[ July 3, 298 AC | Morning | First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion ] “Reported loss of fifty heavy draft horses?” Nero’s finger rested on the line in the ledger.
Gawen’s face drained of color.
“My lord, war drums, horns, the northmen’s charge—any of these can spook a herd.
It is common for draft horses to trample one another once they panic…” “Draft horses are not house cats.” Nero drew a heavy line across the text.
The parchment scraped under his nail.
“Fifty horses bolting in terror would leave at least a dozen grain wagons smashed, hundreds of leather harnesses torn, and grooms trampled.
Yet in your books the requisition for subsequent repair materials is zero, and compensation for the grooms is also zero.” He raised his eyes.
The gaze settled on Gawen’s trembling shoulders.
“Did these fifty horses grow wings and fly out of the camp by themselves?” The tent was so quiet that only Cliff’s muffled groans carried from outside.
Gawen dropped to his knees with a thud.
Cold sweat from his forehead dripped into the mud.
“My lord… that was a note sent by the squire of young master Crakehall.
He said the horses were lost in the chaos and told me to enter it into the ledger directly.
I only hold the pen.
How could I dare refuse?” Roland Leyton, standing by the tent flap, also changed color.
Fifty heavy draft horses were not a few bags of oats.
They were the most precious transport capacity an army possessed on the march.
They had not died.
They had simply evaporated from the books.
At this moment, dozens of fine horses still branded with the Lannister lion were almost certainly hidden in some private stable, waiting for their cloths to be stripped so they could be sold into noble yards.
Nero leaned back in the chair.
The dull ache in his ribs made him frown once, but his mind remained cold and clear.
“This is only the tip of the iceberg, is it not?” He flipped several pages backward.
“Last week fifty barrels of lamp oil were requisitioned, yet only twenty were actually issued.
The remaining thirty, according to the ledger, spontaneously combusted after exposure to the sun on the road.
Thirty barrels of lamp oil burning would be enough to reduce half the supply camp to ash.
When I walked in I saw not even a trace of black smoke.” Gawen’s lips trembled.
Nero continued turning pages.
“The ledger lists the arrows as Westerlands refined-steel tri-bladed heads.
Outside I just saw that the quivers carried by the laborers are filled with rusted broadheads left over from last year.” His voice was soft, yet each word struck like a hammer.
“The First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion is carried on the payroll as one hundred and sixty-seven men.
When I assembled everyone just now—counting wounded, wagon guards, laborers, and grooms—there were only one hundred and nine living souls.
The remaining fifty-eight: were they sent away, did they die, did they desert, or did they exist only on paper?” Gawen knelt with his face nearly pressed into the mud.
“My lord, I truly only copied the numbers given to me.
The ledgers come from the quartermaster’s office.
Cliff forced me to sign.
Young master Crakehall’s men stamped them.
If I refused they would break my hands.” Nero did not speak at once.
This man was not the mastermind.
He was only a bug struggling in the mud.
Killing him would be easy and worthless.
“Get up.” Gawen froze, then scrambled to his feet, still shaking.
“Put the ledger away.
What I saw today, you did not write, and I did not say.” Relief at having escaped death flashed through Gawen’s eyes, followed at once by deeper fear.
“Take me to the granary,” Nero said.
When they stepped out of the commander’s tent the crowd outside had not dispersed.
Cliff remained tied to the hitching post with a rag stuffed in his mouth, looking like a pinned toad.
Nero walked straight through the men toward the row of grain wagons stacked most tightly together.
He drew the dagger Bronn had given him and drove the blade diagonally through the seam of a sack.
A dry hiss followed.
Dark-yellow grain spilled out.
Nero scooped a handful and weighed it in his palm.
Fine river sand immediately leaked between his fingers.
The remaining oat kernels were shriveled, blackened, and gave off a nauseating moldy stench.
“Is this the ‘select oats supplied directly from Crakehall lands’ written in the ledger?” No one dared answer.
Nero tossed the sandy wheat onto the ground.
“Half the bag is sand.
The other half is stale grain that has sat for at least three years.
Feed this to horses and the horses will scour.
Feed it to soldiers and the soldiers will go mad.” Roland Leyton crouched, picked up a few grains, and looked grim.
“If this kind of grain reaches an outpost the men will riot.” “What does the ledger claim?” Nero asked.
Gawen whispered, “Top-grade wheat.” Several faces in the camp lowered.
Such practices were no secret in the supply train.
Everyone knew a little about swapping good grain for stale and whose pocket received the difference.
No one had ever dared say it aloud in full.
Nero stood.
“Gawen.” “Yes, my lord.” “From today you will continue to copy the ledgers.” Gawen’s head snapped up.
Ecstatic relief at still being alive shone in his eyes.
Nero continued, “But you will copy two versions.” Gawen’s expression froze.
“One for the quartermaster’s office to see.
One for me.
The first remains exactly as it is.
The second must record the true numbers.
For every missing bag of wheat I will ask you.
For every extra dead man I will also ask you.” Gawen’s face turned paper-white.
“My lord, this will cost me my life.” “It will not,” Nero said calmly.
“If you refuse to write it, you will lose your life right now.” Gawen closed his eyes and bowed once, hard.
“I will write it.” Nero turned to Roland Leyton.
“You are literate, can do figures, and understand a little of military regulation.
From now on you will assist me in auditing the accounts.” Roland stared, momentarily speechless.
“My lord, I am only a distant branch of House Leyton.” “That is precisely why you are not yet completely rotten.” Nero’s voice was flat.
“Do not disappoint me.” Roland was silent a moment, then straightened.
“Yes, my lord.” Rapid hoofbeats approached from outside the camp.
A messenger wearing a tabard with a boar crest rode in hard.
Mud flung by the horse’s hooves struck the front rank of soldiers in the face.
He scanned the disordered lines with open arrogance and finally settled his gaze on Nero.
“Who is the commander here?” Nero did not answer.
He only looked at the man coldly.
The messenger drew a wax-sealed order from his tunic and tossed it over casually.
“Urgent order from the central army.
The First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion is to depart at once, escorting thirty wagons of wheat, five wagons of arrows, and two wagons of salted meat to the White Willow Crossing outpost.
You will arrive before sunset.” Roland’s face changed.
He lowered his voice.
“White Willow Crossing?
That is very close to the direction the northmen retreated last night.” The messenger sneered.
“An order is an order.
If the grain and supplies are late by even a moment, or if a single bag is missing, not even Tyrion’s face will save your head.” He wheeled the horse and rode away.
The air in the camp turned cold.
Nero picked up the order.
The wax seal had not yet fully hardened.
This was not a direct command from Tywin.
This was a counter-stroke from young master Crakehall and the quartermaster.
They knew Nero was a hidden danger, so they meant to send that danger to the most dangerous place and, in the same stroke, turn a batch of moldy accounts into “losses from enemy attack.” Roland looked from the sandy wheat on the ground to Nero.
“My lord, if we deliver these goods the outpost soldiers will hang us from the wagon frames.
If we meet northern scouts on the road we will die even faster.” Nero studied the order in his hand and suddenly smiled.
“Very good.” Gawen trembled.
“What… what is good about it?” “What is good is that they are anxious,” Nero said.
He turned and gave orders at once.
“Move the grain sacks most heavily mixed with sand to the outer edges.
Place the ones with the worst mold in the most visible positions.
Hide whatever good grain remains in the middle, under the wagons.
Dismantle the arrows and pile the soft-iron heads separately.
Reorganize the convoy and mix empty wagons among the loaded ones.” Roland understood quickly.
“My lord, you want others to believe we are actually escorting a batch of rotten grain?” “Not believe.” Nero folded the order.
“On the books, that is exactly what it is.” The camp erupted into motion.
Soldiers dragged grain sacks.
Laborers pried open wagon boards.
Gawen clutched the ledger and began recalculating numbers.
No one dared slack.
Cliff still hung from the hitching post, eyes full of hatred and fear.
Just as Nero formally took command of the convoy and began rearranging the escort formation, the cold mechanical voice spoke in the depths of his mind.
[Detected that the host is rectifying corrupt military affairs and preventing substandard grain and supplies from flowing directly into the outpost.] [This behavior conforms to the faint knightly virtue of “Guarding Order.”] [Honor +1.] [Current Honor: 10/100.] Nero’s eyes narrowed slightly.
The next prompt arrived on schedule.
[Ding.
Detected that Honor has again triggered the ten-point safety threshold.] [Low-tier white card selection permission unlocked once more.] Nero looked at the three unflipped phantom white cards hovering on his retina and slowly tightened his grip on the military order.
This time he would carve a path to survival out of a wagon of moldy wheat.