Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 83: The Tears of a Dead Tree and the Peeling Knife

The stone walls of Crowtree City are perpetually permeated with a dark red dampness.

That enormous, thousand-year-old white heartwood tree resembled a skeleton forgotten by the gods in the heart of the Riverlands. Its pale branches looked particularly menacing in the spring rain.

The human face carved on the tree trunk by our ancestors, distorted by the passage of time, is now flowing down two streams of black water from its sunken eye sockets.

It was like some kind of silent and decaying mourning.

Lord Tytos Blackwood stood in the shade under the tree.

His black cloak was soaked through with mud and water, and he held a black wooden box that had just been pulled up from the lower reaches of the Blue Fork River and was swollen from being soaked in water.

That was a "return gift" from Otto Hohenzollern.

The head inside the box had been deformed by salt and lime, its muscles shrunken into an eerie purplish-black. Only the bulging eyeballs remained fixedly staring at the sky.

"Sir, this is the sixth one."

Brynden, his trusted knight, stood to one side, his voice as deep as the grinding of a millstone in a cellar.

"Including the fifteen who went missing in the woods, we've already lost almost two squads of elite soldiers on that mudflat by the Blue Fork River. That peasant guy named Otto has no intention of talking to us about noble etiquette."

Tethos did not speak.

He stretched out his withered, root-like fingers and gently ran them across the edge of the box, where a bright red wax seal bearing the emblem of a double-headed eagle and a leaping fish was applied.

That was the king's favor, and also the Duke of Horst's indulgence.

"Rules are made for those who still want a reputation."

Tethos's voice was hoarse, carrying a chilling stillness.

"But that young man, all he sees are the ledgers. He's using my blood to fertilize his land, and his salt to buy the loyalty of the Brecken family."

He turned around, his boots sinking into the soft, humus-covered soil, and walked back to his study.

Unfold a yellowed parchment.

"Write a letter to the Twins."

Tethos picked up his pen, the tip making a harsh scraping sound as it scratched across the paper.

"Don't send it to that fool Raymond. Send it directly to Stevieren. Tell him that his good nephew is secretly digging a silver well in the Blue Fork River that's enough to buy half the Riverlands."

"If he doesn't step in, this well will become a graveyard for the Frey family."

He paused.

"And tell him, by the way, that the missing winter linen is now covering Baron Bluefork's condemned prisoners. Let the Frey family's hounds go and sniff their own stench."

---

Twin Rivers City, East Tower.

The air here always carries an indelible fishy smell and the fermented smell of damp wool.

Steve Renfrey sat behind a large oak table, his eyes, which were squinting under his eye bags, fixed on the secret letter sent by Tytus Blackwood.

As the heir to the Frey family, he is already over sixty years old.

The long wait taught him to view the world like a stingy moneylender.

"My lord, Raymond has replied that more than half of this month's seed and oxen consumption has been lost due to the heavy snow."

A manager stood to the side, trembling.

"But Victor from the city of Haijiang said that he saw farmers at the Blue Fork River who, though shivering from hunger, all had money in their hands."

Steve closed the letter and let out a short, cold snort.

"Raymond's a fool, but he's not foolish enough to risk his whole family's lives to fill a peasant's hole. Unless..."

He tapped the wax seal on the tabletop lightly with his fingertips.

"That peasant gave him more than the old marquis did."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window flows the turbulent Green Fork River, and the two giant towers, like a pair of silent misers, block the north-south waterway.

"Send men to the Blue Fork River. Do not bring troops, but a cartload of fine silk and two scholars skilled in accounting."

Steve turned his head, his eyes revealing a ruthless quality typical of a businessman.

"In name, it was because Madam Mary missed her homeland and sent her brothers from the clan to deliver some spring clothing. In reality, I want them to count out exactly how many levels of that stone tower there is, how many cellars there are, and how many iron pots there are for cooking porridge."

He tightened his cuffs and lowered his voice.

"If Raymond is really feeding wolves, then I'll have to snatch the wolf's chain from Raymond and tie it to the leg of my chair."

---

Blue Fork River Fortress, the slaughterhouse behind the drill ground.

The spring rain soaked the soil here into a dark red paste. The air was filled with the pungent smell of quicklime mixed with rotting flesh.

Gareth held a crescent-shaped skinning knife in his hand.

The handle of the knife was so slippery from being soaked in grease and blood that he had to wrap it with another layer of coarse linen.

On the muddy ground in front of him lay six mangled warhorse carcasses.

These horses died yesterday when they were startled by the lime powder ambush, crashed into the stone wall, broke their necks, or had their lungs burned.

"Peel off the skin, but don't break the edges. Cole is waiting to use these hides to make padding for the new armor."

Otto's voice came from behind, cold and flat.

Gareth did not turn around.

He crouched beside the corpse, the tip of his knife trembling as he sliced ​​through the hide of the warhorse's neck. Warm blood mixed with the lingering alkaline smell sprayed onto his hand.

"Sir, they...they were helping us carry stones yesterday."

Gareth's voice was hoarse.

"They did a good job. In the story, the horses that did a good job should be buried on a sunny hillside."

"In the story, you should be wearing sparkling armor and receiving flowers from ladies in the hall."

Otto strode over to Gareth, the metal soles of his boots striking the bluestone with a cold, sharp sound.

"But in my territory, it's three thousand pounds of meat and six hides of leather that can be used to protect against arrows. Those four hundred and fifty farmers who haven't had enough to eat are waiting for this meat to get through the upcoming spring planting."

"What you call 'dignity' is worthless in their stomachs."

Otto bent down, picked up a broken piece of horse mane from the blood-stained mud with his right hand, and casually tossed it into the brazier.

"Garres, put away your unnecessary pity. If you think skinning horses is too cruel, I can give you another task."

He looked into Gareth's bloodshot eyes.

"Go and bring out those five Blackwood prisoners whose jaws have been dislocated. Since they won't reveal the location of Raventree City's outposts in the south, then go and help Pollifer pluck their fingernails one by one."

"You choose one?"

Gareth's pupils contracted sharply.

He gripped the peeler tightly, his knuckles turning bluish-purple from the excessive force.

"I won't... I won't do that."

He gritted his teeth, each word seeming to be forced out of his throat.

"Then let's continue peeling your skin."

Otto straightened up, his eyes showing not a trace of surprise.

"In this world, you have only two choices: either be the one wielding the knife, or be the flesh lying in the mud being skinned alive. Since you have sworn allegiance to Hohenzollern, you must learn how to carve a way out of rotten flesh."

Otto turned and left.

Gareth knelt in the mud, listening to the receding, rhythmic footsteps.

He looked at his hands, which were covered in blood.

The burning sensation of the lime powder still lingered on my fingertips.

He lowered his head and sliced ​​the knife into the flesh of the warhorse's back.

"Sizzle—"

That was the sound of fibers being torn, so crisp it made him want to vomit.

---

Meanwhile, on the other side of the territory, Pollifer, with William Charlton, was counting a new batch of raw silver in that hidden storeroom.

"Write that down, William."

Pollifer pointed to the silver ingots that gleamed with a faint light.

"This batch will not go into the main tent. We will melt it down into the finest pieces, put it into Lady Maria's flour tin, and send it to Stonehold."

William took the charcoal pencil and quickly made notes on the wooden board.

He didn't ask why he did it.

"The master said that once this batch of silver is used to buy warhorses, you won't need to keep records there anymore."

Pollifer glanced at the boy, a cold smile playing on his lips.

"You will have your own Dornish steed. You will then learn how to lead those who want to audit the accounts to that dead swamp to the south on horseback."

William put down his pen and looked up.

He looked in the direction of the stone tower.

The black and white eagle flag looked heavy and oppressive under the dark clouds.

The spring rain finally intensified at dusk.