Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 54: The Panic of Winter Taxes and the Young Master Who Washes the Manure Buckets

In the western grain market of Fair City, the big-nosed grain merchant Morrow tucked his frozen hands into his sleeves and stamped his feet in front of the blackened brazier. Behind him were seven or eight empty carts, mules puffing out white steam in the cold wind. Grain merchants with cash in hand were like wild boars hunting for food, snapping up wheat at low prices to store for the winter.

A tall, thin passerby wearing a worn gray cloak stopped opposite the brazier. He tossed down two copper coins and begged the tavern waiter for a bowl of cheap hot fruit wine.

That was Officer Pollifer. His hood covered most of his face, and his boots were covered in black mud from the lower part of Fair City.

"The wind came early this year. Old Marquis Walder must be aching again." Pollifer said, holding a chipped wine bowl. His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, just enough to drift across the brazier and into Moreau's ears.

A merchant who had been drinking alone nearby looked up and said, "That old marquis from the Twin Towers? What does his bone pain have to do with us riverboat traders?"

"If you want to light more good charcoal fires in the castle, you'll have to bleed more from the manor below," Pollifer said, taking a sip of sour wine and frowning as if complaining.

"I heard from relatives in West Tower Stables, Twins, that the Charlton and Wilpin estates have had their winter tax increased by 20 percent this year. Anyone who dares to harvest wheat on their land will have a layer of soil stripped from under their cart tracks as a toll when they cross the checkpoint."

Moro, the grain merchant across from the brazier, suddenly twitched the fat at the corner of his eye.

He had planned to take his convoy to the Charlton family's estate tomorrow. He had long coveted the hundreds of bags of autumn wheat produced there.

But old Walder Frey's greed was more notorious in the Riverlands than the Ironborn's axes. The old weasel would even skim off his own son's dowry, and he routinely levied exorbitant taxes on his vassals, especially in winter. Merchants never bothered to check the old Marquis's tax bills. Because once a caravan entered the Twin Towers' patrol area and was spotted by the tax collectors, their profits would be devoured.

Moro rubbed his chubby hands together, but didn't reply. He turned and walked towards his convoy.

"Turn around." The grain merchant climbed onto the carriage using the footboard. "Let's try our luck around Shili City. No one is allowed to cross the Red Fork River before winter."

Five more days passed. A layer of hard snow, half an inch thick, had settled on the Charlton family's estate.

Old knight Horst Charlton stood before the drafty granary. His old ring armor reeked of rust. Behind him, in the three barely leaky stone cellars, three hundred coarse burlap sacks were neatly stacked.

It was filled with old wheat that had been harvested before winter.

But the courtyard was deserted. The grain merchants from Fair Market, who would usually be thronging the door by this time, were nowhere to be seen. The snow fell heavier and heavier. The three hundred sacks of old wheat looked like three hundred cold, hard stones. If the Marquis couldn't pay his winter tax in cash and in kind, this dilapidated manor would have to change hands next year. The dozen or so soldiers and serfs under his command wouldn't survive the depths of winter.

"Squeak—"

The wooden gate to the courtyard was pushed open from the outside. Snow and wind swept in.

A single-horse-drawn wagon covered with thick cowhide felt. Jack, wearing a thick fur coat, stopped the wagon in the middle of the snow.

Maria Frey nimbly jumped off the carriage. The madam's brass keys were concealed inside her thick linen coat. Today, she wore none of the Frey family's luxury items, dressed like a shrewd businesswoman.

Old Charlton's eyelids twitched violently a few times. Just a week ago, this was the same woman who, right in front of him, smashed a jar of fine white salt into the mud and took his twelve-year-old child away.

The old knight had a gloomy face, and his right hand unconsciously rested on the hilt of his sword at his waist.

"If you're here to see the Charlton family make a fool of themselves," the old soldier said, his beard streaked with snow, his voice hoarse, "there's no extra hot water in the yard to entertain the Baroness."

Maria did not engage in his anger. She went straight to the eaves of the granary, picked up a handful of oats scattered on the wooden planks with her fingers, and smelled them.

Dry and free of mold.

"The trade routes outside are cut off. The merchants of Fair City are afraid of the winter taxes from the Twin Towers, and none of them dare to come and collect this batch of autumn grain." Maria turned around and looked directly into old Charlton's bloodshot eyes.

"You don't have the cash to fill the old marquis's tax bins. These three hundred sacks of wheat are rotting here, and next month your family won't have enough charcoal for fuel, so you'll have to watch your wife and children get frostbite."

The old knight's hands, veins bulging, said, "That's a matter concerning the Twins..."

"It's also about the Blue Fork River," Maria interrupted him.

She took a heavy sheepskin bag from her waist and tossed it onto the dry wooden barrel in front of the barn door. It clattered loudly.

"The Hohenzollern wagons dare to wade through the muddy waters that outside merchants wouldn't touch. This isn't because we have soldiers, but because young master Raymond has always been very concerned about the salt administration of the Blue Fork River."

Maria's tone was as calm as the undercurrent beneath the ice.

"He mentioned it in the camp yesterday. The Charlton family has been loyal to the Twin Towers for generations. With the mountains blocked by heavy snow, we can't let these hundreds of bags of good grain rot in our own hands. He will naturally take care of the tax permits for the transit."

Cold sweat trickled down old Charlton's temples and into the collar of his chainmail.

He jerked his head up. Raymond Frey? That arrogant young master who usually wouldn't even glance at him, was actually in cahoots with Hohenzollern? Even offering to cover up this kind of grain trade that evaded winter taxes?

"Three hundred bags of refined wheat. The market price in Fair Market."

Maria pulled off the leather cover on the carriage floor. There was a clay-sealed earthenware jar, and the bag of silver.

"Buy it all at the original price. Use salt as collateral, and if that's not enough, settle it all with real gold and silver. Put the transportation costs on Blue Fork River's bill. Old knight, if you're just trying to spite someone, then stay here and wait to be skinned alive by the old marquis's steward."

Old Charlton's breathing was heavy as a cow's.

He slumped his hand off the hilt of the sword and exhaled a deep breath of white air.

"Tell your men to come and load the cart, madam."

The inner fortress of the Blue Fork River. Gray stone walls blocked the fiercest north winds.

William Charlton wore an ill-fitting, oversized linen garment, the hem of which was stained with mud. His hands, which had once been used only for knightly training with wooden swords, were now covered with blisters and calluses.

The twelve-year-old boy was using a wooden rake to gather the tattered gauze and bloody excrement that had just been dumped out of the No. 1 wounded and sick ward into a deep pit of quicklime.

He has been locked inside the stone wall for more than half a month.

Pollifer never whipped him, nor was he tied to a rack. Every morning at dawn, he had to wash his hands in a vat of cold water with the other laborers. If the work wasn't finished, the half-bowl of rye paste mixed with bark in the cellar at night would be reduced to half.

For the first three days after he arrived, he cried every night. He thought his father would come with the Knights of the Twin Towers and raze this place to the ground.

But half a month passed, and no sound of horses' hooves stopped outside the Graystone Gate for him.

Evening. Snowflakes drifted down from the dry, cold sky.

William, dragging his nearly broken legs and carrying the chipped clay bowl, joined the group of farmers in line in front of the iron pot in the drill ground.

At the very front of the column were the armored guards who had just finished a day of training. Instructor Toren removed his iron helmet, exhaling a puff of white breath. He stepped forward, snatched the thickest spoonful of meat-fat porridge from the pot, and poured it into a bowl.

No one felt it was unfair.

William stood in the wind. He had seen with his own eyes the scars on these veterans' bodies, and how they had driven heavy wooden stakes into the frozen ground in the muddy, murderous trenches.

"Hold the bowl level. Don't spill it on the muddy ground."

A rough, large hand patted his shoulder. It was an old farmer's hand called "One-Ear," who was missing an ear, which had been cut off by stray arrows during the first two battles against retreating soldiers.

The old farmer took a small, hardened turnip from his tattered leather bag and stuffed it into the bottom of William's bowl. "After a day of hard labor in the latrines, this little bit of thin water will keep you so cold at night that you won't be able to sleep."

William stared blankly at the old man covered in mud. In the Twins manor, the serfs looked at him with nothing but fear.

That night, the oil lamp in the cellar flickered.

The clerk, Pollifer, wrapped in a thick cloak, descended the earthen steps like a ghost, carrying in his hand the wooden tally board he usually used for bookkeeping.

William huddled in the haystack, his teeth chattering from the cold. He looked at the long, narrow face and knew it was the "jailer" who had come to throw him the half-eaten bread that had saved his life.

Pollifer approached him. Today he did not put down the black bread. Instead, he tossed a skinning knife, scabbard and all, beside William's straw mat.

"Tomorrow morning, there's no need to fetch manure buckets." Pollifer fiddled with the wooden tally sticks, his voice completely flat.

William sat bolt upright, staring at the knife: "Why?"

"Three hundred sacks of aged wheat arrived today." Pollifer looked at him. "The Baron used the full amount of travel expenses and salt to cover your father's deficit from not being able to sell the autumn grain."

"That kind of knife..." William's Adam's apple bobbed.

"The lord needs to hunt a dozen or so old bears and deer that will spend the winter in the deep mountains. He needs a shield bearer who can cut open the throats of the wild animals, pluck their fur and pull out their tendons, and do other odd jobs for him." Pollifer stood up.

"If you run errands for the lord's horse and can't keep up in the snow, you'll freeze to death in the ravine."

He stretched out his hands, covered in blisters and frostbite, and grabbed the cold knife handle.

"Outside the East Tower of the Twins, there is a secret ditch that is usually used only for smuggling wine and meat. The tax collector in charge of that ditch is called 'Blind' Petyr."

William gripped the scabbard tightly, staring at Pollive from the dark cellar.

"In private, he would withhold a cartload of fine linen every month. That was the winter clothing that the old marquis originally intended to give to the garrison at the river border."

Pollifer stopped fiddling with the wooden tally. A smile appeared on his long face in the dim, oily light.