Despite Desmond's reluctance, Steward Richard insisted—he would lead the hunt. Arthur had no objection. After all, he had no formal training in command, and the man he now embodied had never studied the arts of leadership in his youth. Reckless orders from an unqualified leader would only cause confusion and unnecessary bloodshed.
Under the guidance of several Hean retainers familiar with the layout of Harrenhal and the recent disturbances caused by the wild boars, a party of nearly thirty men departed.
Harrenhal, once seat of House Strong and then the cursed inheritance of House Whent, was vast—by far the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Though now partially ruined and abandoned, its sheer size remained imposing. Even after walking for nearly an hour through moss-covered stone halls, collapsed courtyards, and long-forgotten barracks, the hunting party remained entirely inside the castle walls.
The silence was heavy. Only the steady thud of boots on damp stone broke the stillness. Most of the paths were slick with weeds and moss—sunlight rarely pierced the high walls and narrow arrow slits. The stones, left unwalked for years, made footing treacherous.
"Almost there. Stay sharp," warned one of the Whent men, his voice low and cautious.
"I'll go up front," Arthur volunteered. "I'm strong enough to absorb a charge if one comes."
He still carried the heavy sledgehammer he had claimed from Ser Santagar during the melee at Stone Hedge—a brutal weapon, ideal for shattering the thick skulls of charging beasts.
"You should fall back," Richard said quickly, trying to sound helpful. "These things aren't scared of a handsome face."
Patrick added with a grin, "Yeah, boars don't care if you're pretty. They'll still gut you."
But Desmond, who had seen Arthur's strength firsthand, dismissed them both. "Let him go. He can handle it."
So Arthur moved to the front.
Behind him, Richard muttered, "Is he reliable? What if he's trampled?"
Patrick looked worried too. "Don't try to show off. Let the strongest soldiers take the lead."
Arthur glanced over his shoulder. "Why does no one trust me?" He hefted the sledgehammer with ease, its massive iron head catching the torchlight. "You think I carry this just to look good?"
Suddenly, a low growl pierced the silence—followed by the rumble of something heavy moving fast.
"Watch it!" someone yelled.
"Arthur, move!"
"Shoot the head! Aim for the head!"
"Hold formation! Get to the wall!"
Shouts exploded all at once.
Arthur spun around. A massive black boar, easily as large as a Dornish sand steed, charged down the hallway at him. Its tusks gleamed white in the gloom. The beast's momentum made it seem unstoppable—it would have split any lesser man in two.
But Arthur was no lesser man.
He dodged nimbly toward the wall, then, as the beast closed the distance, he exploded into motion. Muscles tightening, he lifted the sledgehammer high and brought it down with a thunderous crack on the boar's head.
The blow landed perfectly. The beast skidded forward on shattered legs, its momentum carrying it several feet before it collapsed.
Arrows never even left their quivers.
Patrick crept up cautiously, whistling as he saw the results. The boar's skull had collapsed inward. White brain matter oozed from the cracked snout, mixing with a flood of dark blood. Its limbs still twitched, but the thing was dead.
"Arthur, what are you?" Patrick asked, half in awe. "You're like… blessed by the Warrior Himself."
Handsome and stronger than any knight he'd known, Patrick thought Arthur was an ideal companion.
Richard, who had nearly panicked during the charge, cleared his throat and tried to act unfazed. "As expected. With Ser Arthur leading, this beast had no chance."
Desmond showed no reaction. He had seen Arthur crush a man's skull like a melon during the Stone Hedge melee. This was no surprise.
"All right," Desmond said, taking control again. "Crossbows loaded. Stay alert. Rest a moment before we move."
But their rest lasted only seconds.
The next corridor turned into chaos. At the far end, three more massive wild boars appeared—each larger than the last. Covered in dried mud and scar tissue, they glared down the hall. For a moment, man and beast stared at one another.
Then the boars charged.
"Back! Fall back to the corner!" Arthur barked.
Only in a tight corridor could they avoid being outflanked. It was the only hope of funneling the beasts and mounting a counterattack.
Whether they understood the tactic or just followed instinct, the men turned and fled. Thirty armored warriors, including knights and seasoned sellswords, scattered like children.
Now Arthur understood how fewer than ten wild boars had overrun a section of Harrenhal.
These beasts weren't normal.
Three war-sized boars, each armored in dried mud, their tusks yellowed and cracked from years of fighting, charged side-by-side like siege engines down the narrow hall. No walls had collapsed yet only because they hadn't hit one hard enough.
Who could be foolish enough to stand in their path?
No one. And Arthur certainly wasn't going to die here just to prove a point.
Fortunately, the bend in the corridor wasn't far. After a chaotic retreat, the men scrambled into position. Leather boots scraped across mossy stone as they raised the capstan crossbows with trembling urgency.
When the first trio of wild boars skidded around the corner, hooves scratching and gouging stone as they tried to halt their momentum, they were met with a coordinated volley of nearly twenty crossbow bolts. Fired at close range, the quarrels punched through bristled hide and thick muscle with terrifying efficiency. One boar collapsed mid-charge, another staggered and crashed into a wall, and the third tumbled sideways, squealing, bolts embedded deep in its ribs and neck. None of the three would rise again.
But five still remained.
Unlike regular crossbows, the capstan version—similar to the one King Joffrey used for sport—took time to reload. Cranking them back required both strength and patience. And time was a luxury they no longer had. Before most of the soldiers could begin to reload, the remaining wild boars had rounded the bend.
Arthur sprang into action. He raised his heavy Dornish sledgehammer—the same weapon he'd claimed during the Stone Hedge melee—and brought it crashing down on the nearest charging beast. Bone cracked like wood beneath the blow, and the creature crumpled, blood spurting from its snout.
But the others surged past.
In a flash, four enormous boars slammed into the front lines. Seven or eight soldiers were instantly bowled over. Screams echoed through the corridor as tusks tore into legs and bellies. The rest drew swords and axes, slashing wildly. But standard steel blades, especially in the hands of panicked men, struggled against the thick-skinned beasts.
A few gashes opened along their flanks—shallow and largely ineffective. These boars weren't ordinary creatures; they were monstrous even by Westerosi standards. Hardened by years of surviving in the wild ruins of Harrenhal, they were more like beasts out of the old stories.
After their initial assault, the surviving boars retreated slightly, taking up positions near the stone corner like trained fighters preparing to charge again.
Arthur didn't hesitate.
Gripping the haft of his hammer, he dashed forward—alone.
The crowd gasped as he collided with the nearest boar and swung. The hammer slammed into its ribs, the beast letting out a high-pitched shriek before crumpling. The second came charging, but Arthur sidestepped, then pivoted and brought the hammer down in an arcing smash that caved in its spine.
The third tried to escape, but Arthur was faster. One last swing crushed the creature's skull, spraying blood across the moss-covered wall.
The final boar, bloodied and confused, lunged toward him—but Arthur met it head-on. He took the blow to his shoulder, staggered slightly, then roared and drove the hammer straight down onto its back. The spine gave way with a sickening crunch.
It was over.
The corridor was silent except for the heavy breathing of the survivors and the twitching of broken boar limbs.
"You're… unbelievably brave," said Richard, his earlier skepticism replaced with open admiration.
Patrick, still catching his breath, had meant to praise Arthur but found himself staring at the hammer instead. His thoughts went back to what Arthur and Desmond had said before—about power, about training, about truth.
He muttered, half to himself, "I didn't see it before, but he's not just lucky. That kind of strength… it's not natural."
Arthur ignored the flattery. He approached the last wild boar, now barely conscious, and brought his hammer down one final time.
Somewhere deep in his memory, he recalled a lesson from Oberyn Martell—how overconfidence had killed the Red Viper when he had the Mountain dead to rights. Arthur would not make the same mistake.
[Quest complete: "Cleanse Harrenhal of Wild Boars" — Experience +500, House Whent Favorability +5]
Once the cleanup was done and the dead were accounted for, the survivors made their way back to Harrenhal's living quarters. No one spoke much. Most were still processing what they'd just seen.
Despite the effort, the boar meat was left behind.
Among the noble houses of Westeros, wild boar was considered dangerous to consume—too often linked to sickness. Maesters warned against it, and in well-stocked castles like Harrenhal, it simply wasn't worth the risk.
Arthur, who retained knowledge from his modern soul, silently agreed. Wild pigs were hosts for parasites and diseases. Roasting them improperly could kill a man. Let the carrion birds have them.
When the report reached Lady Shella Whent, she summoned her steward immediately.
"I want to reward Ser Arthur for his courage. Six boars, on his own—it's no small feat."
"He deserves something fitting," said Richard, his tone newly deferential. "But that hammer… it doesn't match his look. Might I suggest we gift him a greatsword instead?"
Arthur didn't know what reward House Whent might offer, but he was intrigued. Though diminished, Harrenhal was still a seat of wealth and history. Its vaults held many fine heirlooms.
Lady Whent considered for a long moment, then gave her order.
"Bring him the New Moon."
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