Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 33: The Mark of Obsession and the Reconstruction of the Stone Mill

In the dead of summer nights, the Blue Fork Valley, after months of deathly silence and sweltering heat, finally exuded a touch of coolness carrying moisture.

In the small room at the very top of the stone tower, the heavy oak door was bolted shut.

This is the only absolute forbidden zone in the entire Hohenzollern territory; not only the lord himself is allowed to set foot here, but even Polliver is not permitted to do so.

A copper lamp filled with coarse animal fat sat on a rough stone table, its orange flame casting leaping, distorted shadows on the stone wall.

Otto Hohenzollern sat on the hard stone bed, his teeth clenched, the muscles in his cheeks bulging.

He used his good right hand to grasp the thick hemp bandage wrapped around his left shoulder and unwound it inch by inch.

As the last strip of cloth, clinging to flesh and medicine residue, was forcibly torn off, a low growl, barely suppressed, escaped from deep within his throat.

It was a shocking old wound.

In the divine judgment duel in Fair City, Otto's left shoulder suffered a severe tear, with the flesh and tendons beneath the skin ripped apart in an attempt to forcibly deflect Lucas Blackwood's deadly cross-shaped greatsword. The sweltering heat of the long summer slowed the wound's healing, and the recent frequent defense patrols caused the newly formed granulation tissue to repeatedly crack open amidst the blood pooling.

At this moment, the wound was surrounded by bluish-purple inflamed marks, with a dark red blood groove in the middle.

He is too tired.

By day, he was the unshakeable lord standing on the parade ground, a madman who manipulated four hundred and fifty living people like beads on an abacus using laws and account books. He had to make everyone believe that Hohenzollern was a monster without the capacity for pain.

But only behind this wooden door, locked shut with iron bolts, does this body, only eighteen years old and not yet fully grown, reveal its exhaustion and near collapse.

Otto took a deep breath, picked up a ceramic jar from the table, and with trembling hands poured a handful of liquid mixed with strong liquor and pungent herbs directly onto the chapped wound.

"hiss--!"

A sharp pain, like red-hot steel needles piercing his brain, suddenly made him go black. He lost his balance and slammed heavily against the cold, rough stone wall. Sweat poured out like a waterfall, soaking through his greyish-white linen underwear.

He gasped for breath during the brief dizziness caused by the excruciating pain.

The moment he closed his eyes, he seemed to smell again the lingering odor of Braavos, a mixture of sea salt, dead fish, and stinking canal water.

"Stand up! Men of the Hohenzollern family, even if they bleed to their last drop, their bones must stand straight!"

His father Albrecht's hoarse roar, like a haunting ghost, crossed the Narrow Sea and resounded once more in the depths of his mind.

His father, a wandering knight who had chosen the wrong side in the Battle of Ruby Beach and lost his only dilapidated manor and a few acres of meager land, poured all his resentment towards his family's decline, his anger at his fate, and his morbid fanaticism for rebuilding the family business into the young Oto after his hasty escape to the continent of Essos.

That was when Otto was seven years old. The winter rain in Braavos was cold and damp, as if it could freeze one's skin.

While the other mercenary children on Pillar Street were rolling around in the fireplace of the dilapidated tavern for warmth, Otto was forced by his father to stand barefoot in the muddy, rainy alley, holding two granite blocks, each weighing over ten pounds, that he had picked up from the ruins.

They stood there for two hours.

As soon as his arms drooped even half an inch from the soreness and exhaustion, his father would lash out with the ash wood stick, stripped of its bark and still bearing splinters, mercilessly striking his back with a whoosh, leaving a deep red welt.

"Don't cry! Swallow your cowardly tears! Tears won't build a family's foundation! A knight's worthless honor isn't even worth a pound of moldy black bread on this side of the sea!"

The terminally ill father grabbed his son's soaked collar and sprayed him with a strong smell of cheap liquor and bloody phlegm, his deep-set eyes burning with madness.

"You must be as meticulous as the accountants of the Iron Bank, calculating every single penny! You must be as ruthless as the Faceless Men, slitting the throats of your enemies! Remember the genealogy of every great noble in Westeros, remember how much wheat they can produce on an acre, how many warhorses they can support!"

"One day, you will fight your way back! You will build the highest walls and nail the banner of the Two-Headed Black Hawk to the mud of the Riverlands! You will make those who looked down on us pay the price!"

"This is your fate, Otto! You have no right to breathe like a normal child! You are a sword, and a sword needs no feelings!"

The large pool of black blood his father coughed up on the tattered bedsheet before his death, and the eyes that were still fixed on Westeros as he breathed his last, became an inescapable shackle on Otto's soul.

Otto suddenly opened his eyes, his gray-blue pupils contracting under the oil lamp light.

He swallowed large gulps of the cold, lime-smelling air, locking those chilling memories back into the deepest recesses of his heart.

He picked up a roll of clean, coarse linen, bit one end with his teeth, and, using his right hand, tightly re-wrapped it around his shoulder. With each wrap, the excruciating pain made him shudder.

When he finally put on the heavy military uniform with its iron buttons, his back straightened again, and his breathing became as steady as the beats he had counted on the drill ground.

He transformed back into the flawless young lord.

"Thump, thump, thump."

A knocking sound came from outside the door, steady and restrained.

"My lord, it is I, Toren."

Otto stepped forward and pulled open the heavy iron bolt.

Toren entered and slammed the door shut behind him. In this secluded space where no one else was, the old soldier lost the rigid sternness he displayed when facing the farmers on the drill ground during the day. In the dim light, he immediately noticed the fine beads of cold sweat on Otto's forehead, his pale, chapped lips, and the lingering, strong smell of medicinal liquor in the air.

He didn't say anything, pulled over a rough wooden stool and sat down, his body like a gray wall.

"You came to see me late at night not to give me a rambling account of your life."

Otto sat back down on the edge of the bed, his voice slightly hoarse from exhaustion.

"Are you having trouble? Tell me."

Toren didn't speak immediately. He took out the bone whistle, which had been removed from Pete's body and had been cleaned of blood, from his pocket and solemnly placed it on the wooden table.

"My lord, today on the drill ground, the whistle completely replaced the human countdown. The coordination between the sixteen attendants and forty peasant militiamen was indeed quieter and more unified than before. If the Iron People were to charge again, they would definitely not be able to gain the advantage of throwing axes during the intervals between shouts, just like last time."

The veteran's tone was solemn, then he changed the subject.

"But a single bone whistle cannot solve the fundamental problem."

"You mean right-wing farmers can't withstand a regular army?"

“That’s right.” Toren dipped his rough fingers into the remaining tea in his cup and drew a slanted line on the table. “You stack your twelve best veterans on the left flank as the hammer. The right flank is the peasant militia, dragging back and using their spears to hold off the enemy.”

"This formation works well against the Ironborn or the death row inmates and bandits sent by Tytus. Because they don't know how to coordinate, if their leader crashes into the left flank and gets strangled, the morale of the rest will collapse."

Torun jabbed his finger hard at the spot representing the right-wing farmer, splashing water in all directions.

"But what if Tethos, disregarding everything, sends fifty regular infantrymen in half-body chainmail, wielding barbed halberds? The commanders of the regular army aren't fools; they won't charge into the left flank of veterans. They'll hold the left flank, concentrate their forces, and directly breach the right flank composed of farmers."

"Farmers have no guts, sir. You know this better than I do."

Toren's tone became stern.

"They can still bite on sticks and listen for the whistle because veterans are holding the line. Once the right flank is breached and three or five of their comrades die, riots will break out. If the right flank collapses, the left flank will be devoured from the flank and rear. The entire Graystone Wall will become a slaughterhouse."

Otto stared at the water stain on the table, a symbol of defeat, and fell into a long silence.

Outside the stone pagoda, the river wind of a long summer night howled over the wall, making a mournful sound.

Torun was absolutely right. The fifty-six men he had forcibly bound together with discipline and the fire pit were like a newly quenched iron sword—sharp, but would break easily if they clashed head-on with real heavy armor.

"We need to change our weaponry."

Otto suddenly spoke, breaking the silence.

"Weapons?" Toren paused, then said, "Our current four-sided spears are made from the finest iron."

"A spear can only thrust." Otto gestured in the air with his right hand, his brow furrowed. "Against regular infantry clad in chainmail or wielding heavy iron shields, if the first strike misses and the spear slips away, the farmer's vulnerability—the moment he retracts his spear and recharges—is when the enemy closes in and slashes him. Once the farmer is in close combat, even with a Valyrian steel sword, he can't defeat a veteran."

Otto stood up and walked into the dim light. His thoughts drifted back to the other side of the strait. During his time wandering in Braavos, he had hidden outside the Golden Company's mercenary camp, observing for months how those battle-hardened mercenaries used strange weapons to deal with heavily armored infantry.

"Toren, tomorrow morning, have Cole halt all forging of crossbow bolts and farm implements. Use the pig iron from the new deal with the Piper family to forge a batch of hook-and-sickle spears."

"A hook-and-sickle spear?" Toren frowned.

"On the side of the blade of a regular spear, near the base, forge a thick, sharp, curved iron hook horizontally." Otto gestured with the bone whistle on the table, "The formation must also change. The veterans in the front row will still defend with round shields and short swords, holding off the first wave of attack. The farmers in the back row will all be equipped with hook-and-sickle spears."

"When the enemy charges in with their shields raised, creating a stalemate with the front ranks, the farmers in the back ranks can simply walk over their shoulders without needing to find a weak point in their chainmail to pierce—piercing moving chainmail is too difficult for a farmer."

Otto made a violent pulling motion backward.

"Extend the iron hooks over the enemy's head or side. Hook them onto the edge of their shield, the gaps in their chainmail, or even the back of their thighs. Then, listen for the whistle, and everyone, without slashing, simply use their own weight to pull backward—pull with all their might."

Toren's eyes lit up.

The greatest fear of infantry formations is never being stabbed, but losing their balance. If an enemy's front-line shield bearer is forcibly pulled down by a hook and sickle, even if he only stumbles, the once impenetrable shield wall will crumble. And the fallen man will trip up those following behind.

"Drag the enemy down, pull them into our spears and daggers..." Toren muttered to himself, something stirring in the blood of a Northerner. "Farmers are strong; pulling them backward is much easier than thrusting them forward. Once hooked, a dozen farmers working together can even rip a knight in full plate armor off his horse!"

"Not only that," Otto sat back down at the table, his fingers lightly tapping the surface, "Toren, no matter how our weapons are upgraded, we only have fifty-odd men available for combat. This is our Achilles' heel. Therefore, the Hohenzollern army must never engage in positional warfare on the open plains against any noble's regular army. That's like sticking your neck into a noose."

"We must use the terrain to our advantage."

Otto walked to the small window and pointed to the gate to the territory shrouded in darkness and the straight log path outside.

"Starting tomorrow, the militia's evening drills will be moved from the drill ground to the main gate outside the gray stone wall, and to the only log raft road leading here."

"Have people dig several horizontal, three-foot-deep trenches on both sides of the log road, between the muddy ground and the drainage ditch. Normally, cover them with wooden planks and mud. In the event of a strong enemy attack, immediately remove the planks."

"We must force the enemy's large phalanx into a straight line on this narrow, muddy road. Even if Tethos sends a hundred men, in that kind of terrain, at most only three to five will be able to simultaneously make contact with our shield wall."

A ghostly fire flickered in Otto's grey-blue eyes.

"If you have fewer troops, create narrow passages. Let every commander who tries to take advantage understand that here, their numerical superiority is useless, and their soldiers will be dragged into the mud one by one by the hooks and sickles."

Toren stood up, slamming his right fist heavily on the worn leather armor in his chest, giving a standard Northern salute. When he came to see Otto late at night, he had been somewhat worried, fearing that the young lord might become blinded and arrogant because of the successive victories. But now, he was completely convinced.

"I'll be keeping a close eye on Cole first thing tomorrow morning. The blades of the first batch of hook-and-sickle spears must be on the pole within five days."

Just as Toren was about to turn and leave, Otto's cold voice stopped him.

"etc."

Otto's brow furrowed deeply, and he lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Tactical weaknesses can be compensated for with weaponry and terrain. But I've been thinking about something else all night."

"On the night of the Iron Clan's raid, how did they manage to so precisely bypass the three sentry posts we had set up on the outskirts, and silently sneak up to the vicinity of the docks from that swampy area that even local hunters dared not easily venture into?"

Toren frowned in thought: "Perhaps it was because the fog was too thick that day, obstructing the visibility of the sentries. And the Ironborn, who spend most of their time at sea, have an excellent sense of direction..."

"The fog may obscure visibility, but it's absolutely unacceptable to point them in a safe path through the treacherous mud. Beneath that swamp lies a network of undercurrents and man-eating slime. How could twenty saltwater pirates, completely unfamiliar with the riverine terrain, possibly avoid every dead end, let alone perfectly evade the animal traps Cole had laid on the mudflats, without torches?"

Otto raised his eyelids, a cold glint flashing in his eyes.

"Someone is guiding them. Or rather, there's always been a pair of eyes in this supposedly impregnable, strictly controlled inner fortress. These eyes are constantly selling out the locations of our outposts and the safe routes through the swampy areas to outsiders."

In the dead of night during the long summer, not a breath of wind blew into the stone tower, but the flame of the oil lamp suddenly flickered.

Toren placed his hand on the hilt of his sword at his waist, remaining silent, the veins on the back of his hand bulging.