[ June 30, 298 AC | Morning | Westeros > Pine Forest, Mountains of the Moon ] A bitter mountain wind sliced through the towering black pines, shredded by dense needles into a wail like a weeping widow’s cry.
A column of over three hundred mountain clansmen stretched along the rugged game trail in a winding line.
Suddenly, Chella of the Black Ears dropped from the high cliff face like an agile chamois, landing silently before Tyrion and Soren.
“Tin cans,” Chella growled in her harsh, low voice, pointing a grime-caked finger down the southern trail.
“Twenty, maybe thirty.
Riding big lowlander horses, followed by a dozen or so walkers carrying crossbows.” The air at the front of the column froze instantly.
Hearing the words “tin cans,” the breath of a dozen wildling chiefs and elite warriors around them turned heavy.
Shagga squeezed half a step forward, gripping his axe handles, his eyes locked onto the far end of the trail.
Behind Timett, the Burned Men exchanged raspy chuckles and began reaching for tinder boxes at their waists, while a few Moon Brothers slipped quietly into the shadows of the rocks, ready to duck into any crevice.
Tyrion watched this unfold, his face darkening.
Bronn spat out the stalk of grass he was chewing, his hand alighting on his hilt.
“Knights of the Vale aren’t mountain bandits.
Send these fools in a frontal charge, and they’ll be trampled into red mush in less than a quarter hour.” “We can’t hide, and we can’t charge blindly either,” Soren said, gazing in the direction Chella had pointed.
“They might not even be looking for us.” “Let them pass,” Tyrion said, lowering his voice in cold reason.
“Trial by combat acquitted me.
Mad as Lysa Arryn is, her knights have no lawful cause to rearrest a Lannister in the mountains.” “Come off it, Imp,” Bronn snapped, shattering his illusion without mercy.
“You’ve got three hundred reeking hill brigands trailing behind you.
One gust of wind and those knights’ll smell the goat stench on you half a mile away!” Tyrion fell silent.
The blood feud between the Vale and the mountain clans ran deeper than any abyss.
With several hundred hillmen gathered together, campfire smoke, footprints, and slaughtered goats were impossible to hide.
It was hardly surprising for a Vale patrol to show up here.
The real trouble was that Tyrion was right in the middle of them.
If the Vale knights discovered Tywin’s son marching down the mountain with hundreds of hillmen, the nature of the situation changed entirely.
“We can’t wipe them out completely on our own initiative—that would drive the entire Vale mad,” Soren said, resting his hand on his sword as he made the call.
“Lord Tyrion, you go negotiate.
I’ll take men to set a trap.
If they’re just patrolling, all the better.
If they pick a fight, we drive them back.” Seeing that Soren wasn’t planning a massacre, the wildlings’ eyes flickered with instant fury.
A low growl rumbled in Shagga’s throat, while Timett’s single eye fixed coldly on Soren.
“If you want iron, shut your mouths,” Soren snapped, his eyes colder than the mountain wind.
“Charge head-on to pillage, and you’ll be ground to dust under iron hooves.
If you want steel plate, you make them fall off their horses, break their lines, and choke to death in their own iron shells!” “Everyone take cover.
Anyone who charges early and gives away our position won’t get a single link of mail—and when the battle is over, I’ll be the first to take his head!” An uncanny aura of pressure made the chiefs’ hearts skip a beat.
Once Soren finished assigning their duties, Shagga licked his dry lips, while Timett grunted quietly and led his men out of sight into the pines on the left.
…
Half an hour later, the sharp clatter of iron horseshoes on mountain stone echoed through the trees.
Three armored knights in visor-closed helmets, their surcoats bearing the blue falcon crest, came into view atop tall warhorses.
Behind them followed a dozen armored infantrymen holding horse reins and crossbowmen with drawn weapons.
Narrow game paths off the main road were wretched terrain for armored cavalry.
The destriers snorted in irritation, their riders’ armor caked in mud and the hems of their surcoats frayed by briars.
The lead knight had his visor raised halfway.
His horse jerked to a stop the moment it rounded a rock wall—Tyrion Lannister was sitting brazenly on a flat stone in the middle of the trail, Bronn and Soren standing beside him with swords resting over their shoulders.
“Gods above, what ghost is this?” The lead knight yanked his reins, stunned.
“Tyrion Lannister.
Lady Lysa swore up and down that you’d either been flayed by mountain wildlings or turned into shadowcat meat.” “Ser Donnel Waynwood, isn’t it?” Tyrion brushed dust off his boots, beaming warmly.
“The air in the Vale is dreadful chilly.
I was just heading down to catch some sun in the Westerlands.
Care to join me for a cup of ale?” Ser Donnel appraised the sparse trio, his hand slowly drifting toward his hilt.
“We were ordered to patrol the Mountains of the Moon.
We aren’t required to bring your head back…
after all, the trial by combat acquitted you.
You may go.” He glanced back at his crossbowmen, his tone turning frosty.
“However, we’ve noticed those savage mountain rats burning more campfires and gathering toward this trail over the last few days.
Tell me, Lannister—walking all this way, did you really encounter no vermin out for your gold?” “Even high mountain clansmen understand reason,” Tyrion lied without blinking an eye or changing color.
“A little coin is better than losing one’s life.” Donnel remained skeptical.
Having dealt with hillmen for years, he knew these brigands far too well.
They would never let a golden sheep walk away so easily unless…
the sheep offered them a temptation they couldn’t refuse.
“For a dwarf telling a lie, your breath is far too steady.” Donnel’s gaze swept across the eerily silent pine woods on either side.
His warhorse pawed at the dirt nervously, as if scenting something in the wind.
“My lord!” a crossbowman behind him suddenly shouted, pointing toward the dense woods on the left, his voice tense.
“The smell of pine pitch oil in the trees!
And footprints!” The situation collapsed instantly.
“Form up!
Draw!” Donnel slammed his visor down, drawing his broadsword with a roar.
“Attack!” Soren cried out at the same moment.
He did not order a slaughter, issuing restrained tactical commands instead: “Break their line!
Spook the horses!
Disarm them!” A dull thud echoed from the cliff overhead as Shagga and his men pushed down several boulders.
They crashed onto the trail behind the patrol, severing the foot soldiers’ retreat.
Simultaneously, a dozen fiery serpents leaped out from the pines on the left.
Timett’s Burned Men hurled burning oil-soaked rags into the pile of dead leaves beneath the horses’ hooves.
Flames and thick smoke erupted.
Horses whinnied in terror, and the rigid Vale formation was ripped to shreds.
“Kill them!” Donnel bellowed, driving his mount forward.
Using his momentum, he raised his sword and charged straight at Soren in the center of the road.
A rigorously trained knight knew instinctively to eliminate the commander first.
The thunder of hooves was deafening.
Facing the heavy cavalry charge, Soren didn’t retreat.
With cold composure, he triggered the muscle memory of [Black Blade Initiate].
The instant the warhorse bore down on him, Soren ducked and stepped aside.
He scooped up a handful of dirt and gravel with his left hand and flung it unceremoniously straight into the slits of the horse’s armor chamfron!
Stung in the eyes, the beast squealed shrilly and reared back on its hind legs.
Donnel reeled violently, his broadsword swinging wide.
Seizing the opening, Soren reversed his grip.
Ignoring the heavy breastplate completely, he smashed the solid iron pommel of his sword directly into the joint of Donnel’s sword wrist.
Crack!
A crisp crunch accompanied a stifled groan, and the fine steel broadsword clattered from his hand.
Soren pressed in close, driving a heavy kick straight into the weak gap in the knight’s inner thigh armor.
Donnel lost his balance completely and crashed heavily from his saddle.
With their leader down, the battle quickly turned into a one-sided slaughter.
On the other side, the two remaining mounted Vale knights watched in frantic fury.
“My lord!” Braving the volley of stones and arrows, they launched a suicidal countercharge, hauling Donnel out of the mud and shoving him back onto his horse.
Donnel clutched his dislocated wrist and forced himself to look back.
When he saw over three hundred fully armed mountain wildlings surging endlessly from the surrounding forest, his pupils contracted in extreme shock.
A scattered pack of wild beasts had actually been forged into an army!
“Retreat!” Donnel roared through gritted teeth.
The surviving troopers shielded him, hacking a bloody path open, and galloped wildly back toward the Vale.
Howling, the wildlings moved to give chase, but Soren thrust his sword into the mud, blocking their path.
“Do not pursue a cornered enemy.” “Why not slaughter them all?!” Timett demanded, his single eye glinting with murderous fury.
“Our goal right now is to reach the flatlands and meet the Lannisters, not die in the mud fighting the Vale!” Soren turned to face the savages.
“They fired crossbows and set fires.
The outposts will find out sooner or later.
If we slaughter them all, Lysa Arryn will immediately send thousands to scour the mountains.
But now that Donnel escaped, the terror he brings back will tell the Vale that a three-hundred-strong army marches through the hills!
That fear will force them to defend their fortresses instead of pursuing us!” The wildlings only half understood, but looking at the weapons scattered across the ground, greed quickly triumphed over bloodlust.
[Ding!
Battle settlement complete.
Enemy unit possessing a special trait detected (Veteran Knight: Ser Alyn Moore) was killed in an ambush under your command.] [Kill Stripping Mechanism triggered!
Please select one of the following two loot options (Choose 1 of 2):] [Option 1: Directly strip the unit’s complete Common Trait: “Armor Seam Sight”.] [Description: In close-quarters infantry combat, you possess complete knowledge of weak spots beneath cold iron plate.
Accuracy when thrusting at unarmored blind spots increased by 15%.] [Option 2: Extract the high-tier potential of this specialization to acquire Uncommon Trait Shard: “Armor Seam Sight” (1/3).] [Description: Can be activated once all shards are collected.
In addition to weak point insight, includes an “Armor Penetration” physical check that ignores a portion of defense.] Soren looked at the status screen, his eyes shifting slightly to the corpse of a Vale veteran not far off, whose neck had been snapped by a fallen boulder.
The system’s “Choose 1 of 2” stripping mechanism was devious.
It forced the host to choose between taking someone else’s ready-made experience to grow instantly stronger, or gambling on a higher-tier ability that might take ages to complete.
He only wondered how much of a qualitative leap an Uncommon trait would yield compared to a Common one.
Soren pondered for a moment, suppressing his desire for immediate combat power.
In this world of ice and fire about to plunge into the vortex of power, ordinary Common traits would eventually fall short.
He needed trump cards capable of dealing with top-tier monsters like The Mountain or The Hound in the future.
[Selected: Extracted Uncommon Trait Shard “Armor Seam Sight” (1/3).] The fight was completely over.
Tyrion stood atop a boulder, watching the wildlings excitedly strip off fine mail coats and steel swords.
“Listen up!” Tyrion clapped his hands and declared loudly.
“By Soren’s rule, the clans that obeyed orders and didn’t rush in blindly get first pick of this gear!” The wildlings erupted into a fanatical cheer.
The victory was magnificent; at almost no cost, with only a few unlucky souls injured, the mountain clans had secured the equipment of regular Vale soldiers.
Tyrion’s promised pie of “claiming the Vale of Arryn” had finally turned into real, tangible meat.
Soren looked down at the blood spattering the ground, feeling no sense of relief.
“Once that lad makes it back, the Vale will know what’s going on up here soon enough,” Bronn said, wiping grime off his dagger.
“He’ll likely bring a few hundred men back for us.” Tyrion said nothing.
He turned his head toward the western edge of the mountains.
There, beyond the final spurs of the Mountains of the Moon, the vast plains were faintly visible.
Along the edge of the plains, countless red campfires blazed into a sea of flame.
Though far off, the outline of massive banners bearing the golden lion on a crimson field was already discernible.
“He won’t be coming back with men,” Tyrion murmured, his tone devoid of joy or sorrow.
“Because we’ve already made it out of these bloody Mountains of the Moon.” Soren saw that massive expanse of campfires as well.
Behind them lay the alerted host of the Vale; before them stood the suffocating lion of Tywin Lannister’s Westerlands force.
Soren suddenly remembered the green shard dropped by that Vale knight.
An unnamed knight could already yield an Uncommon shard like [Armor Seam Sight].
What about Jaime Lannister?
What color trait would the Kingslayer’s swordsmanship be?
And what about a monster like Tywin Lannister, who held the entire Westerlands in his palm and reduced lords and kings to silence—how would the system judge him?
Soren had no answer.
He only knew that within those campfires beneath the golden lion on crimson, things far more dangerous than Vale knights lay in wait.
Tyrion offered a complex smile toward the distance.
He was finally returning to his brother’s side.
But whether that was a sanctuary or another colder, grander cage, only they knew in their hearts.