[July 3, 298 AC | Midnight | Westeros > Banks of the Green Fork > Abandoned Village Camp] The midnight fog hung thick.
From the muddy road outside the abandoned village came the muffled, rhythmic sounds of iron hooves and clanking armor.
Young Master Crakehall rode a tall chestnut warhorse, leading twenty fully armed guard knights and eight heavy supply wagons slowly into the ruined village.
His face was dark, his mind filled with contempt—a mercenary vagabond who climbed up by relying on a dwarf, a dog rolling in the ditch, actually dared to hold a blade to the neck of a Westerlands noble and commit extortion?
Once he got back the ledger and the captive, he would make this arrogant fool realize what it meant to wish for death over life.
“Young master, the village is too quiet,” a knight warned, eyeing the broken stone walls suspiciously.
“A bunch of rotten soldiers and stray dogs.
They fought a battle during the day and have long slept like dead pigs.” Crakehall sneered, gesturing for ten knights to seal the exit at the village entrance while he led the remaining men straight into the center of the ruins.
There was only a dying campfire there.
Soren wasn’t even wearing armor.
His longsword lay discarded in the mud a few paces away, and he was casually poking at the coals with a wooden branch.
Seeing this, Crakehall let out a scoff from behind his visor.
He had thought this mercenary would set up some elaborate trap.
Now it seemed he was merely a fool.
“Commander Soren,” Crakehall called out from atop his horse, mocking him from on high.
“The hundred sets of infantry armor, fifty sets of cavalry gear, two hundred hardwood heavy crossbows, and the patrol warrant you wanted are all here.
Now hand over the captive and the ledger, and I might consider cutting off only one of your hands and leaving you with your dog’s life.” Soren didn’t even raise his head, staring at the dancing sparks as he spoke casually: “Young Master Crakehall, don’t you feel the wind tonight smells a bit foul?
It smells like a dead pig.” He tossed the branch into the fire, and the flames flared upward.
“Seize him!” Crakehall lost his patience and barked sharply.
Three knights drew their swords and spurred their horses forward.
Yet before the warhorses took two steps, the lead horse sank abruptly.
With a loud snap, its front hooves plunged straight into a deep trench concealed by mud and spoiled grain.
The warhorse shrieked piteously as the knight slammed heavily onto the stones.
The two following horses reared back in terror, instantly throwing their formation into chaos.
“It’s a trap!” Crakehall’s expression changed drastically.
By the firelight, he finally saw that this seemingly flat square was densely laced with narrow, deep horse-hobbling trenches.
For heavy cavalry, these were no different than nooses wrapped around horse legs.
At the same time, dozens of dark shadows materialized like ghosts on the half-collapsed roofs and stone walls around them.
Westerlands veterans held cocked crossbows, while the mountain clansmen held torches like a pack of hungry wolves.
Roland stood pale behind a low wall, while Gawen shivered beside a wagon wheel, clutching his moisture-proof wooden box.
“You dare ambush me?
Lord Tywin will skin you alive!” Crakehall roared in rage and terror.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t bring up Lord Tywin’s name at a time like this.” Soren stood up and snapped his fingers.
*Thump.* Two wooden barrels rolled down from the roof and shattered, thick, pungent black fire-oil spilling toward the horses’ hooves.
Crakehall looked up in horror, only to see two lunatics from the Burned Men holding torches, licking their lips in eager anticipation.
“The moment a torch falls,” Soren pointed to the top of the wall, “you and your guards will turn into human candles smelling of roasted meat.” “You wouldn’t dare!
I am a noble of the Westerlands!” “Of course I wouldn’t dare casually kill a Westerlands noble.” Soren smiled coldly, pulling a mud-stained direwolf banner from a burlap sack and throwing it before Crakehall’s horse.
“But Ser Harrys can testify that Northern rangers were indeed active around here today.
You led an emergency escort of military supplies overnight, met an unfortunate ambush, and died fighting to your last breath.
I will drape this wolf banner over your charred corpse, and your name will appear gloriously on the casualty list.” Repaying him in his own coin.
This was precisely the death Crakehall had arranged for Soren earlier today, now served back to him completely untouched.
Crakehall felt as if he had fallen into an ice cave, yet he desperately clung to the last remnant of his noble pride: “Where is the ledger!
If I don’t return in an hour, the quartermaster’s office will send search parties!
You can’t hide it!” “If you hadn’t mentioned it, I almost forgot.” Soren sighed, pointing to the dark earthen slope outside the village.
“Why do you think I sat here alone roasting by the fire?
My second-in-command, Roland, left an hour ago carrying duplicate ledgers, the captive, and that boar horseshoe, taking a shortcut straight toward the main camp.” Crakehall’s face turned pale bit by bit.
“If I don’t send a fast horse to recall him before dawn,” Soren took a step closer, stopping less than a foot from the point of his sword, “those items will appear on Tywin’s breakfast table when the sun rises.
Whether I dare or not isn’t important.
What’s important is that you don’t dare to gamble.” In that single instant, Crakehall suffered a total collapse.
His martial force was locked down by fire-oil, his honor hung by a thread over the ledger, and his retreat was sealed by the fake Northern ambush script.
He was like a wild boar driven into a dead end, surrounded by blades on every side.
*Clatter.* A longsword struck the ground.
The high-and-mighty noble dismounted stiffly, his knees buckling as he knelt in the mud in utter humiliation.
“Don’t light the fire…” Crakehall trembled like a leaf in the wind.
“The iron armor, the heavy crossbows, the warrant—I’ll give them all to you.
I beg you, send someone to bring Roland back, give me the ledger.” Soren looked down at him, like watching a dog that had finally learned how to wag its tail.
“Inspect the goods.
Gawen.” Gawen shuffled out from beside the wagon holding his wooden box, his legs trembling violently.
“I-Inspect.” Gawen swallowed hard and ran over to lift the oilcloth.
Under the firelight, the iron armor of the Westerlands infantry reflected a cold sheen.
Bundles of heavy crossbows and cavalry protective gear were stacked like mountains.
“One hundred sets of infantry armor, two hundred heavy crossbows, fifty sets of cavalry gear…
The count is right.” Soren reached out his hand.
“The warrant.” Looking as though his bones had been removed, Crakehall pulled out a scroll of parchment sealed with red wax and raised it above his head with both hands.
With this Warrant of Free Patrol, Soren would no longer have to dance to the tune of the quartermaster’s office at every turn.
“Now get out.” Soren tucked the warrant into his breast pocket.
“And the ledger and captive…” “They stay with Roland.
That’s my life insurance.
As long as you don’t look for trouble, they will never see the light of day.” Soren kicked away the longsword on the ground.
[Judgment: The host conducted severe blackmail and extortion using extreme threats of death.
This gravely violates the chivalric virtues: Mercy and Honor.] [Honor Value -5.
Current Honor Value: 5/100.] The icy red text popping up at the edge of his vision didn’t ruin Soren’s mood in the slightest.
Crakehall bit his lip till it nearly bled.
Humiliation, fear, and malice twisted together on his face, yet he didn’t dare utter a single harsh word.
Minutes later, twenty guard knights led their frightened horses, escorting their spirit-broken master as they fled frantically into the dark night.
It wasn’t until the sound of hooves faded completely into the distance that the veterans and mountain men leaped down from the walls, their eyes fixed fervently on the heavy wagons.
Roland walked over to Soren’s side, his voice airy.
“Commander…
what if he had really ordered a charge just now?” “Then we burn them.” Soren’s calm tone sent a shiver through Roland, making him inexplicably think of the Mad King, Aerys.
Conn walked up to a wagon, reaching out to touch the thick iron breastplate.
That was real iron—capable of deflecting blades and saving lives.
He turned to look at Soren, the wild arrogance in his eyes completely replaced by raw awe.
“Commander, these iron suits…
are really for us?” “Distributed according to the rules.
Not by origin, but by merit.
Everyone gets a share.” In this mud pit, these words were more effective than any oath.
The veterans and mountain men fell into a fanatical silence at the same time.
Right at that moment, the system notification exploded in his mind like a clap of thunder.
[Judgment: The host supplied top-tier equipment to the Mountain Clans, fulfilling a high-risk promise with concrete action.
This is an extremely rare practice of the chivalric virtue: Trustworthiness.] [Honor Value +5.
Current Honor Value: 10/100.] [Ding!
Honor Value has re-triggered the threshold of 10.
Selection access for Low-Grade White Cards opened.] Soren watched the “10” on his panel plummet to the bottom before instantly bouncing back to the safe zone, the corners of his mouth twitching uncontrollably.
Using severe extortion (-5) to exchange for goods to keep his word (+5)—this deadpan moral ledger of the system had literally been gamed by him into getting something out of thin air.
This eerie smile scared Gawen so much he shrank backward.
“M-My lord…
what happened to your face?” “Nothing.” Soren gave a dry cough and quickly opened the card selection interface.
[A: Survival Card “Iron Stomach (White)”: Enhances the ability to digest low-quality food.] [B: Technique Card “Formational Swordsmanship (White)”: Compared to Wandering Swordplay, this is better suited for parrying and striking force within military ranks.] [C: Social Card “Tavern Veteran (White)”: Slightly increases the success rate of gathering intel in taverns.] “Choose B.
Replace ‘Black Blade Initiate’.” Assassination belonged to the dark alleys; he was now the commander of a regular force.
Memories flooded his mind, flushing away his habit of reverse-gripping short blades in narrow alleys, replacing it with the heavy, steady techniques of open-field swordplay.
Soren drew his longsword, the blade gleaming with cold light.
“Change into armor.
String your bows.” His voice wasn’t loud, yet every person heard it with utter clarity.
“Starting tomorrow, the First Supply Patrol Battalion is no longer just a pile of rot pushing carts.” Conn grinned widely, Roland gripped his parchment tightly, and Gawen felt the ledger in his arms become immensely heavy.
Soren looked out into the pitch-black night, his eyes filled with sharp resolve.
“We are armed to the teeth.”