"The relationship is good. I don't want to borrow much—ten golden dragons are enough," Arthur replied calmly.
Ser Hendry rose slightly, his left hand gripping the carved armrest of his chair. He asked with a wry grin, "Is that wager on yourself… or on Aegor Merrister?"
The jest drew a wave of unrestrained laughter from the crowd of Riverland lords and retainers assembled beneath the red-and-black pavilions outside Stone Hedge.
Arthur felt his pride flare. "Of course, it's on me."
As the laughter faded, the competitors returned to the tiltyard, swords in hand.
An officer from Fairmarket, a grizzled hedge knight turned garrison captain, stepped forward to serve as referee. He was tasked with announcing the combatants, declaring the rules, and ending the bout should one yield.
The rules were simple. Both men wore maile and plate over gambesons, and would fight until one called out "I yield." The first to surrender lost. Killing blows were forbidden.
The referee bellowed, "Let us welcome our fighters!"
"First, the one in silvered plate and no helm—Arthur Bracken of Moulinford, a cadet of House Bracken. As far as I know, this is his first official bout—yet to mark a victory."
He paused as chuckles echoed.
"It seems Arthur will need the blessing of the Seven."
"And here we have Ser Aegor Merrister, a name familiar to all. Now in service to Ser Marq Piper of Pinkmaiden Castle. He's a veteran of the Stone Mill melee, and has bested noted freeriders such as Ser Sterling of the Crossroads."
As the introduction ended, Aegor raised his sword in one hand and his free left hand in salute. A swell of cheering answered from lords, knights, and squires alike.
In the high seats overlooking the field, Lord Lekar Vance leaned toward Hendry. "Looks like most of the coin's riding on Aegor. Odds are low, but if Arthur pulls through, your loss might not be so modest."
"It's just ten dragons," Hendry replied with a forced shrug. "Call it an investment in goodwill."
Carlyle gave him a sidelong glance, saying nothing. He knew the truth—Hendry's claim to Stone Hedge wasn't secured. If Lord Jonos Bracken named one of his five daughters as heir, Hendry would be displaced. That was why he busied himself courting Riverlords, ensuring allies when inheritance was contested.
Kalel of Riverrun chuckled and turned his gaze to the field.
Arthur and Aegor were of similar height, but Aegor's build was broader, shoulders thick from years in the saddle. The two began to circle, the crowd calling for Aegor to strike first. Others jeered Arthur, shouting for him to yield early.
Arthur tracked his masked opponent's movements. Aegor's guard was steady—no gaps. But Arthur was done hesitating. He gripped his longsword with both hands and swung.
Aegor, caught off-guard, leaned back and sneered. "You think you can beat me with a commoner's hack?"
"How would you know if you haven't tried?" Arthur shot back and slashed again.
This time, Aegor met the blow. Their swords clashed with a sharp crack. Metal on metal. They locked blades and began to wrestle for leverage.
The crowd roared. Many shouted for Aegor to break Arthur's guard. Others, amused, demanded Arthur "take a nap in the dirt."
The struggle continued, and the crowd's feverish excitement began to wane as neither fighter fell.
Of the men seated above, Lord Marq Piper leaned forward. "This Arthur holds up better than I expected. He's lasting against Aegor."
He would know. Aegor had served him for years.
"He's not using his full strength," Hendry scoffed.
Yet the moment the words left his mouth, Arthur shouted and forced Aegor back two full steps. He pressed the attack, swinging again with bone-rattling force. Aegor raised his blade to parry. Steel rang.
Kalel laughed aloud. "They're not knights—they're bloody blacksmiths!"
Marq nodded, eyes still on the yard. "Aye. Same brute force on both sides. But Arthur's got the edge."
Hendry scowled. Arthur winning meant expectation. Aegor losing meant gossip. And worst, it meant Hendry might have to back Arthur openly in future trials.
"Maybe Aegor's luring him in," Hendry muttered. "Waiting for the right moment to turn it around."
"Then his acting's better than his swordplay," Marq quipped. "If Arthur wins, I'll put coin on him in the next round."
Hendry winced. He'd already made larger wagers in private—ninety dragons' worth. Losing would be a blow, not just to his purse but to his ambitions.
In the yard, the duel escalated.
Arthur feinted high and swung low, his blade crashing into Aegor's thigh. The armor dented. Aegor hissed through his teeth and staggered back.
"Seven hells!"
He retaliated with a wild slash, but Arthur stepped in and shoved him hard with his shoulder. With one leg weakened, Aegor lost balance and toppled backward.
Arthur leveled his sword at his throat. "Yield."
Aegor panted, chest heaving. "I yield!"
The referee raised his hand. "Arthur Bracken is the victor!"
Cheers and curses erupted. Some shouted in disbelief, others laughed and toasted. A few angry voices called it a fluke.
But Hendry remained still, lips tight. He'd just gained a rising star in his camp—but the costs were climbing.
Arthur Bracken, once a nameless cadet, had made his first mark in the Riverlands.
This time, Maekar Vance had placed his bet squarely on Aegor Merrister, staking a full fifty gold dragons on the knight he had known for years. Aegor, after all, had fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings under House Piper's banner, and had trained at Raventree Hall with veteran hedge knights. Maekar had expected this match to be a formality. Originally, he'd hoped to win five golden dragons off Hendry in jest, but now, with each clash of steel, he had the sinking feeling he might lose his entire wager.
Even as the heir to Pinkmaiden, fifty golden dragons wasn't a trivial loss. It was enough to hire a sellsword company for a moon's time or refurbish a minor tower. A painful blow either way.
Kalel, however, remained calm and skeptical. "Arthur may be holding on for now, but he's not trained like a knight. Look at his footwork—he's too stiff. And that sword? He swings it like Gendry did when he was still apprenticed at the smithy in King's Landing."
Indeed, Arthur's movements lacked polish, but there was something unsettling in the way he pressed forward—relentless and unyielding. Hendry Bracken, for his part, looked increasingly flustered. He was torn. On one hand, if Aegor won, he wouldn't have to fulfill his promise of committing troops to Arthur's cause. But that meant losing dozens of golden dragons in bets placed to curry favor with minor Riverlords. On the other hand, if Arthur won, the hundred or more dragons wagered on him—ninety of which Hendry had slyly distributed among lackeys—would flow back into his coffers tenfold.
Hendry's cheeks reddened from inner conflict. He wasn't yet the confirmed heir to Lord Jonos Bracken, and his position remained precarious. With five daughters in the line and no male heir named publicly, Jonos could very well pass Stone Hedge to one of his sons-in-law. Hendry had to win allies now—through charm, gold, or brute force. If he had more coin, he wouldn't be so worried. If he had his father's open support, he wouldn't need to curry favor at all.
On the field, the duel reached its crescendo. Arthur drove forward like a storm sweeping through the Trident. Aegor, taller and broader, was forced to backpedal, his boots dragging ruts through the practice yard's dirt. The cheers of the crowd, mostly smallfolk and squires shouting for Aegor, rang hollow in his ears. He could feel the strength behind Arthur's every blow—unnatural for a boy of his build. It reminded him of tales Ser Barristan had once told—of Thoros of Myr charging into battle, flame in hand, seemingly possessed by fire itself.
Arthur moved with that same reckless ferocity, like a blacksmith's hammer pounding out iron. Each strike echoed like a forge. Aegor's longsword, a castle-forged blade from Seagard, now bore dents and chips from the repeated blows.
The murmurs among the nobles rose. "He's a bloody bear cub," someone muttered. "No wonder he wants to forge a name for himself—he's doing it with brute strength."
Sensing that his opponent was on the verge of collapse, Arthur made his move. Feinting high, he instead dropped his stance and swung low—his blade biting into Aegor's left leg just above the greave. The steel didn't pierce the armor, but the force dented the plate inward with a loud, ugly crunch.
Aegor cried out—"Gods be damned!"—his voice cracking as pain shot up his thigh.
Boos and curses erupted from the crowd, many of whom had bet heavily on the veteran knight. Their jeers rose, some so crude they would've made a Dornish sellsail blush.
Desperate, Aegor swung low in retaliation, but Arthur stepped in and rammed him with his shoulder, sending the wounded knight stumbling backward. With his left leg giving out, Aegor couldn't hold his footing. He dropped to one knee.
Arthur didn't hesitate. Sword raised high, he brought the edge down toward Aegor's exposed neck.
"I yield! I yield!" Aegor shouted in a panic, eyes wide beneath his helmet. "Seven hells, I surrender!"
Had the blow landed, it could've shattered his gorget—and perhaps more.
The officer from Saltpans, acting as referee, quickly stepped between them. "Victory to Arthur Bracken!" he announced, raising the young man's hand before helping Aegor to his feet.
The crowd reacted with fury. Some hurled cups, others foul language. Several shouted at Aegor, calling him coward, craven, and worse—cursing his family all the way back to Harren the Black.
Hendry exhaled, long and slow. Relief washed over him. He wouldn't have to send troops, and his covert wagers had turned a neat profit. Now Arthur, once just a bastard-born minor knightling from a ruined cadet house, looked far more agreeable.
At least for now.