Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 30: The Word Games of the Legal Code and the White Gold Mine

The cicadas of summer chirped hysterically in the sweltering heat, for a long time until your ears were numb, and then you stopped hearing them. They were still chirping, but you got used to it.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of quicklime and the lingering fishy odor from the riverbank.

The sailboat, painted with a red and blue background and a silver leaping fish emblem, appeared for the second time at the bend in the river.

Otto Hohenzollern stood on the second floor of the stone tower, holding a blue stone whetstone and slowly scraping along the blood groove of his longsword. A sharp pain shot through his old left shoulder as he exerted force, but he ignored it and continued sharpening.

It has been more than two months since Sir Harold Page last left.

After the Ironborn raid, Tytos Blackwood sent a memorial to Riverrun, reporting that the Hohenzollern territory had let the Iron Islands pirates into the heart of the Blue Fork. The Duke, unable to withstand pressure from the lords, sent his most severe judge again.

"Sir, the flying fish flag has reached the shore."

Polliver stood in the shadow of the stone tower, holding several account books in his arms, his voice strained.

"Don't panic."

Otto sheathed his longsword and glanced down at the training ground.

Fifty-six men stood in the scorching heat, each with a two-inch-long white waxwood stick tightly clenched in their teeth. Toren, with a bone whistle in his mouth, stared at his prey with the same intensity. At the sound of the whistle, the fifty-six round shields crashed into the mud without a sound; not a single breath was choked in their throats by the sticks.

"Toren, close the net. Reclaiming land."

Otto made a gesture from the tower.

Three short whistle sounds.

The forty militiamen deftly placed their spears and shields under the rain shelter, removed their leather armor, grabbed picks and trowels from the tool rack, and turned to run towards the mine and sewage ditch construction site. They deliberately walked with a slightly dragging gait, their backs hunched, looking like a group of laborers digging for food in the mud.

This was the scene Sir Harold Page saw when his leather boots stepped onto the log path at the dock: busy, chaotic, and reeking of sweat.

"Sir Harold, the south winds of long summer have once again blown you to this mudflat."

Otto descended the stone tower. His left shoulder was still bound with a cloth strap, and a few drops of dark red horse blood remained on his faded military uniform.

Stop with your pleasantries, Hohenzollern!

Harold strode forward, his old face contorted with barely concealed rage, staring intently at the figures digging in the distance.

"Count Tethos has accused you in Riverrun of turning over a hundred refugees into idle war dead! This isn't some outpost garrison to defend against pirates; it's your private army with its own treacherous schemes!"

He pulled a parchment scroll covered with red clay sealing wax from the city of Benliu, its knuckles white, from his bosom and shook it in front of Otto.

"His Grace the Duke's decree: This tower shall be permanently halted from height, and no crenellations with any projectile capabilities shall be constructed! Your armed forces shall be immediately disbanded, with only ten personal attendants permitted to remain! The rest shall lay down their weapons and revert to their status as refugees!"

"Otherwise, my ship would be followed by two hundred heavy infantrymen with long spears!"

Upon hearing "disband the armed forces," Pollifer's legs went weak, and he leaned against the pile of logs. His hands trembled as he gripped the ledgers even tighter.

Otto didn't look at the parchment scroll.

"Sir Harold, the Earl of Tettos seems to have devoted all his energy to fabricating lies, forgetting even the most basic Riverlands feudal laws."

He turned around and pointed to the able-bodied men who were digging in the mud.

"What you just saw were forty farmers, miners, and bricklayers. They were digging the dirtiest mud from the riverbed and burning the most pungent lime. They did hard labor during the day, and only after sunset, when the bandits came out, did they take up their spears. This is called a militia. It is a right granted to commoners by the gods and the king to protect their roofs. Do you think I overstepped my bounds by recruiting a standing private army, or that I taught a bunch of farmers, terrified of pirates, how to grip a stick for self-defense?"

Harold opened his mouth, but then stopped himself from speaking.

Unwilling to give up, he strode toward the group of people digging the drainage ditch, and casually stopped a man whose face was covered in mud and who had whip marks on his shoulders. The man was holding a rusty hoe.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Replying to...replying to your question, sir, I'm from the second labor group, everyone calls me Old Zhuang." The man shrank his neck, his back hunched. "I'm digging a drainage ditch. The lord said that after we finish digging it, we'll lay lime, and those who do a good job at night will get half a spoonful of coarse salt. Without this ditch, our whole group would be drinking dirty water and dying of dysentery. Sir...are you the Duke here to check on our land reclamation progress?"

Harold loosened his grip on the sword.

He turned around, his face still ashen.

"You can say they're farmers, just defending themselves. But what about these sixteen heavy infantrymen in scale armor?" He pointed to the row of motionless veterans at the entrance to the stone tower. "How can a mere land knight support sixteen elite soldiers?"

"Because I am also the designated acting administrator of the silver mining area in Haijiang City."

Otto took a document from Polyver's hand.

"These sixteen men are legal retainers employed under a special recruitment order issued by Earl Jason. Given the size of my current fief and the monthly silver remittance, employing sixteen men to guard the mines is not considered excessive under the Duke's Code. Anyone with objections can check Earl Jason's tax records."

Harold gritted his back teeth.

"Very well. You've laid a solid legal foundation." He took a deep breath, lowering his voice, "But Count Tethos has another charge—that you hoarded wealth, attracting pirates from the Iron Islands and bringing war to the heart of the Riverlands!"

"I did not start the war. I put it out."

Otto took half a step back.

"Polliver, open the box."

Pollifer and his men carried out five wooden crates. The wax lids were lifted, releasing a salty, fishy smell. Five Ironman heads, thoroughly salted, stared unblinkingly at the long summer sky.

"These are the pirates who tried to cross the border that night."

Otto's voice was calm.

"If it weren't for that stone tower, those sixteen squires, and those farmers' spears—then these twenty throwing axes would already be clashing in the villages deep within Duke Tully's territory, stealing the autumn tax that should have been paid to Riverrun. I hoarded wealth, but I proved with these heads that I could hold onto it."

Harold stared at the heads, his hand frozen in mid-air.

"Come with me, sir."

The cellar was cold and dry; the oak door was closed. The wick of the oil lamp popped softly, then fell silent.

Pollifer lifted the wax lids from fifty ceramic jars. Under the light, the snow-white crystals shimmered with a silvery glow.

"Premium refined salt."

Otto said.

"Baron Piper's territory lost a significant amount of meat preservation supplies this year due to the Blackwood blockade. I delivered this salt to their tables last week. Lord Raymond Frey is currently patrolling the River Runner's waterway upstream on the Blue Fork, carrying my monthly security tax."

Harold looked at the jar of white salt, ran his fingers along the edge of the earthenware jar for a moment, then withdrew them.

"As long as this tower stands, this salt will flow continuously into Seafront City and into the pockets of the southern lords," Otto continued. "If you dismiss my retinue today, the Ironborn will surely return. The salt mines will be destroyed, Baron Paiber will lose his winter supplies, the Frey family will lose their shipping tax, and Seafront City will lose its silver mines."

He paused for a moment.

"Is Duke Horst willing to offend Seafront, the Twins, and several barons in the south to appease an unreasonable Tytus—or is he showing leniency towards my legitimate early warning post?"

The only sound in the cellar was the occasional popping of a lamp wick.

Harold folded the demolition order and tucked it into his sleeve without saying a word.

"You're using legal principles to mask your ambitions, while simultaneously using self-interest to hijack the judgment. Hohenzollern."

His voice was hoarse. The condescending air in his eyes as he looked at Otto was gone.

Otto took half a step toward the cellar door and waited for him to come out.

Suddenly, a bone whistle sounded from the top of the tower.

Highest risk warning.

The two rushed out of the cellar and climbed to the second floor of the stone tower.

At the end of the southern official road, a merchant wagon belonging to the Paiber family was billowing smoke. More than twenty unmarked bandits, dressed in tattered leather armor, were hacking at the caravan's guards and looting their goods. The guards began to scatter.

Harold glanced at it and narrowed his eyes.

"That wasn't your average bandit. His riding skills and coordinated swordplay—he was a desperate outlaw released from death row."

He gritted his teeth.

"Tethos Blackwood."

"Toren! Bring your squires to their seats! Farmers, take your shields and spears!"

The bone whistle blew. The farmers who had been digging ditches just moments before grabbed their weapons from under the rain shelter. Some were nervous, stepped on their companion's foot, stumbled, but steadied themselves and continued running. Sixteen armored guards led them, stitching together a stepped, suppressive formation on the open ground of the dock.

The bone whistle urged them on, but there was no countdown, no shouting. Sixteen veterans on the left flank, bracing their battle axes, forced their way forward half a step. The farmers on the right flank, their faces pale, closed their eyes and desperately thrust their spears forward through the gaps in their shields.

There were no battle cries. Only bone whistles, the muffled thuds of metal piercing flesh, and the dying screams of condemned prisoners.

It was over in less than fifteen minutes.

Kavan, the manager of the Paiber caravan, stumbled down from the carriage, blood still seeping from the knife wound on his left arm, and rushed to Otto.

"Sir Otto...may the gods protect us! Without your farmers, two carts of pig iron and three chests of winter grain would have been gone! Baron Piper will never forget this day!"

Otto didn't wipe the blood off his sword.

"Polliver, check the accounts."

Pollifer walked through the overturned horse workshop and opened the record board.

"Two strong mules had their necks chopped off. A chest of wrought iron ingots overturned into the sewer and got covered in lime; removing the rust will take time. The caravan guards scattered, requiring an extra forty farmers to each receive double the amount of salted meat. Nine tattered leather armors were stripped from the bandits, worth fifteen silver deer. The difference will be recorded in Baron Paiber's next quarter's premium on white salt."

Kaivan looked at the corpses scattered on the ground and nodded with a bitter smile.

Toren led the veterans to clear the bodies. The twelve condemned prisoners were dragged to the end of the path, and Toren drew his broadsword and brought it down.

"Pfft—click."

The twelve heads were cut off, pickled in coarse salt, placed in a ceramic jar, and sealed with a wax lid.

Polliff had written on his record board: "Twelve heads of condemned prisoners, salted and boxed, to be sent to Riverrun along with Sir Harold's report, as witnesses and evidence of cross-border plunder."

The farmers reloaded the scattered pig iron, and the caravan slowly set sail.

Harold stood silently beneath the stone tower.

He walked toward a headless corpse and stopped three steps away. He stared intently at a brand exposed on the corpse's arm—the mark of a hardened criminal from the underground death row of Riverrun.

He stood there for a long time.

Then he turned around, his steps a little unsteady, and walked toward the leaping fish sailboat on the dock.

"set sail."

The mooring ropes were untied. The sailboat slowly drifted away on the Blue Fork River.

The farmers, who were just covered in blood, picked up their trowels again at the sound of the whistle and headed toward the half-finished stone wall.

The long summer south wind, carrying the smell of lime and blood, traveled downstream along the river.