Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 29: The Manifestation of White and the Farmer's Spear

In the late summer, the morning fog in the Blue Fork Valley is so thick it resembles a pot of burnt oatmeal porridge.

Two days have passed since the five Ironborn heads, preserved in fine salt, were sent to Seafront City and Flowing City. Dark red bloodstains still remain in the cracks of the log path on the muddy ground beneath the stone tower.

The cellar of the longhouse was as cold as ice.

Otto Hohenzollern sat at a rough oak table, a splint strapped to his left shoulder making his breathing slightly rapid and restrained. The oil lamp on the table illuminated the clerk Pollive's sunken face, worn from staying up all night.

"My lord, with Pete's Golden Dragon compensation and the resettlement allowance for the three fallen farmers, the territory's cash reserve is reduced to only one hundred and seven Golden Dragons."

Pollifer's fingertips trembled on the scoreboard.

"Moreover, although Tytos Blackwood removed the wooden fence along the border two weeks ago, his men are still patrolling in the distance. If we don't replenish our iron and food supplies immediately, this camp won't even last until autumn."

Otto did not speak.

His gaze swept past the bill and landed on the shadows on the other side of the cellar.

There were fifty moisture-proof ceramic jars neatly stacked there, all filled with top-quality refined salt—white salt—purified using the lime precipitation method.

"Earl Jason Mellist has already distributed the profits from the refined salt we delivered last month to Baron Paiber and Baron Valpin in the southern part of Seafront City."

Otto's grey-blue eyes revealed a cold, calculating quality.

"Now that they've eaten my salt, it's time for them to spit it out."

Late that night, at the height of the fog, the smuggling ship "Black Toad" docked like a ghost in the inner harbor of the pier, which was riddled with hidden stakes.

Damon Rivers jumped off the deck, but this time he didn't take any of his smuggled, inferior goods with him.

On his flat-bottomed boat, he unloaded five hundred pounds of fine wrought iron for forging weapons, forty bags of aged rye that had not gone moldy, fifty rainproof cowhides, and four river packhorses that could run at full speed through the mud.

"By the Seven Gods..."

Damon wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

"Sir Otto, your plan is brilliant! Baron Piper has taken a huge profit from the salt revenue share of Seafront City, and now his territory is completely useless to your caravan. After Tethos dismantled the wooden fence, although there are still sentries, those independent merchants who fly the Piper family name openly delivered these iron and grains to my ship in exchange for your salt."

This is the reward for political gain.

Tethos's overt legal pressure was eroded by Otto's underground network of interests woven with white salt, creating a huge gap in the system.

The 107 golden dragons' bottom silos remained untouched, and the white salt grains had transformed into the most solid flesh and blood of the territory.

"Pack those thirty cans of white salt. Next month, I want double the amount of wrought iron."

Otto brushed the salt off his hands and headed straight for the training ground in his territory.

The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the three-hundred-step square mud drill ground was already filled with a suffocating sense of desolation.

After the Ironborn raid, all able-bodied adult men in the territory were gathered here.

Instructor Toren stood at the front, holding Pete's keepsake—the cleaned bone whistle.

Otto stood atop a high pile of logs, his left arm slinged across his chest, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword. His gaze swept across the faces of the refugees like a razor.

"Pete is dead, and Big Bear and Pockmarked are buried beneath the Iron Cross. The Ironborn's axe tells us that this muddy land is not the garden of the gods, but a slaughterhouse where blood can flow at any moment."

Otto's voice wasn't loud, but it was clear in the cold morning mist.

He must be here to firmly establish the legal framework and combat capabilities of this team.

"The sixteen selected for the training team, step forward!"

Sixteen strong men stepped forward. They were the core of Otto's all-out armed force.

"From this day forward, all sixteen of you are to be laid off from your professional duties. Your status is that of legal squires employed by me, Otto Hohenzollern, as a legitimate land knight, within the bounds of the Duke of Tully's Code! You will not mine, you will not farm; your only task is to don the scale armor and protect this Black Eagle banner to the death!"

Otto then turned his gaze to the remaining forty young men.

"You forty men are miners, farmers, and bricklayers! In the Duke's ledgers, you are the subjects who sweat on this land. By day, you dig the dirtiest mud from the riverbed and burn the most pungent lime!"

Otto drew his longsword, its blade gleaming coldly in the morning light.

"But after sunset, when the Ironborn's pirate ships or treacherous bandits try to burn down the roofs you've just built, you are the militia! Take up your spears and defend the livelihoods of your wives and children. This is the power the Seven Gods have given you, and no one can call you an overstepping private army!"

The ultimate legal and ethical packaging and the allure of survival.

On this desolate wasteland at the end of a long summer, Otto reorganized the military force in a manner most in accordance with feudal law.

"Bone Whistle!" Otto looked at Toren.

Toren suddenly put the bone whistle in his mouth.

"From this day forward, not a single extra syllable is permitted in the formation. The countdown will attract the Iron Clan's flying axes, and this bone whistle will be a shackle on your throats! All farmers, pick up the sticks on the ground and bite them to death!"

At Torun's roar, forty militiamen and sixteen entourage were forced to pick up a rough two-inch-long stick from the ground and clench it between their teeth.

"Beep—!"

A long thud. Sixteen attendants and forty militiamen, driven by the corps commander, clumsily but forcefully rammed fifty-six round shields into the mud, producing a dull rumble.

"Beep! Beep!"

Two short sounds. Fifty-six spears thrust out.

For the next hour, the only sounds on the drill ground were the sickening thud of leather boots stomping through the mud, the clanging of shields, and the piercing sound of bone whistles that seemed to pierce eardrums.

The farmers who mined during the day, with wooden sticks between their teeth, swallowed their fears and voices.

This bone whistle, obtained at the cost of human lives, is stitching these fifty-six flesh and blood bodies together within the completely legal framework of "militia self-defense," turning them into a war millstone devoid of pain.

While a legitimate rebuilding of flesh and blood was taking place within the territory of Hohenzollern, the atmosphere inside the main castle of Raventree City was extremely oppressive.

Lord Tytos Blackwood stood beneath the massive weirwood tree, clutching two newly delivered secret reports in his hands.

The first intelligence came from Riverrun's informant: Duke Horst Tully had received the five salted Ironborn heads. Faced with irrefutable evidence of "piracy prevention," the Duke adopted a passive approach to Tytus's impeachment letter against Otto for "building a false fortress."

The legal noose has been broken.

The second intelligence report infuriated him even more: Baron Piper's caravans were frequently seen along the edge of the Blue Fork River, with large quantities of pig iron and grain flowing into Otto's territory in exchange for top-quality white salt.

"He not only blocked the Iron People, but he also bribed that greedy fool Paiber with salt from the Sea Frontier City."

Tethos crumpled the parchment into a ball, and the muscles on his weathered old face twitched slightly from extreme restraint.

"grown ups."

"My trusted knight Brynden asked in a low voice."

"Since we can't bring him down in court, and he's also secured physical supplies, should we... rebuild the wooden fence and deploy a large force to completely seal off the border?"

"Fool! Now that Riverrun has recognized it as an outpost for defending against the Ironborn, sending a large army to surround it would be blatant obstruction of defense!"

Tethos coldly interrupted him, displaying the terrifying geopolitical wisdom of an ancient lord.

"Otto is a clever jackal; he's packaged his farmers as a legitimate militia. So we'll deal with him like jackals."

Tethos turned around, his cold gaze fixed on the Blue Fork River.

"Since the trade route was opened by Baron Bertrand in secret, then this is smuggling that can't be done in the open. Go, pick thirty of the fiercest death row inmates from the dungeon, give them the best horses and weapons, and strip them of all the Blackwood family insignia. Turn them into bandits."

Knight Brynden gasped.

"My lord, you mean...?"

"Don't touch Otto's stone tower with the scorpion crossbows. Go to the wilderness and strangle the Paiber caravans that transport grain and iron to Otto! Hang the merchants and burn the grain!"

Tethos's tone was laced with a chilling murderous intent.

"I want all the merchants of the Riverlands to know that the road to the upper reaches of the Blue Fork is a dead end paved with gallows. I don't think they'll be able to exchange their salt for a few grains of wheat!"

The sweltering heat of the long summer reached its peak in the valley.

Although Otto's white salt lever had moved supplies, a "bloody throat-slitting battle" targeting his supply artery had already quietly drawn its dagger in the shadows of the wilderness.