According to Arthur's original plan, he was to personally lead a force of 20 sergeants and 21 peasant levies to intercept the raiders head-on. But Amber, ever cautious, reminded him that they had crossed into the northern reaches of Blackwood territory. Relations between House Bracken and House Blackwood were fraught with generations of rivalry—rooted in blood feuds, land disputes, and competing loyalties during the Dance of the Dragons. If Arthur was seen leading armed men so deep into contested lands, it could provoke open conflict.
Arthur conceded and heeded Amber's advice. Instead of bringing the full retinue, he selected six of his best riders and set off on horseback to cut off the fleeing bandits. The main force would follow at a distance, closing the gap steadily.
By mid-afternoon, the chase had narrowed. The enemy was tiring. If Arthur's small party could delay them for even a short time, his infantry would soon catch up and encircle them.
In a patch of beech forest, Arthur, Jules, Amber, and four others finally cornered the disguised "bandits." It was a clear Riverlands afternoon—sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of red-tinged beech leaves, illuminating Arthur's group in a warm golden hue. In contrast, the bandits stood shrouded in the shadows beneath the thicker part of the forest. Two bound hostages huddled behind them, lending the encounter the stark contrast of light versus dark—like a tourney's final bout on the edge of dusk.
"Why am I not worthy of being called Arthur?" Arthur asked, genuinely puzzled. Did he happen upon some fanatic of House Dayne?
After all, names were repeated often across Westerosi history. The Starks had numerous Brandons—Brandon the Builder, Brandon the Shipwright, Brandon the Burner. The Targaryens had no shortage of Aegons, from the Conqueror to the Young Prince and even the Mad King's son. Without titles or epithets, it was near impossible to tell them apart.
Arthur hadn't chosen the name. He'd simply inherited it—one more Arthur in a land full of dead legends.
"You've sullied that name!" the lead rider growled, a wiry man with a hawk's nose and flecks of grey in his beard. He rode forward and pointed his blade. "Do you dare to face me in single combat?"
Arthur cocked a brow. "You mean a duel? One-on-one?"
He'd been meaning to test his strength anyway. In this world—one eerily like Mount & Blade—a base of five attribute points was standard for the average man. Arthur had fifteen. His physicality surpassed any common footman. The original Arthur Bracken had minimal real combat experience, but he'd been trained in noble swordplay and had a strong frame despite his leanness. Besides, Arthur relished the thrill of battle—his favorite part of Mount & Blade was cleaving through foes with steel in hand.
"Of course," the bandit said with a sneer, dismounting and patting his horse's flank to send it away. "If you can survive three of my strikes, I'll give you a cleaner death."
Arthur grinned. "We'll see whose sword counts to three."
Just as he was about to step forward, Amber interjected urgently.
"My lord, forgive my boldness—but you are too lean, too untested. Let me take your place."
Arthur might be tall, but even in his armor, his slender frame was evident.
Jules, who had remained quiet since the chase began, added gruffly, "Let me go instead. You may be my nephew, but you're still green. Doesn't look good if you fall here."
Jules had roamed both Essos and Westeros for years, selling his sword in skirmishes from the Westerlands to the Free Cities. He'd even ridden with the Second Sons for a time before drifting back to the Riverlands. Though crude and selfish, he had experience that neither Arthur nor Amber could match.
But Arthur wasn't backing down. "If you don't give me the chance, how will you know if I can win?"
He slid from his saddle.
Amber moved to bar his path, "Then I will duel in your stead. My duty—"
"I'm not hiding behind anyone," Arthur interrupted, shoving Amber aside gently. "I'm not that weak. Stand by in case something goes wrong."
The lead bandit chuckled darkly. "What's the matter? Afraid your manservant's about to spoil the little show?"
"Afraid?" Arthur scoffed. "I fear no nameless man shouting in shadows."
With that, he drew the two-handed greatsword of House Bracken. The steel was not Valyrian, but it was old and well-forged, etched with the horse sigil of his house. He strode into the clearing with steady steps, the weight of the sword oddly comforting in his grip.
Amber unsheathed his own blade, positioning himself to rush in at the first sign of trouble. Jules, meanwhile, folded his arms and leaned back against a tree. His face was unreadable, but inside, he simmered with resentment. He'd argued with Arthur that morning and been dismissed. Now his nephew sought glory where caution was called for.
A small, dark thought passed through Jules' mind: if the boy died here, he—Jules—could step in, inherit the keep, the lands, and the name without resistance.
All he had to do… was wait.
After seeing the two men draw their swords in the clearing, Jules Bracken gave a cold snort and muttered to Amber, "I'll wager a silver stag that Arthur won't last three passes."
Amber shot him a disapproving glare but said nothing, focusing instead on the duel ahead. The tension in the beech forest was thick, the shadows stretching longer as the sun passed overhead. Jules's remark, however, sparked interest among the soldiers nearby.
A wiry young soldier named Piper grinned and said, "I'll take that bet. I say the young lord holds for at least five passes."
The others followed suit. Two more wagered on Arthur surviving three rounds but no more. They each tossed in a silver stag, raising the stakes. The remaining two soldiers, both seasoned spearmen, silently agreed with Jules but didn't wager—perhaps out of respect, or simply because they didn't want to profit from their lord's potential embarrassment.
Not one of them truly believed Arthur could win.
Across the clearing, the "bandits" seemed to share their skepticism. But Arthur, focused on the duel, paid no attention to the whispers or wagers behind him.
"Young Master Bracken," sneered Roger, the middle-aged man facing him. "You drag your sword like it weighs more than you do. Can't swing that greatsword properly, can you?"
As Arthur advanced, Roger studied him carefully. From his stiff posture to his straight-on approach, everything screamed inexperience. He hadn't even turned his body sideways to reduce his target area—a rookie's mistake. Roger had seen sellswords and squires die for less.
He smirked. "You've never seen a battlefield, have you?"
A voice called out behind him—his younger cousin Brynden Blackwood, who leaned casually on his reins and chuckled. "He looks like he still needs his wet nurse."
Roger grinned. "That's generous. I'd bet this is the first time he's even drawn a blade outside of training."
He gestured toward Arthur and began explaining his faults aloud like a master giving a lesson. "His stance is all wrong. He should bend slightly at the knees, stay light on his feet."
Brynden nodded, clearly amused.
"See the way he holds the sword? All wrong. Keep it at chest level—ready to block or strike, not hanging low like a farm tool."
Roger paced before Arthur as if facing a training dummy. He didn't even raise his guard.
Arthur, meanwhile, tightened his grip on the two-handed Bracken greatsword. He felt the heat in his blood, his heart pounding in his ears. Their mockery didn't wound him—it steeled him. They were underestimating him, which meant they were vulnerable.
Roger noticed his raised sword and laughed again. "That stance? There's a wide opening in your chest. I could gut you before you lift that blade."
He didn't move to attack though—just mocked, smug in his assumed superiority.
On the other side, Jules crossed his arms and muttered, "It's over before it begins." Still stinging from the morning's argument, he seemed almost eager for his nephew's humiliation.
Yule, however, had turned his attention elsewhere. As an old mercenary who'd ridden with the Second Sons and fought from the Disputed Lands to the Stepstones, he had a sharp eye for battlefield oddities. While the duel unfolded, something about the enemy formation nagged at him.
There were a dozen mounted "bandits" arrayed neatly, all watching in silence. Not fidgeting, not jeering. Disciplined. Too disciplined.
He narrowed his eyes at the collar of a young rider behind Roger—and froze.
Just barely visible under the dirt and mismatched armor was an embroidered crest: a black crow perched among weirwood roots.
Yule's breath caught.
Blackwoods.
He turned the name over in his mind like a blade tip to his ribs. Not bandits, but soldiers—retainers of House Blackwood, the old enemies of the Brackens. He remembered the Blackwood seat, Raventree Hall, and the blood feuds stretching back centuries. Not even the threat of winter or dragons had ever made the two Houses set aside their rivalry for long.
This wasn't a bandit raid.
This was a setup.
Yule's instincts screamed. He didn't know what the Blackwoods were planning, but the duel was a distraction. There could be archers hidden in the trees or a flanking force ready to charge.
Carefully, he reined in his horse and shifted slightly back, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. His years on Essosi battlefields told him that the smart move now was not to fight—but to be ready to run.
Something was coming.
And it wasn't just steel.