"What? My nephew's already clashing with old Tytos?" Count Genos Bracken asked, stunned as he heard the report from the sentry.
After departing the previous morning, Genos had led his force upstream along the Red Fork. They'd landed at a flat, pebbled beach beyond Blackwood surveillance—an old smuggler's route Arthur once mentioned. Marching hard through the damp Riverlands terrain, they had nearly caught up with Arthur and Andrew by late afternoon.
"Yes, my lord," the sentry replied quickly. "The two sides have engaged already. Ser Andrew and Lord Arthur are holding for now, but they're under pressure. Tully riders are approaching as well—seems like they're preparing to intervene."
Genos waved the man away with a grunt, his brows furrowing. Without hesitation, he called for the army to quicken its pace.
Ser Hans Darry, a grizzled hedge knight riding nearby, frowned. "My lord, the battlefield's still half a day away. If we press the men too hard, they'll arrive spent. Better we march steady and arrive ready to fight."
Genos gave him a hard look. "And if we go slow, Tytos will have Brynden back in chains by the time we get there. What good would our arrival be then?"
He'd already made up his mind. Arthur had taken the Blackwood heir, and Genos intended to use that hostage to gain leverage—or glory.
They had 1,500 men at arms, almost all cavalry and light infantry. The sentry claimed the Blackwoods had just over a thousand—solid numbers, but not insurmountable.
"March harder. We'll rest when our boots are on their corpses," Genos snapped.
The army surged forward along the forest trail, mud splashing under heavy boots and hooves.
Meanwhile, upon the Red Fork, Edmure Tully leaned on the wooden railing of a merchant cog commandeered from Riverrun's grain fleet. Dozens of Tully soldiers filled the decks of nearby vessels, their red-and-blue cloaks whipping in the wind.
"Why in the Seven Hells would they start fighting now?" Edmure muttered, clearly agitated. "Genos just visited my father a week ago—he was respectful. I didn't see this coming."
The young Lord of Riverrun had recently assumed command with Hoster Tully's health deteriorating. He was Robb Stark's uncle and now the central figure in keeping peace among his fractious bannermen.
"They're feuding families, my lord," said Ser Desmond Grell, Riverrun's Master-at-Arms. "They've hated each other since the Age of Heroes. That old blood doesn't cool easily."
"It's like they think I'm too young to stop them," Edmure grumbled. "My father's sick in bed and they're already acting like we've no lord at all."
"Not true, my lord," Desmond said, his tone practiced. "From Maidenpool to Pinkmaiden, folk respect you. You're your father's son."
Despite the reassurance, Desmond couldn't help but sigh inwardly. You know you're young—doesn't mean you're ready.
"How close are we to the battlefield?" Edmure asked after a moment. "What's the situation?"
"We'll reach the western bank by nightfall. Blackwood's got the numbers. But the Brackens are fighting like they've got something to prove. Right now it could go either way."
Desmond didn't say what he truly thought.
He had seen enough battles to recognize a trap. The Brackens had walked into one.
With only 500 men against Blackwood's 1,300, the Brackens were badly outnumbered. The terrain favored the defenders. Both sides wore similar Riverlands armor—padded gambesons under chainmail, shields painted with family sigils—but numbers didn't lie. Without quick intervention, the Brackens would be ground down.
The Tully ships pushed ahead, sails straining.
If they reached the battlefield in time, their presence alone could force a ceasefire. No bannerman would dare defy the Riverlord with his standard flying.
"If we arrive and find the field bloodied," Edmure said quietly, "how should I act? This is my first time settling a fight between vassals. I don't want to look weak—or unjust."
"There are precedents," Desmond replied. "These two have been at each other for generations. Usually, whoever started the skirmish has to pay blood gold to the other—compensation for the dead. If the land was crossed without cause, more dragons might change hands."
"Just golden dragons?" Edmure frowned. "Seems too light. Even Robert punished House Darry, and he's not exactly a strict king."
"That was different," Desmond said carefully. "Darrys backed the Targaryens at the Trident. Robert was consolidating power. This is just local squabbling."
"Feels the same to me," Edmure muttered. "People died."
Desmond looked at him and saw not just a young lord, but a boy carrying the weight of a dying dynasty.
He said nothing.
Desmond said firmly, "No. Every noble house along the Trident knows the feud between House Bracken and House Blackwood runs deep as the river itself. If they dare disobey House Tully's commands in the open, they'll still escape with little more than a slap on the wrist."
Hearing the instructor's words, Edmure felt his nerves settle. He folded his arms and stared silently at the riverbank ahead, waiting as the merchant ships drifted toward the site of battle, their sails full with wind and tension.
Soon, a small flotilla of Tully-leased merchant vessels, each bearing the silver trout of Riverrun, arrived at the edge of the battlefield. With no ferry landing in sight, the Tully foot soldiers leapt into the Red Fork, wading chest-deep through the current to reach the bank. Their chainmail clanked with every step, dragging like anchors through the water.
The highborn knights, including Edmure himself, were spared the indignity. They were carried ashore in longboats rowed by sailors, their boots remaining dry and their dignity intact.
By then, the skirmish had reached its crescendo. The field before them was scattered with corpses and churned mud. Few men were left standing, and those that remained were fighting like beasts. Amidst the melee, one man towered above the rest—broad-shouldered, tall as a small giant, and wielding a warhammer like a reaper harvesting lives.
It was Arthur Bracken.
Clad in battered plate, his face smeared with blood and dirt, he crushed a Blackwood soldier with every swing. Desmond watched from the bank, wide-eyed.
"Seven help us…" the seasoned castellan muttered. "Bracken's brought his own Robert Baratheon."
Even at a glance, Desmond estimated the hammer-wielding brute had slain over twenty foes, and he had no doubt the number was higher. Limbs lay mangled in the mud, helms split open like cracked eggs. Blackwood's line had broken under the fury of one man.
Desmond turned, bellowing to the Tully men. "Sound the horns! End this madness!"
Along the fringes of the battlefield, where the fighting hadn't yet turned to slaughter, Tully troops surged in formation. Their polished breastplates gleamed in the sun, their pikes held high. With shouted orders and blaring horns, they pressed between the rival houses, halting the bloodshed through sheer presence and superior numbers.
It took the better part of an hour before the cries of war faded into silence. House Blackwood and House Bracken, bloodied and broken, finally stood down.
Desmond rode to the center of the field and shouted furiously, "Are you mad? Duke Hoster lies on his deathbed, and you disobey his command like unruly sellswords? No vassal under House Tully's banner is permitted to raise arms against another!"
He ordered the survivors corralled—Brackens to the east, Blackwoods to the west. Tully soldiers began dragging the wounded off the field and stacking the dead.
Count Tytos Blackwood stood among his remaining soldiers, guarded and grim. His proud bearing had dimmed. He stared in horror at the field—a thousand strong when the banners were raised, now scarcely six hundred remained. Nearly half had fallen in the brutal clash.
And nearly a third of those were slain by one man.
His gaze fell on the bloodstained warrior who had shattered his line with a sledgehammer.
Arthur Bracken. The so-called "Hammer God."
Tytos had fought at the Trident under Prince Rhaegar. He had seen Robert Baratheon's infamous hammer smash through plate and shield. But even Robert hadn't carved a swath like this through a battlefield. One blow from Arthur left a man's helm caved in, grey matter sprayed across the mud.
Even the Mountain That Rides didn't kill like this.
This wasn't a knight. This was a god of war.
Arthur stood surrounded by fewer than a hundred Bracken survivors. Their admiration was written plainly in their eyes. To them, he was invincible. A walking siege engine. But Arthur, in truth, was calculating something else entirely.
At a rate of 100 gold dragons per soldier, repaying the debt to Stone Hedge for the cost of the men he'd just lost meant he owed 40,000 dragons.
The looks of awe didn't impress him. The coin problem weighed heavier than the blood on his armor.
Still, the battle had pushed him further than any training ever had. He could feel it—he'd grown stronger. Faster. More skilled.
A translucent screen appeared before his eyes, unseen by others.
[Baron: Arthur Bracken]
[Level: 4]
[Experience: 2466/3000]
[Strength: 17]
[Agility: 11]
[Intelligence: 7]
[Charm: 9]
[Skills]:
Iron Bone 4, Strong Attack 7, Strong Throw 1, Strong Bow 1, Weapon Mastery 2, Shield Defense 0,
Running 1, Riding 4, Horse Archery 0, Looting 0, Coach 0, Tracking 0, Tactics 1,
Guide 0, Scouting 0, Healing 0, Surgery 0, First Aid 0, Engineering 0,
Persuasion 1, Prisoner Management 0, Command 3, Trading 0
[Weapon Proficiency]:
One-handed Weapon 74, Two-handed Weapon 115, Pole Weapon 77,
Bow 31, Crossbow 31, Throwing 31
Andrew, the knight who'd fought at Arthur's side, limped toward him. His left arm hung limp, blood trickling from his thigh, but his grin was wild with awe.
"Ser Arthur," he gasped, "how in the name of the Seven do you fight like that? You were everywhere. Teaching me—would you consider it?"
Arthur offered a grim smile. "Might just be talent," he muttered, mind still on the mounting debt.
At last, the Tully contingent gathered the stewards from both houses. Edmure stood nearby, observing everything. His first true test as heir of Riverrun had come soaked in blood—and now he would have to play judge between two ancient enemies.
But whatever came next, one thing was certain.
Arthur Bracken had carved his name into the Red Fork with a warhammer. And the river would remember.
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