"Bring me some goose meat, I'm craving that," Patrick called out as soon as he dropped into his seat in the hall.
Goose, rich in fat and flavor, was a favorite among Riverlands nobles. Pork, although common, was often avoided by highborns for fear of illness from improperly cured meat.
"Bring him some pickled fish," Arthur instructed Amber instead.
Ignoring Patrick's bewildered look, Arthur turned to Ser Desmond Grell and got straight to the point.
"I don't yet know the purpose of your visit to my keep."
Though he was unsure why the heir of Seagard was mingling with a relatively minor landed knight like Arthur, Desmond remained courteous and direct.
"…So I hope to accompany you to King's Landing for the Hand's tourney. This is a letter written by Lord Edmure, issued under the authority of his father, the Lord Paramount."
Though not yet Lord of Riverrun in title, Edmure Tully was already overseeing day-to-day governance due to Lord Hoster Tully's declining health. He had begun exercising authority as acting liege.
Desmond presented the sealed letter.
The recent skirmish near the Red Mill, where Arthur had driven off Blackwood's forces with a devastating countercharge, had left an impression on Desmond. Now, after obtaining Edmure's permission to represent the Riverlands at the tournament in King's Landing, he was eager to ally himself with Arthur.
Arthur broke the wax seal bearing the silver trout of House Tully and unfolded the letter.
The message was short but weighty: Arthur Bracken, sworn to Stone Hedge, was permitted to attend the Hand's tourney on behalf of his region. During his absence, Edmure guaranteed the protection of the Nine Villages around Moulin Rouge, declaring that any incursion would be treated as an attack on House Tully itself.
"You should come with me. We may not stand out in the joust, but the melee and archery competitions? There's real opportunity there," Desmond said with a grin.
By custom, the tournament featured three main events: the joust, the melee, and archery. The joust was the most prestigious—knights from the Kingsguard to hedge knights sought glory with lance in hand.
Arthur recalled how, at Prince Joffrey's name day tourney, Ser Loras Tyrell defeated Ser Jaime Lannister in a single tilt. A seventeen-year-old had unhorsed the Kingslayer before a cheering crowd. The victory made Loras famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
The melee and archery contests, on the other hand, were open to any free man who could fight or shoot. Arthur remembered from the show that Thoros of Myr—a red-robed, wine-soaked priest of R'hllor—won the melee. Though a priest by title, Thoros was more warrior than preacher, wielding a flaming sword more often than sermons.
Arthur folded the letter carefully and laid it on the table.
Patrick grinned, more focused on his food than the politics. "Go on then. Lord Edmure gave you his blessing. What else do you need?"
"This letter changes everything. Of course I'm going," Arthur said, resolute now.
With the backing of the Tullys, House Blackwood would dare not provoke a conflict during his absence. He could finally focus on the opportunity at hand.
To win the melee, archery, and possibly even earn recognition in the joust—that was 70,000 gold dragons up for grabs. Enough gold to arm a thousand men. Enough to build not just a stronghold, but a legacy.
"With your hammer," Desmond added, "we've practically won the melee already."
He had seen Arthur's warhammer in action—an armor-crushing beast of a weapon that scattered enemies like chaff in the wind.
Arthur shook his head lightly. "This one's too small. When I get to King's Landing, I'll have a new one made—two-handed, the size of a pumpkin."
Desmond's eyebrows shot up. "How strong are you? A pumpkin hammer? Who could survive that?"
Patrick, still chuckling and unaware of Arthur's real prowess, chimed in: "What pumpkin hammer? What are you two talking about?"
Desmond grinned. "Ser Arthur plans to wield a hammer as big as a pumpkin in the melee."
Patrick burst into laughter. "You southerners are always saying something mad. I doubt even the Mountain could swing that."
Though from Haighall, farther north in the Riverlands, Patrick often referred to anyone south of the Red Fork as 'southerners.'
"But Ser Arthur can swing it," Desmond said, wholly serious.
Patrick scoffed and waved it off. Until he saw it with his own eyes, he'd consider it a tall tale.
Arthur let the topic drop. People believed what they wanted to believe. Words couldn't move a man like Patrick—only feats could.
Soon after, dinner was served. The trio and their retainers shared a warm, hearty meal before retiring. Though the keep was modest in size, Patrick and Desmond were given the two guest rooms while their men camped in tents outside. Fortunately, Arthur had made sure there were enough to go around.
—
The next morning, in the hall:
"You must forge spears like this, long and narrow, with properly balanced hafts. Melt down old tools if you have to for the spearheads. And make more tower shields—large ones. After the village is built, all adult men are to drill regularly. War is coming, and they must be ready."
Arthur had given these instructions before, but he repeated them for emphasis. Amber wrote diligently, nodding at each directive.
Maester Benji of Alanbrook would oversee the building and logistics, while Harville, the grizzled veteran from Stone Hedge, would train the village militia. With Tully protection ensured and the stockade nearing completion, Arthur could now depart with peace of mind.
The trip to King's Landing would take at least a month—more, if delays struck—so leaving detailed orders behind was a necessity.
Arthur left behind 500 gold stags for expenses. If more was needed, Amber was to draft an IOU for him to honor on return.
He chose four companions for the journey: Jules, the stout veteran; Piper, a quick-witted soldier; Medan, his personal servant; and Barton, the so-called stable boy, who was no boy at all but a wiry grown man with a gift for animals.
Together with Patrick's six retainers and Desmond's nine men, they formed a company of twenty.
Many years later, when the name Arthur Bracken—"the King of Benevolence"—resounded across Westeros, bards and smallfolk would often trace his rise to this very moment: the journey to King's Landing.
From Last Hearth to Sunspear, his name became legend—hero to some, villain to others.
From Lannisport to Dragonstone, tales of his deeds—glorious and terrible—filled the halls of lords and the whispers of beggars.
Enemies trembled at the sound of his name.
And his people? They loved him, not because he was perfect…
…but because he was theirs.
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