Seventeen Mountain Clan warriors were adeptly clearing the battlefield—which was to say, stripping the dead.
They stripped off the chainmail, steel longswords, and unblooded boots from the fallen attackers, piling them beside Soren’s wagon.
The survivor’s hands were bound behind his back, dragged before Soren like a dead dog.
His face was covered in mud and blood, but his mouth remained stubborn.
“Long live Stark.” Conn slammed a fist into his stomach.
The survivor doubled over, vomiting sour water.
“I don’t know anything!
I’m Lord Stark’s ranger!” The leader spat a mouthful of blood mixed with sand, making his final struggle.
“You Lannister dogs, kill me if you want!” Conn couldn’t hold back, stepping forward.
“Commander, let me chop him.
This pig is insulting your intelligence.” “In the Mountains of the Moon, your rule is never to let a grudge last overnight,” Soren’s voice was smooth, without a ripple.
“But in the lowlands, our rule is: dead men only feed crows, while live men bite out their masters.” He looked at Conn, his eyes reflecting a chilling clarity.
“Chopping off his head gives you a moment of satisfaction.
Keeping him around will help deliver the iron armor your brother wanted, along with the true killer.
Understand?” Conn gritted his teeth, his face full of hostility, but he ultimately stepped back half a pace.
He realized he couldn’t refute this lowlander’s logic.
A Burned Men warrior left behind by Timett leaned in, eyeing the captive with regret before looking at Soren.
“Can’t burn him?” “No.” “Roast him a little?” “No.” The man sighed as if he had just missed a good meal.
A Black Ears scout crouched nearby, grinning.
“Soren, you’re looking more and more like a pit viper that speaks human tongue.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “It is,” the scout nodded solemnly.
“Pit vipers live long.” Soren ignored him, turning to look at Gawen, who was still cowering under the grain wagon.
“Gawen, come here.” The clerk crawled out tremblingly, still clutching the two ledgers tightly to his chest.
“Check if he has any written orders on him.” Soren pointed at the leader.
Gawen approached cautiously, fumbling through the man’s tunic for a bit before pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment.
He took one look at it, and his face changed.
“M-My Lord…
this is a temporary rotation order from the main army’s logistics department.” “Go on.” Gawen’s voice trembled, but this time, he didn’t shut his mouth.
A few hours ago, nothing could have forced him to point fingers at a quartermaster.
But just moments ago in the blaze, it was Soren’s blade that blocked the sword aimed at his head.
Gawen wasn’t loyal, but he wasn’t stupid.
He knew his only chance of survival was proving he had irreplaceable value on this pirate ship.
“The wax seal color is wrong.” Gawen took a deep breath, plucking up the courage to point out the flaw.
“Formal military orders use dark crimson hard sealing wax.
But this uses soft yellow wax painted red on the outside.
This is…
an informal order forged by a middleman to bypass the main tent’s records!” The masked leader’s eyes finally shifted.
He hadn’t expected a servile camp clerk to spot such subtle details.
Soren nodded.
“Write it down.” Gawen froze.
“I write it?” “You’re the clerk.” The words were simple.
Yet Gawen felt as though he had been lightly hit by something profound.
A few hours ago, he was just a ledger-copying worm destined to be silenced.
Now, his quill felt like it could save lives.
He immediately dropped onto the wagon board, recording the secondary seal, wax color, and forged signature.
Soren turned to Roland.
“If he were a real Northern knight, how much would he be worth?” Roland caught his drift, adjusting his mud-stained leather armor and speaking in as steady a noble cadence as he could muster.
“If he were a knight with a family and coat of arms, he could await ransom.” He looked down at the masked leader.
“But he has no coat of arms, no proof of lineage.
He carries fake orders and flies fake wolf banners to ambush a Lannister grain convoy.
Unless he names who hired him, he is an anonymous bandit.” Soren asked, “How much is an anonymous bandit worth?” “Not a single copper,” Roland said.
“And by martial law, his hands should be chopped off, his eyes gouged out, and his body hanged from a poplar tree until the flesh rots.” Conn grinned.
“We mountain folk can make him die even slower.” The leader’s throat bobbed.
[Passive Trait ‘Tongue of the Abandoned Pawn’ activated.] [Target’s psychological defenses show signs of cracking.] Roland continued, “However, if he can prove he was acting under direct orders from a noble or an officer…
he becomes a key witness.
A living witness is worth more than ten thousand Gold Dragons.” “Did you hear that?” Soren used the flat of his blade to gently pat the leader’s cold cheek.
Empowered by ‘Tongue of the Abandoned Pawn’, Soren’s words eroded the leader’s final psychological defenses like venom.
Soren stood up.
“Conn.” Conn stepped forward.
The leader snapped his head up: “Wait!” Soren paused.
The leader breathed heavily.
“We didn’t come to steal grain!” Roland tightened his grip on his hilt.
Gawen’s hand holding the pen trembled.
“Someone paid us to pose as Northern stragglers!” Soren asked, “Who?” “I don’t know his name!” Conn kicked him hard.
The leader shrieked, hurriedly shouting, “It’s the squire beside Master Crakehall!
Bald, with a black mole under his left eye!
He gave us the pass slips, wolf banners, arrows, and your departure time!” “Your orders.” The leader gasped, sounding ten years older.
“Burn the marked grain wagons, kill the new commander and all clerks with ledgers…
leave no survivors if possible.
Then plant the wolf banners beside the bodies to make it look like a Northern raid.” Gawen turned pale.
Roland swore under his breath.
Conn reached for his blade again.
Soren held up a hand to stop him.
“Clansmen, time to divide the spoils!” The Mountain Clans fell silent at once.
Soren pointed at the captured weapons and horses.
“Iron armor, fine swords, usable bows—divided by merit.
Conn caught the survivor, pick one first.
Black Ears spotted the ambush, pick one each.
Burned Men cut off their retreat, the tinder and oilcloth belong to you.” “Commander,” Roland walked to Soren’s side, a genuine touch of reverence in his eyes.
“Now that we have the confession and the living witness, shouldn’t we turn back to the main camp immediately and hand this over to Lord Tywin?” “Turn back?” Soren looked at the team distributing the steel longswords to the clansmen and shook his head.
“If we return now, we’re telling Crakehall and the quartermasters that we survived and hold evidence.
They’ll rally regular troops mid-way and wipe us out on charges of mutiny and desertion.” Soren mounted his horse, looking at the road ahead where the fog was gradually clearing.
“Haul those blackened, ruined wagons loaded with sand-mixed, moldy wheat.” A flash of cold, ruthless calculation glinted in his eyes.
“Since Master Crakehall put on such a grand show of ‘enemy attack destroying grain’, how could we leave him without an audience?” Soren pointed his whip forward.
“To Poplar Ford Outpost.
We’re delivering grain to Ser Harys Brax!
I want him to sign his name in his own hand on this battle-damage ledger burned by the ‘Northerners’!”