When the First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion reached White Wax Village, the setting sun lay across the riverbank like congealed blood.
This was no longer a village.
Five corpses hung stiff from the old elm at the entrance.
Even the children had not been spared.
The hemp ropes creaked whenever the wind moved.
In the open space among the ruins a dozen Westerlands light cavalry herded the few dozen remaining villagers.
A fat-faced rider saw Nero’s column and greed lit in his eyes.
“Where did these supply-train dogs crawl from?” He grinned, showing stained teeth.
“Ser Clegane is requisitioning grain.
Leave the empty wagons and the good armor on your backs, then fuck off.” “Raff the Sweetling,” Roland murmured at Nero’s side.
“The most poisonous dog under the Mountain.
Don’t trust the nickname.
He smiles widest when he’s skinning someone.” Nero dismounted and held out the sealed patrol warrant.
“First Baggage Train, here on inspection orders.
Under military supply regulations every grain requisition must be registered and signed.” Raff laughed as if he had heard a good joke and pointed his blood-streaked sword tip at the corpses in the tree.
“That old man wanted paperwork too, right before he died.
Why don’t you go ask him where he signed?” Clegane’s men roared with laughter.
Nero kept his hand on his sword hilt but did not draw.
Behind this pack of mad dogs stood something far worse.
A sudden struggle broke out among the captives.
“Get away from him!
The child is bleeding!” Two Westerlands soldiers dragged a young woman in a torn gray dress out of the mud.
Nero’s breath caught for half a heartbeat.
She was beautiful in a way that did not belong here—more beautiful than memory had prepared him for.
The long gray dress was ripped open in places, showing smooth skin that had no business on this muddy battlefield.
Night-dark wavy hair fell around a soot-streaked face that still could not hide the sharp, exotic lines of her features.
The proud curves barely covered by the ruined fabric looked like something the gods had dropped into a slaughterhouse by mistake.
Talisa Maegyr.
The exact woman the system’s blinding causal warning had flagged.
“This outlander bitch has spirit.” Raff licked cracked lips, eyes crawling over her body without shame.
“After dark the brothers will teach her how to stitch Westerlands flesh.” Talisa’s face went paper-white.
She clutched her herb pouch like a shield.
When her amber eyes found the fully armed Nero there was no plea in them—only cold contempt for every red cloak present.
“Let her go,” Nero said.
Raff’s smile vanished.
“You got a problem with Lord Clegane’s spoils?” “I don’t care about spoils.
I care about my unit.” Nero walked forward until he stood squarely between Talisa and Raff.
Behind him Kaan and ten veteran Westerlands men locked heavy shields into a tight wall.
Crossbows clicked into ready position in the dusk.
“The First Baggage Train just came through an ambush.
More than twenty wounded.
We need a medic.” Nero locked eyes with Raff and pulled the fresh ledger from inside his tunic.
“Logistics patrol regulations give a grain column the right to emergency-requisition civilian healers along the route in wartime.
Gawen—enter her.” Gawen’s legs shook, but the memory of last night’s armor distribution stiffened his spine.
He opened the ledger with both hands.
“E-Entry complete.
One field medic.” The fat on Raff’s face jumped.
He was not afraid of killing.
He was afraid of a well-armed column that insisted on quoting military law.
“Supply-train dog, you looking to die?” Raff drew half his sword.
“If you disagree, take it to the main camp and argue with Lord Tywin.” Nero did not move.
“Ask him why, while the White Willow Crossing supply line is under attack, Ser Clegane’s men are seizing a grain escort’s legal field medic.” The air between them stretched tight.
Kaan’s axe was already half-raised.
Then the ground itself began to tremble.
Heavy, deliberate hoofbeats rolled up the village road—draft horses trained under cruelty to carry impossible weight.
Every mouth shut.
Raff shoved his sword home and stepped aside like a whipped dog.
A massive black horse walked slowly out of the ruins.
The knight on its back was so large he no longer looked entirely human.
Shoulders broad as a city gate.
A six-foot greatsword hung casually from the saddle.
Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain.
No anger.
No curiosity.
When the eyes behind the visor passed over Nero it was the way a man looks at a stone in the road and decides whether it is worth the effort of crushing.
The air around Nero thickened.
Pure, brutal force pressed against his skin.
A blood-red system warning detonated across his vision.
[High-risk warning: Ultra-high-risk force target (Gregor Clegane) detected in current plane!] [Strength assessment: Crushing.
Agility assessment: Extreme danger.] [Judgment: Host combat power gap is catastrophic.
Survival probability in direct physical confrontation <1%.
Strongly advise avoidance.] Nero’s breath locked for an instant.
Twenty Strength, twenty-two Agility, and Battle Formation Swordsmanship—against this pure killing beast the system still called it a crushing defeat with no chance of resistance.
Physical confrontation was suicide.
He needed the Mountain to listen, even for a few seconds.
He decided at once.
“System.
Deduct five Honor.
Add to Charisma.” [Consumed 5 Honor.
Current Honor: 2/100.] [Charisma increased to 15.] [Host bone structure and facial features have been subtly refined.
Temperament has deepened.] [Ding!
Charisma threshold reached.
Dormant trait Voice of First Impressions (White) is now active.] Warmth flickered through the bones of his face.
His spine straightened without conscious effort.
He drew a slow breath, forced the trembling out of his muscles, and looked straight at the Mountain.
His voice came out low and perfectly steady.
“Ser Clegane.
The First Baggage Train Patrol Battalion is here on inspection orders.
The column has combat losses and is short of personnel.
Per military law and the order of Ser Marbrand, I am requisitioning this woman as a field medic.
We will not delay the ser’s grain requisition.” [Voice of First Impressions (White) triggered successfully.
Target: Gregor Clegane.
First sentence receives +30 Charisma social modifier.
Target willingness to listen significantly increased.] The Mountain, who had not planned to waste another glance on Nero, actually paused with the reins half-pulled.
That massive head turned and studied him from behind the visor.
Any junior officer who had dared stand in his path and speak nonsense before would already be in two pieces, horse included.
Yet for a few short seconds the constant, boiling killing intent inside the Mountain was held down by something unexpected—patience.
Silence stretched, thick enough to choke on.
Then the Mountain did not draw his sword.
He did not even look at the woman.
His head turned toward Raff.
The voice that came out sounded like two rough stones grinding against iron.
“Grain loaded?” “Reporting to my lord—yes.
Loaded!” Raff was sweating through his armor.
“Then we ride.” The Mountain turned his horse.
One massive hoof snapped a charred roof beam as thick as a man’s waist.
Wood chips flew.
The mountain of flesh and blood-smell moved slowly out of the village as though nothing that had just happened was worth remembering.
Only when that broad back disappeared did Nero allow himself a quiet breath.
Cold sweat had already soaked his back.
He still did not know whether it had been Tywin’s military law, Ser Marbrand’s name, or the sudden combined Charisma of forty-five that bought those few seconds of patience from the mad dog.
It did not matter.
He had pulled a living person out of the monster’s jaws.
Raff glared at him and spat.
“Lucky bastard.
Take your medic and get the fuck out of here.” With Clegane’s men gone, the ruins fell silent again.
The moment Talisa was free she did not waste time rubbing her bruised wrists.
She turned and stumbled straight toward a half-grown child still wailing in the mud.
The boy’s lower leg had been crushed under Westerlands boots; bone shards showed through the mess of blood and dirt.
Talisa dropped to her knees in the filth, tore open her damaged herb pouch, and worked with clean, decisive speed—clearing the wound, setting the bone, binding it tight with the last of her linen and herbs.
Nero stayed mounted and watched in silence.
Only when the child’s cries faded and surviving women carried him away with broken gratitude did Talisa rise.
She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of a blood-stained hand and looked up at the man on the horse with cold assessment.
The face above her was deeper, sterner, carrying the quiet weight of command.
Handsome or not, it still wore the red of the Westerlands.
“You didn’t save me out of pity,” she said, Volantene accent sharp with sarcasm.
“Just another pack of Westerlands robbers wanting a civilian woman for their tents.
Change of tent, change of master—is that it?” “Yes.” Nero did not bother denying it.
He looked down at her.
“So you are on my ledger now.” Talisa blinked once.
She had expected anger or false righteousness.
She had not expected the plain admission.
“Still,” she said, amber eyes steady, “standing in front of that devil for a captive who means nothing to you… I have to admit you are a crazy bastard with guts.” “Nero.” He answered without heat and glanced at Gawen.
“If a name has to go in the ledger, give it to him.” “Talisa.” She settled the ruined herb pouch on her shoulder and met his gaze without flinching.
“Talisa Maegyr.” Nero nodded.
“Gawen.
Register her.
Talisa Maegyr, field medic.
Half rations.
Anyone in this column who touches a hair on her head loses the hand.
Military regulation.” The words “loses the hand” softened the hostility in her eyes a fraction.
She looked at the man again and realized something rare existed inside this red-cloaked company—bottom lines and actual rules.
Nero did not look at her further.
He turned toward the road the Mountain had taken.
[Hint: Target “Talisa Maegyr” is alive.] [Causal shift: Slight rollback.] [Warning: Handle the target’s subsequent affiliation with extreme caution.
Long-term possession, imprisonment, or forced alteration of her path may trigger severe divergence in remote character lines.] Nero read the cold text and felt a quiet relief.
Saving her had not been the problem.
Keeping her was.
If this Volantene healer stayed trapped inside a Lannister column she would never meet Robb Stark on some future battlefield.
Once that thread snapped, Nero refused to gamble on how far the causality collapse would spread.
Survive first.
Then find a clean moment to send her toward the places in the Riverlands where wounded gathered and Northern banners were most likely to pass—outskirts of Riverrun, the Red Fork, some ruined sept of the Seven that treated both North and South without asking questions.
He spoke to Gawen without raising his voice.
“Add one line.
Talisa Maegyr: wartime temporary requisitioned medic.
Not a captive.
Not a prize.” Gawen stared, then bent quickly to write.
The last of the hostility in Talisa’s eyes loosened.
“Temporary?” she asked.
“When I find a road that won’t get you killed halfway, you leave.” She looked at him for a long moment, as if a Westerlands officer making that promise was the last thing she had expected.
The Mountain’s hoofbeats had already faded into the dusk.
The smell of blood still hung over the ruins like rust that would not wipe clean.
Today, entries, military orders, and a single stroke of luck had pulled one life out of a monster’s mouth.
Nero knew the truth.
When the trait expired, and when rules no longer held the monster, only strength harder than the monster itself would keep a man alive.