[July 3, 298 AC | Dawn to Early Morning | Westeros > Lannister Encampment] Before daybreak, the camp was already alive with the whinnying of horses and the bark of sergeants.
Soren sat in a dim corner of his tent, unwrapping a blood-soaked linen bandage with one hand.
The left side of his ribs, struck yesterday by a heavy Northern infantryman, had swollen into a terrifying mass of dark bruises.
The slightest twitch of muscle sent needle-like stabs of pain through him.
He picked up a bottle of cheap, harsh liquor by his bed, preparing to pour it over the wound.
The tent flap parted slightly, letting in a gust of cold air laced with the smell of cheap perfume.
“If you’re here to hurry the march, go next door and find Bronn.” Soren didn’t look up, his voice raspy.
“Bronn is currently busy kicking a girl out of his blankets.” A lazy, sweet voice with an exotic accent echoed in the tent.
Soren paused his movements and looked up.
Shae was leaning against the wooden tent pole, wrapped in a heavy wool cloak.
The dim candlelight flickered across her wildly beautiful face, her eyes gleaming with a cat-like glint.
“Where is Lord Tyrion?” Soren asked.
“He’s outside arguing with the quartermaster.” Shae said, walking casually toward him.
“The Old Lion forced the mountain clans under another general’s command, and Shagga almost drew his axe.
The Imp is currently struggling to assure them that a Lannister’s promise hasn’t turned into horse dung yet.” She came up to the bed, took the bottle of spirits, and poured some onto a clean strip of linen.
“You look badly hurt.” Shae leaned down slightly, the shadow of her neckline dipping low in front of his eyes.
She gently pressed the alcohol-soaked cloth onto the open cut on Soren’s shoulder.
“I heard you saved my Lannister giant from a pile of corpses yesterday.” “That’s a sellsword’s job.” Soren sat still, neither flinching nor leaning in.
As the alcohol soaked into the wound, sharp pain surged through him.
But clearer than the sting was the warm fragrance coming from Shae.
Spice, liquor, and the heat of her body mingled together like a thin cord gently wrapping around his throat.
Soren was no block of wood.
As her fingers lingered a fraction too long over the linen on his chest, his pulse skipped an involuntary beat.
This body was young, strong, and fresh off a battlefield slick with death and gore; it harbored an almost instinctive craving for soft warmth.
But Soren knew even better that Shae was no drink offered for free.
She was a blade honeyed around the rim.
“Yet I hear the Old Lion tossed you into the baggage train,” Shae lowered her voice, a tone of pity laced through it.
“A tall, handsome, ruthless knight, relegated to a mud pit to guard moldy oats.
That’s hardly the ending a smart man deserves.” Shae was a woman who had scraped through life among men at the very bottom.
She possessed a beast-like instinct.
She knew Tyrion was the biggest patron she could latch onto right now, but Tyrion was too fragile.
The man before her, on the other hand, radiated a cold ferocity forged for survival in chaos.
It was an instinctive gamble.
She was calculating what this blade was worth, how many men it could kill, and whether it might one day serve as a ladder.
Soren suddenly reached out, his hand snapping around Shae’s wrist just as her fingers were about to slide down past his ribs.
The grip wasn’t overly forceful, but it left no room for misunderstanding.
“Lady Shae.” Soren raised his eyes, locking gazes with her glistening black eyes, his voice steadier than his breath.
“My wounds don’t need any more liquor.
King’s Landing is crawling with snakes; save your mind for your lord.” Shae was taken aback by his blunt, unyielding composure.
She pulled her hand back, a flicker of annoyance and frustration flashing in her pretty eyes.
But quickly enough, she covered her mouth and giggled softly.
“You really are a boring man.” She turned toward the entrance.
“I hope your life is as tough as your mouth.” With that, she flipped open the tent curtain and swept out.
Cold wind rushed back into the tent.
Soren looked down at his chest where she had touched him.
He stayed silent for a moment before pouring the liquor directly onto the raw flesh.
…
By full daylight, the morning mist had yet to scatter.
A damp chill wrapped around the camp like a soaked wool blanket.
On the muddy road outside the Inn at the Crossroads, several carriages bearing the crimson-and-gold Lannister lion flag stood ready to depart.
Tyrion Lannister stood beside a carriage in an ill-fitting black cloak, his face looking even sourer than the morning mist.
He hadn’t slept well last night.
Neither had Soren.
The difference was that Tyrion was heading to King’s Landing—to sit near that seat of power everyone craved, where anyone’s throat could be cut at any moment.
Soren, meanwhile, was bound for the First Supply Patrol Battalion: a mud pit Tywin had casually dumped him into to manage trouble, drain trouble, and ultimately bury trouble.
“My father is a thoroughly pragmatic man, Soren,” Tyrion said as he approached, his voice laced with rare exhaustion.
“But in your case, he is pragmatic like a heartless butcher.” “That doesn’t sound like an insult,” Soren remarked.
“Because he truly is one.” Tyrion twitched the corner of his mouth, though no smile came.
“I’m being sent to King’s Landing to serve as Hand of the King.
Bronn gets to come with me, and Shae gets to come with me.
You alone are left behind to watch grain wagons, count mules, and keep company with moldy sacks of wheat.” He paused, lowering his tone further.
“And the mountain clans…
Ser Addam Marbrand has sent men to take command of them.
Shagga is looking at me right now like I owe him three castles.” “You do owe him.” Tyrion let out a bitter laugh.
“You always have a way with comforting words.” He fished a heavy purse from his doublet and thrust it into Soren’s hand.
“A Lannister always pays his debts.
Consider this interest for saving my life at the Green Fork.
Don’t refuse—right now, money is the only thing I have to give.” Soren bounced the purse in his palm.
The clink of gold coins was pleasant to the ear.
“I’ll make it to King’s Landing alive to find you.” “You had better,” Tyrion looked up at him.
“Otherwise I’ll be forced to face my sister, Joffrey, Littlefinger, Varys, and an entire city eager to swallow me whole, all by myself in the Red Keep.
Just thinking about it makes my stomach ache.” Nearby, Bronn mounted his horse and tossed a sheathed dagger over.
Soren caught it cleanly.
“Peeled it off a Northern scout,” Bronn grunted, a stalk of grass hanging from his lips.
“Good steel.
In a place like the baggage train, you’d better sleep with one eye open.” “Same to you,” Soren slid the dagger into his belt.
“The wine and women in King’s Landing are far deadlier than stray arrows in the Riverlands.” Bronn grinned wide.
“Then I’ll try my best to die with some dignity.” A fair hand pulled aside the carriage curtain.
Shae leaned against the window, her dark hair draped over her shoulders.
She had changed into a deep crimson gown, cut subtly enough not to be scandalous, yet open enough to guarantee a second glance from any normal man.
Soren didn’t linger his gaze—at least not visibly.
“Such a pity,” Shae sighed from the window, her voice dripping like honey, tinged with a delicate hint of revenge and lingering intent after her pre-dawn rejection.
“A tall, handsome knight left behind to swallow cold wind and mud, while I must ride off in a dull carriage with my Lannister giant.” Tyrion glanced back at her.
“Shae, if you insist on flirting with my savior right in front of my face, at least wait until I’ve stepped inside.” Shae giggled.
“I’m only complimenting him, my lord.” “Compliments come in many forms,” Tyrion said, stone-faced.
“The kind you just gave usually commands a fee.” On horseback, Bronn nearly choked with laughter.
Soren couldn’t help letting the corner of his lip twitch into a faint smile.
Shae’s eyes settled on Soren again.
“You finally smiled.” “A smile means nothing.” “Of course,” Shae blinked.
“When a man smiles, he might just as easily be thinking about how to kill someone.” The woman knew how to use words.
She didn’t rush to present herself as prey, nor did she play the innocent lamb.
She simply used a casual line to hand over intimacy and danger all at once.
“King’s Landing is where people do the killing,” Soren said.
“Be careful, Lady Shae.
The knives there aren’t always held by men.” The smile on Shae’s face faltered slightly.
For a brief second, she seemed to take it to heart.
But soon enough, she slipped back into her lazy, flirtatious demeanor.
“And you, Ser Soren?
Whose hands hold your knife?” “For now, my own.” “For now?” Shae repeated softly, her interest piqued a bit further.
Tyrion coughed.
“Alright, any more of this and I shall start feeling jealous.” The carriage wheels began to turn.
Before stepping inside, Tyrion suddenly turned back and lowered his voice.
“Soren, I’ll find a way.
Once I establish a foothold in King’s Landing, I’ll have you reassigned there.” “Save Eddard Stark first,” Soren said.
“Then save yourself.” Tyrion fell silent for a moment, then gave a faint, bitter smile.
“You really do know how to ruin a mood.” The caravan dissolved into the morning mist.
Soren stood in place, watching the Crimson and Gold banner slowly fade from sight.
Only when the fog closed completely did he summon his status panel in his mind.
[Charisma: 10] Soren frowned imperceptibly.
A Charisma stat of 10 in this world was like a blade without a hilt—sharp, yet impossible to wield safely.
That brief flirtation earlier was less romantic attraction and more an act of appraisal.
Now, his umbrella of protection was completely gone.
From the sharpest blade at the Imp’s side, he had become a liability casually discarded into the mud by Tywin.
Soren tugged his coarse cloth surcoat tight, took the reins of his gaunt horse, and turned toward the outermost edge of the camp.
The further outward he walked, the fewer neat rows of knights and armor he saw.
By the time he reached the First Supply Patrol Battalion, the air held only the sour odor of rotting oats, horse urine, and rank mud.
Dozens of dilapidated grain wagons were parked crookedly in the slush.
Around a hundred veteran scoundrels, wounded soldiers, and draftees clustered in small groups around campfires.
Some were gambling, some napping, others sticking their bare feet near cooking pots to warm them; none even bothered looking up when Soren walked in.
This was no military encampment.
It was more like a pile of rotted bones discarded by the main host.
Soren stopped in the center of the camp.
“First Supply Patrol Battalion, assemble!” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through clearly.
After a moment of silence, a wave of lazy jeers erupted around the campfires.
A bare-chested veteran squad leader, his chest covered in thick black hair, sat perched atop a grain sack, picking his teeth with a rusty dagger.
He squinted sideways at Soren and slowly spat out a piece of grass.
“Where’d this stray dog come from?”