"I don't know how to thank you," Darren said to Arthur, seated wearily in the back of a small cart.
Santaga's death had occurred just the day before. After burying his wife's body in the river, as was the old custom in the Riverlands for those who died unjustly, Darren's condition had visibly improved. His grief had not vanished, but his mind was clearer.
Since they'd left the battlefield behind, Darren had repeated his thanks more than a dozen times.
Arthur, riding ahead on horseback, glanced back and gave him a calm nod. "It's nothing. It was my duty."
And in truth, Arthur was content.
To be needed by someone—genuinely needed—was a feeling he had not experienced since his earliest training days. The gratitude in Darren's voice, humble and human, brought more warmth than even the three thousand gold dragons he'd earned.
Gold dragons were abstract to him—numbers and promises on parchment. But Darren's thanks? That was tangible. That was real.
Just yesterday, after some tense negotiations, Edmure Tully had mediated a final compromise. Genos Bracken, finally satisfied after receiving three thousand gold dragons sent via a swift Tully clipper up the Red Fork, had agreed to release Brynden Blackwood.
Now, Raventree Hall was in debt to House Tully for more than four thousand dragons. Even a great house like Blackwood, with thousands of retainers and ancient prestige, would feel the sting of such a sum.
Once the coin was counted and confirmed, the Bracken forces departed without further incident, leaving the Blackwoods and Tully men to sort through the aftermath of the skirmish.
They traveled for half a day before reaching a crossing point where merchant ships awaited. Over a dozen vessels, some with House Tully's leaping trout sigil painted on the sails, ferried them downstream.
During their time on the water, Lord Janos Bracken and Arthur quietly settled their internal debts.
Of the original soldiers involved, 370 Bracken men had perished, and Arthur paid a gold dragon for each one—a symbolic offering Genos insisted upon.
On the other side, 663 Raventree men had died.
Due to the sweltering heat and river-hung humidity, the wounded had fared poorly—many succumbed to their injuries before healers could reach them. Counting the exact number of enemy soldiers Arthur had slain was impossible, so based on witness accounts, Genos settled on a generous estimate: 300 confirmed kills. Arthur returned 300 gold dragons accordingly.
As for compensation to House Blackwood, Janos—true to his nature—ignored the matter entirely. He claimed Raventree's losses were far greater than his own, and had the roles been reversed, he would certainly have demanded every copper. But now, he saw no need.
Still, Arthur honored his own promises. To the five hundred Bracken men who had marched with him, he distributed three silver stags each—living soldiers were paid on the spot, and the families of the dead were to receive theirs from Lord Janos himself.
As the Lord of Stone Hedge, Genos took on the task with uncharacteristic grace. During the voyage, he even displayed signs of affection—checking on Arthur's condition, sharing meals, offering advice. It was almost enough to convince Arthur that they truly were kin.
Arthur, for his part, played the role of dutiful nephew.
Before parting, Genos offered Arthur a company of one hundred elite soldiers to bolster his defenses, should the Blackwoods seek revenge. Arthur accepted with measured gratitude.
Clad in iron and disciplined like men from the Twins or Seagard, the hundred river knights were exactly what Arthur needed.
The terms were more than fair—Arthur was responsible only for their lodgings and food. No wages were required.
With one hundred elite soldiers, thirty-five original guards, and any number of levies from the nearby peasantry, Arthur now had the strength to defend several villages if need be.
And Genos had promised, if war came again, he would send reinforcements.
For the first time, Arthur felt no lingering fear.
They separated at a larger ferry port near the borders of Arthur's granted lands. The small riverside dock near the village wasn't large enough to disembark soldiers, so the two parties parted there—Arthur riding ahead, his men following behind on foot.
Darren's cart rattled over the stones. Arthur had noticed the man hadn't eaten properly in days, and fearing Darren might collapse on the march, he had "borrowed" a cart from a nearby hamlet, offering coin after the fact.
The conversation just now had been Darren's latest effort to thank him.
Though he rode on horseback, Arthur found the road exhausting. Even a young man of twenty felt the toll after battle and politics.
So when the silhouette of his small keep appeared on the horizon, a simple fort bearing the sigil of House Bracken—a golden shield emblazoned with a red stallion—Arthur felt a strange warmth spread through his chest.
Home.
He would sleep well tonight.
As the castle gates opened, Amber, draped in her usual gray robes, emerged with retainers to greet him.
You—go and find quarters for these men. They're honored guests and will be staying here for some time," Arthur ordered, gesturing to the hundred armored veterans behind him.
"As you command, my lord. I'll see to it the villagers set up camp along the northern hills," Amber replied at once, his tone composed as ever.
Arthur gave a nod. He agreed with Amber's arrangement—it kept the villagers close enough for work, but far enough not to mix with disciplined soldiers. Then he turned his horse toward the keep.
Amber would handle the rest.
He was a capable steward—quiet, practical, and loyal since the day Arthur took over the modest stronghold near the Red Fork. More importantly, he knew how to balance military needs with the villagers' fears.
The Hall of the Keep
"Are you certain? Cyril's son showed himself in the village?" Arthur asked, tone cool.
The villager standing before him looked nervous but determined. His roughspun clothes were stained with river mud, and his eyes flicked between Arthur and the red stallion banner behind the throne.
Cyril had once served Arthur faithfully as a storehouse clerk, until he fled with nearly seven hundred gold dragons—Arthur's war funds. From early suspicions, it had seemed he did it to pay off his son's gambling debts.
"I'm sure, my lord. That was John, no mistake. We played together since we could crawl. Even if the Seven turned him to ash, I'd know his face."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Then if you were so close to him, why come to me at all?"
The villager spread his arms wide, as if baring his soul to the gods.
"My lord, after word spread that you stood up to both the Blackwoods and even Lord Edmure Tully to protect Darren's kin, my neighbors and I saw you in a new light. A lord who risks his life for the smallfolk is one worth following."
"For such a man," he added, "turning in a childhood friend who cheats and steals? It's nothing."
Arthur studied him a moment longer, then nodded slowly. "Well said. Then tell me—everything."
The man explained in detail.
John hadn't entered the village openly. He came in during the black of night. The villager, waking to relieve himself near the granary, saw a figure lurking in the shadows and recognized him by gait and build.
John hadn't spoken to anyone. He seemed to be searching for something—possibly a cache his father had buried or left behind.
Curious and cautious, the villager had followed from a distance. John eventually slipped out under moonlight, heading north—straight into Blackwood territory.
A poor choice, given the state of things.
The Blackwoods and Brackens had been blood rivals for generations, ever since the First Men, and their recent clash had only added fuel to the fire. Cyril hiding there made sense, though—it was the one place the Brackens wouldn't look quickly.
"Very good. You've done well." Arthur stood from his chair, stepping down the dais toward the villager. "If I find Cyril from your trail, whether the coin is recovered or not, you'll receive ten silver stags for your honesty."
The villager's face lit up with joy. He bowed deeply, then left the hall.
Not long after, Amber entered, dust on his boots.
"My lord," he said, "it seems your reward did the trick."
He was referring to the quiet bounty Arthur had issued—word sent discreetly to nearby hamlets and holdfasts, promising a reward for news of Cyril's whereabouts.
Now that the war was quieting and his new territory stabilizing, Arthur needed that coin back. Seven hundred gold dragons could pay for scouts, a new smithy, or even walls.
But he hadn't told anyone how much had been stolen—just that some valuables were lost. Too much truth, and it would've stirred greed instead of help.
Two days had passed before this solid lead arrived.
And now, with the blue light of his status screen flickering before him again, the mission stood clear:
[Quest: Find Cyril and his degenerate son]
Arthur exhaled slowly. It was time to act.
Postscript
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A Game of Thrones joke for the day:
Sansa Stark once introduced her family to Queen Cersei: "I have four brothers."
Cersei smiled coldly. "That must make you so happy."
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