[ 298 AC, July 3 | Afternoon | Westeros > Green Fork Riverbank > Poplar Ford Outpost ] Poplar Ford Outpost was built behind a partially collapsed stone wall.
The old village had long been gnawed away by the river and war, leaving only a few charred beams and posts.
Over a dozen Westerlands military tents were pitched among the ruins, their purple unicorn banners drooping listlessly in the damp wind.
Outpost Commander Ser Harys Brax sat beneath a wooden shelter in the center of the camp, idly cleaning his fingernails with a dagger.
Calculating the time, he figured those “wild dogs” hired by Master Crakehall should have finished the job by now.
At the thought of that upstart mercenary who relied on the dwarf—now turned into a charred corpse—Harys couldn’t help wanting to open a cask of fine wine.
“Ser!” a soldier on the lookout tower suddenly shouted.
“A force is approaching!
It’s the flag of the First Supply Patrol Battalion!” —————————— On the other side.
When Soren’s convoy arrived, three scorched grain wagons were still smoking.
The mixture of moldy oats and wet wood emitted a sour, burnt stench.
Gawen held the ledgers, his voice trembling.
“My Lord, are we really going in?
We have a witness, wolf banners, and rivets with wild boar crests.
Why not report Crakehall directly to the main tent?” Roland looked at Soren as well.
Soren did not answer immediately.
He looked at the mounted crossbows raised along the wooden palisade of the outpost, speaking softly: “Because that’s not enough.” Gawen froze.
“A witness can recant, wolf banners can be forged, and rivets can be claimed as battlefield debris,” Soren said impassively.
“I am merely an outsider mercenary thrown into the supply battalion by Tywin.
Crakehall is Westerlands nobility.
Who do you think the Old Lion will believe first?” Roland fell silent for a moment.
“He’ll ask about the grain first.” “Exactly.” Soren glanced at him.
“He’ll ask first whether I delivered the grain.
He’ll ask why I altered the formation without authorization.
He’ll ask why I harbored mountain clansmen.
He’ll ask why I failed to complete the handover according to military orders.” Gawen turned even paler.
“So we cannot bring half-baked evidence and beg Tywin to believe us,” Soren continued.
“We must resolve our own dead end first.
Let Poplar Ford Outpost personally confirm that we indeed suffered an enemy attack, that grain wagons were indeed burned, and that the remaining grain has been handed over.” Roland’s eyes flickered.
“Once they sign, the moldy grain becomes battle damage.” “Only when the ledger is balanced do I have the leverage to negotiate with the evidence,” Soren said.
“Otherwise, barging into the main camp with evidence just makes me a dead man who failed his delivery and tried to frame a noble.” Just then, a shout echoed from atop the wooden palisade.
“Halt!
Poplar Ford Outpost!
No stragglers permitted near!” Soren raised his hand.
The convoy came to a halt.
Roland rode forward, doing his best to keep his voice steady.
“First Supply Patrol Battalion, delivering grain to Poplar Ford Outpost by order of the main camp.
We were ambushed by Northern rangers en route.
Requesting handover of grain and battle damage confirmation!” Before long, the clanking of armor echoed behind the wooden gate.
Ser Harys Brax walked out.
He wore polished chainmail beneath a purple-and-silver striped tabard, with House Brax’s unicorn embroidered across his chest.
His decently maintained face carried a look of impatience.
“I didn’t expect Ser Soren to arrive so quickly.” He swept his gaze over the burned grain wagons, then at the old, weak soldiers and Mountain Clansmen.
“It seems your journey was far from dignified.” “Few things are dignified in war,” Soren replied.
Harys sneered.
“I heard you were friends with Lord Tyrion.
It turns out the Imp’s taste in friends is much like his taste in women—quite peculiar.” Low chuckles rang out from the outpost wall.
Conn’s hand drifted toward his hilt.
Without turning back, Soren said, “Conn, keep your hand off your sword.
The knight hasn’t signed yet.” Harys’s sneer faded.
“Sign?” He sounded as if he had heard a joke.
“You bring a few charred wagons, a few sacks of rotten wheat, and a band of mountain bandits, and you expect me to sign for you?” Soren pulled a roll of parchment from his saddle and handed it to Roland.
Roland dismounted, unrolling the parchment.
“Battle damage confirmation statement.
First Supply Patrol Battalion was ambushed by Northern rangers in the dense woods south of Aspen Ford.
Three outer wagons destroyed, seven guards killed, eleven wounded.
Remaining grain escorted to the outpost.
Requesting Ser Harys to inspect remaining grain and confirm battle damage.” Harys did not take it.
He glared at Roland, his tone mocking.
“Has Lord Crakehall of House Leyton learned to hand out papers for mercenaries now?” Roland turned pale.
Soren spoke up: “Master Roland is delivering military orders, not my paper.
If the knight cannot read, Gawen can read it aloud for you.” Gawen almost dropped the ledgers.
Harys’s eyes turned cold instantly.
“Insolent.” “I’m merely eager to deliver the grain,” Soren said.
“The front lines lack grain, Aspen Ford lacks grain, and the main camp’s ledgers lack this shipment.
If the knight refuses to sign, we can only take the wagons back and report to the main camp that Aspen Ford refused to accept grain salvaged from an enemy attack.” Harys gestured with his hand.
Two men-at-arms stepped forward and roughly sliced open a sack of grain.
The sack burst open, spilling not plump, fresh wheat, but old wheat mixed with black spots and coarse sand.
Harys’s eyes lit up.
“This is the grain you brought?” Seizing the flaw instantly, his voice rose.
“Moldy, full of sand, unfit even for pigs!
Ser Soren, how dare you try to fool Poplar Ford Outpost with such filth!
Men, seize this mercenary for swapping military supplies!” The crossbowmen along the outpost wall leveled their weapons immediately.
Soren didn’t even bat an eye.
Looking at Harys, his voice was eerie in its calm: “Ser, before you act, you had better look into the woods behind you.” Harys frowned, turning his head.
At the edge of the poplar woods a bowshot away from camp, shadows flickered among the trees.
Three exceedingly lean, ghost-like Mountain Clan scouts crouched on thick branches.
Each held a lit torch.
And beneath their feet lay dozens of duplicate ledgers reeking of sour parchment.
“Those three are from the Black Ears,” Soren explained casually.
“If anything happens to me, this clerk, or that noble lad here, they will drop those torches.
Once the duplicates burn, they’ll race back to the Green Fork camp at mountain speed.” Soren leaned forward slightly, his eyes cutting across Harys’s face like a blade.
“My men will find Shagga of Ser Flement Marbrand’s unit.
Then they’ll have Shagga hold up that wild boar horseshoe and roar at the top of his lungs through the main camp: Poplar Ford Outpost and House Crakehall colluded with Northerners to murder the supply convoy and swap military provisions!” Harys’s face finally turned white.
He stared dead at those torches in the woods, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
If they were regular soldiers, Harys was confident he could send cavalry to hunt them down and slaughter them.
But those were Mountain Clan monkeys!
Heavy Westerlands cavalry couldn’t catch them in the woods!
Once the news erupted in the main camp, even without hard ledger evidence, rumors of “colluding with the enemy” would be enough to make Tywin Lannister send men to dig up every last detail!
This was a dead end designed for mutual destruction!
“That bag of moldy wheat came from the burned wagons,” Soren said, offering a step down as his tone returned to businesslike indifference.
“A battle damage sample.” Harys gritted his teeth, looking at Soren as if viewing a monster.
“A sample?
You’re using the Northerners as a cover!” “We can write it that way too.” Soren nodded and looked at Gawen.
“The second document.” Gawen tremblingly opened another parchment.
“Poplar Ford Outpost Denial of Enemy Attack Statement…
No Northern rangers operating in the vicinity of Aspen Ford.
The claimed attack on First Supply Patrol Battalion is untrue; losses to be borne by the commander…” Roland added from the side, “Ser, if you sign this one, you confirm there is no enemy presence in Aspen Ford’s jurisdiction.
Yet we brought a captive, wolf banners, and burned wagons.
If the main camp discovers enemy activity later, the outpost will be guilty of concealing military intelligence.” Harys glared at Roland like a dagger.
Roland felt a chill run down his back, but he didn’t back down.
“You say there are Northerners, so there are Northerners?” Harys snarled through his teeth.
Soren raised his hand.
Two Mountain Clan warriors dragged a tightly bound captive from the rear of the convoy.
The man’s face was caked with blood and mud, a rag stuffed in his mouth, wearing a grey-and-white wolfskin tunic.
Conn threw a smoke-blackened direwolf banner onto the ground.
“One captive, one wolf banner, twenty-seven black-feathered arrows,” Soren said.
“If the knight disbelieves it, you may interrogate him yourself.” Harys’s eye twitched.
Soren didn’t stop.
He walked over to the captive and used the short blade left by Bronn to pry off the edge of the captive’s boot sole.
A mud-stained spur rivet fell to the ground.
On the side of the rivet, an almost microscopic wild boar head was carved.
Harys’s expression completely collapsed.
House Brax and House Crakehall had intermarried for generations; he naturally recognized this mark.
Soren acted as if he noticed nothing, picking up the rivet and placing it gently on the wooden stump before Harys.
“Scraps picked up from the battlefield,” Soren said impassively.
“Perhaps Northerners like carving wild boars on their boots now.
Chaotic times bring strange things.” Roland lowered his head, barely suppressing a smile.
Harys didn’t smile.
He finally understood.
Soren hadn’t come to lodge a complaint.
He was pressing an unsheathed blade to his throat, asking him to help sharpen it.
If Harys refused to sign, Soren would take the captive, wolf banner, wild boar rivet, and burned wagons back to the main camp.
If Harys signed, the moldy grain became battle damage, clearing Soren of blame.
“Ser Soren,” Harys lowered his voice, “do you realize what you’re playing with?” “Signing for supplies,” Soren said.
“Doing business for the Lannister army.” “You’re threatening a noble.” “I am requesting the outpost to fulfill its duty.” The two locked eyes.
The air felt stretched like a drawn bowstring.
Finally, Harys let out a sudden laugh.
It was a dry laugh.
“Bring me a quill.” The squire froze.
Harys snapped his head around.
“I said, bring me a quill!” The squire hurriedly brought forward a quill and ink.
Harys snatched the pen, his knuckles turning white with force.
He signed his name on the battle damage confirmation statement, pulled out the small seal of House Brax, and pressed it heavily onto the sealing wax.
“Poplar Ford Outpost confirms,” Harys said, word by word.
“First Supply Patrol Battalion ambushed by Northern rangers en route.
Three outer wagons burned.
Remaining grain handed over to outpost.” Gawen hurriedly presented the second copy.
Harys glared at him intently.
Scared half to his knees, Gawen still plucked up the courage to say, “In triplicate, My Lord.
One for the main tent, one for the outpost, and one retained by the patrol battalion.” The corner of Harys’s mouth twitched.
He signed another copy.
Roland spoke up at the right moment: “According to battle damage resupply regulations, after an attack on a supply convoy, the outpost shall resupply return rations, fresh water, wound remedies, and necessary wheel axles and harnesses.” Harys shot a furious glare at him.
“Boy of House Leyton, you have a lot to say today.” Roland turned pale, but stood his ground.
“These are the regulations.” Soren glanced at Roland.
Harys saw it too.
This minor noble had already taken Soren’s side today.
At least for today.
Harys took a deep breath, looking as though he had swallowed a red-hot iron.
“Give them ten sacks of dry rations, two casks of fresh water, three axles, one chest of wound medicine,” he said through gritted teeth.
“And twelve bundles of crossbow bolts.” Soren said, “And two draft horses.
We lost draft animals.” Harys’s gaze could almost kill.
Soren added, “If the knight is unwilling, you may write it down on a resupply refusal form.” “Give it to him!” Harys practically squeezed those words through the gaps in his teeth.
Behind them, Conn grinned and whispered to the Black Ears scout, “Lowlander paper is sneakier than an axe.” The Black Ears scout nodded.
“But it trades for horses.” Conn thought about it and found it made a lot of sense.
Half an hour later, Soren left Poplar Ford Outpost with the signed documents, resupplies, and the captive.
…
Inside Poplar Ford Outpost.
Harys Brax stood in his tent, his face dark as iron.
Before him lay the wax rubbing of the wild boar rivet.
A moment later, he snatched up parchment and wrote a line of text at lightning speed.
“Send this to Master Crakehall.” Harys pressed sealing wax onto the envelope, his voice dark and heavy.
“Send the fastest rider.” The squire asked in a low voice, “My Lord, what does the letter say?” Harys closed his eyes.
“Write…” He gritted his teeth in fury: “Soren is not dead.” “And he has a living witness.”