Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 44: The Leaping Fish Arrives and the Cold Grant of a Fiefdom

The thick fog of late autumn pressed heavily on the surface of the Lancha River.

A deep-draft river warship broke through the grayish-white mist, its waterline, reinforced with cast iron ramming at the dilapidated dock hastily constructed from old elm wood, hurtling towards it without slowing down.

"Bang!"

With a dull thud as timber broke, several wooden stakes along the edge of the dock snapped. The warship came to a steady stop beside the muddy tidal flats. A huge Tully family banner, embroidered with red and blue waves and silver leaping fish, fluttered in the autumn wind.

Clang!

The heavy iron chains connecting the gangplank were lowered. Heavy halberdiers, clad in red and blue wavy forged armor, were the first to disembark in practiced tactical formations. Their boots clattered rhythmically on the icy, muddy ground.

They ignored the refugees standing at the edge of the muddy ground, clutching rusty pitchforks and sharpened sticks. The halberdiers' gazes swept across the crowd, coldly fixed on the half-built, seemingly crumbling stone tower.

A middle-aged knight wearing a scarlet fox fur cloak and gleaming deerskin riding boots stepped off the ramp at a leisurely pace.

Sir Lyman Darryl. A confidant of the Duke of Tully, the Darryl family holds a significant position in the Riverlands.

Knight Lyman stopped at one end of the log walkway, not taking another step forward. He looked at Otto, who stood in the shadow of the stone tower, his eyes cold and critical beneath the half-faced steel helmet inlaid with silver fragments.

Otto tugged at the worn gray cloak draped over his shoulders. He walked step by step toward the envoy, his feet sinking into the hardened mud that had frozen over the night before.

Torun and sixteen other veterans, barely able to stand upright, instinctively tried to follow, but were firmly blocked ten paces away by two rows of Tully halberds. The tips of the spears gleamed coldly in the mist.

"Benliu City doesn't care what means you used to seize this mudflat."

Sir Lyman did not take out any letter or scroll. He pulled his gloved right hand from under his fox fur cloak, his knuckles tapping casually on the crosshairs of his sword at his waist.

"But the Duke's desk is not a mortuary for you to display corpses from a bad battle."

Lyman's voice carried through the cold mist, completely flat.

"The Earl of Tettos of Blackwood has accused you of building a false fortress and gathering bandits. Old Ward of the Twins claims that his patrol boat was attacked by you without provocation in these waters."

Lyman looked at Otto's scarred face.

"What angered the Duke the most was Earl Jason of Sea Frontier City. He submitted an account book and demanded that troops be sent to bring your enclave, along with the stone tower on it, back under the direct control of Sea Frontier City. He wants to annex this place."

Lyman's gaze was like a hook, trying to dig out terror from Otto's bloodless face.

"In the deep-water compartment behind me, there are two sets of steel shackles. Boy, before you, this pile of broken stones, are flattened by the angry lords, the Duke has given you the last half hour of time."

Lyman tapped his sword sheath against his leg armor.

"Tell me, what does Riverrun have to say to those lords?"

The wind, carrying shards of ice, swept across the water. Pollifer took a deep breath behind him, the walnut wood memo pad creaking in his hand.

Otto stood before the Duke's envoy's sword hilt without even blinking.

"Lord Lyman. The lords' charges only serve to cover up their greed for the Blue Fork River silver mines."

Otto's voice was hoarse, but in the deathly still morning, every word struck the frozen ground with clarity.

"His Excellency's eyes are not on the tricks among the lords, but on what this river can bring to the treasury of Flowing City."

Otto raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.

Pollifer, who had been waiting at the back, immediately directed six farmers to laboriously push three dilapidated wooden carts out of the darker part of the longhouse. On the carts were three huge, heavy wooden crates wrapped in layers of black tanned cowhide.

The wooden crates were placed heavily on a rammed track made of quicklime and frozen soil.

Otto stepped forward himself, drew his short sword, and cut the leather rope and the thick iron bolt.

"Bang."

The lid of the box fell to the ground.

The autumn morning sunlight was bleak. But the three hundred pounds of high-purity raw silver ingots, neatly stacked without any concealment in the box, still emitted a cold and dazzling luster.

Knight Lyman Darryl's fingers, which were tapping the hilt of his sword, suddenly stopped.

His deep eyes scanned back and forth between the rows of pure silver ingots stacked like city bricks and Otto's bloodless face.

Three hundred pounds of silver. Silver that was dug out of an obscure swamp.

Lyman didn't speak immediately. He looked at the silver ingots.

Otto straightened up under the somber scrutiny.

"When this stone fortress was being developed, a silver residue was discovered in the deep rock veins. Previously, due to the harassment caused by war and bandits, we were forced to use refined salt as a cover to ensure the mining operation."

Otto looked into Lyman's eyes.

"As a subject of the Riverlands, I am willing to send the full thirty percent of the net profit from this primary mine, under the name of 'Riverlands Defense Tribute,' directly and quarterly into Duke Horst's war reserve."

Lyman looked at Otto.

The stern, mocking face of Sir Lyman finally relaxed. He looked at Otto, a hint of apprehension in his eyes.

Sir Lyman raised the ancient parchment scroll, wrapped in a sable fur pouch and sealed tightly with two large, thick sheets of gold lacquer and a silver leaping trout coat of arms, with one hand. His voice suddenly rose, regaining the solemn tone he used when reading imperial edicts.

"Otto Hohenzollern, kneel down!"

The surrounding farmers, refugees, and the sixteen old soldiers all knelt down in the mud at the sound of that long shout.

Otto did not hesitate. He slowly gathered his cloak and struck his right knee on the hard, frosty ground.

"By order of the highest ruler of the Riverlands, Lord Horst Tully, the seal and edict."

Lyman crushed the gold paint and unrolled the scroll.

"In recognition of your merit in repelling the Ironborn and protecting the river defenses, the Duke hereby grants your formal release from your affiliation as a trustee knight in the Sea Frontier City district."

"From the date of this imperial edict, the entire area of ​​this section of the river valley and its surrounding mudflats, spanning twenty li, formerly unnamed, shall be placed under the direct jurisdiction of Benliu City!"

"By the ancient law followed by both the Duke and the Iron Throne, Otto Hohenzollern is hereby granted the title of 'Baron of the Blue Fork'! His territories shall be inherited by his descendants!"

Lyman's voice echoed across the cold river.

"Your family is granted the following privileges: to construct defensive stone walls and build fortresses. You are also permitted to establish a criminal court in this territory and maintain a standing force of one or two hundred guards. Anyone who infringes upon your territory shall be considered to have infringed upon the Duke of Tully."

Lyman handed the reel to Otto.

Otto stretched out his hands. He took the heavy roll of parchment.

"Your abacus is as useful as a knife, Baron."

Lyman Darryl did not send the heavily armed halberdiers to demonstrate their intimidation. He ordered the three chests of silver to be carried onto the gangplank and turned to head towards the cabin. But he stopped before stepping onto the deck.

He looked down at the young man in black robes who had just stood up.

"I have a personal piece of advice for you, Lord Otto."

Lyman's voice was very low.

"You snapped the hand that the Twins reached out to you. Now you hold this document, using silver to forcibly pry open your former master, Earl Jason's, grip on the river. He wanted to take your mines, but you changed masters in front of everyone."

Lyman looked at Otto's expressionless face.

"Don't think the Duke can shield you from all the hidden arrows in this desolate north. The snow is about to fall. If your stone tower is cut off from its supply lines by those old nobles you've plundered before this long winter, or if it's ripped open by the hidden soldiers of the surrounding powerful families..."

The large ship dropped its mooring line and set sail downstream with the swift current.

"Flowing City will never send a single soldier to rescue you from this snowfield. You must defend this enclave with your own sword."

Otto stood on the log ice track.

Through a crack in the last wisp of cloud on the horizon, the first snowflake of early winter landed on his long gray woolen overcoat.

Fifty paces behind, under a windbreak, among the group of refugees who had just found peace, several seriously ill and wounded men, weakened by lack of food, let out muffled coughs in the cold wind.

Otto didn't turn around. He didn't look at Pollifer, who was still trembling with fear beside him. His gaze was coldly fixed on the earthen pit that was emitting a sour, grayish odor.

"Open the position."

Otto's voice was hoarse.

"Replace with iron."