Ser Raymun Darry, head of House Darry, was the eldest and clearly the leader among the Riverlords. After a moment of contemplation, he answered with a firm nod, "We've brought fifty-three mounted men-at-arms and a dozen retainers. The Mountain has fled north. King's Landing is no longer a danger to us. All our cavalry shall be placed under your command, Ser Arthur. We'll take only the servants and witnesses to present our case before the Iron Throne."
"Yes! Only the brave Ser Arthur Bracken can match Ser Gregor Clegane blow for blow. Give him the riders!" exclaimed Ser Marq Piper, loud and unrestrained as ever.
That exclamation earned Arthur a new epithet—"Brave."
"And this," Ser Raymun continued, retrieving a tightly rolled piece of sheepskin, "is a formal writ sealed by Lord Hoster Tully." He handed the parchment over. The trout sigil of House Tully was stamped in wax, and the script was written in the Common Tongue.
"With this, you may demand assistance from any lord, town, or holdfast in the Riverlands," Raymun explained.
"Yes, give it to him," Marq said with a friendly slap on Arthur's shoulder. "The burden of hunting the Mountain now falls to you."
"I've heard it said you're the only one in the Riverlands who can face that monster and live," added Ser Karyl Vance, heir to Atranta.
Arthur unrolled the document and read the formal command. It broadly stated that all subjects of House Tully were to support the bearer with food, horses, weapons, or shelter as needed—but did not specify the mission. That ambiguity could be quite useful once the realm descended into war.
He accepted the parchment without protest.
"My lords, there's still one matter left." Wag Huot, the Qohorik captain of the Blood Troupe, squeezed forward, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture for coin. "My backbone troops… twenty-seven of 'em… dead. Time to settle up with the gold, no?"
The topic of gold made Wag uncharacteristically articulate.
The original contract called for twenty gold dragons per man, including death pay for those slain. Arthur had already paid a deposit of 565 gold dragons—one quarter of the total sum—with the balance to be paid upon completion.
But with nearly thirty dead, Arthur decided some of it had to be paid now.
"Twenty-seven men… fifteen gold dragons each for the fallen… that's four hundred and five," Arthur murmured under his breath.
"Exactly four-oh-five, ser," Wag chimed in eagerly, his weathered face practically glowing with anticipation.
"You seem oddly cheerful for someone who's lost so many men," Ser Raymun Darry observed, frowning slightly.
"If they die, I get their pay," Wag replied without shame. "That's mercenary work, my lord."
Arthur rummaged beneath his plate armor and pulled out his coin pouch. It held barely more than twenty gold dragons. The rest had been stored in a cowhide sack, traveling with the supply wagons back to the Moulin Rouge.
Ser Marq, Raymun, and Karyl contributed from their own purses, cobbling together just over two hundred gold dragons. It wasn't the full amount, but Wag took it with a scowl that quickly faded. He knew Arthur had wealth—he'd won sixty thousand gold dragons at the Hand's tourney—and Wag intended to stay close.
Looking at the pragmatic mercenary, Arthur recalled that he hailed from Qohor in Essos, a Free City where sellsword bands were a way of life. That gave Arthur an idea.
He pulled Wag aside. "I need more men. Can you recruit Essosi mercenaries for me?"
Wag pounded his chest and grinned. "Easy. I can get more. A lot more. Just… need coin. And time."
Wag's interpreter—his second-in-command—had been killed in the recent battle, forcing Arthur to listen carefully to Wag's broken Westerosi. But the meaning was clear. Wag had contacts and could send word across the Narrow Sea, but someone had to make the voyage.
Arthur agreed. One of the four surviving members of the Blood Troupe was dispatched to accompany the Darry and Piper men to King's Landing. From there, he would take ship to Essos to gather new recruits. Wag promised at least two hundred would arrive in a month or two.
Meanwhile, Ser Raymun, Ser Marq, and Ser Karyl had to escort their prisoners and eyewitnesses to the capital. To bolster their case, they recruited two articulate villagers from Sheer who had witnessed the Mountain's atrocities firsthand.
After exchanging final words and clasping forearms with Arthur, the Riverlords mounted their horses and departed eastward toward King's Landing.
Anguy, Wag, and the rest of Arthur's company remained in Sheer. The men needed rest—none of them had the unnatural stamina Arthur possessed.
[Quest Complete: Rescue of Sheer Village — Experience +500. Favorability with all Riverlands villages +5. Favorability with Sheer Village +30.]
Arthur saw the glowing text flash across the familiar blue screen in his mind's eye. The universal village favorability boost gave him a sense of satisfaction—unexpected, but welcome.
The mission rewards, combined with the intense combat, pushed his level up once more.
[Baron: Arthur Bracken]
Level: 7
Experience: 6107 / 10000
Strength: 19
Agility: 12
Intelligence: 7
Charm: 9
Skills:
Ironflesh 5, Power Strike 8, Power Throw 1, Power Draw 1, Weapon Master 2, Shield 1, Athletics 2, Riding 5, Horse Archery 0, Looting 0, Trainer 0, Tracking 0, Tactics 1, Pathfinding 0, Spotting 0, Wound Treatment 0, Surgery 0, First Aid 0, Engineering 0, Persuasion 1, Prisoner Management 1, Leadership 3, Trade 0
Weapon Proficiencies:
One-Handed: 74
Two-Handed: 125
Polearms: 97
Bows: 31
Crossbows: 31
Throwing: 31
Arthur placed his new attribute point into Strength—essential to continue matching the Mountain's brutal might. One skill point went into Power Strike to increase his offensive output, the other into Ironflesh to further enhance his resilience. Weapon proficiency points were assigned to Polearms, boosting his skill with the golden guandao that had become his signature weapon.
Though the Riverlords had gone, Arthur still had work to do.
He summoned the gray-bearded village elder of Sheer and gave a clear command: "Strip the armor and weapons from the dead. Then send a wagon to my seat at the Moulin Rouge, along the Red Fork. Ask around—my banner is known there."
The clean-up of the battlefield had only just begun.
Chapter 89: Rising Fame
The Mountain's trail had left over eighty corpses strewn across the battlefield—burnt, butchered, and broken. Arthur's own ranks had lost more than thirty men, their blood soaking into the muddy fields outside the village of Sheer. That meant over a hundred sets of armor, shields, and weapons now lay scattered between the two camps. Arthur would not let them go to waste.
He crouched beside one of the larger dead men from Gregor Clegane's side—a hulking brute nearly six and a half feet tall—and examined the mail he wore beneath the burnt leather and battered steel. The memory of the Mountain's triple-layered armor—gambeson, chain, and heavy plate—was fresh in Arthur's mind. He called over the old village headman.
"Strip this one," Arthur ordered, gesturing to the large corpse. "A real man wears two layers of armor."
He peeled off his own plate temporarily and slipped the heavier chain mail over his padded tunic. It was snug but manageable beneath the armor forged by Tobho Mott in King's Landing. With the added protection, he'd stand a better chance next time he crossed weapons with Ser Gregor.
The village headman, a leathery old man with sunken cheeks and pale eyes, chuckled nervously. "Aye, m'lord. You're our god now—we'll do whatever you ask."
Soon after, the villagers of Sheer emerged from their homes to host a feast for Arthur and his remaining men: ten of his personal guard, fifty-three Riverland cavalrymen from Darry, Pinkmaiden, and Traveler's Rest, as well as the Dornish mercenaries and remnants of the Blood Troupe. The rain had long since stopped, and a fire crackled in the center of the muddy square.
The meal was lavish by peasant standards—roasted lamb seasoned with wild rosemary, stewed chicken thick with onions and carrots, and a glistening roast goose that filled the air with fat and spice. Wooden cups overflowed with barley beer. Bread and hard cheese were shared among all, along with late-season apples and dried plums. The villagers emptied their pantries in gratitude.
After the meal, Arthur called the village chief aside once more. He spoke low but firm: "Tywin Lannister is preparing to march east. The Riverlands are no longer safe. Once we ride out, gather every family in Sheer. Take all your food, all your coin, everything you can carry, and head north—toward the Red Mill on the Red Fork. That's my land. I swear, I'll protect you."
The old man's face was grim, but he nodded slowly. Rumors of the Lannister host had already reached even the most remote farms. Everyone knew Lord Tywin was mustering twenty thousand men at Casterly Rock, and when war came, it would come like wildfire—fast and indiscriminate.
The lands surrounding Harrenhal were the most vulnerable. House Whent, though noble, had few men and little strength. Without a powerful bannerlord to shield them, their subjects were exposed.
"My lord," the old man asked hesitantly, "what of the neighboring villages? They'll—"
"I'll take them in too," Arthur cut in. "All of them. Any who reach my lands will have shelter."
The old man smiled wide, revealing worn teeth. At dawn, he dispatched runners to nearby hamlets with news of Arthur's offer.
By midday, Arthur's company was on the move again—four Blood Troupe survivors including Wager, five Dornish spearmen led by Anguy, and the fifty-three Riverland cavalry. Arthur rode at the front, mounted once more on the blood-red destrier he had fostered in Sheer weeks ago. Their quarry: Ser Gregor Clegane and his remaining band of marauders, now reduced to a force of roughly fifty.
Though their numbers were even, Arthur knew time favored him. The Mountain's men were tired, scattered, and running. His were rested, disciplined, and riding with purpose.
Days passed, and across the eastern shores of the God's Eye, a new legend took root.
The tale spread like wind through the reeds—of Arthur Bracken, golden guandao in hand, warhammer slung across his back, appearing in village after village like a wrathful spirit. Wherever the Mountain struck—burning homes, looting food stores, and killing innocents—Arthur was never far behind. At times, he arrived just as the flames licked the rooftops. At others, just before the enemy could break through the last gate.
The image took hold: a knight in black-and-gold plate, sword in one hand, hammer in the other, descending upon the battlefield like justice made flesh. His armor glinted in the sun. His banner—a black stallion on red—was etched into every mind. He carried with him the parchment sealed by Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, demanding the support of every village and holdfast.
While Clegane and his men were forced to retreat hungry and bloodied, Arthur was welcomed with feasts and cheering children. After each skirmish, more peasants packed up what they could and followed his advice, migrating north to the safety of Red Mill.
Soon, thirty thousand peasants whispered his name with reverence: Arthur the Righteous. Sword of the Red Fork. The Gods' own justice sent to punish the wicked.
But Arthur had not yet achieved victory. In the past week, he had fought more than a dozen small battles against the Mountain's rear guard. With each clash, Arthur and Gregor met in brutal single combat—steel ringing on steel, blows crashing like thunder. Arthur's double-layered armor held, but so did Gregor's. Neither could break the other's defense.
Behind them, the mercenaries and soldiers clashed with equal fury. Westerland pillagers traded death-blows with Riverland knights, Dornish skirmishers, and hardened sellswords. When fatigue began to drag at the Mountain's limbs, he would order a retreat, and the battered remnants of his force would melt into the woods.
Arthur cursed himself. Without his massive warhammer—still en route from King's Landing with Tobho Mott's caravan—he lacked the crushing power needed to break through Clegane's plate. And so he let them flee once again, both sides licking their wounds.
Now, nearly thirty more dead on each side later, Arthur arrived in the lands of House Haen, a small Riverland house sworn to House Whent. Lady Haen had barricaded herself within her tower, but Arthur sent riders ahead with word: he came not to conquer, but to protect.
If the lady did not flee, Arthur intended to take control of the region in the name of defense. Harrenhal was near—massive, ancient, cursed. But with its walls and stores, it could shelter thousands.
If Arthur occupied it before Tywin moved, he might force the Lannister host to halt. And with only a few thousand militiamen and veterans, he could hold out for weeks.
The opening movements of the War of the Five Kings were beginning to shift. And already, Arthur Bracken's name echoed across the Riverlands—whispered in fear by some, and hope by many.
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