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CaveLeather (9$ [ July 3, 298 AC | Early Morning | First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion ] “Where did this stray dog come from?” The shirtless veteran sat on a grain sack, picking his teeth with a rusted dagger.
Lazy laughter rose from the campfires around him.
Nero stood in the middle of the muddy ground and showed no anger.
“What is your name?” The veteran spat out a grass stalk and grinned, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
“Cliff.
Deputy Captain of the First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion.” He leaned hard on the words “Deputy Captain,” as if reminding everyone who truly ran this mud pit.
A soldier missing half an ear circled behind Nero and reached for the reins of the thin horse.
“Hard journey, Commander.
Let us take care of the horse.” The man’s laugh was thin and mocking.
“As for a tent, there are plenty of empty supply wagons.
Pick one that doesn’t leak too badly.” A few laborers crouched behind wagon wheels snickered.
Someone stretched his feet toward a fire and deliberately pretended not to have heard the order to assemble.
Cliff jumped down from the grain sack and sauntered over.
“Listen well, pretty boy.
In this mud pit only the words of Lord Lefford and young master Crakehall count as military orders.
If you want to live a few more peaceful days, don’t touch the ledgers, don’t touch the grain sacks, and don’t touch my men.” “According to military law, he does have an appointment letter.” A young voice spoke from the side.
The speaker was a youth in worn leather armor, seventeen or eighteen at most.
A heavily faded badger crest was sewn on his chest.
Boyishness still clung to his face, but his eyes were clear and sharp.
Cliff shot him a sidelong glance.
“Roland Leyton, this is not your place to speak.” The youth pressed his lips together but did not step back.
“I’m only reminding you, Cliff.
If he truly is the commander sent by the main army, what you’re doing now is enough to earn a lashing.” “A lashing?” Cliff sneered.
“That would require someone brave enough to do it for him.” Low laughter rolled around them again.
Nero glanced at the youth.
Roland Leyton.
A distant scion of House Leyton, a minor noble tossed into the supply train to pad a resume.
He was neither as arrogant as Cliff nor as numb as the laborers.
Such a man might never be loyal, but he at least understood rules and feared death.
Cliff had already stretched out a calloused hand, pushing toward Nero’s chest.
“I said, what kind of thing do you think you—” Nero did not draw his sword.
Once steel left the scabbard the situation would become “new commander slaughters subordinates.” Tywin would not care about the truth.
Young master Crakehall and the quartermaster would only be pleased that a clean reason to dispose of him had finally appeared.
Therefore he could not draw the sword.
At least not today.
As Cliff’s palm was about to touch his chest, Nero’s right hand snapped toward the nearest campfire.
Beside a black pot lay a fire poker as thick as a duck’s egg, the tip still scattered with live embers.
He seized the wooden stick and flipped his wrist.
[Temporary Entry: Staff Fighting (White) has been triggered.] There were no fancy flourishes.
Only rough, direct, and painful motions.
The fire poker swept out horizontally and smashed into Cliff’s outstretched wrist.
The sneer on Cliff’s face twisted at once.
Before the scream could leave his throat Nero stepped forward half a pace.
The stick followed downward and struck the back of the right knee.
Cliff’s legs folded.
He dropped into the mud with a heavy thud.
The surrounding soldiers finally reacted and roared as they reached for their sword hilts.
Nero did not look at them.
He drove the end of the stick forward into Cliff’s ribs.
A choked grunt tore out of the man.
The blow was not fatal, but it was enough to fold him like a shrimp.
Bile and leftover ale sprayed from his mouth.
Nero pulled the stick back and finished with a short, backhanded horizontal strike.
The wood grazed Cliff’s ear and slammed into the grain sack beside him.
The sack split open with a soft pop.
Moldy oats spilled across the mud.
Cliff lay convulsing, unable to form a single complete word.
Only then did Nero lift his eyes.
The soldiers who had gripped their hilts froze in place.
It was not that they had never seen ruthless men.
They had simply never seen someone beat Cliff into a twitching fish without ever drawing a blade.
Nero held the stick in one hand.
The old wound in his chest protested, a dull ache radiating from deep inside the ribs.
He endured it.
Constitution 21 kept the newly reinforced body from collapsing on the spot.
“I was injured yesterday.” His voice was not loud, yet the laughter around the fires died completely.
“My temper is not very good.” He walked over to Cliff and set one boot on the man’s face.
Muddy water squeezed out from the corner of Cliff’s mouth.
“Now.
Do I count as something?” No one answered.
Nero looked at the soldier who had taken the thin horse.
“The horse.” The man’s face went pale.
He released the reins at once and led the animal back.
Nero turned to the rest of the crowd.
“First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion—assemble.” This time the camp moved.
Veterans stood up, grumbling.
Wounded men leaned on sticks and shuffled toward the open ground.
Laborers shoved one another into rough lines.
Someone moved half a beat too slow; Nero merely glanced in his direction and the man lowered his head and hurried into place.
The formation was as crooked as a fence gnawed by dogs.
But at least they were standing.
Roland Leyton was the first to step to the side of the line and speak quietly.
“On the left are the wagon guards.
On the right the laborers.
Those at the back are the wounded and replacements.
The clerk is behind the third wagon.
He keeps the ledgers.” Nero looked at him.
“You certainly know quite a bit.” Roland gave a bitter little smile.
“My father sent me here hoping I would learn how to supply an army.
In three months I have only learned how to tell moldy wheat from even moldier wheat.” Nero drove the fire poker upright into the mud.
“Clerk.” A middle-aged man thin as a bamboo pole crawled out from behind a wagon.
He wore a crooked felt hat and clutched several ledgers against his chest.
His face was the color of someone who had just climbed out of a grave.
“I… I am here, my lord.” “Bring the ledgers into the tent.” The clerk swallowed hard.
“Which one?” Nero looked at him.
“Bring the one you least want me to see first.” The clerk’s face turned even paler.
Roland Leyton lowered his head, as if he had almost laughed and forced the sound back down his throat.
— A quarter of an hour later the light inside the dilapidated commander’s tent was dim.
A thick parchment ledger lay open on the table, giving off the sour stench of old grease, ink, and mold.
Nero sat in the only wooden chair.
Outside, Cliff was tied to a hitching post with a rag stuffed in his mouth, still groaning.
The soldiers stood in three crooked lines and did not dare disperse.
The clerk stood before the table, fingers trembling.
Roland Leyton remained by the tent flap, cautious and silent.
“What is your name?” “Gawen, my lord.” “How long have you been managing the accounts?” “Three years.” “Then you should be very clear about who kept these books.” Cold sweat beaded on Gawen’s forehead.
“They were all recorded according to the rules, my lord.
Lord Lefford’s quartermaster audits them regularly, and young master Crakehall also—” “Did I ask you that?” Gawen shut his mouth at once.
Nero opened the ledger.
He possessed no special entry that could simply reveal the answer.
Intelligence 23 was enough.
The chaotic numbers, dates, seals, and supply names straightened themselves into threads before his eyes.
At first the threads were scattered.
Soon they wove into a web.
He turned several pages.
His finger stopped on a single line of ink.
“The Battle of the Green Fork.” Gawen’s throat bobbed.
Nero continued downward.
“First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion did not enter the front lines, did not take part in any charge, and did not engage the enemy.” The tent was so quiet that only Cliff’s muffled groans could be heard outside.
Roland Leyton’s expression changed.
He seemed to understand what Nero had already seen.
Nero raised his eyes and looked at Gawen.
“Yet it is written here that in yesterday’s battle the Patrol Battalion reported the loss of fifty heavy draft horses.” The color drained from Gawen’s face in an instant.
CaveLeather (9$ Game of Thrones: Nero King of Knight