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CaveLeather Midnight mist hung thick over the abandoned village.
On the muddy track outside, the slow, rhythmic thud of hooves and the clatter of armor plates carried through the fog.
Young Master Crakehall rode a tall chestnut warhorse at the head of twenty fully armed personal guards and eight heavy supply wagons.
His face was set in cold disdain.
A foreign sellsword who had climbed on a dwarf’s coattails and rolled in the mud had dared put a blade to a Westerlands noble’s throat and demand payment.
Once the ledger and the living captives were back in his hands, he would teach the upstart exactly what it meant to beg for death.
“Master, the village is too quiet,” one knight said, eyes sweeping the broken walls.
“Rot-soldiers and wild dogs.
They fought today.
They’ll be sleeping like dead pigs by now.” Crakehall snorted and sent ten men to seal the village mouth.
He led the rest straight toward the center.
Only a low pile of dying embers remained.
Nero sat without armor.
His longsword lay a few steps away in the mud.
He poked the coals with a stick as if he had all the time in the world.
Crakehall let out a short laugh behind his visor.
He had expected nets and traps.
The man was simply a fool.
“Commander Nero.” He rode forward, looking down.
“One hundred sets of infantry armor.
Fifty sets of cavalry gear.
Two hundred hardwood heavy crossbows.
And the patrol seal you asked for.
All here.
Hand over the captives and the ledger.
I may even leave you with one hand and your dog’s life.” Nero did not look up.
He watched the sparks.
“Master Crakehall,” he said flatly, “does the wind not smell a little like dead pigs tonight?” He tossed the stick into the fire.
The flames jumped.
“Take him!” Crakehall snapped.
Three knights drew steel and spurred forward.
Two steps later the lead horse plunged.
Front hooves cracked through a narrow trench hidden under mud and moldy wheat.
The animal screamed.
The rider slammed into the stones.
The two horses behind it reared in panic.
The formation shattered in an instant.
“Trap!” By firelight Crakehall finally saw the square was laced with deep, narrow horse-tripping trenches.
To heavy cavalry they were nooses around the legs.
At the same moment dozens of shapes rose from the half-collapsed roofs and broken walls.
Westerlands veterans leveled cocked crossbows.
Mountain clansmen held torches, eyes bright as hungry wolves.
Roland stood pale behind a low wall.
Gawen huddled against a wagon wheel, arms locked around a moisture-proof box.
“You dare ambush me?” Crakehall’s voice cracked with fury.
“Lord Tywin will have your skin flayed off!” “If I were you,” Nero said, rising, “I would not speak Lord Tywin’s name just now.” He snapped his fingers.
Two wooden barrels rolled off a roof and burst.
Black fire oil spread toward the horses’ hooves in a thick, sharp-smelling sheet.
Crakehall’s head jerked up.
Two Burned Men stood above, torches in hand, tongues wetting their lips.
“The moment those torches drop,” Nero said, pointing, “you and your guards become human candles that smell of roast meat.” “You would not dare!
I am a Westerlands noble!” “Of course I would not kill a Westerlands noble casually.” Nero’s smile was cold.
He pulled a mud-stained direwolf banner from a sack and threw it in front of Crakehall’s horse.
“But Ser Harys can swear Northmen scouts were active in this area today.
You were ambushed while moving supplies at night and died fighting to the last.
I will lay this wolf banner over your charred body.
Your name will sit proudly on the casualty list.” The exact death Crakehall had arranged for him that afternoon, returned whole and unbroken.
Crakehall’s face went the color of ice, yet he still forced the last scrap of pride into his voice.
“The ledger!
If I am not back within the hour the supply clerks will come looking!
You cannot hide it!” “I nearly forgot.” Nero sighed and pointed to the dark slope beyond the village.
“Why do you think I sit here alone by the fire?
My adjutant Roland left an hour ago by the back road with a full copy of the ledger, the captives, and that boar horseshoe.
Straight for the main camp.” The last color drained from Crakehall’s face.
“If I do not send a fast rider to stop him before dawn,” Nero stepped closer until the tip of Crakehall’s sword was less than a foot from his chest, “those things will be on Tywin’s table at sunrise.
Whether I dare is not the question.
The question is whether you dare gamble.” In that instant Crakehall broke.
His force was pinned by fire oil.
His name was held by the ledger.
His escape was sealed by a false Northmen ambush.
He was a wild boar driven into a dead-end pen, blades on every side.
The longsword hit the mud with a flat clang.
The highborn heir climbed stiffly from the saddle.
His knees buckled.
He sank into the muck in a posture of pure humiliation.
“Don’t light the fire…” His voice shook.
“The armor, the crossbows, the seal—all yours.
Just send someone after Roland.
Give me the ledger.” Nero looked down at him the way a man looks at a dog that has finally learned to crawl.
“Inspect the goods.
Gawen.” Gawen stumbled out from the wagon, box clutched tight, legs unsteady.
“Count.” He swallowed, pulled back the oilcloth, and worked under the firelight.
Cold iron shone.
Bundles of heavy crossbows and cavalry harness rose in stacks.
“One hundred infantry sets.
Two hundred heavy crossbows.
Fifty cavalry sets.
The numbers match.” Nero held out his hand.
“The seal.” Crakehall moved like a man whose bones had been pulled.
He drew a scroll sealed in red wax and lifted it above his head with both hands.
With the Free Patrol Seal, Nero would no longer need to beg the supply clerks for every step.
“You can leave.” Nero tucked the seal into his tunic.
“The ledger… the captives…” “They stay with Roland.
That is my insurance.
As long as you cause no trouble, they never appear.” He kicked the fallen sword farther into the mud.
[Judgment: The host has committed severe extortion backed by extreme death threats.
This gravely violates the knightly virtues of Mercy and Honor.] [Honor –5.
Current Honor: 5/100.] The cold red text at the edge of his vision did not touch Nero’s expression.
Crakehall’s face twisted with humiliation, fear, and hate, yet he did not risk a single hard word.
Minutes later the twenty guards led their spooked horses and their broken master into the night at a panicked trot.
Only when the last hoofbeat faded did the men on the walls drop down.
Their eyes fixed on the wagons with something close to hunger.
Roland came to Nero’s side, voice thin.
“Commander… would he truly have ordered the charge?” “Then we would have burned them.” Nero’s calm made Roland’s skin crawl.
For a moment he thought of the Mad King.
Kaan walked to the nearest wagon and laid a hand on a thick breastplate.
Real iron.
Iron that stopped blades and kept men alive.
He looked at Nero.
The old defiance in his eyes had been replaced by raw awe.
“Commander… these irons are for us?” “Distributed by the rules.
Not by blood.
By merit.
Everyone eats.” In this mud-pit the words carried more weight than any oath.
Veterans and mountain clansmen fell into the same fierce silence.
The system chime struck like a hammer.
[Judgment: The host has delivered high-grade equipment to the Mountain Clans, fulfilling a dangerous promise with concrete action.
This is a rare practice of the knightly virtue of Integrity.] [Honor +5.
Current Honor: 10/100.] [Ding!
Honor has again reached the 10-point threshold.
Low-tier white card selection unlocked.] Nero watched the number on the panel drop to the floor and then bounce straight back to the safety line.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Extreme extortion (–5) traded for goods that kept a promise (+5).
He had turned the system’s rigid moral ledger into a clean empty-handed grab.
The strange smile made Gawen edge back.
“M-Master… your face…” “Nothing.” Nero coughed once and opened the draw.
[A: Survival Card – Iron Stomach (White)] Improves the body’s ability to digest poor or spoiled food.
[B: Technique Card – Battle Formation Swordsmanship (White)] Better suited to parrying and power cuts inside tight military ranks than wandering blade work.
[C: Social Card – Tavern Veteran (White)] Slightly raises the chance of successful information gathering in taverns.
“Select B.
Replace Black Blade Mastery.” Assassination belonged in gutters.
He was now a commander of a regular force.
Old alley habits of reverse-gripping a short blade washed away under wider, steadier cuts meant for the line.
Nero drew his longsword.
The edge caught the firelight.
“Change armor.
String the bows.” His voice was not loud.
Every man heard it.
“From tomorrow the First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion stops being a pack of rotting bones pushing carts.” Kaan grinned.
Roland’s fingers tightened on the parchment.
Gawen felt the ledger against his chest grow suddenly heavy.
Nero looked into the black night, eyes sharp.
“We go armed to the teeth.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Fish_Cakery Comment and vote if you enjoyed it—it really makes me happy!
CaveLeather