Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 50: The Death of Thin Frost and the Remains of the Dai Rui Family's Blade

At midnight, the first frost fell in the Blue Fork Valley.

At dawn, a layer of yellowish, brittle ice had formed on the shallow water outside the flood control canal. The quicklime and manure sludge in the drainage ditches had frozen into hard clods. Farmers, wearing only thin, worn shoes, trudged through the ice, the sound of it cracking monotonously in the cold mist. Their toes were purple with cold and covered in chilblains, but no one stopped carrying stones.

Because veteran soldiers stood on the city wall to supervise the battle, and the leather whips in their hands were colder than the morning wind.

No fire was lit at the bottom of the stone tower.

The clerk, Pollifer, stood before the long, hardwood table. His breath turned into puffs of white mist in the chilly air. He tucked his hands tightly under his armpits to warm them, and in front of him lay a walnut wood slate, its edges brittle with cold. He used a short charcoal stick to cross out names on parchment, the sound of the charcoal pencil scraping against the parchment dry and harsh.

"We're short of manpower," Pollifer said, looking at the names that had been blacked out. "The autumn rains a few days ago flooded the culverts, and more than a dozen of the laborers who went down to clear the silt contracted fever. Others who went to the edge of the forest to gather firewood ran into stragglers retreating from the Red Fork River and were hacked to death. We buried thirty-one bodies, and those who survived and had limbs amputated are now crippled. In the past two weeks, we've lost a total of forty-nine able-bodied men."

Pollifer paused, swallowing a mouthful of cold saliva.

"The roster lists 427 people. But after deducting women, children, and the disabled, there aren't even 80 men left who can brave the wind to go down into the mines to carry ore. Last night, a laborer at the earthen kiln was so exhausted that he vomited blood, and the bottom fire at the salt kiln went out for quite a while."

Otto sat behind his desk. He was wrapped in his heavy, gray-black woolen overcoat, his left arm motionless, the newly formed scab on his shoulder throbbing faintly in the cold air. He sat in the shadows, listening to Pollifer's accounting, without making any unnecessary movements.

"The most troublesome thing is the silver mine down there." Polliver's voice was a little strained. "We don't have enough people to carry the ore, and all the mined ore is piled up deep in the tunnels, unable to be transported to the surface. This week's pure silver production has been cut off by more than half. There are less than seven days left before the envoy from Haijiang City comes to collect the remaining 60% of the silver."

Pollifer looked down at the very bottom of the ledger.

"The current silver reserves in the large vault are not even half of what is stipulated in the agreement."

Otto looked at the iron candlestick on the table.

"If you use the winter provisions from the bottom treasury as collateral to exchange for money, you must also pay the full weight of silver." His voice was very calm, as if he were talking about something that had nothing to do with him.

Although Seafront City lost direct jurisdiction over this territory under the Duke's decree, Jason Mellist still held absolute legal authority in the Silver Contract. If half a pound of silver was missing on the day of handover, Jason wouldn't even need to apply for a conscription order from Riverrun; he could immediately use the breach of contract as grounds to send two hundred heavily armored cavalry across the shallows and take direct control of the stone tower.

"Put the key to the inner vault on the table." Otto stood up, his leather boots clicking on the hard stone floor. "Before the snow falls, we must bring back fifty strong men who have wielded spears and seen blood, and throw them into the mine."

"There are no more homeless people around here," Pollifer said. "Even the stray dogs have starved to death in the wastelands around the Blue Fork River."

"Go dig in the courtyards of those old nobles," Otto said.

The heavy oak door creaked open as it was pushed open from the outside.

Maria Frey entered. The dark red velvet robe that had once belonged to a noblewoman of Twin Towers had been stripped of its cumbersome train. Underneath, she wore a coarse linen coat lined with wool, making her look like a shrewd steward. A heavy brass master key hung from her belt.

"Get the cart harnessed and grease the axles thoroughly." Otto looked at her. "Take thirty cans of fine white salt from the warehouse and seal them under the cart with double layers of oilcloth. You'll escort the cart south."

Maria stopped moving. Those thirty jars of white salt that hadn't been officially recorded were her bargaining chip for controlling the inner treasury in this territory.

"Where to?" she asked. "King Road outside is full of Red Fork River routs, deserters, and Blackwood Rangers. Dragging this salt out the door is like throwing a piece of fresh meat in front of a hungry wolf."

"Dairy City. Your mother's family," Otto said.

Maria frowned.

"Back in the Battle of the Trident, the Darryl family, as staunch Targaryens loyalists, were stripped of most of their woodlands and their most fertile farms by King Robert," Otto calmly recounted the old grievances of the Riverlands. "Their armored veterans are all huddled within the crumbling walls, guarding a few plots of land with meager harvests. They are among the most proud, but also the most desperate for winter rations."

Otto tossed a parchment scroll sealed with black eagle wax onto the table.

"Thirty cans of fine salt, that's the price you brought back to Darryl. In exchange for fifty veterans and their families. If Sir Lehman thinks this deal is an insult to the honor of the nobility, then smash the salt cans against the stone bricks of the hall in front of him, so he can hear the sound of those veterans in his yard swallowing sour water on their empty stomachs."

Maria fell silent. It wasn't dignified for a woman expelled from Twin Towers to return to the Darryl family and become a black market dealer.

But she was a practical person. Her hand touched the brass key on her belt.

"Salt for labor is acceptable," Maria said to Otto, "but my 20% share of the salt profits must be included in the accounts."

"Let's see how many people you bring back," Otto replied.

Maria nodded: "I want Torun to select sixteen veterans in scale armor, armed with spears and crossbows, to escort the wagon for me. Otherwise, if we encounter even a small band of bandits on the road, this shipment of salt will be completely looted."

"Sixteen guards, not a single step outside the inner fortress defenses." Otto rejected her outright. "Once they leave the fortress, Tytos Blackwood's assassins will be able to climb in through the drains tonight and poison all four of my wells."

"Where are we going to find laborers to escort and pull the wagons?" Maria retorted. "The heavy-duty wagons for winter have wheels that cut two inches into the frozen mud. Without thirty strong mules pulling them, this shipment simply won't make it across the rickety stone bridge downstream. We don't have that many animals."

Otto walked toward the narrow shutters and looked toward the west side of the inner fortress.

At the bottom of the sewer, thirty prisoners from the Twin Towers, originally sent by the Marquis of Walder to maintain appearances, were soaking in thigh-deep icy water, mechanically shoveling mud.

Forty-eight days of forced labor, each day consisting of only a bowl of bran water mixed with sand. These thirty soldiers, once brimming with grease and the habits of thugs, had long since been reduced to skin and bones. The arrogance in their sunken eyes was gone, replaced only by an instinctive longing for a straw bed and a hot meal.

"Pull the people out of the ditch." Otto looked out the window. "Wash the mud off them with well water. Don't return their armor. Go to the tool shed and get thirty ash wood sticks with sharpened ends. Take the thickest hemp rope from the scrap heap and tie tight knots around their shoulders."

Pollyver huddled under his cloak, exhaling a puff of white breath.

"These thirty men, linked together, are pulling salt carts to Darryl City." Otto turned around. "Tell them that if they manage to get the carts to Darryl City alive, the shackles on their bodies will be removed on the spot. They can walk back to the Twin Towers and eat hot meat on their own two feet."

Early in the morning, the sky was overcast, and the north wind swept through the leafless birch forest.

Thirty prisoners, who were about to freeze to death in the sewer, heard the terms of the deal.

Their bare feet, covered in chilblains, pounded the icy mud. The rough hemp rope dug into their thin, bony shoulders. Two farmers with spears sat on the cart shaft, supervising. The thirty men leaned forward like livestock, and the rope tightened instantly.

The axle emitted a dull rubbing sound.

The wooden wheels crushed the thin ice on the ground. Maria Frey, wrapped in an old sheepskin blanket, sat in the first cart. Thirty walking skeletons, one after another, pulled the heavy salt carts, inching their way south toward King's Road.