Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 111: The Seal of the Contract and the Old King in the Mud

In early spring of 293 AC, the snow in the Blue Fork Valley had just melted, revealing a layer of black, rotten mud that had been frozen all winter and emitted a pungent odor.

In Willow Grove City, thirty miles west of the Blue Fork River, the air had the stale and damp feel typical of old aristocratic territories.

As an ancient family that had been rooted in this place for hundreds of years, the Legg family's heritage was originally enough to make them look down on the newly promoted country barons.

However, during the Greyjoy Rebellion four years ago and the subsequent turmoil around Blackwood, several important Legge estates were looted by stragglers taking advantage of the chaos, and even their winter food supplies were burned to the ground.

In order to survive that desolate winter, the head of the family at the time made a decision that he believed was a sure thing.

He used a hilly area and fir forest rich in iron ore on the edge of his territory as collateral to borrow eight hundred gold dragons from Baron Hohenzollern, who had suddenly become rich.

In the old viscount's view, this was nothing more than a respectable "transfer" among nobles.

When the autumn harvest comes, or when he finds an excuse to renege on the debt, that forest will still belong to the Legg family.

But he clearly underestimated how malicious the "Piercing Man's" scheme was.

The IOU, stamped with the notary seal of the scholars of Haijiang City, stipulated a harsh repayment period and a compound interest rate as high as 50%.

Now, the deadline has arrived.

"Bang!"

Gareth was thrown out of the gates of Willow Grove like a tattered sack by two Legge family guards dressed in green willow cloaks.

The tall white knight rolled twice on the muddy road and got up covered in mud.

His once faded cloak was now stained with horse manure and dirty water.

"Go back and tell that nouveau riche who's scraping his way up from the mud!"

Sir Ronald Legg, the most hot-tempered heir of the Legg family, stood on the city wall, brandishing a torn copy of a parchment IOU and roaring.

"Not an inch of land in Willow Grove City, not even a blade of grass, will ever fall into the hands of a country bumpkin!"

"Let him take his stinking golden dragons and go feed the fish in the Narrow Sea!"

Gareth did not draw his sword.

He merely wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, glanced at the tightly closed oak gate with a complicated expression, then mounted his horse and galloped off toward the Blue Fork River.

He knew that what he was bringing back was not humiliation, but a legal and incomparably sharp butcher's knife.

Two days later, at the foot of the iron ore mountain on the east side of Liulin City.

One hundred fully armored Iron Oath Regiment soldiers stood silently in the early spring chill, like a block of black iron.

On their flanks were forty disabled archers carrying Mil crossbows, and thirty mounted infantrymen personally commanded by John Mudd.

There were no shouts, no chaotic footsteps.

On a gentle slope opposite them, Sir Ronald Legg rode a tall thoroughbred, looking down at the "collection squad" with disdain.

To uphold the dignity of the old aristocracy, Ronald gathered the last vestiges of Willowwood City's resources.

Twenty-five heavily armored knights, clad from head to toe in steel plate armor, and two hundred regular guards armed with spears and kite shields.

"A bunch of scum who don't even have noble coats of arms."

Ronald removed his faceplate, drew the exquisite steel longsword that had been passed down for three generations, and raised it high.

"Let them see what a real knight's charge is! Crush them!"

"For Willow Grove City!"

Twenty-five heavily armored knights roared in unison, their warhorses' hooves slamming into the ground like muffled thunder.

The heavy cavalry formation began to accelerate, carrying overwhelming momentum, and charged violently down the gentle slope toward the Blue Fork River formation.

That was a classic tactic that Westeros had inherited for a thousand years, a terrifying crushing force belonging to the highest class of military power.

But William Charlton, standing in front of the Iron Oath, didn't even lift his eyelids.

William wore a well-fitting black lieutenant's armor.

He looked at the heavily armored knights who were rapidly enlarging in his line of sight, like watching a group of stupid pigs speeding towards a cliff.

"Fifty paces," William's voice rang out coldly.

"Raise it!"

Forty crossbowmen simultaneously leveled their Mil heavy crossbows.

"Thirty steps. Release."

There were no fancy launching maneuvers. Accompanied by a piercing "bang," forty heavily armor-piercing barbed arrows shot out at a speed imperceptible to the naked eye.

"Pfft! Clang!"

Faced with the penetrating power of the Mil crossbow, the plate armor that the Legg family was so proud of was as fragile as thin planks.

The seven or eight knights at the forefront were pierced through along with their horses, and their bodies fell into the mud with miserable cries.

The heavy cavalry charge collapsed instantly.

"kill!"

The two hundred infantrymen of Willow Grove City, though terrified at the sight, charged forward in grief and indignation under the command of their supervising officer, attempting to overwhelm the group of peasants without noble insignia with their numerical superiority.

They were greeted by the dull "thump! thump!" sound of three heavy cowhide war drums.

The one hundred Iron Oath soldiers did not retreat a single step, nor did they utter a single shout.

John Mudd dismantled the thirty most elite veterans of the backless formation and, like driving steel bars, forcefully embedded them into the front row and the edges of the phalanx.

"Thump!"

With a resounding drumbeat that pierced the battlefield, the veterans in the front row stepped out with their left feet in perfect unison, like an iron wall.

The new recruits, caught in the middle of the ranks, couldn't hear any commands amidst the deafening sounds of battle, but they didn't need to.

As the drumbeats fell, the veterans in front, behind, to the left, and to the right used their heavy shields and strong shoulders to violently slam and crush the new recruits' bodies.

Under the combined punishment of the military and the death stares of the veterans, the new recruits, out of fear of being trampled to death if they fell behind, could only instinctively move forward in rhythm with the formation.

"Thump! Thump!"

The drums beat rapidly.

The emotionless iron wall suddenly unleashed its deadly fangs.

One hundred steel spears, each two zhang long, moved forward, retracted, and then moved forward again with mechanical precision, echoing the drumbeats.

The Legg family infantry crashed into this iron wall driven by war drums and veteran discipline as easily as tofu hitting a blade.

The longswords left only white marks on the Iron Oath Legion's plate armor, while the dense spear tips pierced the enemy's throat and internal organs.

In just a quarter of an hour, as the last garrison soldier of Willow Grove City cried out and threw down his weapon to flee for his life, the muddy ground beneath the iron ore mine was completely stained dark red with blood.

The battle is over.

Half an hour later, Otto Hohenzollern rode a black horse, stepping over pools of blood and the severed limbs of knights, and slowly arrived at the entrance to the iron mine.

He did not look at the body of Sir Ronald, who had been dragged from under the dead horse, already dead and with his eyes wide open in death.

A few surviving officials of Willow Grove knelt tremblingly in the blood, holding aloft a surrender document bearing the seal of Viscount Legge.

They thought this "Piercing Lord" would slaughter the place clean, just like in the legends.

But Otto took the document, his voice as calm as still water.

"The Hohenzollern family respects the laws of the Iron Throne and will never seize another's castle."

Otto looked at the stewards kneeling and trembling.

"Sir Ronald violently resisted his legitimate debt and died because of his arrogance. The iron ore mine and fir forest in this contract, as collateral, shall be under our jurisdiction indefinitely until you have repaid the principal and interest."

After saying that, Otto turned his head and looked at John Mudd, who was wiping the blood off his short sword with a rag.

"Mood."

Otto suddenly drew his sword from his waist.

"You forged the sharpest spear for Blue Fork River and reclaimed my debt. This land is too far away; I need a fierce enough dog to guard this property for me."

Otto pointed the tip of his sword at the vast fir forest and iron ore pit.

"Today, in the name of Baron Hohenzollern, I hereby permanently grant you the right to administer and garrison this 'Willow Grove Mining Area'."

The old mercenary John Mudd's usually emotionless eyes narrowed slightly upon hearing those words.

A veteran of the Golden Company who spent half his life wandering the continent of Essos, licking the blade for a few gold coins.

That descendant, whose blood flowed with the blood of the ancient royal family of the Riverlands, yet who had lost all his homeland like a wild dog.

"thump."

John Mudd knelt heavily on one knee in the mud stained with the blood of the Legg family.

His chest heaved violently, his fingers digging deep into the soil, as if he wanted to hold this ancestral land tightly in his hands.

Even if it's just a nominal mortgage, for a veteran who has lost everything, it's the first cornerstone for rebuilding his glory in Westeros.

"The sword of the Mudd family will forever bleed for the Double-Headed Eagle!"

The old mercenary's voice was hoarse and fervent as he lowered his head and reverently kissed the counterweight ball at the end of Otto's sword hilt.

However, at the edge of this harmonious scene between ruler and subject, William Charlton stands quietly in the shadows.

He looked at John Mudd kneeling on the ground, and at the rich mine.

A seed, more mad than ever before, took root and sprouted completely in the boy's heart.

He vowed that the next time the lord drew his bestowed sword, it would be pointed at his territory, William Charlton's.