Are you all heading to King's Landing for the tourney?" Lady Hean asked coolly from her seat at the head of the long hall.
The flickering candlelight barely lit the vast chamber, and the rest of the room was defined by shadow and stillness. A few withered servants shuffled about, and the aging countess herself seemed half a wraith of the great House she represented. Harrenhal, once the pride of the Riverlands, now felt more mausoleum than castle.
After the death of Lord Walter Whent and his four sons—none of whom survived Robert's Rebellion—Lady Whent had withdrawn into reclusion, avoiding contact with the outside world. What remained of House Whent were a handful of distant kin, none strong enough to lift the family from its decline.
In truth, because their mother Minisa Whent had come from this once-great house, Edmure, Catelyn, and Lysa Tully stood as the next heirs to Harrenhal. The Whents were nearly extinct.
"Yes," Desmond replied curtly.
But Patrick had to clarify, "Not exactly—I'm just going to watch the games, not compete."
"Still, you're all going. I've not been to King's Landing in… years," Lady Whent sighed.
Arthur said nothing, but thought privately: You haven't even left these lower halls of Harrenhal in years, let alone traveled to King's Landing.
After Patrick described their journey—disembarking at the lower stretches of the Red Fork, riding south through rougher roads to avoid the overcrowded King's Road, and finally reaching Harrenhal—Lady Whent ordered her steward to prepare a warm supper in their honor.
"I knew this stop would be worth it," Patrick grinned.
At last, he'd get the roast goose he'd been dreaming about.
Arthur, too, was quietly satisfied. After days in the saddle with stale bread and stringy meat, sleeping under trees and in drafty barns, he looked forward to a proper rest in a proper keep.
They had deliberately avoided the King's Road, wary of bandits and delays. But while the western paths were quieter, they were also far less hospitable—few inns, fewer castles, and even fewer friendly lords. The hardship of travel weighed on them, and Harrenhal—despite its decay—was a welcome sight.
The castle, though large enough to once house Tywin Lannister's 20,000-strong host, now felt abandoned. Rumors said Lady Whent only used a fraction of the fortress—confined to the lower three floors—while the rest fell to dust and cobwebs.
From what Arthur had seen, fewer than a hundred souls remained within its walls. For a seat of earldom, that was barely a skeleton crew.
Desmond, older and more seasoned than the others, observed Lady Whent with a sympathetic eye. Her detachment masked a clear sorrow.
"It seems something troubles you, my lady," he offered gently. "May we be of assistance?"
"It's nothing pressing," she said in a distant tone. "Please, eat and rest. You must be tired."
Her steward stepped forward. "Forgive me, my lady, but it's worth mentioning. A few wild boars have taken refuge within the castle ruins. They've been aggressive and have already injured a servant. If these knights are willing, their help would save us considerable trouble."
Patrick blinked. "Wild boars? In Harrenhal? Where are your guards? This close to the God's Eye, with farms and villages all around, how could wild boars even survive?"
His incredulous voice brought a strange, almost welcome energy to the gloomy hall, like candlelight briefly flaring.
Arthur, however, wasn't shocked. In his previous life, cities of millions still saw wild boars rampaging through urban streets.
The steward replied politely, "The castle's far too vast. We have barely fifty men in arms—most areas go unguarded. The boars avoid where people dwell, but still roam freely through the upper levels and fallen towers. As for how they've evaded local hunters… I wonder that myself."
He spoke plainly, even as Lady Whent's stiff posture made her disapproval clear. She did not want to burden her guests.
Arthur and Desmond exchanged looks—they were both willing—but decorum required the host's consent.
The moment hung awkwardly.
[Mission: Help Harrenhal eliminate the wild boars.]
A familiar blue light screen hovered in Arthur's vision. He stood, his tone confident: "Let's take care of it. The steward mentioned injuries. If we delay, someone might die next time."
The steward gave Arthur a respectful nod, visibly pleased with the response. Inwardly, he was also frustrated with his lady's obstinacy.
That their household—once mighty enough to host a royal tourney—couldn't even handle wild boars intruding into its halls was shameful. Yet Lady Whent clung to the pride of old nobility and would not ask for help, even when they clearly needed it.
Eventually, when it was clear no one else objected, Lady Whent gave a small nod. She had lost the room.
"Excellent! We'll take care of them tomorrow," Patrick declared proudly, as if he'd orchestrated the whole thing.
Arthur didn't mind that the heir to Seagard was basking in credit. The real reward had already arrived: the servants were bringing in the food.
Roast goose, thick gravy, fresh bread, and warm spiced wine—the comforts of nobility, even if only borrowed for a night.
The dining hall of Harrenhal was vast—its cavernous ceilings and towering columns made even a dozen dining tables feel sparse in the space. Arthur and his companions ate heartily, while more than a dozen of their personal retainers and sworn swords dined at the other tables nearby, served by the dwindling staff of House Whent.
Lady Whent, ever polite but visibly fatigued, soon offered her apologies for not staying through the meal. With a frail nod, she withdrew into the shadowed corridors of her quarters, leaving her steward, Ser Richard, to host the evening. The countess had not been seen in court or feast in years, and even this appearance was likely a rare effort born of duty.
Arthur made the most of the meal. After finishing three thick cuts of charcoal-grilled steak, a generous serving of foie gras, two roasted chicken legs so tender they fell off the bone, and washing it all down with seven or eight goblets of chilled cider, he sighed contentedly and patted his stomach. His boots felt tighter than they had earlier. Rising slowly, he excused himself and made his way to the guest room prepared for him in one of the lower towers.
The others followed suit soon after. Full stomachs and warm fires made for a restful night.
The next morning, inside the armory of Harrenhal.
"You may choose from these arms and armor," said Ser Richard, raising his voice to be heard over the creaking of chains and the clatter of steel. "Take what you need. Best not to underestimate these beasts."
Arthur and the others stepped forward without hesitation. None of them would treat this task lightly.
Wild boars were dangerous—more so than most would guess. There was an old Riverlands saying: One pig, two bears, three tigers. It wasn't that boars were stronger than bears or tigers, but their unpredictable ferocity made them deadlier to the average hunter. Even in the Seven Kingdoms, veteran soldiers spoke of gored comrades and shattered legs.
Of the twenty in Arthur's company, twelve were trained warriors. Adding the dozen armed men from House Whent's garrison, the group had thirty blades—not a small number for a wild boar hunt. The strategy was clear: use ranged weapons to weaken the boars from a distance, avoid being trampled during their charge, then finish them at close range with spears or greatswords.
Arthur selected a set of blackened plate armor reinforced at the shoulders and chest. It had the look of armor that hadn't seen battle in years, but it was solid enough. In past chapters, he had worn only a chainmail hauberk—a gift from Lord Jonos Bracken—after his original set of fine plate was destroyed in the second melee at the Stone Hedge Arena. He hadn't brought that old chainmail south, expecting better gear in King's Landing, so this replacement was welcome.
"This plate's perfect! Feels like it was forged just for me!" Jules' voice rang out from across the room.
Arthur turned to see his uncle admiring himself in a polished silver suit of armor, striking dramatic poses as if already parading before a crowd.
"You'll have to give it back," Arthur reminded him flatly. "Don't scratch it."
Jules ran his gauntlet along the gleaming breastplate. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But don't forget the one you promised me. Once we reach King's Landing, I want my own set."
Arthur nodded. With over 2,000 gold dragons saved from his past tournament earnings, buying custom armor—possibly even castle-forged plate—was well within reach.
Meanwhile, the Hean men distributed a special crossbow to each hunter: the rocker capstan model. It was a crank-loaded device with a levered mechanism for drawing back the string. Even King Joffrey, as seen during Tyrion's time as Hand, had been able to load one without assistance—proof of how accessible and effective it was.
When all were finally equipped and ready, Ser Richard approached Desmond.
"The task of removing the wild boars falls to you," the steward declared solemnly.
Arthur raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. Though clearly the most seasoned and powerful fighter among them—he had defeated both Frey and Bracken knights in the arena—Richard hadn't even looked his way. So much for recognition.
Desmond, too, recognized the absurdity. "Actually, Ser Arthur here has far more experience with matters like this. He should take command."
Richard turned to Arthur, giving him a doubtful once-over. To the steward's eyes, Arthur was too clean-faced, too well-groomed—more knightly than hardened. A court-trained lordling, perhaps, not a battle-tested warrior.
He shook his head. "No. Best you lead, Ser Desmond."
Arthur nearly laughed. If only the man knew how many times he'd led men into battle already—or what he'd done at the Stone Hedge melee. But he didn't mind. Leadership could be claimed in action, not words.
And besides, the day's work would soon prove who was best suited for command.
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