Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 28: The Horse with the Broken Leg and the Silent Whistle

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

The fog lacked the crispness of early autumn; instead, it carried a mixture of the pungent smell of quicklime, the acrid odor of tar, and a fresh, bloody stench that sent shivers down one's spine.

The once neat log path beneath the stone tower was now a mess. Dark red blood seeped into the drainage ditch below through the cracks in the logs, reacting with the white quicklime at the bottom and creating a layer of glaring pink foam.

Otto Hohenzollern stood on the unfinished edge of the second level of the stone tower. He wasn't wearing chainmail, and his faded coarse cloth armor had a large, dark red bloodstain on his left shoulder. It was from an old wound he'd sustained in Fair City during the troop clash the previous night.

His gray-blue eyes were bloodshot as he looked down at the militiamen clearing the battlefield below.

At the edge of the swamp beneath his feet, the Dorn steed belonging to scout Pete was emitting a weak and mournful wail.

Its left hind leg was cleaved in half diagonally by the heavy axe hurled by the Iron Man. The white spurs of the shinbone pierced the thick flesh, trembling violently in the cold morning mist. The warhorse struggled desperately to prop up its massive body with its forelegs, searching for its master.

But it didn't know that the seventeen-year-old boy who always loved to fantasize about the outside world while on horseback was lying under a straw mat five steps away, his throat completely severed by a flying axe.

Rosso—the light cavalryman who had narrowly escaped death the previous night but lost his left hand forever—was desperately pressing down on his horse's neck with his only remaining right hand. This man, who had risked his life on the line, now buried his face in the horse's mane, weeping like a homeless child who had lost his last rations.

Otto descended the stone tower, his leather boots clicking and heavy on the blood-stained logs.

"Sir, it brought me back... It even tried to turn around and protect Pete in the puddle."

Rosso's voice was hoarse, filled with despair and pleading.

"A Bachelor... Fair City has a Bachelor... Can you save it?"

Otto crouched down, his intact right hand gently stroking the warhorse's damp, warm nostrils. He could feel the beast's rapid breathing and the agony of impending death. In Westeros, a well-trained warhorse was worth its weight in gold; it was the territory's most valuable military asset, the eye of the Blue Fork River.

But he knew all too well what a comminuted fracture meant in this wilderness, where there were few qualified professionals and even wound medicine was made from willow bark. Forcibly keeping it alive would only cause it to writhe in agony for days with infected and festering wounds, ultimately dying a miserable death.

"It's tired, Rosso."

Otto's voice was surprisingly calm. There were no angry roars, nor cheap lamentations, only a deep-seated pragmatism and sense of responsibility.

He slowly drew the Braavos steel short sword from his waist; the dark blade gleamed with a cold, eerie light in the morning glow.

"As its lord, I will not allow it to die in pain and decay. This is the dignity it deserves after fighting for us."

Otto's right hand precisely found the gap between the first and second cervical vertebrae on the horse's neck. With a sudden burst of strength in his wrist, the blade pierced the spinal cord without any resistance.

The short neighing stopped abruptly. After a brief but intense nervous spasm, the warhorse's massive body completely relaxed, and dark red horse blood flowed down the muddy ground.

Rosso lay on the horse carcass, letting out a suppressed whimper like a wild beast.

Otto withdrew his short sword, wiped the blood off on a clean piece of linen, and turned to look at the pale-faced clerk, Pollifer, who was standing to the side.

"Polliver, write down the accounts. One steed is scrapped, and fixed assets of the estate are depreciated."

"My lord... what about this corpse..." Pollifer swallowed hard, his voice trembling.

"Skin and debone. The whole horsehide is tanned and left for Cole to make blowers and leather armor linings."

Otto's tone returned to its usual rational coldness.

"Don't marinate the meat. Cut it into pieces and cook it immediately. Distribute it to everyone. The long summer is coming to an end. These 280-plus mouths, terrified by the bleeding last night, need this high-protein, fresh meat meal to soothe their stomachs."

He paused for a moment, looking at Pete's straw mat on the ground.

"Tell the people that only those who survive have the right and the strength to remember their fallen comrades."

Otto then strode toward the open space in front of the longhouse.

There lay four corpses side by side: Pete, and three militiamen whose round shields had been breached and chests shattered by the Ironborn in the deadly battle the previous night. In a dark corner of the longhouse, four more seriously wounded men groaned in agony on a haystack, their wounds reeking of strong liquor. No one knew if they would survive the fever that night.

More than a hundred refugees gathered around. The sweltering heat of the long summer could not dispel the chill in their hearts. For the first time, they realized so vividly that in this river bend, death was not a number in the nobles' ledgers, but hot blood splattered on their faces.

Otto walked up to the body. His nineteen-year-old face showed no superfluous emotion, only a mountain-like calmness.

"Pete is dead, but he still has these three brothers."

Otto pointed at the mutilated corpses, his voice unusually clear in the empty valley.

"They weren't there to rob. They were there to act as eyes, to shield you from axes. To prevent those saltwater bandits from sneaking into your newly built shacks in the dead of night, to prevent them from slitting the throats of your wives and children."

"On the land of Hohenzollern, any blood shed for this eagle banner will not be shed in vain."

He strode up to Pete's elderly mother. The old woman had cried her eyes out and sat blankly on the muddy ground, like a withered tree.

Otto took two gleaming gold coins from the sheepskin pouch in his pocket.

Under the sunlight, the Targaryen dragon's head printed on the coins shimmered with a dazzling light. He carefully placed the two golden dragons in the old woman's calloused hands.

"Pete is a light cavalry scout whom I personally appointed. This is his blood pact—two golden dragons. At market price, that's equivalent to four hundred and twenty silver deer."

A collective gasp erupted from the surrounding crowd. For these refugees who had crawled out of the muddy ditch, let alone a golden dragon, even dozens of silver deer coins were a fortune they had never seen in their entire lives.

"and--"

Otto stared directly into the old woman's cloudy eyes.

"As long as the Black Eagle of Hohenzollern still flies over the Blue Fork, you will receive two sacks of aged wheat and a pound of fine salt every autumn harvest, until you return to the embrace of the Seven Gods."

He then went to the families of the three fallen militiamen.

"The families of fallen infantrymen will each receive 150 silver deer, to be distributed on the spot. The orphans who survive will be supported by the territory's granary until they are ten years old. Pollifer, now before them, will count each silver deer into their accounts."

This move instantly froze the already turbulent atmosphere. In Westeros, the immediate expenditure of two golden dragons and hundreds of silver stags would be a huge financial drain for any minor lord. But in Otto's eyes, it was an absolutely excellent investment.

With these silver coins, he forged an iron wall called "The Contract" amidst the shadow of death. The previously timid militiamen straightened their backs—they discovered that under this young lord, even if they lost their lives, their families could still live like human beings.

"Rosso".

Otto turned to look at the man who had lost his left hand.

"Your left hand remains from last night. From today onward, you will be transferred to internal affairs, responsible for warehouse management, and will receive a non-commissioned officer's salary for life. The territory will support you for the rest of your life."

Fear was crushed by the contract. The remaining militiamen and officers looked at Otto with an almost fanatical loyalty.

"Now, lift your head up."

Otto raised his voice, his gaze sweeping over all the men holding weapons.

"We didn't wipe them out last night. Of the twenty Ironmen, five died by the water's edge, and fifteen escaped. Why?"

He walked to the wooden pillar supporting the longhouse, pulled out the rusty iron axe that had killed Pete, and threw it heavily into the mud.

"Because you're shouting! You're counting down the seconds loudly!"

Otto's accusations were like a sharp knife, precisely piercing the festering wound of tactics.

"You think shouting will embolden you? Those pirates are used to the storms at sea; they understand your rhythm! In the brief pause between your countdowns to 'five,' this axe flew over! Your countdown wasn't meant to intimidate; it was a countdown to tell the enemy when to throw the axe!"

Otto ripped off the bloodstained bone whistle tied to his waist—it was an item left behind by Pete, now washed clean of mud.

"From today onwards, all human voice countdowns are strictly prohibited! Within my formation, no noise is permitted except for the bone whistle!"

He put the bone whistle in his mouth and blew it loudly.

"Beep—!"

A long cry tore through the silence of the valley.

"A long thud, and the veteran on the first floor slammed his heavy shield into the ground! He'll hold out to the death!"

Toren—the seasoned veteran of the North—reacted immediately. He raised his thickened oak shield, reinforced with cast iron, and slammed it into the ground with a dull thud.

"Beep! Beep!"

Two short sounds.

"Two short screechs, the middle-tier spears thrust horizontally through the gaps in the shields! Strangulation and bloodletting!"

The sergeant behind him instinctively thrust forward the tip of his spear without the slightest hesitation.

"Beep! Beep! Beep!"

Three short sounds.

"Three short shouts, rear tomahawks cover, alternating cover as they retreat!"

Otto endured the excruciating pain in his left shoulder and stared coldly at the team that had been baptized in blood.

"I want you to become a stone mill. Shields smashing the ground, spears thrusting horizontally, axes filling in the gaps. Grind every bone you touch silently. If I ever hear anyone shout out a number in the phalanx during engagements, I will personally cut out their tongue."

The officers responded in unison by striking their shields with their weapons. The metallic clang was devoid of panic, replaced only by a cruelty and chilling aura forged by iron discipline.

Having done all this, Otto turned and climbed to the second floor of the stone tower.

Pollifer was waiting there with pen and ink, his expression grim. Although he had been generous when distributing the money, as the accountant, he felt his heart was bleeding with the loss.

"My lord, with Pete's gold dragon and the compensation for the three militiamen, we've spent a total of about four gold dragons. Including recent material purchases, we only have 107 gold dragons left. And... fifteen Ironborn have fled, leaving only five corpses. If Tytus Blackwood finds out..."

"Running fifteen times is the best form of publicity."

Otto took the damp handkerchief and wiped the blood off his right hand, his eyes deep and thoughtful.

"Tethos will spread the word that we couldn't even hold off a few bandits. But I will tell the whole Riverlands that without any main force support, an outpost of fewer than forty men, with an unfinished stone tower and heavy crossbows, killed five battle-hardened Ironborn pirates in the dead of night and thwarted their attack."

Otto walked to the rough stone table and pointed to the open space outside.

"Cut off those five Ironmen's heads, salt them thoroughly, and put them in a moisture-proof wooden box."

"Isn't Tytos Blackwood accusing me of 'building a false castle' in front of Duke Tully? Then I'll give the Duke a great gift."

Otto spread out a sheet of fine parchment and picked up a pen with his right hand. He did not use any flowery language, but instead wrote two letters that went straight to the point in a straightforward and concise feudal diplomatic style.

To Earl Jason Mellist of Seafront City:

"My esteemed Lord Jason: Last night, twenty Ironborn bypassed the coastal defenses and attacked the territory by water. Thanks to your stone tower and heavy crossbows, my militia held the river. We killed five Ironborn, and the rest fled back into the water. We suffered four casualties and lost a warhorse. I have salted the heads of these five Ironborn and sent them with this letter to Seafront City. This is not only a reward for your service, but also the best proof that this stone tower is a pirate outpost, not the 'false fortress' the Blackwood family claims. Furthermore, the territory urgently needs to replenish its warhorse. Please purchase one for me, and deduct the cost directly from next month's silver share. Yours truly, Otto Hohenzollern."

To Lord Horst Tully of Riverrun:

"Your Excellency Duke Horst: Last night, a twenty-man Ironborn raiding party infiltrated the upper reaches of the Blue Fork River but was repelled by our forces relying on the Stone Tower defenses. Enclosed are five Ironborn heads as proof. Had it not been for the Stone Tower yesterday, the Ironborn's axes would have already cleaved through the villages deep in the Riverlands. This is sufficient to prove that Earl Tethos Blackwood's accusation of 'building a false fortress' is baseless. Furthermore, the Blackwood family has recently erected roadblocks along the border, severely weakening the supply and defense capabilities of the outposts. This group of Ironborn took advantage of the weakened defenses to infiltrate. For the safety of the Riverlands, I urge Your Excellency to investigate thoroughly. Otto Hohenzollern."

After writing the last stroke, Otto threw the quill into the ink bottle.

He transformed the Ironborn's corpses into the most powerful weapon to shatter Tethos's political machinations. Tethos wanted to hang him by law, but Otto used the Ironborn's heads to prove that the stone tower was the Riverlands' only defense against the saltwater pirates. If Riverrun were to send men to dismantle the tower at this point, it would be tantamount to openly protecting the Ironborn.

The fierce winds of the long summer swept across the Blue Fork River.

Beneath the stone tower, the skinning and deboning process was accelerating, the horse meat being thrown into a boiling cauldron. Amidst the mingled stench of blood and horse meat, this land called Hohenzollern was, in an extremely rational yet bloody way, transforming fear and loss into a steadfast monument of law and order to establish itself in this chaotic world.