[ June 29, 298 AC | Evening 18:30 | Deep in the Mountains of the Moon ] Over the next five days the fleeing band snowballed, drawing in the most vicious scum the Mountains of the Moon had to offer.
Black Ears.
Moon Brothers.
Howlers.
One after another they appeared.
Campfires in the canyon multiplied from two to more than a dozen.
Once the headcount passed two hundred, the empty promise of the Vale of Arryn that Tyrion had painted with words could no longer paper over the ancient hatreds carved into these people’s bones.
For those five days Nero walked on thin ice.
He did not fear Shagga’s axe or the Vale riders who might still be hunting them.
He feared that if he accidentally crushed an ant underfoot he would lose his last remaining Honor point and be erased.
To protect that single point he forced himself to become something closer to a mountain-clan psychologist than a knight.
The night before last a Moon Brother scout had caught an herb-gatherer who ran errands for a Vale noble.
The man was about to be skinned and hung from a tree in the old way.
Nero did not preach mercy.
He kicked the savage reaching for his knife and offered a colder bait.
“Skin him and hang him?
That only tells Lysa Arryn to send more armored knights to wipe you out.
Let him live.
Let him run home with piss running down his legs and tell every soft lowlander that Tywin Lannister’s son is bringing a hundred thousand demons down from the high peaks.
Isn’t it more entertaining to keep those castle softlings awake at night than to own one useless hide?” The savages laughed and let the man go, thoroughly convinced by the “insidious psychological warfare.” Nero listened in silence to the quiet system chime that rewarded him for [Protecting Innocent Civilians].
Internal fights over half a roasted lamb were harder.
Ordinary mediation meant nothing.
So Nero drew a circle in the dirt and set a new rule: anyone who wanted the meat could step inside—no knives—and settle it with arm-wrestling or stone-lifting.
Dozens of potential bloodbaths became noisy contests of male pride.
Through constant, knife-edge micromanagement his Honor crawled from the critical single point up to seven.
Then the real trouble arrived.
Four men crossed the shallow stream and walked straight into the heart of the camp as if they owned it.
They wore no proper leather and carried no paint, but every one of them bore dark-red burn scars across chest, cheek, or arm.
Some had lost the cartilage of an ear to the fire.
“Burned Men,” Bronn muttered, tongue pushing against his cheek as he spat out a grass root.
His hand was already on his sword.
“The one in front should be Timett.” These lunatics proved they did not fear pain by roasting their own flesh in the initiation rite.
The man leading them, Timett, had gone further than most—his left eye socket was a charred, empty hole he had carved out himself with a white-hot knife.
Timett’s remaining eye did not even glance at Tyrion.
He walked straight to the Stone Crows’ fire and kicked the wooden rack holding a roasting leg of lamb into the mud and ashes.
A young Stone Crow reached for the meat and jerked back from the heat.
“The Burned Men eat first.” Timett’s voice was a hoarse rasp, like a broken bellows.
“Bullshit!” Shagga surged to his feet, rusty great-axe rising.
“The sheep of Shagga, son of Dolf, is not for idiots who cook their own flesh!” Timett’s single eye narrowed.
He showed no fear of Shagga’s size.
A twisted smile pulled at his mouth as he turned toward Tyrion.
“I do not believe lowlander lies.
Cutting this half-man’s head off and trading it in the lowlands for iron and grain is faster than waiting for an empty valley.” Before the last word left his mouth Timett drew a serrated iron knife—rough as a saw, still warm from the fire—and swung it backhanded at Nero’s throat.
The Burned Men never wasted breath.
They settled rank with blood.
Bronn’s eyes narrowed, but he did not draw.
There was no need.
Nero’s pupils tightened.
Agility 22 took over.
He sidestepped the killing stroke by a finger’s width.
The scalding blade whispered past his chin, leaving the stink of burned hair.
Before Timett could recover, Nero’s left hand locked onto the man’s wrist like an iron clamp.
Eighteen Strength met pure, root-deep stubbornness.
For a moment the two forces held.
Then Timett’s wrist bones gave a sharp crack.
The Burned Man did not retreat.
He twisted into the pressure, forcing his own joint to scream, driving the red-hot tip toward Nero’s eyes.
Pain and force meant nothing to a man who took pride in self-mutilation.
Ordinary suppression would not work.
Killing him cleanly would turn the entire camp into a bloodbath.
Nero drew a slow breath and gave the silent command.
[Consume one-time auxiliary judgment: Rhetorical Incitement (Basic).] [Hint: Success rate of verbal engagement and psychological pressure greatly increased.] He released the wrist and stepped back with the momentum, letting Timett stumble.
Then he turned, met Tyrion’s eyes, and received a small nod—authority transferred.
Nero struck a nearby boulder with his scabbard.
The sharp crack silenced the camp.
“Lord Tyrion has spoken!
New rules for the Mountains of the Moon!” His voice, sharpened by the incitement, rolled through the canyon like a hammer.
“From this day forward, any tribe that does not fight its allies on the road will receive first choice of steel swords and chainmail when we reach the lowlands—and double the share of every other tribe.
Anyone who starts trouble or sheds ally blood will take only the scraps… or nothing at all.” Whispers spread.
Bloodlust cooled into calculation.
First pick.
Double share.
The blunt, massive promise seized every greedy heart at once.
“And whoever is first to kill an ally,” Nero continued, driving the second, more poisonous rule home, “I will not merely deny him steel.
I will ask Lord Lannister to place a bounty on his head—ten full suits of chainmail.” He knew these people.
If ten suits of mail truly hung on a chieftain’s head, the men who had shared his fire the night before would cut that head off before dawn to claim the prize.
Timett rose, rubbing his swollen, misshapen wrist.
The single eye fixed on Nero.
“Rules are for men who fear death.
The Burned Men do not.” “I know you do not fear death.” Nero kept the incitement active.
Words rose unbidden, precise and cutting.
“Cutting out an eye and roasting your own flesh may make the Burned Men fear you.
But if you spend your whole life hiding in these rocks scaring other savages, you are only a lunatic.” Timett’s eye narrowed further.
“Lead the Burned Men down the mountain with me,” Nero said, locking eyes with him.
“Let the arrogant knights of the Vale and the lords of the West see real madness for the first time on open ground.
Let all of Westeros remember the name Timett.
That is true terror.” Timett’s breath caught.
The words had struck the deepest ambition he possessed.
He did not yield at once.
He kicked the iron knife up from the ashes—hilt still glowing dark red—and leveled it at Nero.
“Lowlanders have sweet tongues.
Prove your guts match your words.” The entire camp held its breath.
Nero did not step back.
He bent, scooped damp creek mud and wood ash into his palm—using the moisture and the ash as crude insulation—and closed his hand around the red-hot blade without expression.
A sharp hiss of steam and the stench of cooking flesh rose.
Blisters formed at once.
The pain made his eye twitch, but he did not frown.
He simply handed the knife back to Timett.
“My fire is reserved for my enemies.” Timett looked at the knife, then at the burned hand.
He submitted to no man, but this colder, more rational madness made the gamble worth taking.
“The Burned Men will walk with you for a while.” He took the knife and gave a short, cold snort.
“If the half-man lies, I will burn his tongue out.
If you prove a coward, I will take this hand.” With that he led his men to the edge of the camp.
[Ding.
Bloody conflict suppressed through force, structured benefit, and verbal maneuver.
Initial order established.] [Honor +2.
Current Honor: 9/100.] Tyrion leaned against a post, watching the entire exchange, and gave a slow, soft clap.
“Extremely fine command, Nero.” The corner of his mouth lifted; the mismatched eyes shone with genuine admiration.
“Double benefits as bait, then ambition and courage to leash a madman.
I am not certain my father could have made them this obedient in five days.
Have you studied at the Citadel?” “I learned it in piles of corpses.” Nero walked back, rubbing the reddened palm.
“That works until the corpses start fighting back.” Bronn tossed him a dull, heavy greatsword.
“Catch.
Bones itching?
Let’s move.” For days the two of them had kept the same habit: every time they camped they sparred without rules.
Nero drew the old blade.
The system’s [Wandering Swordsmanship (Proficient)] crushed savages easily, but against a true killer it still lacked the dirty edge of lived experience.
Steel rang.
Bronn ignored form.
After batting Nero’s feint aside he drove an elbow straight at the throat.
Nero tilted his head.
Bronn’s knee was already rising, aimed with perfect filth at the inner thigh and groin.
Nero was forced to shift weight and stumble.
When he looked up the sword point rested lightly against his chest.
“Your killing strokes are clean and you hit like a bear,” Bronn said, head tilted in mockery.
“But if I wanted you dead I would throw sand in your eyes, cut the tendon while you were blind, or crush your balls.
The sword is only for finishing.” Nero reset his stance.
Bronn was right.
In true slaughter the system’s technique was not dirty enough.
“Again.” He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, replaying every cheap trick.
On the next exchange Bronn came in the same way.
Nero did not defend.
He dropped, scooped a handful of dry ash from the fire’s edge, and flung it hard into Bronn’s face.
While the sellsword blinked and turned his head, Nero reversed the heavy pommel and drove it solidly into Bronn’s ribs.
Bronn grunted, stepped back two paces, then laughed through the pain, hissing.
“Damn.
You learn fast.” [Ding.
High-intensity, no-holds-barred combat training detected.] [Advanced combat technique comprehended.
White trait activated: [Black Blade Mastery].] [[Black Blade Mastery](White): Success rate and continuity of unorthodox attacks—sand-throwing, groin kicks, elbow strikes, etc.—increased by 15%.
Note: White traits cannot be upgraded through training; they may only be overwritten or devoured.] The notification brought a thin smile.
Dirty, but useful.
Night settled fully.
The camp sank into heavy snoring.
The system spoke once more.
[Phase Goal 1 progress updated: Initial integration of Mountain Clans.] [Judgment: Host consistently avoided meaningless killing and established basic constraints.] [Phase compensation: Honor +1.] [Current Honor: 10/100.] [Congratulations.
Honor has left the critical state and reached the first ten-point milestone.] [System card-draw mechanism officially unlocked.] [You may now draw one of the following three temporary white traits (duration: 10 days) as a phase reward:] [A: [Eagle Eye Flash] — Slight increase to visual range and night perception; minor increase to projectile dodge rate.] [B: [Marching Iron Hooves] — Walking stamina consumption reduced by 20%; reduced chance of ankle sprain.
No benefit while mounted.] [C: [Intimidating Voice] — Loud shouts carry an additional 5% psychological suppression effect, especially potent against the weak-willed.] Nero’s mouth twitched hard.
What kind of garbage is this?
Option A’s night vision was already covered by Beast Vision.
Option B—less likely to sprain an ankle?
With Strength and Constitution at these levels he was built like an ox; the system seemed to think he was a pack horse.
Among mountain men who decided truth by volume, axes, and scars, the third option was at least usable.
He sighed.
“C.” [Temporary trait [Intimidating Voice (White)] equipped.
Duration: 10 days.] Nero touched his throat.
Nothing felt different.
He looked toward the dark end of the valley.
Tomorrow would bring new trouble for this patched-together army.
For now, at least, he held one more card.