Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 3: Wasteland

The salty smell is strongest before dawn.

It wasn't the kind of smell that's thinned out by the sun during the day, but rather the deathly aura that had accumulated in Whispering Bay all night, pressing down on Stone City and seeping into every crack in the stone.

Otto splashed cold water on his face. The iron rings of his chainmail clung to the linen lining, chilling him to the bone. He didn't warm them up, but fastened them and went out.

The clerk's door didn't open until dawn.

After hearing the purpose of his visit, the official who was checking the monthly accounts told him to go to the armory in the East Tower to find the Earl.

Jason Mellist was standing in front of the weapon rack, his fingers tracing the blade of a freshly polished longsword. He didn't turn around when he heard footsteps.

"Hohenzollern, I thought you should have gone back to the muddy ground to pull weeds last night. What are you doing here again?"

"My lord, if the territory you assign me is only overgrown with weeds and waterfowl, all you'll get back in a year is a pile of bird droppings."

He made his point clear—the southern wall and dock area of ​​Haijiang City were teeming with war-stricken refugees, without any bonds of kinship, with no land to cultivate, and rife with theft and robbery in the dark alleys. He gave him a special permit to recruit these refugees, and he took all these restless figures with him.

"You want to undermine Haijiang City?" The count withdrew his hand from the blade of his sword.

"No, I'm cleaning up your mess. Leave them, and the sheriff will be hanging himself every day for a moldy loaf of bread; come with me, and next fall they'll be spearmen paying your military service. The Freys will have to get past these rabble driven mad by the need to save their lives before they can even cross the line."

The Earl had the scholar write the document, added the deputy seal of the sheriff, and included a warning: if even a registered blacksmith or a serf sneaks in, cut off his feet and make him crawl back to the Blue Fork River.

"As you wish."

The red wax seal on the document still carried the warmth of my hand. I tucked it into my pocket and left the armory.

The tavern door was locked, and the money bag lay overturned on the wooden table.

Twenty-five gold dragons, plus several dozen silver deer and a small pile of bronze stars—this was all the cash he could currently use. The savings his father had earned with his life in Braavos were still buried in the tin box under the old elm tree by the Blue Fork River, and he hadn't brought it with him. Before the order and military strength of the territory were firmly established, that money, once exposed, would be a deadly poison.

Twenty-five pieces. Is that enough? Only enough.

He led Pollive—the down-on-his-luck accountant hired for two copper coins in the dock area—into the largest market in Seafront City.

"Prepare to keep accounts. We'll split every coin in half."

The first stop was a grain merchant.

Otto stepped over the plump wheat, grabbed the slightly shriveled barley and oats, spread them in his palm, peeled off the outer skin, and brought them to his nose to smell.

"Oats take six bushels, barley seeds five bushels, and winter wheat only two bushels."

"Sir, aren't you going to consider the top-quality winter wheat from the river bend?" The grain merchant asked with a fawning smile, rubbing his hands together.

"The land upstream of the Blue Fork River is damp and cold in late autumn; delicate wheat planted here will only rot at the roots. Oats are resistant to moisture, and barley has a high yield and can be used as staple food. Only a small amount of wheat should be kept for next year's tribute to the Earl."

Three hundred pounds of the hardest dark bread, two barrels of pickled river fish, two large bags of dried peas—peas planted next to wheat fields can improve soil fertility. Five gold dragons, settled.

In the blacksmith's shop, ignoring the longswords and chainmail on the wall, he squatted down beside the pile of scrap iron and carefully selected: ten cast iron hoes, four broad-bladed logging axes, two double cross saws, six adzes, and a heavy-duty deep-plowing iron plow with auxiliary wheels in the corner.

"Add the plow too."

Pollifer glanced at the weight of the plow, said nothing, and simply paused on the tent flap.

"The clay layer in the river valleys is so thick that without a heavy iron plow, it's impossible to turn over the wasteland," Otto said before he could ask.

Four golden dragons went out.

The next purchase left Pollifer perplexed for a moment: two barrels of rendered animal fat, five whetstones, and a whole box of hand-forged iron nails.

"Axes and saws, if not coated with grease, will rust in ten days. Dull tools consume three times the farmer's effort, which is equivalent to wasting food. Iron nails are for building shelters during heavy rains; there's no time to carefully chisel mortise and tenon joints."

Three large bags of salt, one bag of quicklime, and one packet of sulfur. Pollifer's charcoal sticks stopped on the tent flap and he looked at the packet of sulfur.

"The territory was newly established, and human and animal excrement were mixed together, leading to a dysentery outbreak that killed everyone within days. Lime was used to line the latrines."

Three golden dragons.

Finally, in the livestock trading area, there were two emaciated but enormous bulls, along with a dilapidated wooden cart and six golden dragons.

"Liquidation."

Otto stood beside the oxcart loaded with supplies, waiting.

Polliver's fingers trembled on the wooden board. "Sir...including the copper coins used to bribe the sheriff's men, it cost nearly nineteen gold dragons in total."

Only six gold dragons and a few silver deer remained in the purse. The sun was beginning to set, and the torrential rains of the long summer in Hejian seemed imminent.

Otto arrived at the most stinking dockside refugee camp in Seafront City, nailed the recruitment notice to the wrecked ship with a dagger, and had the hunter open a small barrel of cheap ale.

The aroma of fermenting wine spread amidst the stench of decay, and hundreds of murky, hungry eyes peered out from the shadows.

"I am Sir Otto Hohenzollern, lord of the newly established lands upstream of the Blue Fork, legally protected by the Earl of Seafront. I need carpenters, farmers, leatherworkers, and shepherds."

"Sir, do you provide meals?" a veteran with one ear asked in a hoarse voice.

"For the first three months, each meal consisted of half a pound of dark bread and two spoonfuls of salted fish. Those who did physical labor received a glass of ale every weekend."

A commotion broke out among the crowd. At the end of the long summer, a stable food supply was more crucial than anything else.

"But listen carefully to the rules of Hohenzollern—"

Otto drew his longsword, the blade gleaming coldly in the dim light.

"Anyone who steals from the territory will have their right hand chopped off. Anyone injured in a fight will have double the labor service. Anyone who skips work three times will be stripped of their rations and driven out of the valley. My territory does not support good-for-nothings who eat for free. Anyone who thinks they can survive, stand on the left side of the oxcart."

There was no empty talk, no false honors, only the stark realities of survival. No one left.

After screening based on physical condition and skills, he took seven people with him.

Matt, an old farmer who used to work the lands of the Darryl family and was familiar with the clay layers of the river; a one-eared old soldier with a limp and a leather repairman; old Kerrigan, a wandering carpenter with a full set of rusty chisels; a young couple, the man knowledgeable about livestock and the woman skilled in weaving; and two strong men who were purely out to do manual labor.

Including Otto himself, Polyver, and five hunters, the initial population of the Hohenzollern territory was fourteen.

It was only thirty li from Haijiang City to the nameless river bend, but this caravan of people, oxen, and overloaded wooden carts trekked for two whole days on the muddy official road.

On the afternoon of the first day, the left front wheel got stuck in a rut that was half a person deep. The ox stood still, its ribs heaving with each breath, unable to be pulled out.

Otto jumped into the mud, not to drive the cattle, but to brace his shoulder against the inside of the wheel rim. Mud filled his boots, and he was covered in mud from the knees down. He kept his head down, silent, waiting for someone else to come.

Matt was the first to walk over, followed by two burly men, then the hunter, and finally even Martha put her weaving basket on the ground and pushed it onto the cart with both hands.

Seven or eight people pushed for nearly fifteen minutes until the wheels were pulled out of the mud pit with a dull thud.

No one said anything, they just kept walking. But from then on, the way the group walked changed—it became more compact, and when they encountered the next mud puddle, they would scatter on their own without waiting for anyone to speak, either going around it, pushing, or laying a few stones in front of them. They weren't a group yet, but they were starting to resemble one.

The second day was harder than the first. Not because the road was worse, but because the first day had exhausted most of their energy, only to find that half the journey was still unfinished. No one complained, but everyone lowered their eyes, staring at their feet, refusing to look at the road ahead.

We arrived on the evening of the second day.

A tributary of the Blue Fork River makes a sharp bend here, leaving behind a vast plain of silt deposits. Waist-high weeds sway in the hot wind, and a gloomy hardwood forest lies on the north slope. There are no longhouses, no furrows, no stone walls, not even a dry place to put your feet—when you step on it, muddy water immediately seeps in through the seams of your boots, cold and sticky, holding your feet firmly to the ground, as if this land is telling visitors in its own way: it's easy to come in, but hard to leave.

The refugees stopped in their tracks, and no one spoke first. Old Kerrigan squatted down, grabbed a handful of mud, smelled it, his expression unchanged, threw the mud away, stood up, and said nothing.

Martha clutched her husband's clothes, her voice low:

"My lord... is this our new home?"

Otto jumped off the oxcart, his boots sinking into the mud with a dull thud. He didn't turn to look at her expression, but simply said calmly:

"It's wasteland now, but next autumn there will be a stone fortress here."

"The wind is picking up! A summer downpour!" old farmer Matt cried out in alarm. "If we don't find shelter, people will catch a fever and die tonight!"

The dark clouds on the horizon were pressing down overhead, the wind carried heavy moisture, and the withered grass was bent and twisted.

"Everyone, pull out your tools and get moving!"

Otto's voice cleaved through the chaos of the crowd.

"Matt, take some men and clear the grass off the highlands, then spread lime to kill the insects! Old Kerrigan, take the hunters to the forest to cut down the thickest pine trees! Pollifer, spread out the tarpaulin and cover all the seeds and ironware!"

He took off his chainmail, wearing only a coarse linen undershirt, picked up his newly bought broad-bladed axe, and was the first to rush towards the woods on the slope.

When the lord himself swung the first axe, no one dared to complain anymore.

The dull thud of an iron axe splitting hardwood echoed across the wilderness. The rain came, first a few drops, then a real downpour, pounding on the grass and earth, on Otto's bare back, drowning out all sound. Everyone worked in the downpour, heads down, no time to look up, no time to speak, only hands and feet.

When the first drop of rain hit Otto's forehead, a very simple single-slope thatched shed and wooden shelter was barely erected, with an oilcloth covering the top and stones securing the four corners.

Fourteen people were crammed into a shed of less than thirty square feet. The torrential rain poured down, pounding against the tarpaulin and straw roof with a deafening roar. The air inside the shed was filled with the hot breath of the fourteen soaked people, a mixture of cheap tobacco, damp wool, and sweat, but also the smell of hot porridge—the kind of smell that could suddenly evoke memories of a distant, cared-for evening, a memory that was hard to pinpoint, but was stirred up by this pot of salty porridge, warming the chest for a moment before dissipating.

The refugees gulped down hot soup from their chipped earthenware bowls, no one speaking. The firelight danced on their faces, baking them all into a uniform dark orange hue.

Otto sat on the supply crate, not drinking the porridge, twirling the iron ring in his right hand, waiting for Pollifer to finish keeping the accounts.

"Fourteen people, two oxen, one heavy plow. Land foundation: one land deed. Cash on hand: six gold dragons. Today's consumption: eight pounds of black bread, two pounds of dried beans, one salted fish. At the current rate of consumption, the food reserves can only last for twenty-eight days."

After Polyver finished carving those lines, he looked up at Otto.

"Twenty-eight days." Otto put the ring back on.

"Yes, sir."

"Just write it down."

Late at night, the heavy rain turned into a fine drizzle.

As the people in the shed fell into a deep sleep from exhaustion, Otto quietly got up, draped a soaked wool blanket over himself, and stepped into the darkness.

Using his hunter's night vision, he avoided the mud pits and came to the old elm tree at the edge of the river bend. There was a stone slab covered with fallen leaves on one side of the tree roots. He squatted down, brushed away the decaying leaves with both hands, and his fingertips touched the stone slab—it was cold, hard, and had a thin mark on its surface from when he had made it before.

He did not move the stone slab.

He simply pressed his right palm firmly against the cold stone, remaining still. The rain pattered softly on the branches of the old elm tree, one light, even drop after another, striking the back of his hand and the stone.

The tin box was right under the stone slab, right in his palm, right on this land where he was still nothing.

He squatted there for a while, then stood up, gathered the fallen leaves back onto the stone slab, tamped them down, and turned to walk back to the shed.