[July 3, 298 AC | Evening | Westeros > Banks of the Green Fork > Abandoned Village Camp] After leaving the Poplar Ford Outpost, Soren did not push through the night.
Instead, he led the wagon train to camp in an abandoned village five miles away from the outpost.
The terrain here was open, backed by a stretch of ruined stone wall.
It was neither easy for enemy rangers to sneak up on nor a bad place to defend against Harrys doing something desperate out of rage.
As night fell, several campfires were lit in the camp.
Soren sat alone atop the highest section of the broken wall, wiping clean the dagger Bronn had given him.
At the edge of his vision, a light blue system prompt floated quietly.
[Judgment: The host blackmailed and extorted a noble of the Westerlands using leverage, seeking personal gain.
This action deviates from Chivalry.] [Honor Value -3.
Current Honor Value: 7/100.] Soren’s foot paused so subtly it was almost imperceptible.
He glanced at the two draft horses, then at the medicine chest.
*Fine.* To keep himself alive, to shift the blame off his supply train, and to pinch some supplies from the outpost that they ought to have received anyway—that counted as extortion.
This system truly didn’t care about outcomes; it only cared about finding fault with his methods.
Yet he felt no regret.
Because if he hadn’t done it, the one tied to the stake right now might well be himself.
*** The camp soon grew lively.
The moment the supplies were unloaded, the Westerlands veterans and the Mountain Clans gathered around.
And with that, trouble followed.
A stubble-faced veteran stared at the dried rations handed to the mountain men, unable to hold back.
“This is Lannister grain.
Why are we sharing it with wildmen from the mountains?” Conn snapped his head up instantly.
“Because the mountain people killed those fake wolves.” The veteran sneered.
“You killed them?
All you did was jump out of the wagons to pick up scraps.
If we hadn’t been pushing the carts, you wouldn’t even know where Aspen Ford was.” Conn stood up, his hand already resting on the shortsword at his waist.
“Say that again.” Several men of the Mountain Clans stood up alongside him.
On the side of the Westerlands veterans, seven or eight men grabbed their spears.
Roland immediately walked over, trying to control the situation.
“Put down your weapons!
The supplies are distributed by the commander.
No one is allowed to fight privately—” Nobody listened to him.
One veteran even muttered under his breath, “The little young master of House Leyton had better run back to his tent and suck on his mother’s teat.” Roland’s face flushed bright red.
Gawen clutched his ledger, hiding behind Soren with a trembling voice: “My lord, things are going to turn ugly.” Soren was in no hurry to speak.
He looked at the crowd in front of him.
The Westerlands veterans feared the mountain men, yet looked down on them all the same.
The mountain men detested the Westerlands soldiers, yet had to travel the same path.
Roland knew the rules, but no one took a noble teenager from a remote house seriously.
Gawen had his ledger and his wits, but in the eyes of these men holding blades, scribes and parchment were equally easy to tear apart.
Winning an ambush and forcing the outpost to sign a paper didn’t mean these people had truly become his army.
When fighting, they would follow orders.
When eating—that was when the real trouble started.
“Conn,” Soren finally spoke.
Conn didn’t turn back, his eyes locked dead on the veteran.
“Keep your hand away from your sword.” Conn gritted his teeth.
“He stole my thing.” Soren’s eyes shifted.
“What thing?” Conn pulled a snapped leather cord from his collar.
“Gunthor’s bone pendant.” His voice lowered.
“I saved it off his corpse.
It was in my pouch just now, and now it’s gone.” The veteran who had picked the fight first had a slight change of expression.
Soren looked at him.
“What is your name?” The veteran squared his neck.
“Martin.” “Take off your boots.” Martin blinked.
“What?” “I don’t like repeating myself.” Martin stood motionless.
Soren drew the dagger Bronn had given him and tossed it casually to Conn’s feet.
Conn grinned savagely.
Martin immediately bent down to strip off his boots.
A small pendant carved from sheep bone rolled out from his boot shaft, smeared with sweat and mud.
Conn’s eyes turned red instantly.
“I want his hand!” “No,” Soren said.
Conn looked up abruptly.
“He stole my brother’s thing!” “Which is why he will be punished.” Soren picked up the bone pendant, wiped away the mud, and handed it to Conn.
Then he turned to Martin.
“Stealing a comrade’s battle spoils: triple restitution.
Hand over the shortsword, leather boots, and silver stags you received today.” Martin turned pale.
“Then what do I use for self-defense?” “Did you think about that when you stole?” Martin didn’t dare speak.
Soren continued, “And twenty lashes with military canes.
To be administered by the Westerlands soldiers themselves.” The veterans’ expressions changed.
This was far more painful than letting the mountain men beat him.
This was forcing them to publicly admit that the fault lay on their side.
Conn picked up his axe and spat mockingly toward the Westerlands veterans, turning to walk back to the campfire.
“Did I say you could move?” Soren’s cold voice sounded behind him.
Conn turned back.
“Commander, he stole my thing, and you’ve already punished him.” “I punished him because he’s a thief.
Now I punish you.” Soren walked up to Conn.
“What did I say earlier today?
What I need are hands that hold blades, and without my order, no one is allowed to move a weapon on their own.” “I didn’t hack at him!” Conn gritted his teeth, refusing to submit.
“Which is why you’re still alive to eat dinner.” Soren unceremoniously ripped the iron sword Conn had looted earlier from his belt and threw it to Roland.
“This sword is confiscated as your punishment for drawing your axe without orders.” “I bought that with my life!” Conn roared.
“And your life right now was saved by me,” Soren replied, his voice even colder than Conn’s.
Conn glared at Soren, and the mountain men behind him tightened their grips on their weapons.
The tension spiked again.
Yet Soren did not back down an inch.
In the end, the brutality in Conn’s eyes was suppressed by sheer reluctance.
He gave a heavy grunt and stomped back to the campfire.
Neither the Westerlands men nor the mountain men were happy, but neither had anything left to say.
Roland’s tense shoulders finally relaxed.
He realized his awe toward this commander had deepened yet another layer.
Had Soren favored anyone?
No.
Which made it all the more terrifying.
Right at that moment, a crisp system tone rang out from the depths of his mind.
[Judgment: The host enforced the law impartially and maintained military discipline, establishing basic order in a dire situation without favoritism or bias.
This action aligns with the chivalric virtue: Justice.] [Honor Value +3.
Current Honor Value: 10/100.
Ding!
Threshold crossed again; selection access for Low-Grade White Cards (10 days) is now open.] Three new white cards slowly flipped open: [A: Technique Card “Knotter’s Hands (White)”: Increased proficiency in tying and untying knots.] [B: Perception Card “Ash Reader (White)”: Determine the source and time of a fire by inspecting its ashes.] [C: Social Trait “Voice of First Impression (White)”: When addressing a male stranger, the host’s first spoken sentence will briefly gain a social modifier equivalent to Charisma 30, significantly increasing the target’s initial favorability and willingness to listen.
Triggers only once per target.
Activation Requirement: Charisma ≥ 15.
(Current Charisma: 10)] Soren stared at the final entry, the corners of his mouth twitching.
*Voice of First Impression.
Male stranger.
First sentence.
Brief Charisma 30.* This thing was undeniably powerful.
In a world where surnames, status, and first impressions decided life and death, if he ever faced some grand lord, high minister, or knight commander in the future, having a first sentence that granted him a bit more of their patience and reduced their intent to kill could mean saving a life—or even taking a castle.
The problem was— Why was it restricted to males?
Soren looked at the cold system description, his mood immensely complex.
This buff wouldn’t work on Shae, nor Chella, nor those pretty widows and noble ladies in King’s Landing.
Yet people like Eddard Stark, Stannis, Varys, and Littlefinger might actually take the bait.
*System, is there something wrong with you?* Soren complained bitterly in his heart.
With Charisma at 15, the first sentence could make a male stranger listen to him a little longer.
With Charisma at 30, wouldn’t it cause some grand lord to clasp his hands and sigh, “Young man, the moment I saw you, I felt you were pleasing to my eye”?
Just thinking about that scene sent a chill down his spine.
Still, jokes aside, the value of this card was far from low.
In the arena of power, a first sentence was sometimes more crucial than a first strike.
“Choose C.
Replace ‘Tongue of the Abandoned Pawn Pawn,'” Soren murmured in his heart, making his decision.
Now that this team understood the basic meaning of “rules,” the tongue specifically meant for placating outlaws could take a rest for now.
[Unequipped temporary trait “Tongue of the Abandoned Pawn Pawn (White)”.] [Equipped temporary trait “Voice of First Impression (White)”.
Current trait slots: 4/4.
Duration: 10 days.] [Notice: Current Charisma has not met the threshold.
Trait is currently dormant.] Though the trait was secured, he didn’t immediately try to find a way to allocate points to activate it.
His Honor Value had just returned to 10 points, far from abundant.
Soren put his thoughts aside for the moment and looked up at the camp.
Martin’s lashes were still ongoing.
Conn sat by the fire, head lowered as he re-tied Gunthor’s bone pendant.
Gawen carefully slid his ledger into the moisture-proof wooden box, even using his body to shield it from stray sparks floating over.
In a secluded corner, Roland was whispering with a scout, holding a personal letter Soren intended to send to the Boar Knight tonight…