Seventeen Mountain Clans warriors were expertly clearing the battlefield—which meant stripping the dead.
They pulled chainmail, high-quality steel longswords, and still-clean boots from the ambushers and piled everything beside Nero’s wagon.
The survivor, hands bound behind his back, was dragged before Nero like a dead dog.
Mud and blood covered his face, but his mouth remained stubborn.
“Long live Stark.” Kaan punched him hard in the stomach.
The man doubled over and retched up a mouthful of bile.
“I don’t know anything!
I am a ranger for Lord Stark!” The leader spat blood mixed with mud and grit, still fighting.
“You Lannister dogs—kill me if you want!” Kaan stepped forward, unable to hold back.
“Commander, let me cut him down.
This pig is insulting your intelligence.” “In the Mountains of the Moon your rule is that grudges do not last the night,” Nero said.
His voice was calm, without a single ripple.
“In the lowlands our rule is different: the dead only feed the crows.
Only the living can bite their masters.” He looked at Kaan with chilling clarity.
“Cut off his head and you feel good for a moment.
Keep him alive and he can help you claim the armor your brother wanted, together with the true culprit who killed him—packaged neatly.
Understand?” Kaan gritted his teeth.
Despite the fury on his face he took half a step back.
He found he could not refute the lowlander’s logic.
A Burned Man left by Timett approached the captive and looked at Nero with open regret.
“Can’t burn him?” “No.” “What about a little roasting?” “No to that either.” The man sighed as if he had just missed a fine meal.
A Black Ears scout squatted nearby and grinned.
“Nero, you’re becoming more and more like a viper that can speak human language.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “It is a compliment,” the scout nodded seriously.
“Vipers live a long time.” Nero ignored him and turned to Gawen, who was still cowering under a grain wagon.
“Gawen, come here.” The scribe crawled out trembling, both account books clutched tightly to his chest.
“See if he’s carrying any written orders.” Nero pointed at the leader.
Gawen approached cautiously, searched the man’s robes, and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment.
The moment he looked at it his expression changed.
“M… my lord, this is a temporary transfer order from the central army logistics department.” “Continue.” Gawen’s voice still shook, but this time he did not fall silent.
A few hours earlier he would have rather died than point a finger at the quartermaster.
In the sea of fire it had been Nero’s sword that blocked the blade aimed at him.
Gawen was not loyal, but he was not stupid.
He now understood that the only thing keeping him alive was proving he still had irreplaceable value on this ship of pirates.
“But the color of the wax on this seal is wrong.” He drew a deep breath, emboldened enough to name the flaw.
“Official military orders use dark-red hard sealing wax.
This uses soft yellow wax, only painted with a layer of red pigment on the outside.
This is… this is a ‘yin-yang order’ forged in secret by an intermediary to avoid the records of the central army tent!” The masked leader’s eyes finally changed.
He had not expected a timid, sycophantic army scribe to see through those details.
Nero nodded.
“Write it down.” Gawen froze.
“I write it?” “You are the scribe.” The sentence was simple, yet Gawen felt as if something had gently struck him.
A few hours ago he had been only a book-keeping worm who could be silenced at any moment.
Now it seemed his pen could also keep him alive.
He immediately sprawled onto a wagon board and recorded the secondary seal, the color of the wax, and the forged signature.
Nero turned to Roland.
“If he were a true northern knight, how much would he be worth?” Roland understood at once.
He straightened his mud-stained leather armor and spoke in the steadiest aristocratic tone he could manage.
“If he were a knight with a house and a coat of arms, he would be worth a ransom.” He looked at the masked leader.
“But he has no coat of arms, no proof of house, and he is carrying a false order while wearing a false wolf banner to attack a Lannister supply train.
If he will not say who hired him, then he is only a nameless bandit.” Nero asked, “How much is a nameless bandit worth?” “Not even a copper,” Roland answered.
“And according to military law his hands should be cut off, his eyes gouged out, and he should be hung from a white willow until the flesh rots away.” Kaan grinned.
“The mountain folk can make him die even slower.” The leader’s throat bobbed.
[Temporary Trait Tongue of the Abandoned Pawn passively activated.] [Target’s psychological defenses have developed cracks.] Roland continued, “But if he can prove he was acting under the direct orders of a certain noble or officer… then he becomes an important witness.
A living witness is worth more than ten thousand gold dragons.” “Did you hear that?” Nero gently patted the leader’s cold cheek with the flat of his blade.
Under the augmentation of Tongue of the Abandoned Pawn, the words corroded the man’s final defenses like venom.
Nero stood.
“Kaan.” Kaan stepped forward.
The leader jerked his head up.
“Wait!” Nero stopped.
The man’s breathing was rapid.
“We didn’t come to steal grain.” Roland tightened his grip on his sword hilt.
Gawen’s writing hand shook once.
“Someone paid us to pose as northern stragglers.” Nero asked, “Who?” “I don’t know the name!” Kaan kicked him.
The leader screamed and hurriedly shouted, “It was the attendant beside young master Crakehall!
He’s bald and has a black mole under his left eye.
He gave us the passes, the wolf banners, the arrows, and the time you were departing.” “The mission.” The leader gasped for air; his voice suddenly sounded ten years older.
“Burn the marked grain wagons.
Kill the newly arrived commander and every scribe carrying account books… preferably leave no survivors.
Then stick the wolf banners next to the corpses so it looks like northern raiders destroyed the grain.” Gawen’s face turned pale.
Roland cursed under his breath.
Kaan reached for his sword again.
Nero raised a hand and stopped him.
“Mountain Clansmen—now start dividing the loot!” The mountain warriors went quiet at once.
Nero pointed to the captured weapons and horses.
“Chainmail, good swords, usable bows—divide them according to merit.
Kaan captured the survivor, so he picks first.
The Black Ears discovered the ambush, so each of you takes one item.
The Burned Men cut off the retreat, so the fire steels and oilcloths are yours.” “Commander.” Roland walked to Nero’s side, genuine awe in his eyes.
“Now that we have the testimony and the prisoner, shouldn’t we turn back to the main camp immediately and hand these over to Lord Tywin?” “Go back?” Nero looked at the troops who were already distributing the ambushers’ high-quality steel longswords among the Mountain Clans and shook his head.
“If we return now it is the same as telling Crakehall and the logistics department that we are not dead and that we have evidence.
They will mobilize regular troops along the road and wipe us out completely under the charge of camp mutiny and desertion.” Nero mounted his horse and looked at the road ahead, where the mist was beginning to clear.
“Bring those few wagons that were burned black and loaded with sand-mixed moldy grain.” A flash of cold, almost mad calculation crossed his eyes.
“Since young master Crakehall has arranged such a grand performance of ‘enemy attack and grain destruction’ for us, how can we do it without an audience?” He pointed his horsewhip forward.
“To the White Willow Crossing outpost.
We’re going to deliver grain to Ser Harys Brax.
I want him to personally sign his name on this war-loss account book that was ‘burned by the northmen.'” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Fish_Cakery Comment and vote if you enjoyed it—it really makes me happy!
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