[July 1, 298 AC | Evening | By the Green Fork > Outside the Lannister Camp] The air rolled with a stench never found in the mountains: the combined odor of tens of thousands of sweating men, horse dung, rusted iron, and the lingering acrid warmth drifting from burned villages.
Chella of the Black Ears slid down from a towering cliff face ahead like a nimble rock goat, bringing back news that silenced the band of fugitives completely.
“Iron suits.
Many.
Too many to count.” For the first time, an emotion akin to awe flickered in Chella’s sharp eyes.
“Campfires everywhere by the crossroads.
Twenty thousand, maybe more.
Red banners with a golden cat on them.” The long line of clansmen came to a halt.
They had often heard the dwarf boast that the “Lord Lion has iron and grain,” but now that the staggering reality of twenty thousand troops pressed down at the foot of the mountain, greed, terror, and excitement tangled together in the eyes of the mountain folk.
Shagga gripped the haft of his axe tightly, while Timett scanned the distance with his single eye.
It was a force beyond anything they had ever imagined—the sheer scale of what men called order.
“They are golden lions, Chella,” Tyrion said, reining in his scrawny horse and taking a deep breath of the metallic air.
He stood atop a jutting boulder, staring silently at the crimson banners in the distance.
“It’s my father, or Jaime,” Tyrion muttered under his breath, taking stock of his band of fewer than three hundred fighters.
Over the past five days, Soren had pounded them into a workable seed using blood and discipline, yet before twenty thousand elites of the Westerlands, that seed still looked painfully withered.
“I had better go down alone,” Tyrion suggested.
“Shagga son of Dolf does not like this!” Shagga snapped, his eyes bulging.
“Shagga will go with the halfman.
If the halfman lies, Shagga will chop off his manhood and feed it to the goats!” “I know, I know.
You’ve threatened me with that no fewer than fifteen times already.” Tyrion sighed and turned to look at Soren beside him, noticing that the man was calmly studying the chevaux-de-frise and watchtowers below.
“Lowland chiefs have lied to the mountain clans before,” Chella sneered.
“Chella, you hurt my feelings saying that.
I thought the past few days made us good friends,” Tyrion gritted with a grin.
“Look at Soren—he nearly roasted his own hand to save one of your people.
A lion does not cheat his friends.” “Shagga, I swear on the name of Lannister that I will return.
Chella, pick a few representatives to come inside with me, Bronn, and Soren.
The rest of you stay here and wait for my word.
Do not charge the lines out of curiosity, or you’ll be shot into hedgehogs.” The named clan leaders exchanged guarded glances, finally nodding in silent assent under Soren’s calm, almost suffocatingly steady gaze.
Leading his horse, Soren walked over to Tyrion’s side and lowered his voice.
“My lord, a word of advice.” Tyrion raised his mismatched green-and-black eyes to look at him.
“Lord Tywin does not care what hardships you suffered in the mountains,” Soren said with cold pragmatism.
“He only cares about the value of what you bring back.
Don’t present the clansmen behind you as a debt-collecting headache.
Tell him they are a low-cost, bloodthirsty force ideal for hit-and-run raids and breaking enemy formations.” Tyrion stared at Soren for three seconds, a self-deprecating smirk twisting his lips.
“You know my father better than I do.
That’s why I dislike clever men—you’re always right.” …
The path down the mountain was short, but with every step, the clansmen squared their shoulders a little higher.
They entered the outer defensive lines of the Lannister camp: sharpened stakes, fully armored crossbowmen, and mounted knights in heavy plate.
The cold, metallic clinking of steel armor carried a far heavier weight than any roar echoed in the mountains.
The Lannister guards on both sides stared at the fur-clad savages with their battered iron blades as if looking at monsters.
The mountain folk, in turn, fixed their eyes on the racks of shiny weapons and bubbling meat pots, like wolves ready to leap upon a feast.
“Keep them in line, Soren,” Tyrion muttered under his breath.
Soren said nothing.
He simply rode his horse between Shagga and Timett, his right hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
Just as they passed through the third wooden barricade and officially entered the main encampment, a series of crisp electronic chimes echoed in Soren’s mind: [Ding!
Phase Objective 1: “Escort Tyrion to Camp and Preserve Mountain Clan Influence”—Completed!] [Reward Granted: Honor +5.
Current Honor: 15/100.] [Reward Granted: One-time Auxiliary Check: “Inciteful Speech” × 2.] Soren’s heart beat slightly faster.
The first step—and the hardest one for surviving between these factions—was finally secured.
He did not celebrate prematurely.
Raising his eyes, he looked at the famous Inn at the Crossroads nearby in the Riverlands.
It served as headquarters now.
On the gallows in the courtyard, the corpse of Masha Heddle, the innkeeper, swayed gently in the mountain breeze.
Shagga’s axe could be dodged, Timett’s madness could be suppressed, and the lances of the Vale knights could be dismantled with dirt and pommels.
But Lord Tywin Lannister was none of those things.
He was an old lion sitting behind a war map.
He did not need to raise a hand to kill a man.
Soren fell silent for a moment, issuing a command in his mind.
“Spend 10 Honor points to increase Intelligence.” [Spent 10 Honor points.] [Intelligence: 16 → 23 (Exceptional Maester / Strategist)] [Current Honor: 5/100.] [Note: Intelligence increase will enhance information integration, logical deduction, emotional control, and the ability to identify flaws in rhetoric.] A cold, sharp pain spread from deep within his skull.
Unlike the tearing flesh-and-muscle agony of increasing Strength, this felt as if a red-hot needle were being slowly pushed into his brain through his temple.
A few breaths later, the world did not brighten, nor did he suddenly gain godlike divine wisdom.
Yet when Soren looked back at the Lannister camp, the clamor of voices, the positions of the banners, the formations of the troops, and the glares the knights cast at the clansmen all began linking together like threads on a loom.
He exhaled slowly.
…
Inside the inn’s main hall, the light was dim.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat behind a wide walnut trestle table.
Ser Kevan Lannister sat to his right, looking down at a spread of war dispatches.
He wore no armor, only a dark crimson leather doublet.
Tall and stiff-backed, his short golden hair was combed impeccably.
In those pale green eyes, there was not a trace of a father’s joy at seeing his long-lost son alive.
As those pale green eyes flecked with gold swept over them, Soren felt a suffocating pressure.
It was the absolute aura of a ruler who commanded the order of the entire continent.
“It seems the rumors of your death were unfounded,” Lord Tywin said, his voice flat and cold as stone on a frozen plain.
“I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, Father.” Tyrion used his customary sarcasm to mask his inner unease, climbing onto a chair and pouring himself a cup of wine.
“If you don’t mind, I’ve brought back a few friends.” “You have brought a band of mountain brigands.” Lord Tywin’s voice was low and steady, laden with an effortless, commanding severity, completely ignoring Tyrion’s banter.
“These are the elite of the mountain clans,” Tyrion said, puffing out his chest as Soren had advised.
“They tread steep mountainsides as if on flat ground.
They are bloodthirsty, fearless, and…
eager to slay your enemies, provided you offer enough steel.” Shagga stalked forward and thudded his rusty battleaxe onto the floorboards.
“The halfman promised us weapons!
And the Vale of Arryn!
Lord Lion, if you break his word, Shagga will split your skull!” The red-cloaked guards flanking the hall immediately drew longswords.
Lord Tywin raised a hand, checking the guards.
The old lion’s icy gaze swept past the empty eye socket of Timett, glanced at Bronn’s half-smirk, and finally came to rest on Soren’s remarkably tranquil eyes.
He acutely perceived that the only reason these mountain savages hadn’t smashed the place up upon entering was that the black-haired mercenary was subtly keeping them in check.
“And who are you?” Lord Tywin spoke.
“He is Ser Soren of the Trident, my right hand,” Tyrion emphasized.
Soren bowed slightly, offering no unnecessary pleasantries.
In a situation like this, speaking a single redundant word could provoke disgust in a control freak like Lord Tywin.
Just as Tyrion prepared to demonstrate the value of his “mountain friends,” a sweating messenger burst through the door and dropped to one knee.
“My lord!
Ser Addam reports that the Stark forces have begun moving south along the causeway!” The air in the hall grew instantly charged.
Soren’s fingers twitched ever so slightly.
He knew this moment.
He knew Robb Stark was not marching south with his main force; the Young Wolf’s true target was not Lord Tywin, but Jaime outside Riverrun.
He would lead his cavalry around the main battlefield, lay a trap in the Whispering Wood, and capture Tyrion’s brother alive.
An impulse surged through Soren to warn Lord Tywin, to barter this knowledge for immense standing.
But that impulse survived for less than half a second before his newly boosted 23 Intelligence forcefully crushed it deep within his mind.
How could he warn him?
Tell this inherently paranoid old lion that he possessed foresight into the future?
Or claim he had long since planted spies inside the Young Wolf’s northern tent?
Lord Tywin would never believe an obscure mercenary of unknown origin.
Most likely, he would be deemed a Northern spy spreading panic and dragged outside to be executed on the spot.
What was more…
If Jaime was not captured, how could House Lannister be driven into a corner?
And if they were not driven into a corner, how could a black-haired mercenary riding Tyrion’s coattails find the opportunity to pull chestnuts from the fire and climb the ranks?
Chaos was the ladder for men like him to rise.
Soren lowered his eyelids, concealing every trace of calculation behind his eyes.
“He has finally come out of his den,” Lord Tywin said, a cold satisfaction lacing his voice.
Lord Tywin Lannister did not smile.
Lord Tywin never smiled.
But Tyrion had long learned to read the signs of pleasure in his father, and right now, it was written clearly across his face.
“Return to Ser Addam and command him to fall back at once.
He is not to engage the Northerners until our main force arrives, but I want him to harass their flanks and draw them south as much as possible.” Lord Tywin’s gaze swept over Shagga and Timett, as if measuring a pile of firewood about to be tossed into a furnace.
“It is said the men of the mountain clans are fierce and fearless,” Lord Tywin began, using the calculated provocation typical of those in power.
“Where the Stone Crows go, none dare look back!” Shagga bellowed.
“The Burned Men hunt with the lions,” Timett said, fingering his empty eye socket, greed gleaming in his single, unhinged eye.
“Very good.” Lord Tywin turned to Tyrion.
“In that case, I shall place the entire mountain clan force, along with my son…
and this Ser Soren, on the left flank.” Tyrion froze, about to protest against actually leading troops into battle, but Soren’s heart sank into icy dread.
Reincarnated with full knowledge of the plot, he understood this tactical deployment all too well!
The left flank, positioned near the river and broken terrain, was comprised mostly of raw recruits, mercenaries, and untrusted rabble.
Meanwhile, Lord Tywin’s center held the high ground behind them, with heavy armored cavalry kept hidden in reserve.
This was no mark of honor or trust.
The old lion’s calculation was ruthless: He was using his dwarf son and these ferocious yet unarmored, undisciplined mountain savages as juicy bait to entice the Northerners into a full-scale assault!
Once the left flank buckled, the Northerners would be like rabid hounds lured into a quagmire, wiped out entirely when Lord Tywin’s center and heavy cavalry closed in from both sides.
[Ding!
Host detected entering a core historical battle node.] [Phase Objective 2 Unlocked: The Father Lion’s Chessboard.] [Objective Direction: Preserve Tyrion and the core combat strength of the mountain clans in the Battle of the Green Fork, using this as a springboard to secure a genuine independent command.] Soren gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.
The waters of the Green Fork, he realized, would likely run colder than the mountain snows.