Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 115: The Vow in the Mud and the Old Dog's Business

The early spring rain had just stopped in the latter half of the night, but the sky over Blue Fork Hanoi Fort still looked like a gray cloth soaked with dirty water, pressing down on people's heads.

On the edge of the inner fortress, on the black mud ground that had long been frozen solid by countless feet and ore carts, a damp, cold smell mixed with rust, horse manure, and strong lime water permeated the air.

Beneath that enormous birch tree, long since dried up and died from the sour smoke of the blast furnace, no silk carpets symbolizing honor were laid out, nor were expensive Mill spices lit.

One hundred Iron Oath Regiment soldiers, clad in semi-new steel plate armor, stood solemnly in the biting cold wind, like an absolutely silent black iron forest.

Three heavy cowhide war drums were placed at the rear of the formation. Although no one was playing them at the moment, the oppressive feeling accumulated over the years from the constant grinding of flesh by the drumbeats still made the surrounding air feel viscous.

John Mudd stood at the very front of this steel array.

This 37-year-old veteran, who is at the peak of his physical fitness and combat experience, took off his old chainmail that he had worn for more than ten years and was covered in blood and grease for the first time today.

He changed into a faded linen robe without any family crest.

That was the most presentable garment that Pollifer had found at the bottom of the storeroom, and it looked a little tight on Mudd's broad, thick shoulders.

Mudd's face was expressionless. In those gray eyes that had seen betrayal and death for years, only a stiff solemnity remained.

"Kneel down."

Otto Hohenzollern stood on the rough stone steps beneath the birch tree, his voice steady.

He wasn't wearing any fancy velvet clothing, just a thick, dark gray woolen overcoat for warmth and without any emblems.

But Otto's body remained motionless in the mud, like an iron nail.

"thump."

Mud simply knelt down on one knee. His knee was in the frozen, hard mud, and the muddy water soaked through his linen trousers, but he didn't even flinch.

Otto extended his right hand and grasped the standard steel longsword at his waist, its hilt blackened by sweat and devoid of any jewels.

"Zheng—"

The blade scraped against the hardwood-lined scabbard, producing a sharp sound.

On this empty, oppressive muddy ground, the sound was more jarring than any sacred hymn. Then, the sword rested smoothly on Muld's broad right shoulder.

"John, son of the Maud family."

Otto's voice echoed in the silent clearing. There was no fluctuation of emotion in it.

"Will you swear an oath in the name of both the old and the new gods to be my loyal knight? To answer my call on the battlefield and offer your counsel at the council?"

Mude slightly raised his head.

In this muddy place, there were no monks anointed with holy oil, no seven-pointed stars, and no all-night vigil in the sanctuary.

But this simple and pragmatic ceremony gave him the greatest legal dignity.

His ancestral royal bloodline, which had been exiled for thousands of years, did not need to completely bow down to the Andal Seven, who had destroyed them.

I swear.

Mudd's voice was hoarse, as if it were being rubbed on sandpaper, and each word was squeezed out from between his clenched teeth.

"I will draw my sword for you; your enemy is my enemy. I will serve you until my death."

Otto slightly turned his wrist, moving the heavy steel blade to Muld's left shoulder and tapping it lightly with steady hand.

"Then, in the name of Baron of the Hohenzollern family, I accept your allegiance."

Otto sheathed his sword expressionlessly.

"I will grant you food and lodging, land and legal protection. Arise, Sir John Mudd, Knight of Willowwood."

The old mercenary took a deep breath of the air, which was filled with the stench of earth, and slowly stood up, using the strength of his thigh muscles.

The mud on his knees dripped into the puddle.

From that moment on, he was no longer a tool for killing, paid to be discarded at any time. He was the first vassal of the Hohenzollern family to possess a legitimate fief.

The ceremony ended. There was no celebratory banquet.

The lifespan of a miniature empire is precisely calculated in terms of the loss of every ounce of output, leaving no room for any unnecessary pomp and circumstance.

Outside the accounting room on the first floor of the stone tower, where sunlight never shines.

The head butler, Pollifer, stood expressionless behind the rough wooden table, flipping through a thick, yellowish-brown register.

Sir Maud

Pollifer pushed up his cold, brass-rimmed glasses, his voice like dry abacus beads clattering together, showing no trace of awe due to the other party's promotion.

"Besides the thirty cavalry and infantrymen originally stationed in Liulin who remain under your command, the eight hundred and twenty refugees recently gathered on the southern slope have all been registered in the Liulin mining area this morning."

Polliver picked up the heavy register with both hands and handed it to Mudd in a businesslike manner.

"The minimum daily rations for these 820 people, as well as the estimated monthly losses due to injuries and illnesses caused by heavy physical labor, have been marked in red at the end of the roster."

Pollifer raised his head, his eyes revealing absolute numerical rationality.

"Starting from the first day of next month, headquarters needs to see the full amount of pig iron ore output corresponding to the labor force on the roster."

"The raw ore will be delivered to the blast furnace in the inner fort without missing a single truckload."

Mude grabbed the roster.

He didn't leave immediately, but stood under the cold eaves outside the stone tower. His rough left hand pressed hard on a rough wooden pendant hidden deep inside his underwear through his clothes.

In Pollifer's eyes, these 820 people were nothing more than a cold arithmetic problem.

Everyone knows that this is a massive machine he uses to fulfill his quotas and earn real money.

Once he has accumulated a 10% profit, he will hire the safest merchant ship in Mil to bring back his thirteen-year-old son who was left behind in the Essos slums.

"Just hang in there a little longer, you little rascal."

Old Mudd gritted his teeth in the cold wind.

Mude strode into the rain, turned and mounted the tall warhorse clad in a steel visor.

An hour later.

Footsteps echoed from the muddy path on the outer edge of the south slope.

Mudd put on the old chainmail that reeked of blood again.

He led thirty fully armed cavalrymen, escorting a large group of eight hundred ragged civilians, onto the muddy official road leading to the Liulin mining area.

The cold wind of early spring swept through the procession like blades, and the refugees shivered in the knee-deep mud.

Several elderly and weak people, who were dizzy from hunger, had just slowed down when they were immediately stabbed in the back with long spears by cavalrymen patrolling on both sides, causing them to let out cries of pain.

Mud sat on his horse, looking down at the gaunt-faced "people," his gray eyes devoid of any emotion.

His fiefdom had no fertile farmland, only deep, dark iron mines.

"Hurry up! If we don't reach Willow Grove before dark, everyone will forfeit their tonight's wheat porridge rations!"

Mud roared coldly, his whip cracking loudly in mid-air.

And far behind them.

The top of that towering gray stone tower on the south bank of the Blue Fork River.

William Charlton stood quietly in front of the narrow skylight.

The chilling rain of early spring blew in, pelting his pale face, which was devoid of any extraneous expression.

He strained his way over the gray stone wall, watching the old soldier named John Mudd, leading eight hundred living assets, marching in a grand procession towards the territory that was entirely his own.

William's right hand slowly reached for the hilt of the sword at his waist, and the ancient crest of his name as the heir to the Charlton family came to mind.

Those were originally his castle and territory.

But at this moment, when he watched as Otto legally conjured a new knight lord out of thin air with a ledger filled with numbers and a few oaths, William felt a chill run down his spine.

And at the end of William's cold gaze.

The rain in the direction of Liulin became even heavier.

John Mudd rode at the head of his warhorse, his old chainmail soaked by the wind and rain.

He never looked back at the gray stone tower that had granted him power. Instead, he faced the cold wind and, with his eight hundred living "family businesses," walked into the fir forest.