Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 108: The Lion's Shadow and the Silent Watch of Casterly Rock

Deep within Casterly Rock, in the lord's study reserved solely for the Guardians of the West, the finest smokeless incense burns year-round.

Tywin Lannister sat quietly on a large, carved, gold-plated wooden chair.

The ruthless and majestic Lion King, who controlled half of Westeros, was now staring at an object on his desk with his pale green eyes.

It was a ten-pound raw silver brick.

The silver brick was of excellent quality, but on its bottom, a dark pattern of a double-headed eagle with outstretched wings was deeply engraved with crude workmanship.

Beside the silver brick lay an unsigned parchment note with only a few words.

The study was quiet; Sir Kevan Lannister, standing to the side, could even hear his own soft breathing.

"The raw silver that Seagull Town sends to Lannisport every month to settle debts is of this purity. But the price is a full 30% higher than this silver brick."

Tywin finally spoke.

His voice was deep and authoritative, without the slightest hint of rage.

"Kevan. It seems that our treasurer in King's Landing is not only using the muddy waters of the Riverlands to wash the Iron Throne's account, but he has also reached into the treasury of Casterly Rock and taken the difference that should have been ours."

"Brother, could this be someone deliberately stirring things up?"

Kefon frowned slightly.

"A minor lord from the Riverlands, who doesn't even dare leave his name, comes with a piece of silver to sow discord between us and Petyr Baelish..."

"play off?"

Tywin gave the silver brick a cold glance.

"Petty Baelish is a fool who only cares about gold coins, so it's not surprising that he's trying to have his cake and eat it too."

"But this two-headed black eagle carved at the bottom is quite bold. Knowing that Little Finger is choking him, he dares to throw this bloody piece of flesh directly onto my table, hoping to use my hand to chop off Little Finger's claw."

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.

He never minded being used by a clever person, provided that the clever person was qualified enough and could bring greater benefits to Casterly Rock.

"Go tell Amory Lodge."

Tywin's tone was as if he were ordering someone to clear the weeds from the yard.

"Take a hundred cavalrymen to the Riverlands. Do not fly the Lannister banners, and do not wear cloaks with lion crests."

"Go and clean up that unsightly trash outside that two-headed eagle's camp. While you're at it, check if this 'new meat' has any tough bones."

The early spring night rain, mixed with unmelted ice and snow, pattered down on the southern slope of the Blue Fork River Valley.

The fifty mercenaries from Seagull Town were currently occupying the spacious wooden shed that originally belonged to the refugees.

A huge campfire blazed inside the wooden shed, and the sizzling sound of dripping grease from the roasting meat echoed through the embers.

Several half-drunk mercenaries were rolling dice, occasionally bursting into rude shouts and wild laughter.

They were completely unaware that, under the cover of the night rain, a hundred ghostly black figures had silently waded across the cold, shallow waters.

This cavalry unit did not carry torches or sound horns.

Their faces were covered with black iron armor, and their robes were smeared with black mud, like a pack of bloodthirsty beasts silently approaching in the night.

The two Seagull Town sentries who were urinating outside the wooden shed didn't even have time to react before they could draw their swords.

Two cold, sharp lights flashed in the darkness as the massive two-handed greatsword brutally severed their necks.

The headless corpse fell into the muddy water with a dull thud.

Then, the massacre began.

This was not an evenly matched battle; it was a one-sided massacre of unsuspecting mercenaries by a top-tier regular army.

"Enemy attack—!"

A piercing scream finally rang out from inside the wooden shed, only to be drowned out by the thunderous crash of warhorses smashing through the wooden planks.

The cavalry from the west charged into the camp, wielding their spears and heavy swords with the ruthlessness of harvesting wheat.

No survivors were left, and no unnecessary words were spoken.

They kicked burning firewood into the grease-stained tents, and in the towering flames, professionally and efficiently chopped up every Seagull Town mercenary who tried to resist or escape.

The southern slope campsite had been transformed into a hellish scene of screams and severed limbs.

And a few hundred steps away, behind a tightly closed gray stone gate.

Otto Hohenzollern stood on the high city wall.

The cold rain soaked his linen robe. He didn't light a torch, but quietly disappeared into the darkness, watching the burning camp below.

One hundred Iron Oath soldiers stood silently beneath the city wall, their crossbows fully drawn, the arrowheads gleaming with the cold light of death in the night.

Gareth stood beside Oto.

The white knight gripped the slippery battlements tightly with both hands, his knuckles turning white from the excessive force.

He looked at the towering flames and the mercenaries screaming in agony under the flames and blades, his eyes filled with indescribable shock.

Half an hour later, the screams from the south slope completely subsided.

Fifty mercenaries from Seagull Town were wiped out.

Their heads were skillfully chopped off by the Western soldiers and piled up like stones in the mud in the center of the camp.

The Western Frontier general leading the group (Amory Lodge) rode his heavily armored warhorse, treading on the blood and mangled limbs scattered on the ground, and slowly walked to the barricades of the gray stone wall.

He looked up and, through the rain, gazed at the blurry figure on the city wall.

Otto neither ordered the arrows to be fired nor spoke.

The gates were tightly shut, and the city walls showed no sign of panic, but they also displayed a solid defensive posture, ready to counterattack at any moment.

A cold, ambiguous laugh escaped from beneath the visor of the Western Border officer.

He turned his horse around, raised his blood-stained heavy sword and swung it, then, with a hundred "bandits" behind him, disappeared into the early spring night rain and dense forest without any hesitation.

The wind and rain were dark and gloomy. Only a few wisps of black smoke remained on the ruins of the southern slope camp.

Gareth's chest heaved violently.

He turned his head and looked at the more than a thousand refugees huddled together in the inner fortress workshop district, shivering but unharmed.

He finally understood.

If Otto hadn't evacuated all the refugees into the inner fortress this morning under the pretext of "spring maintenance," then tonight this camp, ravaged by the Western Frontier's sword, would not only be filled with the heads of mercenaries, but also the corpses of innocent civilians.

"grown ups."

Gareth walked up to Otto, his voice filled with respect and complex emotions.

"You ordered their evacuation ahead of time...you saved them."

Otto gazed at the dark night sky in the distance.

He neither denied nor admitted it.

He simply turned around and glanced at Gareth in the dim light of the rain, his expression radiating pure tranquility.

"After the rain stops, the wooden shed on the south slope needs to be rebuilt."

Otto's voice sounded a little hoarse in the wind, but clear.

"Go to the warehouse tomorrow and get two cartloads of timber. Let the refugees stay in the inner fortress for a couple more days, until the smell of blood outside dissipates before they go out."

Having said that, Otto ignored Gareth's gaze and walked steadily down the slippery stone steps from the city wall.