SWDnovel Chapter 67 - The Price
Chapter 67 - The Price
The main hall of the inner fortress of Pike was cold and damp.
The brazier burned brightly, but it couldn't dispel the salty, fishy smell that had seeped into the cracks of the stones for hundreds or thousands of years.
This place doesn't resemble a king's victory celebration at all.
The ceiling was too low, the stone pillars were rough, and the sea monster flag hanging on the wall was torn in half and stepped on in the mud.
But that didn't stop Robert Baratheon from turning this place into his tavern.
"Drink! Drink it all, you fucking bastards!"
Robert sat on the salt rock throne that should have belonged to Baron Greyjoy.
The bloodstains on his black leather armor hadn't been washed off, but he was already holding a gold-plated goblet that was bigger than a human head.
He laughed as he gulped down the beer, the liquid dripping down his messy black beard and onto the crowned stag emblem on his chest.
The hall was packed with people.
Knights of the West, lords of the Stormlands, vassals of the Riverlands.
The air was filled with the stench of sweat, blood, and the fermentation smell of cheap ale.
Nineteen-year-old Otto stood a dozen steps away from the high seat.
He washed his face and hands, but didn't remove his armor. The scabs in the crevices of his scales were difficult to clean completely, and his body, from being tense for so long, was causing a dull ache in a large muscle on his back.
Gareth stood to his side and slightly behind.
The fence knight changed into a clean outer robe, but he kept his head down, looking at his hands as if they were still stained with the blood spat out by the leading veteran.
Since walking out of the corridor, Gareth hasn't uttered a single word.
The veteran at the front, suffering from excessive blood loss and a severe shoulder fracture, was carried away by the scholar and given poppy milk.
The shield bearer, his arm severed, sat in the corner, his face ashen, his left arm clamped between wooden planks.
Of the eleven people, plus Otto and Gareth, only nine are still standing here intact.
"Hohenzollern of the Blue Fork!"
Robert's thunderous voice boomed over the sound waves and struck Otto.
The hall became much quieter.
Dozens of eyes turned to look.
They all knew that it was this unknown young baron who, with ten peasants, had opened up the corridor that even the Stormlands' elites had to retreat through.
Otto stepped forward and knelt on one knee at the foot of the salt stone steps.
"His Majesty."
"Get up. No more of that bullshit rule today." Robert waved his hand rudely. "I told you, you and your men deserve the best wine."
Robert turned to look at Jon Arryn and Ned Stark, who were standing to his lower right.
"You didn't see it! That rotten intestine was full of blood! Even I almost slipped! But this kid's men were pushing forward, stepping on their own corpses! It was like..."
Robert gestured with the hand that wasn't holding the glass.
"Like a stone mill that feels no pain!"
Robert looked at Otto again, his eyes gleaming with an appreciation for pure violence.
"Tell me, what do you want?"
Robert leaned forward.
"Gold? I'll give you ten chests! Or I'll bestow upon you a proper knighthood? Just ask, and the women of Stormlands or the manor will be yours today!"
A low gasp filled the hall.
The manor in Stormlands is something that countless minor nobles could never earn in several lifetimes.
Patrick Mellist stood in the crowd, his brow furrowed slightly.
If Otto takes the Stormlands estate, it means he will break away from the Seafront City's vassal system.
Otto looked up.
"Your Majesty, I do not want gold."
Otto's voice was not loud, but clear.
"Oh?" Robert raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you want?"
"I implore Your Majesty to formally designate that mudflat upstream of the Blue Fork River, and that half-built stone tower, as the hereditary territory of the Hohenzollern family. And to extend the defensive line ten miles to the north and ten miles to the south."
The hall fell silent for a moment.
This is it? A muddy beach in the riverbed? The war merits earned with our lives are exchanged for this place where even dogs don't shit?
Several Western Knights even let out a slight sneer.
Robert was also stunned; he seemed somewhat disappointed.
"Did you get hit in the head by a stone in the corridor?" the king frowned. "What's that dump worth? I heard even wheat can't grow there. Are you sure you don't want the estate?"
"Your Majesty, that is my mudflat. My men shed their blood there, and that tower was built to defend against the Ironborn."
Otto's tone was very steady.
"Ten miles to the south lies a patch of weeds, and ten miles to the north, a desolate forest. It's not a great place, but it's enough for my brothers to chop some firewood and plant some oats. To ensure that this royal territory, which is protected from pirates, is not disturbed by local bandits, I humbly request Your Majesty to grant me a charter bearing the golden seal of a crowned stag."
Otto's eyes were sharp as knives.
"I am granted jurisdiction over the high dungeons and the right to set up gallows, and I am exempted from ten years of transit taxes in the Hohenzollern territory."
The hall was completely silent.
The mocking knights of the West fell silent.
Tytus Blackwood, who was standing on the other side of the hall, suddenly changed his expression.
Ten miles to the south, it cuts directly into their family's traditional buffer zone!
Just as Earl Blackwood was about to step forward and speak, an old man wearing a blue and white eagle-patterned overcoat stepped forward first.
Jon Arryn. Robert's Hand of the King.
"Your Majesty," Jon Arryn's voice was gentle yet weighty, "this young man's bravery certainly deserves a great reward. However, the grasslands south of the Bluefork have historically bordered the woodlands of the Blackwood family; a ten-year exemption from commercial taxes will also affect the Duke of Tully's tax payments to the royal family."
The Prime Minister turned his head and looked at Otto, who was kneeling on one knee.
"In my opinion, it would be better to reward this young baron with two thousand gold dragons, plus a knighthood bestowed by His Majesty himself. This honor would be enough to make Hohenzollern's name resound throughout the Riverlands."
Jon Arryn's words were perfectly watertight.
Robert stroked his beard, seemingly agreeing with Jon's assessment, and picked up his wine glass, ready to back down the aisle.
Otto didn't look at Tytos Blackwood's venomous eyes, nor at Jon Arryn.
He continued to look directly at Robert.
"The Prime Minister is right." Otto's tone was not at all angry. "The Golden Dragon and honor are what every warrior dreams of."
He paused for a moment.
"But if I take the Golden Dragon back to the Riverlands, the Blackwood family can still accuse me of 'building a false fortress' in Riverrun, and Duke Tully can still send men to dismantle my defenses. And the next time the Ironborn warships bypass Seafront and sneak into the heart of the Riverlands along the inland rivers—"
Otto's voice echoed in the empty stone hall.
"Blue Fork River has no stone towers, no formations, no shields to clear your way in the corridor today. Only me, a dead man with two thousand golden dragons in my pocket. May I ask, Your Excellency, how can a dead man defend the King against the Iron Seeds?"
Jon Arryn's graying eyebrows twitched at those words.
"you……"
"Ha ha ha ha!"
Robert Baratheon's maniacal laughter interrupted the Prime Minister's words.
The king laughed so hard he almost fell over, even spilling the beer from his cup onto his thigh.
Robert pointed at Jon Arryn, who was choking, and then at Otto, laughing so hard that tears were almost streaming down his face.
"Did you hear that, Jon?! You can't win him over by throwing gold at him!"
Robert slammed the horn on the table, staring at Otto, who was kneeling below him, his bloodshot eyes wide.
The king's eyes held a complex expression that was a mixture of absurdity, disappointment, and amusement.
"Seven levels of hell..." Robert cursed. "I thought I'd found some madman who only knew how to kill in this damned corridor! Turns out, it's a damned accountant inside!"
Robert looked Otto up and down with the eyes of someone looking at a monster, and retorted with a mix of mockery and disdain:
"You're like a White Walker when you're killing people, but when it comes to rewards, you won't even lose a penny! Are you some kind of Bluefork peasant, or another Tywin Lannister?!"
The moment the name was uttered, the air in the hall seemed to drop ten degrees.
To compare a nineteen-year-old Riverlands Baron to that ruthless, cunning Warden of the West.
It's unclear whether this is extremely high praise or extreme apprehension.
Otto knelt there, his back ramrod straight.
Robert's teasing did not elicit a response, nor did it cause him any alarm.
"Defense requires discipline, and discipline requires food and iron, Your Majesty," Otto replied calmly. "Without jurisdiction and tax exemption, I cannot defend the flanks of the Riverlands."
"Well said! What a silver tongue!"
Robert laughed in exasperation, waving his hand dismissively, completely ignoring the Earl of Blackwood's ashen face.
"Want land? I'll give it to you! Ten miles north and south, you think? The gallows, you think? Jon! Write him a charter! Stamp it with my golden seal! From this day forward, anyone who dares to call that stone tower a 'false fortress' is talking nonsense!"
"Thank you, Your Majesty." Otto bowed deeply.
Amidst the complex, envious, and even hostile gazes of the crowd, Otto withdrew from the center of the hall.
As he walked back to his group, he felt a gaze upon him.
Otto turned his head.
Ned Stark stood in the shadow of the high seat, his grey eyes silently watching him.
This Warden of the North values honor and courage, but he had just sensed some danger.
Otto did not avoid that gaze.
He calmly met the gaze of the Guardian of the North, then bowed slightly as a sign of greeting.
He didn't care what Ned Stark thought of him.
He won.
Stepping out of the cold, damp halls of Pike City, the sea breeze rushed into my throat, carrying the bitter taste unique to the Iron Islands.
Gareth followed behind him.
"My lord," Gareth suddenly spoke, his voice dry.
Otto stopped and turned to look at him.
"In the corridor, that militiaman named Martin... he broke down. You pointed your sword at him, kicked him, and forced him to grab the dead man's shield."
Gareth looked at his hands.
"If we don't do that, won't he step down, and then we can step down too...?"
"There is no way out," Otto interrupted him, his voice colder than the sea breeze.
"If we back down, the Ironborn will crush us, and the king who follows will be dragged down with us. He's devastated, and if we don't use him as a nail to plug that gap, we'll all die there."
Gareth bit his lip.
That was the creed of the chivalrous knight he had believed in since birth, clashing violently with cruel reality.
After a long while, Gareth raised his head, and his eyes, which had been full of curiosity, now held a heavy weight.
"I understand." He took a deep breath.
"I didn't like that feeling, sir. I almost threw up when I stepped on that severed finger."
He paused, looking at Otto's blood-stained armor.
"But I'm glad I was standing behind that veteran. I helped him up."
Otto did not speak.
He turned around and looked at the turbulent Iron Man Bay in the distance.
The battle of Pike City is over.
But when he returned to the Blue Fork River, that mudflat that was about to undergo a massive expansion, with the charter stamped with the golden seal of the crowned stag.
he knows.