[ June 24, 298 AC | Evening | Descent from the Mountains of the Moon ] The cold after they left the Eyrie cut like a knife through every crack in the rock.
Nero took the lead.
The Lesser Constitution Reshaping had left his body strangely light.
A hole still gaped in the hem of his leather, but the flesh beneath it was whole again.
Tyrion struggled at the rear, short legs working hard on the loose gravel.
He was breathing heavily, yet his mouth never stopped.
“In all my years,” he said, leaning against a boulder to wipe cold sweat, “I have met men who wanted to kill me, cheat me, or lick my boots simply because my name is Lannister.
You are the first stranger who risked a blade for me with no claim and no debt.” “I saw your ledger,” Nero answered flatly.
“When Lady Catelyn put a sword to your throat your purse spilled open.
Inside were notes that all read the same: *A Lannister always pays his debts.* I put my life on the table.
You owe me the price.
The transaction is still in my favor.” Tyrion was silent for two full seconds.
Then a genuine, low laugh rose from his chest.
“Gods.
A calculating sellsword.
Bronn, did you hear?
He treats me like an investment.” “I heard,” Bronn said.
“Sounds like a moneylender.
I like that better.” The sky darkened fast as they rounded a narrow pass.
Bronn lifted a hand and pointed to a dull yellow glow in the valley below.
“Eyrie outpost.
Three or five men at most.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin the way a wolf studies a flock.
“The madwoman will have sent riders.
We slip in while it’s dark, cut the throats of the watch, and leave the bodies on the road.
The mountain clans will smell the blood and come boiling out.
We clear the thorn ahead of us and slow the pursuit behind.
Clean.” Nero’s steps checked.
The moment the words left Bronn’s mouth a cold mechanical voice spoke inside his skull.
[Warning: Unjust act proposal detected.
Deliberate harm to innocents.] [Participation or acquiescence will deduct 5 Honor.] [Current Honor: 10/100.
Honor falling to zero will trigger immediate erasure.] Nero’s fingers tightened.
The system had given him no manual when he chose the Knight path.
The warning was simple enough: subjective, indiscriminate killing would end him.
Bronn already had a dagger half-drawn.
Talking about knightly mercy would only make the man laugh in his face.
Nero’s mind raced, hunting for an argument a sellsword would respect.
“Wait.” He caught Bronn’s wrist.
The grip was hard; cold sweat slicked his palm.
Bronn stopped.
His eyes narrowed, dangerous.
“What?
You were ready to die in that hall.
Now you’re squeamish about a throat?” Tyrion watched them both with sudden interest.
“I’m afraid of dying,” Nero said, meeting Bronn’s gaze without flinching.
“You’re treating the mountain clans like dogs that only follow the scent of blood.” He released the wrist and stepped closer, laying out the logic he had forced together in the last three heartbeats.
“They aren’t stupid.
Once they strip the boots from the dead they won’t sit still and wait for heavily armed Vale riders.
They’ll find three sets of fresh tracks leaving the outpost.
Do you think they’ll choose a hard fight against plate and steel, or follow the prints and hunt three fat sheep who have no horses?” Bronn was quiet for several seconds, running the numbers.
At last he shrugged.
“You’re right.
A pack of savages with new steel on our heels is a poor trade.” [Ding.
Line held.
Injustice refused.
Honor +2.
Current Honor: 12/100.] Nero lowered his eyes.
In the dark where neither man could see, he let out a slow breath.
His back was soaked.
— Night settled absolute.
The temperature dropped hard.
“We need a fire,” Tyrion said, teeth chattering.
“After dark this cold will kill us as surely as any clan.
Hot food warms the gut and the spirit both.” “Fire?” Bronn spat.
“Imp, are you eager to die?
A flame will draw every savage for miles.
Don’t expect me to dig your grave.
If you want to live, hide by day, move by night, make no sound, and never light a fucking fire.” Tyrion sighed.
“A brilliant plan, Bronn.
You try it alone, then.
If you want to stumble through the dark, be my guest.
Whatever we do, the eyes in these mountains will find us soon enough.” “Then we’re already dead.” Bronn’s frown deepened.
“I can find meat.
I could also leave you and this pile of wet wood right here, take the horses, and double my own odds.
What then, little lord?” “Die, most likely.” Tyrion bent and picked up another stick.
“You don’t think I’d do it?” “If it meant your life, you would do it without blinking.
When your friend Chiggen took an arrow in the gut, you finished him yourself—quick and clean.” Nero’s eyes flickered.
As a man who had read the original tale, he remembered the scene perfectly: Bronn seizing the wounded man by the hair and driving a dagger through the ear, then telling Catelyn the man had simply died of his wounds.
“He wasn’t going to live,” Bronn said.
“And he wouldn’t stop screaming.
He was bringing the enemy straight to us.
If I’d been the one bleeding that day, Chiggen would have done the same.
He wasn’t a friend.
Just a man walking the same road.
Get this clear, Imp: I help you kill.
That doesn’t mean I like you.” “I only need the killing,” Tyrion answered.
“Liking is optional.” He dropped the armful of wood.
In the end they lit a small, cautious fire in a natural hollow against the rock.
Tyrion turned a dry twig between his fingers.
His mismatched eyes settled on Nero with open curiosity.
“Nero of the Trident.
I’ve ridden the length of the Seven Kingdoms.
I’ve never heard of a house by that name.
Who knighted you?” “A hedge knight called Jory.” Nero recited the original body’s memory without a flicker.
“He tapped my shoulder with a broken sword before he died.
Puncture wounds.
The dogs finished what was left.
I’m nobody.
Nero is just a name.” The answer was perfect.
Rough knights who smelled of mud and river water were common as fleas in Westeros.
Tyrion smiled and let it pass.
“Since we don’t intend to have our throats opened by savages just yet,” he said, rubbing his hands, “let us speak of the road out.
Once we clear these mountains we enter the Riverlands.
My father’s Mountain is already looting the countryside.
Our only real path is west—to my father’s camps.” He looked from one man to the other.
“Deliver me alive and both of you join my personal guard.
Nero as captain, Bronn as his second.
Pay drawn from my own purse.” Bronn’s hands paused.
He raised an eyebrow and glanced at Nero.
He had watched the chaotic, wound-for-wound fighting in the High Hall and was clearly unconvinced by this new “captain.” Still, he looked once at Tyrion’s purse, shrugged, and said nothing.
Nero stared into the weak flames and calculated.
Tyrion was the thickest thigh available.
Unloved by his family, yes—but clever, rich, and far more reasonable than the Mountain or Cersei.
Riding the Imp’s coattails was the cleanest springboard he had.
He also knew the cost of the butterfly.
Ned’s head, the War of the Five Kings, the Red Wedding—if he rushed to change the great strokes of history he would lose the one advantage that kept him alive: knowledge of what was coming.
Better to ride the beast’s back and keep the future intact for as long as he could.
A sound cut through the wind—wet chewing, the dull clash of iron.
Bronn killed the fire with one hard stamp.
The three of them went still and crept to the edge of the rock.
In the pass below, two small bands of mountain men—fewer than eight in total—faced each other in the dark.
Three with painted faces were tearing at a half-eaten merchant’s corpse.
The others, missing ears, held rusted axes and tried to claim the scattered parcels.
Cannibalism.
Nero’s stomach turned.
“Looks like a turf war over supper,” Tyrion muttered, voice thick with disgust.
[System Prompt: Trait owner detected.
Core mechanism unlocked.] [Killing enemies who possess traits will unlock the corresponding trait, skill, or upgrade an existing one.] Nero’s pulse jumped.
He fixed his eyes on the painted leader who was currently ripping an arm free with his teeth.
A legitimate red-name target.
Perfect for testing the system.
A frontal charge would be ugly.
A backstab was clean.
“Cover me.” He was already moving—out of the hollow and into the faint moonlight like a hunting cat.
Bronn’s eyes widened.
He opened his mouth to call the man a lunatic, but Nero was already committed.
The reshaped body had shed every trace of the original host’s sluggishness.
Wandering Swordsmanship was viciously efficient from behind.
Nero closed in silence, clamped a hand over the leader’s mouth, and yanked the head back.
At the same instant the longsword punched upward through the side of the neck and out the far side of the throat.
Blood followed the blood groove in a hard jet.
It was over in a single breath.
The strongest of the savages was already twitching on the ground before either band fully understood what had happened.
[Killed Cannibal Mountain Clan leader.
Act aligns with “Punish the Wicked.” Honor +2.
Current Honor: 14/100.] [Kill Plunder triggered.
Extracted equippable trait: [Beast Vision (Basic)].] “Equip,” Nero thought.
A thin current raced along his nerves.
Suddenly the night sharpened.
He could see the tremble of every leaf, the rise and fall of every chest in the dark, even the small preparatory tightenings of muscle before a man moved.
The remaining savages froze at the sudden appearance of this silent killer.
When Bronn came boiling out of the shadows with steel drawn, their courage broke completely.
They dropped the ruined corpse and the parcels and fled screaming into the black pines.
Nero shook the blood from his blade.
His breathing stayed even.
Behind him Bronn raised an eyebrow.
The earlier disdain in his eyes had quietly thinned.
Tyrion walked up on short legs and prodded the corpse with a boot.
“The way you went out just now didn’t look much like a knight defending justice.
Looked more like a starving wolf.” Nero sheathed the sword and looked down at the Imp.
“Tyrion.
If you want to reach the Westerlands alive, Bronn and I alone won’t be enough.” “You have a better idea?” Nero turned and stared into the black depths of the Mountains of the Moon.
“Recruit them.”