[ July 3, 298 AC | Dawn to Morning | Lannister Camp ] It was not yet dawn, but the camp already echoed with the whinny of horses and the shouts of soldiers.
Nero sat in the corner of the dim tent, unwrapping the blood-soaked linen from his left side with one hand.
The ribs bruised by a northern heavy’s shield the day before had swollen into a dark, ugly mass.
Even the slightest shift of muscle sent needle-sharp pain through him.
He reached for the cheap, harsh liquor beside the bed, intending to pour it over the wound.
The tent flap was pushed open a crack.
A cold breeze carrying the scent of cheap spices drifted in.
“If you’re here to hurry the breaking of camp, go find Bronn next door.” Nero did not look up.
His voice was hoarse.
“Bronn is currently busy kicking a girl out of his blankets.” A lazy, sweet voice with an exotic accent filled the tent.
Nero stopped what he was doing and raised his eyes.
Shae leaned against the wooden post, wrapped in a thick wool cloak.
The faint candlelight caught the wild beauty of her face.
A cat-like glimmer moved in the depths of her eyes.
“Where is Lord Tyrion?” Nero asked.
“Outside arguing with the quartermaster.” She walked toward him with easy naturalness.
“The old lion forced the Mountain Clans under another general.
Shagga nearly drew his axe.
The Half-man is trying to convince them that a Lannister promise has not yet turned into horse dung.” She reached the bedside, took the bottle of liquor, and poured some onto a clean cloth.
“You look badly hurt.” Shae leaned down slightly.
The shadow of her neckline nearly filled Nero’s vision.
She pressed the alcohol-soaked cloth gently against the gash on his shoulder.
“I heard you pulled my little Lannister giant out of a pile of corpses yesterday.” “That is a sellsword’s job.” Nero remained where he sat, neither pulling away nor answering the touch.
The liquor bit into the open wound.
The sting flared hot.
Clearer still was the warm fragrance rising from her—spices, wine, and the simple heat of a woman’s skin—winding around his throat like a thin thread.
Nero was no block of wood.
When her fingers lingered a fraction too long against his chest through the cloth, his heartbeat skipped once, hard and involuntary.
This body was young, strong, and fresh from death and blood.
It possessed an almost animal craving for anything soft and warm.
He knew better.
Shae was not free wine.
She was a blade with honey smeared along the edge.
“I also heard the old lion threw you into the logistics train.” Her voice dropped, carrying a note of almost genuine regret.
“A tall, handsome, and ruthless knight, sent to a mud pit to guard moldy oats.
That is not the fate of a clever man.” Shae had clawed her way up through the lowest dregs of men.
She possessed a wild beast’s sense of smell.
She knew Tyrion was the largest backer she could grasp for the moment.
But Tyrion was fragile.
The man in front of her carried the hard aura of someone who might survive the coming chaos.
This was an instinctive gamble—weighing how sharp the blade was, how many people it could kill, and whether it might one day become a ladder.
Nero reached out and closed his hand around her wrist just as her fingers began to slide lower along his ribs.
The grip was not harsh, but it left no room for misunderstanding.
“Miss Shae.” He raised his eyes and met her dark, liquid gaze.
His voice was steadier than his breathing.
“My wound does not need more wine.
There are many snakes in King’s Landing.
Save your thoughts for your lord.” Shae was checked by the unromantic composure.
She withdrew her hand.
A flash of irritation and frustration crossed her face, then vanished.
She covered her mouth and laughed softly.
“You are truly a boring man.” She turned toward the tent entrance.
“I hope your life is as hard as your mouth.” She pushed the curtain aside and left.
Cold wind poured back into the tent.
Nero looked down at the place her fingers had touched.
He was silent for a moment, then poured the remaining liquor onto the wound himself.
— Full light arrived.
The morning mist still clung to the ground.
Damp cold wrapped the entire camp like a soaked wool blanket.
On the muddy road outside the inn at the crossroads, several carriages bearing the gold-and-crimson lion banner stood ready to depart.
Tyrion Lannister stood beside the lead carriage, wrapped in an ill-fitting black cloak.
His face looked worse than the mist.
He had not slept well.
Neither had Nero.
The difference was simple.
Tyrion was going to King’s Landing to sit in a chair of power that every ambitious man wanted and every careful man feared.
Nero was going to the First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion—a mud pit Tywin had casually tossed out to settle trouble, consume it, and finally bury it.
“My father is an extremely pragmatic man, Nero.” Tyrion watched him approach.
Weariness sat heavy in his voice.
“But in your case he is as pragmatic as a heartless butcher.” “That does not sound like an insult.” “Because he is one.” Tyrion tugged at the corner of his mouth but could not manage a smile.
“I am being sent to King’s Landing to serve as Hand.
Bronn can come with me.
Shae can come with me.
You alone are left behind to watch grain carts, count mules, and keep company with moldy wheat sacks.” He paused.
His voice dropped lower.
“And the Mountain Clans—Ser Marbrand has already sent men to take them.
The way Shagga looks at me now, it is as if I owe him three castles.” “You do owe him.” Tyrion gave a short, wry breath.
“You are always so good at comforting people.” He drew a heavy coin purse from inside his cloak and pressed it into Nero’s hand.
“A Lannister always pays his debts.
This is the interest for saving my life at the Green Fork.
Do not refuse.
Right now I have nothing else to give you but coin.” Nero weighed the purse.
The soft clink of gold was pleasant.
“I will stay alive and come to King’s Landing to find you.” “It had better be so.” Tyrion looked up at him.
“Otherwise I will have to face my sister, Joffrey, Littlefinger, Varys, and an entire city that wants to swallow me whole—alone in the Red Keep.
Just thinking of it gives me a stomachache.” Bronn swung onto his horse nearby and tossed over a sheathed dagger.
Nero caught it cleanly.
“Pillaged from a northern scout,” Bronn said around a straw.
“Good steel.
In a place like the supply train, best to sleep with one eye open.” “Same to you.” Nero tucked the dagger into his belt.
“The wine and women in King’s Landing are more dangerous than the stray arrows of the Riverlands.” Bronn grinned.
“Then I will try to die with some dignity.” The carriage curtain lifted.
A fair hand held it open.
Shae leaned against the window frame, dark hair loose across her shoulders.
She had changed into a deep-red dress.
The neckline was not vulgar, yet it was enough to make any ordinary man look twice.
Nero did not look twice.
At least not openly.
“What a pity.” Shae’s voice was honeyed, carrying a clear note of probing and quiet retaliation for the rejection earlier that morning.
“The tall, handsome knight must stay behind to eat cold wind and mud, while I accompany my Lannister giant on a boring carriage ride.” Tyrion glanced back at her.
“Shae, if you must seduce my savior in front of me, at least wait until I am inside the carriage.” She giggled.
“I was only complimenting him, my lord.” “There are many kinds of compliments.” Tyrion kept a straight face.
“The kind you just used usually requires payment.” Bronn nearly choked laughing on his horse.
Nero felt the corner of his own mouth twitch once.
Shae’s eyes settled back on him.
“You finally smiled.” “A smile does not mean anything.” “Of course.” She blinked.
“When a man smiles, he might also be thinking about how to kill someone.” The woman was too good with words.
She did not rush to present herself as prey, nor did she pretend to be an innocent lamb.
She simply offered ambiguity and danger in the same light breath and left the rest to the listener.
“King’s Landing is the place for killing,” Nero said.
“Be careful, Miss Shae.
The blades there are not always held by men.” The smile on her face paused for a fraction of a second.
For that moment she seemed to have truly heard him.
Then the lazy, flirtatious manner returned.
“And what about you, Ser Nero?
In whose hands will your blade be held?” “For now, in my own.” “For now?” she repeated softly.
A little more interest stirred in her eyes.
Tyrion cleared his throat.
“All right.
If we keep talking I am going to start getting jealous.” The wheels began to turn.
Before Tyrion climbed into the carriage he turned back once more and lowered his voice.
“Nero, I will find a way.
Once I establish a foothold in King’s Landing, I will have you transferred.” “First keep Eddard Stark safe,” Nero answered.
“Then keep yourself safe.” Tyrion was silent a moment.
A very faint, wry smile touched his mouth.
“You are always so good at ruining the mood.” The caravan rolled into the morning mist.
Nero stood where he was and watched the gold-and-crimson banners disappear piece by piece until the fog closed over them completely.
Only then did he summon the panel in his mind.
[Charisma: 10] Nero frowned, almost imperceptibly.
Ten points of Charisma in this world was like a blade without a hilt—sharp, but nearly impossible to hold safely.
The ambiguity of a moment ago had been less attraction than valuation.
The protective umbrella was gone.
He had gone from being the sharpest knife at the dwarf’s side to a hidden danger Tywin had casually thrown into a mud pit.
Nero pulled his coarse cloak tighter, took the reins of the thin horse, and turned toward the outermost edge of the camp.
The farther he walked, the fewer neat ranks and polished armor of the main host he saw.
When he finally reached the First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion the air held only the sour stink of moldy oats, horse urine, and wet mud.
Dozens of dilapidated grain carts sat crooked in the mire.
Roughly a hundred old veterans, wounded men, and laborers huddled in twos and threes around low fires.
Some gambled.
Some dozed.
Some warmed their feet over a pot and did not even bother to look up when Nero walked in.
The place did not look like a military camp.
It looked like a pile of rotten bones the main army had discarded.
Nero stopped in the center of the muddy clearing.
“First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion—assemble.” The voice was not loud, but it carried.
A brief silence.
Then lazy laughter rose from the nearest fire.
A shirtless veteran with a chest full of black hair sat on a grain sack, picking his teeth with a rusted dagger.
He eyed Nero sideways and slowly spat out a straw.
“Where did this stray dog come from?”