After arriving at the small ferry dock near Riverside Village, the Bracken soldiers formed ranks and disembarked in order. Arthur stepped forward and handed a pouch of silver stags to the ferryman to cover their passage.
The ferryman only took fifty silver stags as a token fare. In truth, chartering a ferry large enough to carry a full retinue of armed riders and equipment would typically cost several times more. But the ferryman insisted on charging less, claiming the trip was short and required little effort. His ship frequently plied the upper Red Fork River, running goods and passengers between Fairmarket and King's Landing, and maintaining a good relationship with House Bracken—whose lands he crossed—was good business sense. Earning the favor of the young lord and his senior officer in half a morning was, in his words, the best investment he'd made in years.
Arthur and Andrew both thanked him warmly, leaving the man beaming with pride.
Upon seeing the Bracken banner—a golden stallion rearing on a red shield—fluttering beside Lord Arthur, the villagers of Riverside emerged with baskets of late-summer fruit and freshly baked bread. One of the elder farmers stepped forward and reported, with trembling voice, that armed men bearing the Blackwood tree sigil had ridden through not two days past. They'd taken several women from the village, including the daughter and young grandchildren of the local headman, Jace.
The soldiers accepted the fruit with casual gratitude, joking among themselves as they chewed. Arthur, however, felt a chill. He knew what soldiers did in wartime, especially ones not bound by honor or under watchful command. Too often, soldiers and bandits were two sides of the same coin—especially in the Riverlands, a region destined to become the crucible of war.
After a quick meal in the shade of an oak, the soldiers mustered again. Armor buckled, weapons checked, they began the march. Jiafort, a modest timber keep under Bracken control, was less than two hours east of the village. They would likely arrive around midday.
Arthur felt the burden of command settle again on his shoulders. He had no clear plan on how to deal with the Blackwood presence near Jiafort. Andrew, seemingly unconcerned, merely suggested they "play it by ear." Arthur tried to pull him aside to discuss options, but the older knight was more amused by Arthur's cryptic dream prophecy. He kept speculating aloud which "noble lady" might have kidnapped Edmure Tully—Catelyn Stark being the obvious candidate, though he danced around the name—and who the three dead Bracken soldiers could be. His tone was playful, clearly not taking the warning seriously.
Arthur didn't mind. In fact, he encouraged Andrew to repeat the story to others, spinning it as a joke among the ranks. He knew that in a few months, when war engulfed the Riverlands following Catelyn's arrest of Tyrion Lannister at the Inn at the Crossroads, this "joke" would become just another of Arthur's seemingly prophetic revelations.
And when that happened, it would be time to profit.
He was already thinking of King's Landing—only four days' hard ride from here. If he played the part of a prophetic seer, whispering about coming wars and dragons, the capital's superstitious lords and ladies might shower him with gold. After all, this was a world where nobles once sacrificed themselves in a doomed ritual to hatch dragon eggs, like King Aegon V at Summerhall. It was a world where Queen Cersei, the famed golden lioness of the Rock—still a beauty in her prime, not yet the hard-faced woman shown later in the story—once killed her childhood friend to keep a prophecy secret. A world where the granddaughter of the same witch who cursed Cersei would one day nurse Robb Stark's heart to ruin.
Arthur had knowledge no one else in Westeros possessed. Pretending to be a charlatan could earn him influence, respect, and coin—without needing an army or a lordship.
Just then, a rider galloped up to him from the forward scouts.
"Milord! A large force approaches from the east—bearing Bracken colors. At least several hundred, maybe a thousand!"
Arthur's heart skipped. Reinforcements?
At that same moment, far ahead in the hills surrounding Jiafort, Ser Santaga stood over three fresh corpses in a muddy courtyard. The sunlight shimmered on his sweat-soaked face as he dropped his bloodied whip. There was a twisted satisfaction in his eyes, one he struggled to hide. Torture was a secret indulgence of his, one rarely indulged due to his rank. But with Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, captured and chained in the lower hall, and no high lords nearby to judge him, Santaga had found an excuse to release long-buried urges.
If his men hadn't been nearby, he might have wept in ecstasy. This kind of pleasure overwhelmed his senses.
The scout's voice finally reached his ears. "Ser, Bracken forces approach from the east. Hundreds, possibly more."
Santaga blinked, his mind still foggy with dark joy. "Thousands? You must be mad," he sneered. "Their banners were only seen at the ferry yesterday. They couldn't assemble so quickly, let alone transport so many across the river."
The scout hesitated, glancing nervously at the three corpses. "Perhaps fewer, ser. But still a large number. Should we consider pulling back?"
Santaga's smirk returned. The idea of retreat annoyed him.
"Nonsense. You're imagining things," he growled. "Call in the men guarding the rear gates. We ride to meet them. It's time the Brackens learned the meaning of Blackwood steel."
But Ser Brynden is still in the tower," someone reminded urgently.
Santaga thought of the insolent young master who had ignored every warning, that Brynden Blackwood who only heeded the words of his distant cousin—Ser Tytos Blackwood, not the officers charged with protecting him. Let him bear the price of his arrogance.
"They won't kill a highborn hostage. That's not how great houses do things," Santaga said dismissively, invoking the tradition of noble courtesy observed across Westeros, even in wartime.
Another soldier added cautiously, "But if he escapes in the confusion—"
"So what?" Santaga cut him off rudely. "It's the open plains. He won't get far."
With his command unquestioned, the men fell silent. Under Santaga's orders, one hundred and fifty Blackwood soldiers assembled swiftly. Several hostages were taken along as leverage.
They didn't get far before encountering the enemy.
Across the field, the Bracken forces had already formed a battle line, tight ranks of spearmen flanked by mounted riders bearing the golden stallion of House Bracken. The banners of Stone Hedge fluttered proudly in the wind. Easily five hundred men, all armored, many on horseback.
"Seven Hells… that cursed sentry! Why didn't he say there were so many?" Santaga gasped, the color draining from his face.
"I told you," the sentry shouted back from a safe distance, wisely avoiding Santaga's glare.
Before more could be said, a lone horseman advanced slowly from the Bracken line.
He was mounted on a bay courser, his back straight, his movements calm. He had the looks of highborn stock: fine-boned features, sharp gray eyes, and a pale complexion marked more by intellect than brawn. His hair, dark and tied loosely at the back, was damp with sweat. Though clad in plain maile with only a crimson cloak, the confidence he radiated was unmistakable.
Santaga squinted, suddenly understanding. That was Arthur Bracken—no lordling, but a minor scion. Still, he carried himself with a strange self-assurance.
"You're the one who took my villagers?" Arthur's tone was quiet, but it carried across the grass like a king's command.
Santaga took a breath. "Aye, I did."
He glanced at the men beside him. The numbers were wrong. Even if Bracken had exaggerated his force, the sight alone had sapped Blackwood morale. The terrain gave no advantage, and escape routes were limited. If it came to blows, they'd be routed in moments.
Arthur's next words came coldly. "How are they?"
Santaga hesitated. "Three refused to open the gates. I ordered them punished. The rest—bound but alive."
Arthur nodded, face unreadable. "I'll report this to Lord Edmure Tully and my uncle, Lord Hoster. Let them decide your fate. But for now… shall we talk terms?"
Santaga rallied. "You took my young lord hostage. I'll report this to Lord Hoster as well."
Arthur smiled thinly. "Do you think Hoster Tully will bother listening to a common sword like you?"
That stung. Santaga turned red but said nothing.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let me take my men and go. We'll each report to our lords."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "You came raiding, seized my people, and expect to ride away like it's a training yard? Do you think the five hundred behind me are only here for a parade?"
"There aren't five hundred," Santaga said quickly. "Four hundred at best."
Unbothered, Arthur shrugged. "Some are still arriving. Couldn't fit all of them on the ferry from the Crossroads."
In truth, he only had five hundred men. And every one of them was worth their weight in gold. He couldn't afford to waste soldiers, but appearances had to be kept.
"I'm not here to slaughter smallfolk," Arthur declared. "So I'll give you an option: single combat. You send a man. If he wins, you go. If I win, you surrender."
Santaga blinked. Then smiled.
Typical noble arrogance.
Did Arthur think looking like a Valyrian prince made him a warrior? Santaga had fought ironborn raiders off Fairmarket and survived ambushes in the Wolfswood. A duel? He'd win, and turn the tables.
"Agreed," he said, his heart beating faster.
Arthur's lips curled in satisfaction. No more fretting over casualties. No more coin lost to death payouts.
"Good."