Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 9: Flags and the Crucible

As Otto stepped out of the forestry station and remounted his horse, Pollifer quickly followed.

"Sir, did he accept it?"

No dog can resist a bloody bone.

Otto stared at the muddy road leading to his territory, his grey-blue eyes filled with clarity.

"Polliver, I used 60% of our production to buy the heavy infantry and legal immunity tokens of the Seafront City, making Jason Mellist my strongest shield. I used 10% of our production to blind the Frey family on the border, making Raymond our hidden sentry."

He turned to look at Pollifer.

"I gave up 70%, but bought security. A 100% that could be stolen at any moment, versus a 30% that can be safely enjoyed under the protection of iron walls. You're the accountant, tell me, how do you calculate this?"

Pollifer was stunned.

He looked at the seventeen-year-old lord on horseback and suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.

Otto wasn't compromising; he was using money to build a complex web of interests centered on the Hohenzollern territory and protected by the two great families. In this web, Otto appeared to be a disadvantaged employee, but in reality, he was the one hiding behind the scenes, using the power of both families to incubate the Iron Oath Legion.

"I understand, sir."

Pollifer bowed his head deeply, his voice filled with nothing but awe.

"Let's go back."

Otto raised his whip and pointed it toward the Blue Fork Valley.

"Tell Cole to make the fire burn even brighter. Thirty percent of silver is enough for us to buy grain, iron, and enough to turn this muddy ground into nails."

Under the scorching summer sun, three fast horses galloped towards the camp where the fires were about to burn out, raising clouds of dust.

When Otto returned to Bluefork Valley with Polliff and two hunters, it was the most unbearable time of the afternoon.

The air was thick with the pungent smell of burnt wood and quicklime. The large mud-and-wood longhouse in the middle of the valley was completed, and behind it, near the hillside, three newly built earthen kilns were spewing out thick black smoke.

That was Cole's blacksmith shop.

At this moment, the size of the blacksmith shop has changed.

Otto dismounted, tossed the reins to the approaching sentry, and headed straight for the forging area, which was distorted by the heat.

Even before they got close, the ear-piercing clanging of metal could be heard. However, the one wielding the heavy hammer was not the one-eyed blacksmith Cole, but three burly, muscular, shirtless refugees.

"Pound it! Aren't you full? Smash all the sand out of this pig iron!"

Cole, wearing a heavy leather apron and holding tongs, was gripping a red-hot piece of iron tightly. He no longer did the physically demanding work himself, but instead, like a volatile military commander, directed the men around him.

Beside the earthen kiln, two short-statured migrants were frantically stomping on cowhide bellows to force air into the furnace; three others squatted nearby by a pile of slag, using small iron hammers to smash the brought-back silver ore into pieces for subsequent ash blowing and refining.

This was a rule Otto established before he left—everyone had their own responsibilities.

In traditional blacksmith shops, a blacksmith often had to do everything himself, from selecting ore and burning charcoal to operating the bellows and forging. Otto broke this inefficiency with the logic of the Braavos shipyard.

"My lord, you're back!"

Cole wiped the sweat from his grime with the dirty towel around his neck, his right eye gleaming with excitement.

"Your method really works! I picked eight strong but clumsy guys to be smelters and blacksmith apprentices. They're in charge of crushing ore, working the bellows, and basic forging, while I only handle the final quenching and shaping. In the past few days, we've not only produced a second batch of silver ingots, but also forged thirty four-sided armor-piercing spikes that meet your requirements!"

"Good job, Cole. But don't stop the saline solution for heatstroke. I don't want to see anyone die of exhaustion by the stove."

Otto looked at the smelters, who were drenched in sweat and whose skin was red from the heat of the furnace.

The working conditions were hellish, but they harbored no resentment. According to Otto's rules, smelters, like Iron Oath soldiers, received the thickest oatmeal porridge and an extra spoonful of animal fat each day.

Under the pressure of hunger and a long summer, being able to sell one's physical strength in exchange for fat is a blessing.

"Polliver."

"Yes, sir."

The accountant immediately took out a wooden board.

"Enter the accounts we set up at the forestry station into the master file."

Otto spoke calmly.

"Haijiang City takes 60%. We officially take 40%. But from that 40%, on the first day of each month, we extract one-tenth pure silver separately, wrap it in black cloth, and have the hunters deliver it to the ferry designated by Raymond Frey. This is a dead account that cannot be made public."

Pollifer swallowed and nodded.

His heart ached terribly, but he understood the sense of security that this "30% net profit" bought.

"With a legal 30%, we won't have to scrimp and save to eat moldy oats anymore."

Otto glanced at the empty grain sacks on the oxcart.

"Polliver, tomorrow morning, take the first ten pounds of silver we've refined to Fair City downstream."

"Sir, are we going to buy grain?"

"Not just food. Buy the best aged wheat, dried corned beef, large quantities of leather and linen cloth, and rust-preventing oil. If there are any stonemasons or charcoal burners who are struggling to make a living, bring them back too."

A sharp, calculating glint flashed in Otto's eyes.

"Tell the merchants of Fair City that the Hohenzollern territory is settling accounts with real gold and silver. We want to use thirty percent of that silver to replace all the wooden stakes in this valley with stone and steel."

"Yes, sir!"

Pollifer's eyes lit up. As an accountant, nothing was more exhilarating than going on a shopping spree in the market with a large sum of cash.

After arranging the logistical lifeline, Otto walked to the other side of the longhouse.

That was the Iron Oath Regiment's training ground.

The captain, Iron Shovel, was holding a white ash wood stick, supervising the soldiers as they performed the monotonous square formation drills.

"Ten seconds! Stab!"

"drink!"

Twenty-four soldiers, dressed in repaired old leather armor, gripped spears with brand-new four-sided armor-piercing spikes in both hands and thrust forward in unison.

Sweat streamed down his face, splashing onto the dry, cracked ground.

Although there were only about twenty people, the sense of coordination that had been developed through thousands of repetitive training sessions into muscle memory gave this small formation a chilling aura.

Otto stood in the shadows for a moment, then nodded slightly.

These refugees are no longer the beasts who drew their knives for a straw mat just half a month ago. Discipline is ingrained in their bones; they understand that only if their companions don't fall can they survive.

Otto crossed the training field and came to the textile shed where Martha and several women worked.

"grown ups."

When Masha saw Otto approaching, she quickly put down the bone needles and bowed.

"Have you prepared what I asked you to?"

"It's done, sir. The linen is a bit rough, but the dye was made by repeatedly soaking the fabric in crushed blackberry grass and coal ash from the riverbank, so it won't fade easily."

Martha turned around and took out a huge piece of cloth, neatly folded, from the moisture-proof oilcloth on the wooden table.

Otto took the fabric, grabbed the edges with both hands, and gave it a sharp shake.

"Whoosh—!"

A huge flag, six feet long and four feet wide, was unfurled in the wind.

The flag's background is made of pale white coarse linen, with a huge double-headed eagle painted in the center using dark black dye.

Black Hawk's two heads looked to the left and right respectively, their eyes sharp as knives; in its steel-like talons, one gripped a longsword and the other a heavy shield.

There are no extra patterns, no gold or silver threads.

Only black and white, and a cruel majesty that seems to rise from the abyss.

This is the coat of arms of the Hohenzollern family—a double-headed black eagle.

"Gather everyone in front of the longhouse."

Otto rolled up the flag, his voice low.

A moment later, the twenty-four pikemen of the Iron Oath stopped training and stood in formation, drenched in sweat. Blacksmith Cole walked over from the kiln with several smelters covered in coal dust. Old farmer Matt, Pollifer, Lame Scripture, and the women also stopped what they were doing and stood on either side of the square.

Forty-five people stood on this land soaked with sweat and quicklime, looking up at the seventeen-year-old boy on the stone base high above.

Otto did not speak.

He took the straight pine pole from the hunter and tied the black and white flag tightly to the top. Then he walked to the center of the camp, the spot where he had chopped the first axe blow on his first day of arrival.

"Thump!"

Otto forcefully plunged the heavy pine flagpole into the pre-dug pit. Several burly men stepped forward and filled the pit with soil mixed with gravel, tamping it down firmly.

A gust of sultry summer wind swept across the Blue Fork River Valley.

A huge double-headed black eagle flag was suddenly unfurled, fluttering loudly.

Those sharp double heads, one gazes towards the western seafront city, their legal protector; the other coldly watches the northern border, the direction they must be wary of.

All the refugees' eyes were drawn to the black eagle flag.

In Westeros, most commoners have no surnames, living and dying like weeds. But at this moment, when they looked up and saw the flag of their own camp being raised, a sense of belonging ignited like wildfire in the hearts of these people who had lost everything in the war.

"Look closely at this flag."

Otto turned around, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze sweeping over each sun-darkened face.

"From this day forward, this muddy ground beneath your feet is no longer an unnamed river bend. In the legal documents of the Earl of the Sea Frontier City, it is officially called—the Land of Hohenzollern."

His voice wasn't loud, but it pierced through the fierce wind.

"This two-headed black eagle, one head stares at the suffering and humiliation we have endured, and the other head stares at the enemies who tried to steal our food and land."

"Soldiers of the Iron Oath, raise your spears!"

"Whoosh!"

Twenty-four spears, each fitted with a four-sided armor-piercing spike, were neatly pointed diagonally towards the sky, led by the team leader's iron shovel.

Our family motto is: Iron and blood, promises as firm as steel.

Otto drew his longsword, the tip pointing directly at the Black Eagle flag fluttering in the wind.

"As long as this flag flies over the Blue Fork, anyone who dares to set foot on our land will pay a bloody price. For Hohenzollern, for your own lives, answer me, what is your oath?"

The sweltering heat of the long summer was torn apart by a roar at this moment.

Forty-five people simultaneously erupted in a long-suppressed roar:

"Iron and blood! A promise as firm as steel!"

"Iron and blood! A promise as firm as steel!"

The roar echoed through the Blue Fork Valley, startling birds in the distance into taking flight.

Polliver stood in the crowd, looking at the boy under the flag who seemed to be one with the black eagle, clutching the ledger tightly in his arms.

He knew that this was no longer a refugee camp where people were barely clinging to life.

The raising of this flag signifies that a new military force, characterized by its xenophobia, martial spirit, and steely discipline, has officially bared its fangs on the edge of Westeros.

286 AC, Long Summer. A double-headed black eagle flag stands on the banks of the Blue Fork River.