"Your footwork still has flaws—on a real battlefield, that'll get you killed," Hans Darry said, breath coming in slow huffs as their blades slowed with exhaustion.
Arthur scoffed inwardly. Why did everyone seem to think they had the right to lecture him?
The last man who'd tried to correct his stance was still rotting in the dungeons beneath his keep.
"So what?" Arthur retorted mid-parry. "If I'm strong enough, who can even take a clean hit from me? What use is footwork if they fall before they reach me?"
Hans took a step back, flicked his sword into a defensive guard, and offered a seasoned grin. "You're not Ser Gregor Clegane, boy. Your strength won't grow without limit. A wise man listens to those who've seen more summers. Humility might save your life someday."
Arthur almost snapped back but caught himself. What could he say? That his strength was growing faster than any normal knight's? That unlike others, he had a literal stats panel hidden in his mind, like a game of Cyvasse where he was both player and piece?
Let the old knight stay in the dark.
"Yes, yes… you're right," Arthur said with a forced smile, his longsword circling in a slow, probing arc.
Hans, mistaking restraint for respect, nodded approvingly. He hadn't known why the duel had started when he stepped into the yard; he figured it was just to entertain the Brackens, the Pipers, and Lord Vance watching from the seats.
If it was simply a show to save face, he thought, then Hendry was even more foolish than he seemed. It reeked of the same indulgence as King Robert's endless tourneys and drunken hunts during peacetime.
So he asked, "Why did this duel even start?"
Arthur, swinging down with a wide chop that Hans parried cleanly, replied, "Hendry promised me five hundred men if I could win three duels today."
Hans narrowed his eyes. "Why do you need five hundred men?"
"Because the Blackwoods have laid siege to my castle. They're harassing my smallfolk and blocking trade routes along the Red Fork."
He didn't mention the part about kidnapping Tytos Blackwood's son. That part was less noble.
Hans raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you're fighting the right kind of war."
Arthur grinned, pleased. "Yes. I'm doing this for my people."
Hans retreated two paces, dropping his sword point for a moment. "So if I keep fighting, I'm standing in the way of a lord defending his people?"
"That's right," Arthur said, not moving to press the attack. He was more than happy to catch his breath while keeping up the charade of patience.
Both men stood facing each other, blades lowered but bodies tense.
In the crowd, the silence thickened. Those unaware of the conversation mistook the pause as the quiet before a final, devastating clash—the moment before dawn breaks, before blood soaks the ground. Some imagined Hans was preparing for a last, desperate charge, like Brienne of Tarth hurling herself into a hopeless fight against the Hound.
Arthur, too, braced himself, thinking Hans might be building toward a berserker's strike, something worthy of a knight once stationed at Harrenhal under House Whent.
But then Hans surprised everyone. He looked Arthur in the eye and said plainly:
"I yield. I'm done."
Gasps rippled through the stands. For a moment, even the referee—a grizzled armsmaster from Riverrun—stood frozen, unsure how to respond.
Then chaos erupted.
Some shouted in confusion. Others, mostly minor lords and hedge knights, started yelling accusations of cowardice. They claimed Hans threw the match, that it was staged, that he'd been bribed by House Bracken or worse.
A few even hurled curses, as if they'd wagered coin on Hans and were now suffering real losses.
Arthur watched the crowd explode with reaction and thought, No soldier can die here today, but reputations certainly can.
And Hans Darry, for better or worse, had just chosen to protect his honor not through victory, but by stepping aside for what he now saw as a righteous cause.
Mark Piper blinked in disbelief. The battle had ended just when the tension peaked. He had been leaning forward, heart pounding, only for Hans Darry to suddenly surrender.
Hendry Bracken hadn't expected it either. Though he'd made a tidy profit from the wagers—as any proper banker-lord would—he still didn't relish sending five hundred of his own soldiers north. The prospect nagged at him, like a raven cawing too long on the battlements.
Caryl Vance exhaled a breath of relief. The three of them—Piper, Vance, and Hendry—might have been allies of convenience, but they all knew what war could cost, especially if it turned into a feud like Blackwood versus Bracken always seemed to.
Arthur stood awkwardly in the dirt, sweat clinging to his skin beneath the leather jerkin. His sword drooped slightly in his grasp as Hans sheathed his blade and walked off without another word. What in the Seven Hells was that supposed to mean?
It wasn't long before the confusion gave way to murmurs and then shouts. Eventually, Hendry raised a hand and addressed the crowd in his best lordly tone—the same smooth delivery used by highborns from King's Landing to Riverrun when feigning generosity.
"Although Ser Hans did not fight with his full strength," Hendry began, pausing to glance meaningfully at Arthur, "and thus Ser Arthur's victory was not total, I will still honor our agreement. Five hundred men will be dispatched on his behalf."
Murmurs of surprise and approval rippled through the onlookers.
"But," Hendry continued, "I must add a condition. None of these soldiers may die. Should any be injured, their treatment and compensation shall fall upon Ser Arthur Bracken and his house."
The way he said it—measured, precise, full of false magnanimity—implied Arthur had somehow breached their contract, and Hendry, noble and magnanimous, chose to fulfill it anyway. A performance worthy of Littlefinger himself.
Arthur's brow furrowed. The terms were tolerable, but there was one thing he had to be clear about.
"If a soldier does die… what then?"
Hendry answered smoothly, without pause. "That's simple. One hundred gold dragons per man. Paid directly to House Bracken."
Arthur blinked. "A hundred dragons? The ransom for a landed knight is only three hundred. You want that for a footman?"
Hendry gave a half-smile, cold and smug. "If you find the terms disagreeable, you're free to march alone."
Arthur forced a smile. The terms were extortionate, but he needed men more than coin.
"How could I object?" he said. "Let's proceed. When will the troops be ready? Who commands?"
As one of the four great houses of the Riverlands, House Bracken could muster over 3,000 men in total. Stone Hedge, their ancestral seat, had roughly a thousand nearby, many stationed in watchposts along the Red Fork.
"If you're willing, you can depart now," Hendry replied. "Three hundred will ride from Stone Hedge. The rest will be summoned along the road. As for command—Ser Andrew Bracken will lead. You'll serve under him."
Hendry's mood had improved, bolstered by the gold he'd pocketed in wagers. Arthur had made him richer by nearly a thousand dragons.
House Bracken soldiers were already stationed in the northern parts of the territory, scattered among villages and minor holdfasts. With proper orders, they could be assembled en route to Blackwood Vale.
Arthur was satisfied enough. It wasn't perfect, but it was more than he'd expected.
He bowed, thanked Hendry and Lord Janos Vance, then turned to leave the training ground with Ser Andrew.
His two retainers fell in step behind him, both wary but silent.
Ser Andrew was of medium height, thick with muscle, a bristled beard lining his round face. A cadet of the main line, he had been groomed for command and trained with Stone Hedge's elite guard. Though Arthur's blood made him technically superior in rank, in reality, Andrew had far more influence and experience in military matters.
Two roads diverged here—nobility and merit. Only time would tell which path led higher.
"You should rest, my lord," Andrew offered respectfully. "You've fought three bouts today. The strain shows."
Arthur shook his head. "No rest for me. My people are still being harassed. If they can endure it, so can I."
Andrew gave a nod, his expression briefly softening. "Spoken like a true lord."
The sun had not yet reached its zenith. If they departed quickly, they could reach the River Road before nightfall. The River Road, built by King Jaehaerys I the Conciliator, stretched across the southern bank of the Red Fork. As one of the five great roads of Westeros, it served as a lifeline for trade, war, and messages.
Once there, it wouldn't be far to reach the Blackwood frontier.
"We can send outriders ahead to summon the levy garrisons," Andrew suggested. "That way, they'll be ready when we pass through."
"You're the commander," Arthur replied, impressed. "I leave the details to you."
He was quickly warming to Andrew Bracken. Loyal, competent, and efficient—just the kind of man Arthur needed for the trials ahead.
Now, he just needed to figure out how to ransom Brynden Blackwood at the best possible price.