[July 3, 298 AC | Morning | Westeros > Banks of the Green Fork > First Supply Patrol Battalion] “Fifty heavy draft horses written off as losses?” Soren’s finger stopped on that line in the ledger.
Gawen’s face drained of color instantly.
“My lord, war drums, war horns, the northern charge…
they can easily spook the horses.
Trampling each other when panicked is quite common…” “Draft horses aren’t house cats.” Soren drew a heavy line under those words, the parchment emitting a grating scrape.
“Fifty panicked horses fleeing would crash through at least a dozen grain wagons, snap hundreds of cured leather harnesses, and trample night-watch grooms.
Yet on your ledger, requisition for repair supplies is zero, and groom pensions are zero.” He raised his eyes, his gaze landing on Gawen’s trembling shoulders.
“Did these fifty horses grow wings and fly out of the camp?” The tent fell deathly quiet, except for Cliff’s muffled groans outside.
Gawen fell to his knees with a thud, cold sweat dripping into the dirt.
“My lord…
that was a note brought by Young Crakehall’s squire.
He said the horses were lost in the chaos and told me to log them directly.
I’m just a scribe, how could I dare say no?” Roland Leyton stood by the tent flap, his expression darkening as well.
Fifty heavy draft horses were not a few bags of oats.
They represented the most precious haulage capacity during a march.
They were not dead; they had simply “evaporated” on paper.
At this very moment, dozens of fine horses stamped with the Lannister Golden Lion might be hidden in some secret stable, waiting to have their blankets stripped and be resold to noble studs.
Soren leaned back into his chair, a dull ache from his ribs making him frown slightly.
But his mind remained cold and lucid.
“This is just the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it?” He casually flipped back a few pages.
“Requisitioned fifty barrels of lamp oil last week, issued twenty.
The remaining thirty barrels—the ledger claims they spontaneously combusted from heat exposure on the road.
Thirty barrels of oil burning up would turn half the supply camp to ash, yet when I walked in, I didn’t see so much as a puff of black soot.” Gawen’s lips quivered.
Soren kept flipping through the ledger.
“The arrows are logged as Westerlands fine steel three-bladed arrows.
But outside, I saw the levies carrying quivers filled entirely with last year’s rusted broadheads.” His voice was soft, but each word hammered into Gawen’s heart like a mallet.
“The First Supply Patrol Battalion pays rations for one hundred and sixty-seven men.
Just now at assembly, counting wounded, wagon guards, levies, and grooms, there were only one hundred and nine living souls.
The remaining fifty-eight—were they reassigned, killed, deserted, or did they only ever exist on parchment?” Gawen prostrated himself, his face pressed against the dirt.
“My lord, I truly just copied the numbers given to me!
The accounts come from the Quartermaster, Cliff forced me to sign, and Young Crakehall’s men stamped it.
If I didn’t copy it, they’d break my hands.” Soren did not speak immediately.
Men like this were not the ringleaders.
He was merely a worm struggling to survive in the mud.
Crushing him was easy, but useless.
“Get up.” Gawen froze, then tremblingly climbed to his feet.
“Put the ledger away.
What I saw today, you didn’t log, and I didn’t mention.” A flash of narrow escape glimmered in Gawen’s eyes, quickly followed by deeper terror.
“Take me to the granary,” Soren said.
…
When he walked out of the commander’s tent, the assembly outside had not dispersed.
Cliff was still bound to the hitching post, a rag stuffed in his mouth, looking like a pinned toad.
Soren cut through the crowd, walking straight to the line of grain wagons stacked most tightly.
He drew the dagger Bronn had given him and thrust it diagonally along the seam of a grain bag.
*Schhh—* Dull yellow grain flowed out.
Soren grabbed a handful and weighed it in his palm.
Fine river sand immediately leaked through his fingers.
The remaining oat grains were shriveled, blackened, and emitted a nauseating, moldy stench.
“This is the ‘Select Oats Direct from Crakehall Fief’ listed in the ledger?” No one dared to speak.
Soren tossed the sandy grain to the ground.
“Half sand in the bag, and the other half is stale oats stored for at least three years.
Feed this to horses, they get diarrhea; feed it to soldiers, they go mad.” Roland Leyton squatted down, pinched a few grains, his expression grim.
“If this grain reaches the outpost, the men will riot.” “How is it logged?” Soren asked.
Gawen said in a low voice, “First-grade wheat.” Several men in the camp hung their heads.
This kind of practice was no secret in the supply battalion.
Swapping good grain for rotten grain—who pocketed the difference was something everyone knew a little about, though no one dared tell the full story.
Soren stood up.
“Gawen.” “Here, my lord.” “Starting today, you will keep writing the ledgers.” Gawen snapped his head up, a flash of ecstatic relief in his eyes.
Soren continued, “But you will keep two sets.” Gawen’s expression froze.
“One set for the Quartermaster to see, one set for me.
The former as before, the latter recording true figures.
If a bag of grain is missing, I hold you responsible.
If another ghost soldier appears, I hold you responsible too.” Gawen turned deathly pale.
“My lord, this will cost me my life.” “It won’t,” Soren said calmly.
“If you don’t write it, I’ll take your life right now.” Gawen closed his eyes and kowtowed.
“I’ll write it.” Soren turned to Roland Leyton.
“You’re literate, good with numbers, and know military discipline.
From now on, assist me in auditing the books.” Roland startled.
“My lord, I’m merely a distant branch of House Leyton.” “Which is why you haven’t completely rotted yet,” Soren said.
“Don’t disappoint me.” Roland remained silent for a moment, then straightened his spine.
“Yes, my lord.” Just then, rapid thudding of hooves echoed from outside the camp.
A messenger wearing a boar-sigil tabard rode up at full speed, splashes of mud from his horse’s hooves splattering across the front rank soldiers’ faces.
He arrogantly swept his gaze across the messy ranks, finally resting his eyes on Soren.
“Who commands here?” Soren said nothing, merely watching him coldly.
The messenger pulled a wax-sealed order from his breast pocket and tossed it over nonchalantly.
“Urgent order from central command.
The First Supply Patrol Battalion is to depart immediately, escorting thirty wagons of wheat, five wagons of arrows, and two wagons of salted meat to Poplar Ford Outpost.
Must arrive before sunset.” Roland’s face changed, and he lowered his voice: “Aspen Ford?
That’s right near where the northerners retreated last night.” The messenger sneered.
“An order is an order.
If the supplies are a moment late, or a single bag short, even Lord Tyrion’s favor won’t save your head.” With that, he pulled his horse around and galloped off.
The air in the camp turned cold instantly.
Soren picked up the order; the wax sealing it was not even fully cool yet.
This was not Lord Tywin’s direct order.
This was a counterattack from Young Crakehall and that quartermaster officer.
They knew Soren was a liability, so they wanted to send him to the most dangerous place, using the opportunity to turn this batch of moldy rotten debts into “losses from enemy raid.” Roland looked at the sandy grain on the ground, then at Soren.
“My lord, if we deliver these supplies, the outpost soldiers will hang us from the wagon frames.
If we meet northern rangers on the road, we’ll die even faster.” Soren looked at the order in his hand and suddenly smiled slightly.
“Very good.” Gawen trembled.
“Good…
good in what way?” “Good that they’re anxious,” Soren said.
He turned and commanded: “Move the bags heavily mixed with sand to the outermost layer.
Put the most moldy ones where they’re easiest to spot.
Hide the good grain under the middle wagon beds.
Inspect and dismantle the arrows—separate the soft iron arrowheads into their own pile.
Reorganize the convoy, mixing empty wagons into the grain fleet.” Roland caught on quickly.
“My lord, you want others to think we’re actually escorting a load of rotten grain?” “Not think,” Soren tucked away the order.
“On paper, it already is.” The camp instantly burst into a flurry of activity.
Soldiers hauled grain bags, levies pried wagon boards, and Gawen clutched his ledger, recalculating numbers.
No one dared slack off.
Because Cliff was still bound to the hitching post, his eyes filled with spite and terror.
Just as Soren officially took over the convoy and began reorganizing the transport formation, a cold electronic voice resonated deep in his mind.
[Detected host purging corrupt military affairs and preventing substandard grain from directly flowing into the outpost.] [This action aligns with the minor knightly virtue of “upholding order.”] [Honor Points +1.] [Current Honor Points: 10/100.] Soren’s eyes narrowed slightly.
The next moment, a second prompt arrived as expected.
[Ding!
Detected Honor Points re-triggering the 10-point safety threshold.] [Low-tier card selection unlocked once again.] Soren gazes at the three illusory white cards floating unrevealed across his retina, slowly tightening his grip on the military order.
This time, he would pull a way out from a wagon of moldy wheat.