nyslfriends Chapter 15: Dead End, Bill, and Stone Roller Formation
Chapter 15: Dead End, Bill, and Stone Roller Formation
The sweltering heat of the long summer is like a thick blanket woven from countless strands of damp, hot wool, tightly covering the Blue Fork Valley.
Five days had passed since Patrick, son of the Earl of Seafront, took away the legal document concerning the "bandit raid." The mud at the ferry crossing was slightly whitish from the sun, and on the eleven pine stakes at the southern border, coated with preservative tar, lay the heads of the Blackwood cavalrymen, completely dehydrated. Dark purple skin clung to the bones, oozing glistening fat that attracted tens of thousands of greenbottle flies.
Otto Hohenzollern stood on the unfinished foundation of the stone tower. He was shirtless, and the purplish-blue bruise on his left shoulder, spurted by a warhorse, was still a gruesome sight. As usual, he swung his shovel at a steady pace, each strike precise and steady, as if calculating the resistance of every inch of the soil.
"grown ups!"
A young hunter carrying a longbow—Jack, Old John's former second-in-command—emerged from the dense forest, panting heavily.
"The land route is completely cut off." Jack wiped his brow, his eyes filled with fear. "Titus Blackwood has deployed at least fifty unmarked scouts. Yesterday, two merchants who tried to deliver grain to us were burned to a crisp, along with their mule carts. Now nobody dares to approach this riverbank."
Otto planted the shovel in the soil. He showed no anger, only a slight nod.
In the Iron Treasury and the Second Sons' camp in Braavos, the first thing he learned was that war is first and foremost a cost-benefit analysis. Tetos had lost eleven heads at the border marker; using unflagged scouts to block the trade route was the lowest-cost, lowest-risk option for his revenge. He didn't want to fight; he only wanted to starve the two hundred and eighty-four people on that riverbank to death.
That was the heavy burden that Pollifer had just brought back.
Before that bloody cavalry battle, the territory had 150 men; nine died in the battle—including Old John, Big Bear, and Pockmarked—leaving 141 men. And just now, Pollifer brought back 15 core craftsmen from Fair City with 400 silver deer he dug up from under the old elm tree, as well as a full 128 refugees who had followed him like a persistent leech.
"One hundred and forty-one, plus one hundred and forty-three... two hundred and eighty-four."
Otto looked at the trembling souls in the quicklime isolation camp, and a cold bill flashed through his mind. Two hundred and eighty-four mouths meant the territory was consuming nearly four hundred pounds of rations every day. And the old wheat in the warehouse wouldn't even last three days.
"Polliver, cook all the oats into a thin porridge. Tell them they'll have porridge to drink while they work."
Otto spoke as if he were writing off a bad debt, his tone chillingly calm.
"The land route is dead, but the waterway still flows. Prepare the horses; I'm going to see Raymond."
At 3:45 PM, at the Border Forestry Station.
Raymond Frey, shirtless, was irritably swatting away mosquitoes in the room. When Otto pushed the door open, Raymond jumped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"Hohenzollern! I've heard! Tethos has blocked your path! That's a feud between you and Blackwood. Don't expect the Frey family to wage war against Raventree for your ten percent of silver!"
"I didn't expect you to draw your sword, sir."
Otto pulled over a wooden stool and sat down. He made no threats or inducements, simply stating the facts like a moneylender.
"I'm just here to inform you that the land route is dead, and the silver can't be transported out. This also means that your monthly 10% share dividend will be zero starting this month."
"Snapped!"
Raymond slammed the ceramic cup in his hand onto the table. The greedy Frey brat's eyes instantly turned red.
"That old bastard Tethos! He blocked your path, so why is he cutting off my livelihood?!"
"Where there's a road, there's money."
Otto watched him quietly.
"I've found a flat-bottomed boat flying the black flag of the Valpin family's bastard son to travel by water. I need you to issue an exemption certificate for 'private timber purchase' so it can bypass the river tax collectors of the Twins. You'll get your full amount of silver, and you might even get the tax-avoidance premium."
Raymond narrowed his eyes, greed and cowardice locked in a fierce battle on his freckled face.
"By water? If my grandfather, Marquis Walder, finds out I've released an unregistered vessel, he'll skin me alive and hang me on the Twin Towers!"
"If you think old Wade's wrath is more terrifying than this windfall, you can refuse me now."
Otto did not force him; he simply left the choice to Raymond's greed.
Raymond swallowed hard. He stared at Otto's emotionless face, his mind flashing through images of piles of silver. In Westeros, there was no better way to bind a Frey than with money.
"good!"
Raymond growled through gritted teeth, his voice trembling.
"But ships can pass through the defense zone at night! If anything goes wrong, I won't admit a word; I'll say it was pirates you secretly bribed!"
Having secured this wavering "official cover," Otto immediately headed downstream to the reed marshes.
The smuggling ship, flying a black toad flag, lurked in the shadows. Damon Rivers jumped off the side of the ship, his boots making a sticky sound as they sank into the mud.
"Sir, Tettos strangled you. Now you're coming to me to buy a coffin?"
Damon’s protruding eyes gleamed with a hint of probing.
"I'll sell you all the silver, century-old hardwood, and furs at 20% below the fair market price. You'll profit from the difference, but you must exchange them for my aged wheat and pig iron."
Otto simply threw a bag of slag ore onto the deck.
"In addition, Raymond Frey provides an exemption token. You can bypass the heavy taxes of the Twins and the patrols on the shore in Blackwood."
Damon abruptly looked up. The purchase price was 20% lower, and they were exempt from the exorbitant river taxes levied by the powerful nobles. In this chaotic world, this was a risk-free, highly profitable business.
"An illegitimate child would even dig up his own father's grave for money."
Damon swept the silver ore into his arms.
"The grain will arrive within seven days."
When Otto returned to his territory, 284 people were wandering like ghosts in the smell of quicklime.
Otto entered the artisan camp and his gaze settled on Toren, a burly Northerner with a scar on his nose.
"Your name is Torun," Otto stated.
"Yes, sir."
Toren stood up. His grey-blue eyes were icy cold.
"During the War of the Usurper, we lost track of the Winterfell forces and spent several years as shady mercenaries along the Trident. If you're only buying us to mine stone, then you're definitely overpaying."
Otto ignored his provocation and simply gestured to the blacksmith Cole to bring out a set of pure iron chainmail from Blackwood, cleaned of blood, and toss it into Toren's arms.
"With 284 stomachs to manage, full-time, off-duty soldiers are an expensive cost. I can only afford to support 16 full-time combatants."
Otto's voice was as cold as ice.
"Aside from the four scouts led by Jack, the remaining twelve are the core heavy infantry of the territory. Their unit designation is the Iron Oath Regiment."
Otto looked at Toren and thoroughly sorted out the veteran's ledger.
"Big Bear and Pockmarked Man from the training squad are dead. Former captain Bob is crippled and has retired from the ranks. The remaining veterans, along with former squad leader Iron Shovel, are wounded but also exude a fierce aura. You will put on this armor and take over these twelve men as the new commander. Iron Shovel will be your deputy. Complete this unit and hone your skills."
Toren touched the iron ring in shock. In Westeros, it was the weight of upward mobility, and also the danger of being parachuted in.
"Except for the Iron Oath Legion and the scouts, everyone else must go mining and building stone towers!"
Otto drew a square of horizontal lines on the muddy ground.
"However, I want you to select twenty-five men from among the able-bodied young men to form a militia. These twenty-five men will not be allowed to leave their jobs. They will only be allowed to leave work an hour early for training on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The compensation will be half a spoonful of coarse salt and salted fish bits added to their porridge that evening."
Otto looked into Toren's eyes.
"In the Second Sons Regiment, war is all about cost calculation. I only have one tactic—the ten-second rhythm."
"When engaging the enemy, the front-line shields will hold firm. When the countdown reaches ten, everyone will exert force to push the enemy back half a step, while the rear-line spearmen will seize the opportunity to thrust. After thrusting, immediately withdraw and resume defense. This doesn't require individual bravery; I need you to rotate and grind like the giant stone mill in a watermill, crushing all the bones that come into contact with you. If anyone loses their rhythm, whip them; if anyone retreats, cut off their head."
Toren, clutching the heavy chainmail, revealed the cold smile typical of a veteran of the North.
"As you wish, sir. I will show them what a living millstone is."
A slight chill finally arrived in the night air. Otto turned and looked at the scout in the shadows.
"Jack. Take those three scouts and, at daybreak tomorrow, disguise yourselves as wandering mercenaries and withdraw. Keep an eye on Tethos's scout rotations, and also on Raymond and his few river patrol scum. Go."
Otto took a deep breath of the air, which was filled with the smell of quicklime and earth.
In this muddy land, two hundred and eighty-four stomachs, the scheming of three noble families, and the greed of smugglers have been forcibly stitched together by him with the coldest accounting logic into a rumbling war millstone.