Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 26: The Leaping Fish Flag and the Snow-White Contract

On the surface of the Blue Fork River, the morning mist was so thick it resembled undissolved goat's milk.

A flat-bottomed riverboat, flying the Riverrun flag with its red and blue background and silver leaping fish design, was cutting through the water with a soft splash. Ser Harold Page stood at the bow, his hands crossed on the hilt of his sword, his aged face etched with the stern wrinkles of a dried-up riverbed.

As vassals of House Tully, House Peggy was not known for its military prowess, but rather for its strict adherence to the law. Ser Harold himself was no exception; his old-fashioned but gleaming plate armor, like his rigid soul, could not tolerate even the slightest rust that violated the feudal order.

Inside his robe, close to his chest, was a "Decree of Inquiry and Demolition" personally signed by the Duke of Horst Tully.

"Building a false fortress, recruiting soldiers beyond the permitted limits, and letting wolves into the house." Harold repeatedly pondered the words of Tytos Blackwood in his impeachment letter. In the laws of Westeros, these three charges were enough to strip a powerless knight of everything, and even send him to the gallows.

Harold was prepared for the worst. He had been to many remote frontier territories, which were usually filled with the pungent smell of excrement, naked vagrants, ubiquitous violence, and an ambitious but foolish and crude local warlord.

"Sir, we can see the docks of Hohenzollern territory," the guide whispered a reminder from the side.

Harold looked up, but when his gaze pierced through the morning mist and landed on the riverbank, a rare look of surprise appeared on his usually stern face.

There was no foul stench. There was no sludge. The air was filled with a dry, even slightly pungent, smell of quicklime.

As the sailboat docked and Harold stepped onto the pier, his deerskin boots trod a sturdy road paved with thick logs and filled with gravel. On either side of the road were drainage ditches, three feet deep, their bottoms paved with white lime. At the end of the road, more than thirty uniform shacks, made of rammed earth and branches, stood silently in the morning light. These were not makeshift refugee shelters, but a miniature settlement slowly awakening, imbued with an extreme sense of order.

What made Harold most uneasy was the group on the open ground of the dock.

Thirty-seven men were arranged in an odd, heavy, diagonal square formation on the left flank. There were no instructors roaring, only a sieve dripping water. Accompanied by the monotonous sound of water droplets hitting thin metal plates, the thirty-seven men moved as one, pushing shields, thrusting spears, and retreating in perfect unison.

This silent, mechanical drill, devoid of individual heroism, instilled a deeper, more profound sense of oppression than any earth-shattering battle cry.

"Sir Harold, the morning breeze of a long summer is not very pleasant."

At the top of the log road, nineteen-year-old Otto Hohenzollern walked slowly.

A year of experience on the border and a lingering scar on his left shoulder instilled in him a cautiousness that made him walk with an almost trembling sense of trepidation. He wore a faded, coarse cloth military uniform, without any insignia to distinguish him. On his slightly pale but angular face, the youthful naiveté in his grey-blue eyes had completely faded, leaving only a calm and calculating quality, like the waters of a late autumn river.

"Otto Hohenzollern." Harold didn't respond with any noble courtesy; his voice was cold and hard as ice. "The Earl of Blackwood has accused you of illegally constructing a 'false castle' to the Duke. I was ordered to investigate, and if the crenellations on the top of the tower and the moat below are true, my ship carried twenty pounds of oil and the Duke's demolition order."

Harold strode toward the sturdy stone tower that was not yet topped out, but already showed signs of being two stories high.

Otto did not refute, but simply stepped aside and gestured for him to enter, accompanying the demanding knight of law to the top of the tower.

The tower had no battlements, no defensive veranda, and not even a moat. When the two reached the top, Harold saw only two complex "Scorpion" heavy crossbows, made by connecting scrap blue steel springs in parallel, coldly overlooking the Blue Fork River.

"Castles are for expansion and domination, while outposts are for watch and warning." Otto stood on the edge of the tower, the wind ruffling the hem of his grey coat. "Sir Harold, there is a hundred-mile-long defensive gap between Seafront and the Twin Towers. If the Ironborn's raiding ships were to bypass the west coast and infiltrate this summer and autumn, this crossbow would be the only eye on the upper reaches of the Blue Fork River."

"An eye?" Harold sneered, pointing south. "But the Earl of Blackwood sees it as a thorn in their side."

"Lord Tethos is worrying too much," Otto said calmly, with a hint of aristocratic ambiguity. "Perhaps he should save his worries for the coming autumn. After all, when the cold winds blow, filling one's stomach is far more difficult than dismantling an outpost."

Otto didn't dwell too much on the legal terms, but instead led the envoy down the stone tower and headed towards the lime kiln on the north slope, where smoke billowed day and night.

In a heavily guarded longhouse behind the lime kiln, Otto stopped. The steward, Pollifer, stepped forward respectfully and handed Harold a small, moisture-proof earthenware jar.

Harold opened the lid in confusion, his pupils instantly contracting.

The jar was filled with snow-white, crystal-clear liquid. He dipped a finger in and put it in his mouth. The pure, cool saltiness, without a trace of bitterness or gritty taste, was something that even the Duke of Flowing City only served in limited quantities when entertaining high-ranking nobles.

"From which free trade city-state was this smuggled?" Harold lowered his voice, his tone carrying a hint of instinctive wariness.

"This is refined in Hohenzollern territory, Sir," Otto said, pointing to the lime kiln outside. "Using underground brine and lime sedimentation, as long as the Blue Fork River flows continuously, this place can reliably produce four hundred pounds of this fine white salt every month."

Harold was stunned. He was a rigid advocate of the law, but he was by no means stupid. He knew very well what autumn in the Riverlands meant—it was the season when the entire kingdom slaughtered livestock on a massive scale and smoked meat in preparation for the harsh winter. And salt was the lifeblood of Westeros in the winter.

"Sir Harold," Otto's voice remained calm, but his words carried a sharp edge, "Duke Horst is a wise ruler. When winter truly arrives, the cellars of Riverrun will need to store vast quantities of supplies. Do you think His Excellency would prefer his cellars filled with rotting flesh stinking from inferior black salt, or a lifeline that can continuously supply the Riverlands with the finest white salt?"

Otto paused, then continued, "The Blackwood family's accusation is essentially about a border dispute over a mile or two. But if you were to set fire to those twenty pounds of oil here today for the Blackwood family's selfish desires, destroying this saltworks... then who would bear the responsibility when the Riverlands lords are struggling with high salt prices this fall?"

Harold fell silent. He weighed the options rapidly in his mind: while Tetos's legal impeachment was solid, it was a private feud between nobles, and there was no need for him to take the fall for Blackwood; but these snow-white crystals before him were related to the Duke's strategic reserves and the entire Riverlands' wintering plan.

“Your words are pleasing to the ear, Hohenzollern.” Harold set down the jar, his tone softening somewhat but still retaining the sternness of a law enforcer. “But no matter how tempting the salt may be, it cannot overshadow the seriousness of the law. The Duke’s judgment will never be based on the verbal promise of a baseless knight in charge. I cannot return with merely a jar of salt and a few nice words.”

"Of course. The cornerstone of law lies in contracts."

Otto turned around. Polliver immediately pulled out a pre-prepared, formal parchment document from his leather pouch.

"This is a 'Special Supply Contract for Strategic Materials' personally stamped and countersigned by my lord, Earl Jason Mellist of Seafront City." Otto handed the document to the envoy. "It stipulates in detail that refined salt produced in the Hohenzollern territory will be supplied to Flowing City as an extra annual tribute at 70% of the market price. Lord Jason has endorsed this in the name of Seafront City, confirming that this is not a privately built fortress, but a 'warning outpost' established by Seafront City to protect the inland salt industry and guard against the Iron People."

Harold took the document and carefully examined the deep red sealing wax at the bottom of the parchment, which clearly bore the silver eagle emblem of the Mellist family.

This is not just a salt industry contract, but also a perfect "legal stepping stone." It cleverly replaces the legal fatality of "false fortress" with an "authorized outpost" that has a legitimate reason for defense.

Harold looked at the impeccable document, then at Otto's young yet shrewd face, and finally let out a barely perceptible sigh. He put the contract away and carefully tucked it into his inner lining.

“I will present this contract and this sample jar together to Duke Horst.” Harold’s gaze became complicated. “As long as Earl Jason is willing to endorse it, the existence of this tower… has legal grounds for negotiation. But remember, Otto Hohenzollern, Riverrun’s eyes will always be on this valley.”

After a three-day thorough audit of the territory, the envoy sailed downriver with documents and refined salt. The demolition order that would have leveled Hohenzollern territory was indefinitely postponed.

Time, in the sweltering twilight of the long summer, flowed silently like the waters of the Blue Fork River.

Two months later.

The political buffer period brought about by the departure of the special envoy was transformed by Otto into a frenzy of resource monetization and military escalation.

"drive!"

At dawn, a short shout broke the tranquility of the territory. The sound of horses' hooves on the log path was deep and powerful.

The scout captain reined in his horse. The slightly short but broad-chested, exceptionally enduring Dornish saddle horse snorted restlessly beneath him.

Rosso was originally just a vagrant who huddled in the mud, but his alertness led Otto to choose him as a scout. Now, he and his three brothers have become the most expensive unit in Hohenzollern territory—light cavalry.

"My lord!" Rossoli landed and dismounted, then strode toward Otto, who was standing in front of the longhouse.

Otto examined Rosso's gear. It was something he had bought with the profits from two hundred pounds of refined salt, through Damon Rivers' black market network.

Instead of wearing chainmail, which would severely impair mobility, Rosso wore a leather breastplate made of hardened and boiled cowhide; on his head was an iron canteen helmet with a wide field of vision; a light round shield covered with raw cowhide hung on one side of his saddle, and a specially made light crossbow hung on the other side.

This crossbow was equipped with a stirrup-shaped cocking ring. Although it was not as powerful as the infantry heavy crossbow, it could be cocked quickly on horseback using the strength of the waist and legs. It was specifically designed to disperse lightly armored enemy targets from the flanks.

"What's the situation in the north?" Otto asked.

"We patrolled to a point twenty miles downstream this morning," Rosso said, his eyes revealing a seasoned vigilance. "The Blackwoods' land route remains silent. However, sir, we discovered traces of strandings on several hidden mudflats a dozen miles from here."

"What kind of marks?" Instructor Toren frowned.

"It has a very shallow draft and a flat bottom, unlike an inland barge used for transporting grain. It's more like a long, narrow boat designed for quick shoals." Rosso swallowed. "Moreover, there were traces of fires near that mudflat, and some chewed salted fish bones were left behind... that's how they eat it in the Iron Islands."

The air instantly turned icy cold.

Iron Clan. In the late summer, these pirates, who made their living by plundering, had clearly smelled the bloody scent of refined salt and silver. They somehow bypassed the blockade of the Sea Frontier City and sneaked up along the inland river.

"Pass down the order." Otto's grey-blue eyes held no fear, only cold calculation. He knew this was not just a raid, but also the best proof of the legitimacy of his "outpost guarding the Iron People."

"Cole!" Otto looked at the blacksmith who was busy by the furnace.

"Yes, sir." One-Eyed Cole stepped forward, carrying a heavy piece of armor that gleamed with a black sheen.

That was the wrought iron he had traded for with refined salt, which took him two whole months to forge into a "fish-scale half-body armor"—iron plates the size of fingernails were densely stitched together with cowhide ropes on the thickened leather surface. Although this armor was heavy and not very aesthetically pleasing, it was extremely effective at protecting against stray arrows and slashes.

"Twelve sets, not one missing, they're all here," Cole said, panting.

"Have those twelve corpsmen change into their uniforms immediately. From today onwards, the phalanx is on high alert."

Otto mounted his warhorse, his back ramrod straight as a javelin, though the lingering pain in his left shoulder still throbbed with every thrust. He looked at Rosso:

"The light cavalry squads should immediately disperse and patrol continuously along the riverbank for twenty miles. If they spot any of those longships, do not engage in battle, but immediately send a signal arrow to warn others."

The nineteen-year-old lord sat on horseback, looking down over his territory, which had been completely armed and internally controlled. A 37-man heavy suppression formation stood solemnly on the training ground, with twelve veterans clad in fish-scale armor like iron towers; at the top of the towers, two heavy crossbows had their bowstrings tightened.

"Prepare to receive the axes of our guests." Otto looked at the Blue Fork River shrouded in morning mist. "I will use their blood to bless my outpost."