze lingered for a moment on the sharp tip of the hook-and-sickle spear.

He immediately closed the ledger in his hand, lowered his head, and quickened his pace onto the gangplank. He didn't look back once, urging the sailors to set sail immediately.

……

Maester Ilion stood before the arrow slit on the second floor of the stone tower.

The scholar's necklace around his neck swayed gently in the breeze. He looked down at the sixteen armored soldiers arrayed in formation on the parade ground, then at the earthen kilns belching black smoke in the distance, and the ever-growing granaries.

He turned his head and looked at Otto, who was sitting behind the wooden table, struggling to flip through the dark curtain with his left hand.

"The Duke's seal is a useful piece of parchment," Elion said calmly. "It has blocked the regular armies of Blackwood and Frey. And those large merchant ships dare not go against the will of Riverrun and openly cut off your trade."

Ilion walked to the table.

"But around the Riverlands, there are not only regular armies," Ilion said, looking at Otto, "but also scattered roving mercenary groups and bandits who have wandered over from the West."

"The stone wall has just been completed, and you have only assembled sixteen sets of armored soldiers."

Ilion pointed out the window to the busy refugees.

"The Duke's seal can't stop those hungry bandits. There are no garrisons from Riverrun here. Before winter, in their eyes," Ilion's voice deepened, "this place is a piece of easy prey."

Otto did not reply.

He put down the curtain in his hand, stood up, and walked to the window.

He looked towards the dense forest to the south.

Outside the window, the wind blew in the strong smell of quicklime and the earthy stench of soil. Just like every day for the past ten days or so.

Otto stood by the window for a while.

Then he turned around.

"Polliver."

Otto's voice was hoarse, but exceptionally clear.

"Make the log pits for the outer wall defenses," Otto said, looking at the withered butler. "Dig them another half a foot deeper, according to the previous dimensions."