"Excellent!" Marco Piper rose first, his gloved hands clapping with deliberate grace. As the heir of House Piper and lordling of Pinkmaiden, his applause carried weight—so those aligned with his House, and others beholden to the influence of Pink City, followed suit. Yet not many clapped with genuine warmth.
Few among them could cheer sincerely for the man who had just cost them dozens—if not hundreds—of gold dragons.
Still, Marco was not some petty hedge knight brooding over coin. Even as Iger limped off the field, helmet tucked under one arm, face downcast and crimson with shame, Marco kept his expression calm and unjudging.
There was no scolding, no comforting—just silence, as Iger passed by the watching crowd like a ghost stripped of honor.
And rarely did it happen that neither victor nor vanquished received the fanfare they deserved. Arthur Bracken stood still, sword in hand, blood and sweat drying on his leathers. There were no cheers, no praise. Only whispers and the shuffling of boots on gravel.
Sensing the sudden shift in mood, Hendry Bracken, quick to profit and quicker to placate, stepped forward with his most winning smile. The weight of his purse had nearly tripled from this bout—no doubt, many of those present had backed Iger, assuming strength would overpower tenacity.
"My friends," Hendry called out, spreading his arms like a young lord holding court. "Arthur's victory—though unexpected—has enriched me unfairly." He let the words hang, drawing curious glances. "And so, let me show my appreciation. For this hunting trip—every flagon of ale, every haunch of boar, every night under roof or stars—I shall foot the bill!"
A pause. Silence. Then, like spring rain striking still water, a ripple of cheers spread across the crowd. It wasn't affection for Arthur. It was relief—coin saved, pride salvaged.
Originally, they had intended to hunt in the riverlands' eastern forests, near the Red Fork, but with key members of noble retinues absent—including the Tully envoy and Ser Marq Piper—they had remained at Stone Hedge, indulging in sparring and feasting.
Rumors swirled that King Robert, returning from his progress through the Trident with his infamous "wheelhouse," would soon arrive in King's Landing. All agreed: with the appointment of his new Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, the capital would soon host a grand tourney to mark the occasion.
Tens of thousands of gold dragons in prizes, public renown, and the admiration of lords and ladies alike—who wouldn't be drawn to that honeyed flame? Young men without inheritance, freeriders seeking fame, even knights from across the Narrow Sea were said to be headed there. And with them, the vices of the capital: Arbor gold, Qohorik steel, Myrish lace, bards with bawdy songs, and girls softer than summerwine.
Best be prepared.
So though Hendry's gesture didn't return lost gold, it did soothe tempers.
"Now," Hendry added smoothly, striking while the crowd remained buoyant, "on to our second match. Ser Carlell—do you have a champion in mind?"
He should have allowed Arthur rest. After all, it was clear from the last fight he had spent much of his strength. But Hendry had plans—Arthur had humiliated many with his victory, and none would cry foul if he were forced into a second duel too soon. It would also curry favor with those he had just emptied of gold.
Carlell Vance, seated beside a few of his kin from Atranta, scanned the men of his house. His eyes flicked past squires, bannermen, and retainers—then landed on a lean, sharp-eyed youth in a worn but well-maintained gambeson.
"Dylan Waters," he said at last, "are you willing—?"
"I am! I am!" Dylan shouted before the knight finished speaking, squeezing between two older armsmen to step forward.
A bastard, clearly. His surname marked him. But one with an eager flame behind his eyes, and a blade on his hip polished near to gleaming.
Murmurs spread through the crowd. Some sneered at Dylan's slight frame—he was half a head shorter than Arthur, with arms not much thicker than a crossbow's stock.
"What's that string bean gonna do?" someone muttered.
But a few wiser voices countered, "That's the point. Arthur's slow. Let the boy dance around him. Tire him. One stroke's all it'll take."
Arthur, still recovering his breath, studied his new opponent. He wasn't worried—but he wasn't careless either.
This time, the crowd was divided. Some cheered for Arthur, fresh off his unexpected victory. Others backed Dylan, seeing him as a natural counter.
"Gentlemen," Hendry called again, barely containing his glee, "shall we open the bets?"
"Open!"
"Double or nothing!"
Voices roared with new energy.
Hendry's grin widened.
Let the games begin.
Most of the men present had trained in the arts of war, whether as hedge knights, squires, or minor lords' retainers. As such, each had their own opinion on who would emerge victorious between Arthur and Dylan. Arguments broke out in hushed voices, but no consensus could be reached. The sting of losing silver stags and golden dragons on Iger's earlier defeat still hung heavy, and any chance to recover even a portion was welcome.
Hendry, ever the opportunist, nodded and announced, "Then the odds stand—Arthur's victory pays one to two; Dylan's, two to one. Fair enough?"
The murmurs quieted. After brief consultation among the free riders and bannermen, most nodded their assent. It seemed reasonable, considering Arthur's earlier show of strength and Dylan's unknown reputation. The wealthier nobles remained aloof, not much concerned with odds—they treated the betting as amusement, not opportunity.
Just as before, all coin—gold, silver, and copper—was handed over to Hendry's attendants. These were not mere servants, but trusted squires and household men sworn to House Bracken, tasked with tallying every wager. Hendry didn't touch a single coin himself. A smart man in the Riverlands knew not to handle other lords' gold directly.
Arthur was granted a moment's rest at the edge of the tiltyard, seated on a stool with a waterskin. The duel with Iger had not been easy—brawling with a brute of that size took its toll.
"Do you wish to take your ninety dragons now," Hendry called out across the field, "or wager them again?"
"Bet on me," Arthur replied without hesitation, standing. "If I won't stake on myself, I've no business fighting at all."
He strode back to the field, greatsword resting on his shoulder, just as the officiating knight raised his hand and began to speak with practiced clarity.
"Ser Arthur of Stonehedge, victor over Iger the Black Boar, stands again." A few voices cheered—more than before, but still not overwhelming.
Arthur lifted his blade and gave a modest wave. Confidence could win over doubt, and doubt lost men their fights.
"Dylan Weishui," the officer continued, "a knight sworn to Ser Carlell Vance of Atranta. New to the Riverlands, but not new to the blade. From the streets of Flea Bottom, trained in the Sword Dens of King's Landing. No great honors yet—but perhaps that changes today."
The last remark carried a subtle bias, and Arthur noticed. Still, he didn't bristle. Let them cheer the underdog. He'd fought worse odds before.
Dylan stepped forward, slim and wiry. He raised his arms and twirled his sword with a fluid grace. His stature was modest—half a head shorter than Arthur—but his footwork was nimble, more like a water dancer from Braavos than a Westerlands swordsman.
"Be careful, Arthur!" someone shouted from the crowd, likely one of the bettors. "He's quick, not strong. He'll tire you before striking!"
Arthur nodded silently. He had heard similar advice during the rebellion, and half the time it was sound.
"If warnings were enough," Dylan sneered, "Maesters would win wars with ink and poppy milk."
He was cocky—clearly eager to prove himself. Maybe too eager. Yet Arthur respected it. He'd seen boys like this in King Robert's army—light on armor, fast on their feet, dangerous when overlooked.
The duel began with Dylan moving into a low crouch, like a panther preparing to strike. Then he lunged with the suddenness of a viper, blade thrusting toward Arthur's midsection. It was a fencer's blow—targeting the space between the breastplate and the arming doublet.
Arthur backpedaled, forced to keep his greatsword from swinging wide. Dylan pressed forward immediately, bending low, pivoting, changing angles with every strike. He slashed and stabbed in tight arcs, never staying in place long enough for Arthur to bring the weight of his blade to bear.
He fights like Arya Stark would in years to come, Arthur thought. Fast, elusive, built for precision rather than power.
The cheers from the crowd grew as Dylan drove Arthur to the edge of the tiltyard. It was a reversal from the previous bout. Dylan was in control, forcing Arthur onto the defensive with ceaseless movement and clever positioning.
Arthur didn't panic. He read the pattern. Dylan was like a Dornish spear—dancing, weaving, probing for weakness. But Arthur had fought such men before. Ser Barristan Selmy once said in the Red Keep: "The trick to fighting quick men is not chasing them—it's making them come to you."
Still, it would require a sacrifice. Arthur realized he'd need to take a blow—maybe more—to land one of his own.
The edge of the tiltyard loomed, the boundary marked with stakes and banners. Arthur planted his back foot and prepared for impact.
He muttered under his breath, "Let's see what your little sword does against Riverland steel and brute strength."
He raised his blade, preparing to clash steel for steel, hoping his plate would hold.