[ July 3, 298 AC | Morning | The Green Fork — White Willow Crossing Old Road ] The wagon wheels ground over the muddy flats with a continuous, teeth-grinding creak.
The First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion crawled through the gray morning mist like a bloated, dying worm, inching toward White Willow Crossing.
Along both sides the old, weak, and wounded soldiers of the Westerlands carried their spears on their shoulders, necks hunched, cursing in voices too low to be heard while they dodged puddles.
In their eyes the new commander walking at the very front—without even proper armor—was a complete madman.
Bringing a load of moldy, sandy wheat to White Willow Crossing was not delivering grain.
It was a death sentence.
What truly unsettled them were the dozen or so “empty” carts in the center of the column, covered by thick oilcloths.
Occasionally heavy breathing and the faint scrape of blades against rough leather drifted from beneath the covers.
No one dared lift a corner to look.
Roland Leyton urged his shedding old horse forward until he came up beside Nero.
“Commander,” he lowered his voice.
“Five miles ahead is White Willow Crossing.” Nero did not turn his head.
“Speak.” Roland swallowed.
“The terrain there is bad.
A tributary of the Green Fork bends there, and the river has flooded, turning the original village into ruins.
Large stretches of reed beds and poplar forest make the road very narrow.
Once the convoy enters, the front and rear will not be able to support each other.
It is perfect ground for a small party of raiders to ambush.” He stole a glance at Nero’s profile.
Nero did not interrupt, so Roland’s courage grew a little.
“The outpost commander is Ser Harys Brax.
The Brax family and House Crakehall intermarry often; they are practically allies.
He may not give Tyrion any respect, and he certainly will not give you any.” Nero finally glanced at him.
“You understand terrain?” “I have seen the theater maps in the center army,” Roland answered at once.
“My father also taught me how to read the lay of the land.” “Very good.” Nero’s tone remained calm.
There was no praise—only a command.
“Go find Gawen and get a piece of clean parchment.
Draw a rough route map of White Willow Crossing.
Mark every forest, ruined village, shoal, and outpost—anywhere that could hide fifty riders or more.” Roland was briefly stunned.
He had expected Nero to scoff the way arrogant knights usually did, or to offer a few empty words of encouragement.
Instead the man had simply, and quite naturally, handed him a matter of life and death.
No formalities.
Only utility.
That cold feeling of being treated as a useful tool actually settled the heart that had been lodged in Roland’s throat.
“Yes, my lord.” He straightened his back, turned the horse, and rode back.
The moment Roland left, Gawen hurried forward, clutching his ledger and trembling.
“M-my lord.” His gaunt face had turned blue from the cold wind.
“Young Master Roland is right.
Young Master Crakehall is trying to kill us.” “Are you afraid?” Nero glanced at him.
“How could I not be?” Gawen pulled a bitter face and hugged the parchment tighter against his chest.
“My lord, you beat Cliff in the camp and established your authority.
But some things… some ledgers… they are not meant for the living.
They are meant for the dead.
If you insist on investigating to the end now, our hundred or so men will not be enough to fill their teeth.” Roland, already drawing the map behind them, could not help looking up at those words.
“Gawen is right.” He lowered his voice and laid out the calculation he had been turning over for a long time.
“This is a triple trap.” He held up three fingers and pressed them down one by one.
“If we are robbed by the northmen on the road and the grain is lost, that is your failure to protect the shipment.” “If we deliver it safely to the outpost and Ser Harys cuts open the bags to find moldy wheat and sand, he will claim you swapped the military supplies.” “If you turn back to the main camp now, they will immediately label you with cowardice and insubordination.” Gawen closed his eyes in despair.
“All three paths are nooses.” A cold curve tugged at the corner of Nero’s mouth.
“So we take the fourth path.” Gawen looked up, dazed.
“The fourth path?” “Let them think they have succeeded.” Nero looked toward the poplar forest in the mist.
“Let them see the rotten grain, the false ledgers, and a pathetic convoy cobbled together from old soldiers, laborers, and the wounded.
Let them believe that as long as they burn a few carts and kill a few damned people, this debt will disappear.” Roland’s expression changed.
“And then?” “Then we keep the real ledgers, hide the good grain, take a live prisoner, and drag both the fake wolf banners and the prisoner to the outpost.” Nero’s voice was very cold.
“That way the failure to protect the shipment becomes the uncovering of an ambush.
The rotten grain will no longer be evidence of our guilt, but evidence they were desperate to destroy.” Gawen listened, mouth open.
Roland whispered, “But that relies on one prerequisite.” “What?” “We have to hold off the ambush.” Nero looked back at the empty carts in the center of the column covered by thick oilcloths.
“That is why we need the mountain clansmen.” He spurred his horse over to those carts.
“The fourth path needs bait, and it also needs teeth.” Nero tapped the outermost bag of moldy wheat with his scabbard.
“The rotten grain is the bait.” Then he tapped the cart beneath the oilcloth.
“You are the teeth.” A suppressed laugh came from under the oilcloth—Kaan’s voice.
“The Stone Crows like being the teeth.” “Do not be in a rush to bite,” Nero said.
“If you bite too early, the prey will run.” He turned and ordered, “Stop the convoy and reorganize.” The originally loose column fell into a brief flurry of confusion.
Nero pointed to the grain carts at the very front.
“Take every broken cart filled with sandy, moldy wheat and put them at the front and sides of the column.
Do not cover them with oilcloth.
Let the wheat leak a little—make it as conspicuous as possible.” The laborers looked at one another.
“Cover the carts in the middle that hold the good grain tightly.
Pile empty sacks and rotten wheat on top of them.
If anyone lets a cart fall behind, I will chop off their feet.” He looked at Gawen again.
“You hold the false ledgers.
Hold them as tightly as you can.
It is best if everyone believes what you are carrying is your lifeline.” Gawen’s face turned pale.
“I… I already think it is my lifeline.” “Then act like it.” Nero turned to Roland.
“Keep a copy of the real ledgers hidden close to your body inside your leather armor.
If I die—whether at the hands of the bandits or inside the outpost—you are to escape back to the main camp and hand the real ledgers to Tywin.” Roland drew a deep breath.
“Because Lord Tywin loves gold more than his vassals?” “Because Lord Tywin will never allow anyone to hide from him and turn Lannister war potential into a private piggy bank.” Nero corrected him quietly.
“With this ledger, even Crakehall will lose a layer of skin.” Roland was silent a moment, then nodded.
Nero continued issuing orders.
“Kaan.” “Here!” A low roar answered from inside a cart.
“You take the Stone Crows and hold the rear.
Once fighting starts at the front, those old soldiers in the back will want to run.
If anyone dares turn around, chop off their legs and drive them forward.” Low laughter rose from beneath the oilcloth.
“Kaan likes this errand.” “Two Black Ears scouts—go into the forest now.
Do not take the main road.
Creep along the canopy and undergrowth.
Keep your eyes locked on everything along the way that can reflect light or breathe.” The two lean Black Ears warriors grinned and slipped quickly into the edge of the poplar forest.
Nero finally looked at the wagon carrying the oil.
“The Burned Men will guard the oil.
Without my command, no one is to light it.” A sound of dissatisfaction came from under the oilcloth.
“Not allowed to light it again?” “When it is time to burn, I will let you burn to your heart’s content.” That sentence silenced the two madmen.
Under a series of precise orders the originally loose baggage train gradually became a worm with a rotting shell and venomous fangs hidden in its belly.
The convoy moved forward once more.
The closer they came to White Willow Crossing, the denser the trees grew.
Branches and leaves intertwined overhead, blotting out the darkening daylight.
In the mist only the sound of rolling wheels remained.
Nero’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
This forest was too quiet.
There was not even the cry of a bird.
Suddenly the bushes on the left side of the column swayed slightly.
Several Westerlands old soldiers raised their spears in fright.
Nero lifted a hand, signaling everyone to halt.
A lean, dark shadow slid down from the canopy like an agile ape and landed silently in the mud.
It was the Black Ears scout Chella had left behind.
Covered in mud and tree sap, he ran extremely fast to the front of Nero’s horse and opened his dirty palm.
Lying in the palm was a heavy horseshoe.
Nero’s pupils tightened slightly.
That was not a northern horseshoe.
The iron was thick and wide, the nail holes uniform, the edges fitted with deep anti-slip studs.
Roland only needed one look; his face darkened.
Nero asked, “What is ahead?” The Black Ears scout grinned, revealing a cruel and mocking smile.
“In the ruined village two miles away, about a hundred cavalry and archers are hiding.
They are dug in very deeply.” Nero gripped the horseshoe and slowly raised his eyes.
“The wolf banners of the northmen are raised in the forest.” The scout licked his lips.
Nero paused, then spoke the final sentence: “But beneath the feet of those wolves, the iron is nailed with the Lion’s mark.” CaveLeather