One day later — Stone Hedge
"I heard you sent five hundred men to help Arthur push back the Blackwoods from Moulin Court?" Lord Janos Bracken asked coolly.
He wore the black-brown hair typical of House Bracken, though his was thinning at the crown. A round face sat atop a thick neck, giving him the look of a stern, unmovable bull. He looked about fifty, with a straightforward tone that hinted at blunt honesty. But the flicker of calculation in his eyes betrayed the lord's true nature: a man who played the game behind his humble mask.
"Yes, uncle," Hendry replied, not daring to hide the truth. "To minimize losses, I made Arthur agree to pay one hundred gold dragons for each man killed in service."
Hendry bore a strong resemblance to his uncle, though younger and lacking the practiced control of his face. His features often gave away his thoughts before he could speak them.
After Arthur's departure two days ago, Hendry had taken his companions south for a hunting trip. Spirits were high; they spoke of noble lands, hedge knights, the famous Tourney at Harrenhal in 281 AC, and which towns had the most charming washerwomen.
But the revelry ended when Janos's riders found him yesterday and summoned him back to Stone Hedge.
Janos nodded slowly. "It was a clever move—but unnecessary. Arthur is kin, and Moulin Court, however small, is still sworn to House Bracken. There's no need for formality."
It was time, Janos decided, to school his nephew in the subtleties of lordship.
Stone Hedge could not pass to one of his daughters. House Bracken may not have the prestige of the Tullys or the reach of the Freys, but they would not suffer the embarrassment of passing their seat to a woman, not while Janos lived. Harrenhal had allowed it once, and look what it had become—a crumbling ruin of splendor and ghosts.
No, Hendry was his heir, and Hendry must learn.
"First rule—support your cadet branches. Always. Even when it costs you. We show the realm that House Bracken looks after its own. It builds loyalty."
Janos paused to pour himself a goblet of wine—deep red from the Riverlands' southern vineyards.
"Second—those small vassals serve a purpose. Moulin Court controls the ferry crossing north of the Red Fork. That's not just a stream; that's a battlefield advantage. You'll understand one day, when we're at war again with that self-righteous fool Tytos Blackwood."
Janos relished saying "thousands of years" when speaking of Bracken history. It gave him a sense of ancient pride—something the upjumped Freys and even the once-minor Tullys could never claim.
"But Arthur's domain is just nine villages," Hendry muttered. "Barely worth the silver to hold them."
"No excuses," Janos snapped, his voice rising sharply. "The day you lead men into battle, you'll wish you had a safe holdfast across the river and a loyal bannerhouse to your back."
Seeing Hendry nod slowly, Janos grunted with satisfaction. "That said, five hundred men was excessive. From now on, match Blackwood man for man—if they send a hundred, we send a hundred. No more. Moulin Court isn't in our backyard."
Hendry nodded again, taking the lesson in silence.
Janos sipped his wine, then asked, more out of boredom than curiosity, "What reason did Blackwood give for surrounding Arthur's keep this time?"
Hendry hesitated, scratching his neck. "Word is that Brynden Blackwood crossed into Moulin Court and caused trouble—Arthur captured him."
Janos froze with the goblet halfway to his mouth. "Which Brynden? Not the Blackfish?" he asked in alarm.
"No, not the Tully. Brynden, son of Lord Tytos Blackwood."
"You should've led with that!" Janos bellowed, standing so suddenly that wine sloshed over his hand. "That's not something to bury after sheep counts and weather reports."
He slammed the goblet down on the table, grinning now. "Arthur's really a Bracken, isn't he? I never thought he had it in him to kidnap the old man's heir. I could kiss that boy."
Hendry blinked, confused by his uncle's sudden change in tone.
Janos began pacing the hall beneath the carved raven banners of House Bracken. His boots thudded against the old stone floor.
"We need more than five hundred," he muttered. "Double it. No—treble it. I'll take fifteen hundred men and ride straight to Raventree Hall. Let's see how the old crow squawks when we show up at his gates."
Hendry's brow furrowed. "Is that wise, uncle? What if Blackwood strikes back? We could risk open war."
"Let him try!" Janos snapped. "The Brackens can seize his son, but what can he seize of mine? Nothing. I've got no son to steal—only you, and you're not allowed to get caught."
The words stung more than Hendry expected, but he kept his face composed.
Janos, already energized, summoned the steward and the castellan. Orders flew. Messengers mounted and galloped out the gates. The banners of the red stallion were raised, and Stone Hedge began to stir like a hive readying for battle.
The time for posturing was over. The ancient feud between Raven and Stallion was about to burn hot once more.
One day later…
Chapter 23: I'll Twist Your Head Off and Use It as a Bowl
Looking at the dense flock of crows circling above the Blackwood banners ahead, Arthur felt his scalp prickle with unease.
They had barely reached the edges of Tully lands when they were intercepted by a Blackwood host—an army that bore not only their proud raven standard but an aura of cold, silent menace.
Most of their troops wore standard chainmail, the dull gray of seasoned infantry. But among them were lines of elite warriors clad in blackened steel, some wearing partial plate reinforced over leather and mail. The leading riders, perhaps fifty or so, were arrayed in black scale armor, each segment carved like raven feathers.
It was a variant of the Valemen's traditional scale but altered—closer to the fish-scale lamellar used by the Targaryen-aligned Riverlords during the Dance of the Dragons. Its tight binding and oil-treated links reduced decay from moisture, a vital trait in the wet Riverlands. Only the richer houses could afford such armor—Blackwoods, Tullys, and once, the Strongs of Harrenhal.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Thousands of men," he muttered.
Andrew leaned in, his voice low and cautious. "Looks like over a thousand at least. We could hand over Brynden and be done with this."
Arthur turned to glare at him.
Handing over Brynden Blackwood—eldest son of Tytos Blackwood, captured while scouting with a dozen riders—was unthinkable. Whether for the promise of ransom or as leverage with Darren's widow, the man was valuable. But it wasn't just that. Arthur had Bracken pride in his blood. Even with only 501 men behind him, retreat meant weakness, and weakness in the Riverlands meant death.
"Not a chance."
Andrew hesitated but said no more. Both men glanced westward, where the rolling riverbank gave way to hills. On a ridge, several riders bearing red-and-blue cloaks watched quietly. Tully scouts.
With 2,000 armed men so close to Riverrun, Lord Edmure couldn't stay neutral for long. If Arthur could stall, perhaps Riverrun's riders—or even Brynden Tully himself—would appear to broker peace. Once the Tullys involved themselves, neither Bracken nor Blackwood could risk open battle without appearing to defy their liege.
But for now, neither side backed down.
On the other side, Tytos Blackwood sat grim and fuming atop a destrier the color of ash. His beard, thick and iron-gray, made him look like a younger, taller version of Maester Luwin from Winterfell.
"They're ready to fight?" Tytos asked with a growl.
A scout nodded. "Lined up in rows, my lord. No movement to retreat."
"Good," Tytos snapped. "Ride and tell Arthur Bracken—I'll twist his head off and use it as a bowl."
The rider galloped forward under the Blackwood banner, crossing the short distance between the two armies.
He cupped his hands and shouted: "Count Tytos says he'll twist your head off and use it as a bowl!"
Arthur let out a harsh laugh and stepped forward on his charger.
"Tell your lord," he shouted back, "that if he wants my head, he'll need to ask my sword first—and I've no plans to let go of it! I'll see his head roll before mine!"
Andrew gave a helpless smile. It was too late for diplomacy now.
He turned his horse and rode down the line, ordering the Bracken formation into a defensive crescent. Spears forward, archers nocking from behind. Their camp had trained often, but this was war—blood would flow.
Across the field, Tytos's face darkened.
"They really mean to fight?" he growled.
"Aye, my lord," said Ser Hallis, one of his knights.
"Then we charge. Crush them like the worms they are!"
The banners dipped. Horns sounded.
From Arthur's perspective, it was like watching a black tide of death begin to roll forward.
A faint ding sounded in Arthur's mind as the familiar blue light of the system interface blinked.
[You will face an opposing force of 1,300 with an army of 501.]
Despite the odds, Arthur didn't flinch. His body was tense, but his spirit—his pride, his rage—burned hotter than fear.
"A battle it is, then," he whispered, gripping his sword. "I'll be happy to oblige."