[July 3, 298 AC | Morning | Westeros > Banks of the Green Fork > Old Aspen Ford Road] Wheels ground through the muddy mudflats, producing a teeth-grinding creak.
In the pale morning fog, the line of the First Supply Patrol Battalion crawled slowly toward Aspen Ford like a bloated, dying insect.
Flanking the column, the old and frail veterans of the Westerlands carried spears across their shoulders, hunching their necks to dodge puddles while muttering under their breath in hushed curses.
In their eyes, the new commander walking at the very front—who didn’t even wear proper armor—was completely out of his mind.
Taking a load of moldy sand-wheat to Aspen Ford wasn’t delivering supplies.
It was committing suicide.
What truly made them uneasy were the dozen or so “empty” wagons in the middle of the column, draped in heavy oilcloth tarps.
From beneath the tarps came occasional heavy breathing and the faint rustle of sharp blades scraping against coarse leather.
No one dared lift a corner to peek inside.
Riding a molting old horse, Roland Leyton picked up his pace and pulled up slightly behind Soren’s shoulder.
“Commander,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Five miles ahead is Aspen Ford.” Soren did not turn his head.
“Speak.” Roland swallowed hard.
“The terrain there is treacherous.
A tributary of the Green Fork bends around it, and overflow flooded the original village into ruins.
Dense reed beds and poplar woods crowd the road narrow.
Once the convoy enters, the front and rear won’t be able to support each other.
It’s prime territory for small outrider ambushes.” Having said this, he stole a glance at the side of Soren’s face.
Soren did not interrupt.
Gaining courage, Roland continued.
“The outpost commander is Ser Harys Brax.
House Brax intermarries frequently with House Crakehall—they’re practically allies.
He won’t necessarily give Lord Tyrion respect, and he certainly won’t give it to you.” Soren finally threw him a glance.
“You know terrain?” “I studied the regional war map in the main command tent,” Roland answered at once.
“My father also taught me how to read the lay of the land.” “Good.” Soren’s voice remained calm, devoid of praise, containing only an order.
“Go to Gawen and get a clean piece of parchment.
Draw a rough map of Aspen Ford.
The woods, ruined village, shallows, outpost—mark every place capable of concealing fifty or more horsemen.” Roland froze.
He had expected Soren to snort in contempt like those arrogant knights, or perhaps offer a casual word of encouragement.
Instead, Soren had naturally handed him a task involving life and death.
No pleasantries.
Only utility.
That cold feeling of being treated as a “useful tool” actually eased the knot in Roland’s throat slightly.
“Yes, my lord.” He straightened his back, turned his horse around, and rode to the rear.
No sooner had Roland left than Gawen shuffled forward, clutching his ledger and trembling violently.
“M-My lord…” Gawen’s thin face had turned blue from the biting wind.
“Master Roland is right.
Young Master Crakehall wants us dead.” “Are you afraid?” Soren glanced down at him.
“How could I not be?” Gawen wore a miserable face, hugging the parchment tightly to his chest.
“My lord, you beat Cliff back at camp to establish authority.
But some things…
some debts aren’t meant for the living to see—they’re meant for the dead.
If you insist on digging to the bottom, our hundred-odd men aren’t enough to fill their teeth.” Drawing his map in the back, Roland couldn’t help but look up upon hearing this.
“Gawen is right.” He lowered his voice, laying bare the thoughts he had been mulling over for a long time.
“This is a triple trap.” Roland held up three fingers, folding them down one by one.
“If the Northerners ambushed us on the road and destroyed the grain, that’s your failure of escort duty.” “If we reach the outpost safely and Ser Harys cuts open the grain sacks to reveal moldy wheat and sand, he will claim you swapped the military stores.” “And if you turn back to the main camp right now, they’ll immediately slap you with a charge of cowardice and insubordination.” Gawen closed his eyes in despair.
“Three roads, all nooses.” The corners of Soren’s mouth curved into a cold arc.
“So we take a fourth.” Gawen looked up in a daze.
“A fourth?” “Let them think they succeeded.” Soren looked toward the poplar woods veiled in fog.
“Let them see ruined grain, fake ledgers, and a rotten convoy patched together from old men, camp followers, and the wounded.
Let them believe that burning a few wagons and killing a few expendable men will make this ledger vanish.” Roland’s expression changed.
“And then?” “Then we preserve the real ledger, conceal the good grain, capture a live prisoner, and drag both the fake wolf banner and the captive straight to the outpost.” Soren’s voice was ice-cold.
“That way, escort negligence becomes discovering an ambush.
The rotten grain won’t be our crime, but the very evidence they were desperate to destroy.” Gawen listened, completely dumbfounded.
Roland said in a low voice, “But that relies on a single premise.” “What?” “We have to survive the ambush.” Soren turned his head to look at the empty wagons draped in heavy oilcloth in the middle of the formation.
“That’s why we need the hill tribesmen.” He nudged his horse’s flanks and rode up to those wagons.
“The fourth road requires bait, but it also requires teeth.” Soren tapped the outermost sack of moldy wheat with his scabbard.
“Rotten grain is the bait.” Then, he tapped the wagon body under the oilcloth.
“You are the teeth.” From beneath the canvas came Conn’s muffled, raspy laugh.
“The Stone Crows like being teeth.” “Don’t bite too early,” Soren said.
“Bite too soon, and the prey runs.” He turned and issued his orders: “Halt the convoy and re-form.” A wave of panic rippled through the loose formation.
Soren pointed to the frontmost grain wagons.
“The broken wagons loaded with sand and moldy wheat—push them all to the front and flanks.
No oilcloth canvas.
Let the wheat spill out a bit.
Make it as obvious as possible.” The teamsters exchanged confused glances.
“The wagons in the middle with good grain—cover them tight.
Weight them down with empty sacks and rotten wheat on top.
If anyone lets a wagon fall behind, I’ll chop off his feet.” He turned his gaze back to Gawen.
“You hold the fake ledger.
Hold it as tightly as you can.
Make everyone think it’s your lifeline.” Gawen’s face went white.
“I…
I already think it’s my lifeline.” “Then act the part.” Soren looked at Roland.
“Hide the copy of the real ledger against your chest inside your leather armor.
If I die—whether at the hands of brigands or in the outpost camp—you flee back to the main camp and hand the real ledger to Tywin.” Roland took a deep breath.
“Because Lord Tywin loves gold more than his vassals?” “Because Lord Tywin will never allow anyone to hide things from him and turn the Lannister war effort into their private piggy bank,” Soren corrected him.
“With this ledger, Crakehall will lose a layer of skin.” Roland was silent for a moment before nodding.
Soren continued issuing orders.
“Conn.” “Here!” A low growl sounded from inside the wagon.
“Take the Stone Crows and hold the rear.
Once fighting starts up front, those old veterans behind us will want to run.
If anyone turns around, chop off his legs and drive him forward.” A low chuckle sounded under the canvas.
“Conn likes this job.” “Two Black Ears scouts into the woods now.
Don’t take the main road; crawl through the canopy and brush.
Keep your eyes glued to anything along the way that reflects light or draws breath.” The two lean Black Ears warriors grinned, quickly slipping into the edge of the poplar forest.
Finally, Soren looked at the wagon carrying wild-fire oil.
“The Burned Men guard the oil.
No one lights a flame without my order.” A dissatisfied voice muttered from beneath the canvas.
“No fire again?” “When it’s time to burn, I’ll let you burn your fill.” That statement quieted the two lunatics.
Under a quick succession of orders, the sluggish supply convoy gradually transformed into a creature with a rotting shell but venomous fangs hidden in its belly.
The convoy resumed its advance.
The closer they got to Aspen Ford, the denser the trees became.
Branches interwoven overhead blocked out the dimming sky.
In the fog, only the sound of rolling wheels remained.
Soren rested his hand on his sword hilt.
The forest was far too quiet.
There wasn’t even the chirp of a bird.
Suddenly, the bushes on the left side of the column rustled softly.
Several Westerlands veterans raised their spears in terror.
Soren raised a hand, signaling everyone to stop.
A thin black shadow slid down from the tree canopy, dropping silently onto the muddy ground like a nimble ape.
It was one of the Black Ears scouts left behind by Chella.
Caked in mud and tree sap, he sprinted to Soren’s horse with lightning speed and held out a dirty palm.
In his hand lay a heavy iron horseshoe.
Soren’s pupils narrowed slightly.
That was no Northern horseshoe.
The iron plate was broad, the nail holes uniform, and deep anti-slip studs lined its edges.
Roland took one look, and his face sank.
Soren asked, “What’s up ahead?” The Black Ears scout grinned, revealing a cruel and mocking smile.
“Inside a ruined village two miles out, a hundred or so horsemen and archers are hiding.
They’re buried deep.” Holding the horseshoe, Soren slowly raised his head.
“They have the Northern wolf banner raised in the woods.” The scout licked his lips.
Soren paused briefly before uttering his final words: “Yet under those wolves’ feet are iron shoes forged for lions.”