Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 87: The Embers of the Old Gods and the Cracked Stone Wall

A sweet, fishy smell wafted from the spring mud.

That was the melting snow seeping into the lime pit, softening the rotting flesh buried there last winter.

Toren stood at the edge of the training ground, his boots sinking into the sticky red mud, and every step he took required considerable effort.

He held the yellowed bone whistle in his hand, but his eyes were fixed on the birch forest to the south, which had been ceded away and then forcibly moved back to the boundary marker by the adults.

There used to be a small, undeveloped tree there, but during last year's boundary demarcation, that tree now belongs to the Brightwood family.

The veteran felt as if a lump of frozen iron had been stuffed into his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe.

In the past two weeks, more and more merchants have been coming in from the south, bypassing the blockade. They bring back not only scattered furs, but also rumors that are more chilling than the spring cold.

The men whispered around the campfire in the outer quarters that the young baron of Blue Fork River was a scoundrel rejected by God.

"They say that when Lucas Blackwood died, his blood was splattered on the seven-pointed star."

A traveling herbalist, emboldened by alcohol last night, pointed and gestured at the farmers around him.

"In Fair City, Hohenzollern hired monks from the Sanctuary to use a method from the south to abruptly sever the reincarnation path of someone who believed in the Old Gods. In the Riverlands, this is called 'blood sacrifice to the heretics.'"

Toren was standing in the shadows, his hand almost crushing the hilt of his short sword.

He was a man from the North, and although he had left Winterfell many years ago, the reverence for the Hearttree in his bones could not be washed away.

He could tolerate Otto blinding the enemy with lime powder, and he could tolerate Otto forcing the proton to wash latrine buckets.

But he couldn't stand that his lord had stabbed the Old God in the back.

---

In the study at the bottom of the stone tower, the embers in the charcoal brazier emitted a faint warmth.

Otto Hohenzollern sat behind a hard wooden table, a quill pen in his right hand, annotating the spring planting roster presented by Polyver.

"Bang!"

The oak door was pushed open with a loud thud, crashing against the stone wall with a dull thud.

Toren strode in.

He wasn't wearing the fish-scale armor, but only a patched-up fur coat, the veins on his forehead throbbing with intense emotion.

He took the long sword from his waist and, due to excessive force, slammed it onto Otto's desk with a "clang".

"My lord, we must speak of that divine judgment." Toren's voice was low and hoarse, as if he had pebbles in his throat.

Otto didn't look up; the pen tip paused for a moment on the parchment, leaving a circular ink dot.

"That happened last year, Toren. A knight from Blackwood lost his life in the tournament, the sheriff of Seafront City signed the decree, and His Majesty the Duke acquiesced. Bringing it up now is a waste of today's time."

"That's blasphemy against the Old Gods!"

Toren roared suddenly, spitting onto Otto's sleeve.

"The men of Blackwood guard the Heart Tree. In the North, it's called 'the root of the bloodline'! You killed him, that was war; but you found a southern monk and declared him a bandit under the seven-pointed star… You're insulting those of us who swore oaths to the old tree!"

The veteran took a step closer, and for the first time, his gray-brown eyes revealed undisguised disappointment and apprehension towards Otto.

"My lord, I too swore allegiance to the old tree. Are you going to send some bell-wielding monk to tell me I'm unworthy to enter the kingdom of the gods when I die?"

Otto finally raised his head.

He showed no panic, no anger, only a cold clarity.

"Toren, which deity do you think pulled Martin back from the brink of death in the corridors of Pike Place City?"

Otto stood up. Although he was thinner than the veteran, the chill that seeped from his bones was like an invisible cold current that froze the restlessness in the study.

"In Fair City, if I don't call that monk, the disappearance of those fifteen rangers will become an open murder. Jason Mellist will come straight to my salt kiln with the halberdiers of Seafront City."

Otto walked up to Toren and pointed to the old wound on his chest.

"God can't protect your bones, but that stamped document can. If you feel that the judgment has soiled your eyes, then go and dig the moat to the south even deeper. Only when the wall is thick enough will you have the strength to talk to me about your faith here."

The veteran grabbed his longsword, didn't salute, turned and rammed open the door, leaving Otto with a stiff and resolute back view.

He had no choice.

---

Meanwhile, on the terrace of the main castle in Crowtree City, 120 miles to the south.

Lord Tytos Blackwood sat in a chair with a heavy black blanket covering his knees.

His sharp eyes were fixed on a scroll of secret letter in his hand.

It was from his informant in Riverrun—the results of the investigation into the disappearance of the fifteen Rangers at Bluefork, and the recently moved boundary marker.

"Not only did he not starve, he also retrieved the seeds. Now he's starting to use the 'Seven Gods' to humiliate our ancestors."

Tethos's voice was hoarse, like pebbles squeezed out from between his teeth.

He turned his head and looked at his eldest son, Brynden, who was standing in the shadows.

"This Hohenzollern is using Gareth's kindness to mask his poverty, and he's using the loyalty of those Northerners to guard his gates."

A sinister smile curled at the corners of Tethos's mouth.

"But he forgot that the hearts of those Northerners are rooted in the tree of the heart. If we light a few more fires in the forest and tell a few more stories about the 'massacre of the heretics,' his silent phalanx will split open on its own."

Tethos took a small black pouch, no bigger than a fingernail and sealed with lead, from his sleeve and handed it to Brinden.

"Since he doesn't follow the rules of the aristocracy, then we won't use judges to deal with him."

"Tethos said softly."

"Send someone to contact that boy who washes manure buckets at the Bluefork, William Charlton. Tell him I can help his father reclaim his lands, and even send him to King's Landing as a squire. All he has to do is sprinkle this into Otto's well when the next spring flood comes."

It wasn't poison inside, but several pieces of dried abscesses and scabs taken from the bodies of people who died of dysentery.

"I will show Hohenzollern that the Old Gods never punish with swords."

---

Meanwhile, at Blue Fork River Fortress, on the edge of the training ground.

Gareth was squatting in the mud, holding a rusty pair of iron shears, trimming the rotting flesh growing on the sole of a wounded farmer's foot.

The farmer groaned in pain, so Gareth stopped, took out half of the black bread he had saved from his pocket, and stuffed it into the farmer's hand.

"Bear with it, buddy. Once you're clean, sprinkle some adult lime powder on it, and you can go to the fields tomorrow."

Gareth said with a smile, his eyes bright.

He didn't notice that William Charlton, standing in the shadows of the corridor not far away, was staring at him with a strange look.

William gripped the black dagger at his waist tightly.

He had just overheard Torun and Otto arguing at the corner of the stone steps.

William turned his head and looked at the dark treeline to the south.

He remembered the slap his father gave him before he left, and the nights he struggled in the dung heap.

"William, what are you looking at?"

Gareth looked up and waved to the boy in the shadows.

"Come help me with this, it's too heavy."

William silently stepped forward and took the bucket.

His hands were very steady, so steady that they didn't look like those of a twelve-year-old child.

"My lord knight."

William spoke in a low voice, his tone carrying an unsettling calmness.

What do you think is least afraid of swords?

Gareth was stunned.

Looking at William's mud-covered, yet cruelly indifferent little face, a strange chill suddenly rose from the depths of his heart.

The spring rain finally intensified at this moment.

The spring waters of the Blue Fork River grew increasingly turbid, carrying nameless corpses and torn faith.

At the top of the stone tower, Otto extinguished the lights.

He stood by the window, feeling the malice surging in from all directions.

He knew that Toren's alienation was just the beginning.

But he gripped the iron ring tightly in his hand.