At that moment, the very Arthur whom Darren prayed for was already halfway across the Red Fork River, ferrying five hundred borrowed soldiers aboard a combination of local craft: one passing merchant cog and three smaller boats flying the colors of House Bracken.
They had arrived late last night at a quiet ferry crossing west of Stone Hedge, under cover of darkness. By chance, a half-loaded cargo ship—running its usual route between King's Landing and the Riverlands—had docked early, awaiting restock. Arthur's men moved quickly. By offloading half the crates, they made enough room to fit around 360 soldiers packed tightly aboard, crammed together like dried fish.
The remaining 143 were ferried using smaller riverboats belonging to the Brackens of Stone Hedge—vessels usually reserved for ferrying potters, smiths, and tanners between river hamlets. Andrew, ever resourceful, had sent scouts down the southern bank to secure them before dawn. Time was precious.
Crossing directly here, instead of detouring west to the bridge at Fairmarket, spared them a full day's march—and more importantly, it preserved their strength. To circle around would've worn the men down, and Arthur needed them fresh. The Blackwoods, whose seat at Raventree Hall lay near the Blue Fork, could send another levy at any moment to retrieve Brynden Blackwood, their captured heir.
Unlike the Westerlands, where House Lannister's gold ensured absolute dominance, the Riverlands were fractured. Too many old families, too many old feuds. Tully rule from Riverrun was weak—more symbolic than centralized. Arthur understood this well. House Yu, his own liege, couldn't afford to field many cavalry, and even the greater lords like the Brackens or Freys maintained limited mounted forces. If the high lords were strained, what chance did the lesser vassals have?
Arthur's plan remained simple and precise: escort Brynden west along the Red Fork to Riverrun, bring him before Lord Edmure Tully, and present the proof—his men's forged bandit tokens and raider disguises. Let Edmure see with his own eyes how the heir of Raventree led a raid under false pretenses.
A second-tier noble masquerading as a brigand—that would send the maesters in Oldtown into fits of laughter. Even the High Septon in King's Landing might find cause to sermonize on such foolishness. Arthur was betting on Tytos Blackwood's pride. Surely, the venerable lord would rather settle the matter discreetly than see it aired in the courts of Riverrun or, worse, whispered of in the Red Keep.
Arthur expected a quiet payoff. Some silver, perhaps a formal apology. Hush money, enough to keep the insult from festering into scandal. It was the best solution he could think of given the circumstances.
Because at the end of the day, he was still weak.
If he commanded a thousand soldiers, Brynden wouldn't have dared this. Not even with ten times the gall he had now.
"This is a beautiful sight," said Andrew, sidling up beside him as they floated slowly with the current. The river stretched wide and calm under the light of dawn.
Arthur nodded, gazing toward the green banks. "Aye. But beauty like this doesn't last long."
Further downriver, at the junction where the Red Fork met the greater Trident, stood a modest but notorious waystation—the crossroads inn. It was there, years ago, that Lady Catelyn Stark unmasked herself and arrested Tyrion Lannister, accusing him of plotting against her son Bran. A reckless move, even at the time.
That one act—seizing the Imp—set the Seven Kingdoms aflame.
Even with King Robert still on the throne, Tywin Lannister had responded like a lion wounded. He summoned tens of thousands of swords from Casterly Rock, marched east along the Gold Road, and ordered Ser Gregor Clegane to begin his infamous pillaging across the Riverlands. Villages from the God's Eye to the Red Fork were burned, their people butchered or driven into the woods. The scars of that campaign still lingered in song and soot.
Arthur recalled hearing that even the Brackens weren't spared. At least three of their soldiers had answered Catelyn's call at the inn and joined her escort to the Vale.
None returned.
Their party was attacked by the mountain clans near the High Road—half-starved wild men driven from their homes during the war. All three Bracken men were slain in the ambush, alongside several knights and squires.
One man survived the slaughter and fought through the Vale: a sellsword named Bronn.
Even then, after reaching the Eyrie, Catelyn Stark—"Aunt Cat," as the Riverfolk mockingly called her—had made no effort to reward the survivors. No silver. No knighthood. Not even thanks. Just another poor decision in a long string of them.
Arthur could only shake his head at how that single arrest had turned the fate of the realm—and remember that even small choices, like crossing the river here and now, might shape his own.
Catelyn's sister, Lysa Arryn, the current Lady of the Vale, did not express a firm stance on the matter.
"Lucky" Bronn turned on their group, siding with the Imp—Tyrion Lannister—and helped him win a trial by combat against Lysa's champion, Ser Vardis Egen. After that, Tyrion and Bronn escaped the Eyrie, and on their way through the Mountains of the Moon, they subdued several mountain clans—like the Burned Men, Moon Brothers, and Black Ears—offering them gold and promises of future plunder. These clans eventually followed Tyrion to the Lannister army, where they served as savage, undisciplined but fierce vanguard forces.
Tyrion, Bronn, and the mountain clans went on to fight against Roose Bolton, the cold and calculating Northern commander who brought 16,000 men from Winterfell and its vassals south in Robb Stark's name. That pivotal battle—the Battle of the Green Fork—was a feint; Tyrion's forces held off the Northern army long enough for Tywin to miscalculate Robb's true plan: attacking Jaime at Riverrun.
Had Catelyn not kidnapped Tyrion at the Crossroads Inn, none of this might have happened. Of course, chaos would have followed King Robert's death regardless. But until then, the alliance between the North and Riverlands had no direct conflict with House Lannister. A full-scale war might have been avoided.
The real contenders for the Iron Throne should have been the Lannisters backing Joffrey, Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone, and Renly Baratheon with the support of the Reach. Each laid claim to the Seven Kingdoms. In contrast, Robb Stark never aimed for the Iron Throne—he declared himself King in the North, seeking independence.
"Your words are meaningful. Can you tell me more specifically?" Andrew asked, puzzled.
"I foresee war erupting in the Riverlands very soon," Arthur replied, suddenly struck by inspiration. If he could play the part of a prophet using his knowledge of events to come, he could earn influence—or at least confuse his enemies.
He knew many major events yet to occur. If he "predicted" a few accurately, people would think he had visions. In a world like Westeros, where nobles burned people alive for magical signs, a convincing "seer" could gain a great deal.
After all, even the Targaryens believed in prophecies and magical bloodlines. King Aegon V—the Egg from Dunk and Egg—burned himself, Ser Duncan the Tall, and others in the Summerhall Tragedy trying to hatch dragon eggs through fire magic. That same Duncan the Tall was once the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Aegon's heir, Prince Duncan the Small, abdicated his claim for love and died in the fire alongside his father.
And then there's Queen Cersei, the famed golden lioness of the Westerlands. Unlike her aging portrayal in the later seasons, she was a renowned beauty in her youth. When she was a girl, she visited a woods witch named Maggy the Frog, who gave her three chilling prophecies: she would be queen for a time, have three children with gold crowns and shrouds, and be overthrown by a "younger, more beautiful" rival.
To silence the witness, Cersei murdered her childhood friend who was with her. But the prophecy still unfolded—Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen all died young, despite their golden hair and royal titles. Her downfall would come later.
Even more curious—Maggy's descendant was a healer and nurse named Talisa Maegyr in the TV version (though Jeyne Westerling in the books), whom Robb Stark fell in love with, altering the course of the Northern campaign.
So Arthur thought—why not pretend to have dreams too?
Andrew frowned, still skeptical. "Why do you think that? The feud between House Bracken and House Blackwood has lasted a thousand years. It's long-standing but never truly escalated to open war. Why would it now?"
Arthur grinned. Andrew had misunderstood—he thought Arthur was talking about a family feud. How small-scale.
He shook his head. "That's not it. In my dream, I saw a noble lady kidnap the son of a powerful lord. That one foolish act set off a chain of events that led to a war between kingdoms. I even saw that three Bracken soldiers perished during the kidnapping."
When pretending to be a prophet, it was best to blend ambiguity with striking detail. Later, people would marvel at how accurate the "dream" was. But now, it was just strange enough to be ignored.
Andrew leaned in, intrigued. "Do you dream often? The kidnapping of a lord's son… that's serious business. Not many sons of lords wander around the Riverlands. Edmure Tully is one of the few."
Arthur smiled mysteriously, "Believe it or not, you'll see within two or three moons."