Arthur looked down at his belongings scattered across the wet road, the rain drenching everything. He felt a twinge of frustration—walking was now his only option. But a man couldn't just admit defeat so easily.
To lighten the burden on his horse earlier, he had stored most of the luggage on it—including his finer clothes meant for King's Landing. Among them was a silk doublet and breeches, tailored for courtly appearance in the capital. After all, he couldn't arrive in the Red Keep dressed like a hedge knight.
Now those garments lay soaked and muddied on the roadside, the rain soaking through the fabric without mercy.
His personal servant, Meidan, quickly dismounted and rushed over to salvage what he could, though it was clearly a losing battle.
Desmond, who had been leading the group, turned back when he noticed the halt. He raised his voice over the rain: "Whoever's lightest, ride double with Ser Arthur!"
One of the more alert squires quickly responded. "I can, I'm the smallest!"
But Arthur shook his head. "Better not. Between the hammer and Shuoyue, they weigh as much as a man. Another rider would just collapse the horse."
He gave a glance back at the fallen animal. "Let the poor beast rest here."
There was genuine regret in his voice. He had selected that red mare back near Saltpans for a reason—it matched the golden shield and crimson horse on the Bracken sigil. The loss wasn't just practical. It was symbolic.
"Looks like you've found yourselves in a bit of trouble, my lords. Need a hand?" came a voice from the side of the road.
An old farmer, his gray beard clinging to his soaked chest, had pulled up beside them in an oxcart. He peered through the downpour at the noble party.
"Seven save us, you're just in time!" Patrick called out, striding over with rain pouring down his cloak. "We'll pay you a silver stag if you can get this lot out of the storm and back to your village."
The old farmer climbed down from the cart, trudged through the mud toward the fallen horse, and gave it a quick once-over. "This one's not dead, just worn out," he said, brushing rain off his brow. "Let it rest a bit, and it might recover. You sure you want to leave it behind?"
Arthur's eyes lit with hope. "Your cart looks sturdy. Think it could haul the horse, too? Along with two of us?"
Arthur was never one to leave behind a beast that had served him well, not if he had a choice.
The farmer scratched his chin. "Aye, it might… but getting it onto the cart, now that's the trouble."
Desmond stepped forward. "We've got twenty men. Between us, we can lift it."
Arthur passed Shuoyue and the warhammer to Meidan, shook the water from his hands, and stepped toward the horse. "Thanks, but I can manage it."
The farmer raised a skeptical brow. "My lord, I appreciate the spirit, but now's not the time for boasting. Let them help or we'll be here till the Stranger takes us."
Desmond, though well aware of Arthur's unnatural strength, wasn't convinced he could handle a horse solo in this weather. "Best we all lend a hand," he called to the others. "Everyone down!"
The attendants began to dismount and gather.
But Arthur moved faster.
He crouched beside the red horse, one arm hooking under its neck, the other beneath its midsection. With a grunt and a surge of strength, he lifted the heavy beast clear off the ground. Gasps rose from the squires as Arthur took a few hurried steps, then gently lowered the animal onto the farmer's cart.
The oxen let out a snort of protest under the shifting weight, but the cart held.
Though large, the cart could only cradle the bulk of the horse's body. Its hooves and head hung off either end, awkward but secure.
The men stood still for a beat, stunned.
Arthur didn't look for praise. He simply turned back toward the group, rain streaming from his hair, and said, "Let's go. No telling what else this storm's bringing."
The old farmer stared at Arthur in stunned silence, his mouth agape. Words seemed to fail him.
Desmond and the attendants also stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief. They had long known Arthur was strong—strong enough to swing a warhammer with terrifying ease—but none of them had expected this.
A full-grown warhorse, lifted clean off the ground as if it were a sack of barley.
Even in a world where Gregor Clegane crushed skulls with his bare hands and giants roamed beyond the Wall, this kind of raw strength was rare—almost unnatural.
"What are you all gawking at?" Arthur called over the rainfall. "Let's move. We're still soaking out here!"
Shaking off their shock, the men got moving again. Arthur retrieved the sledgehammer and Shuoyue from Meidan and leapt onto the front edge of the oxcart beside the horse. The others followed: some mounted their horses again, others climbed onto the cart. Confusion, awe, and quiet admiration simmered among them as the caravan lurched forward.
Despite the downpour, the old farmer couldn't help muttering his amazement.
"Seven save me… If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd never believe a man could pick up a horse."
Arthur ignored the rambling and cut to the point. "Does your village have an inn?"
"Inn? Seven hells, you think we live near the King's Road?" The farmer let out a wheezy laugh. "No inns here. Just homes."
"Then I suppose we'll be troubling you," Arthur said, rubbing his stomach. It growled like a restless direwolf. He wondered what the villagers might cook—he was starving.
They had left Harrenhal the previous morning, traveled day and night with no proper meal, and now after exerting himself hauling a horse, his hunger had become impossible to ignore.
He'd discovered that the more his strength grew, the more food he seemed to need—just like Robert Baratheon in his youth or Hodor, who ate as much as two grown men.
Right now, he didn't want dried fish or barley stew. He craved real meat—roasted lamb or beef. Even a plump chicken or a goose would suffice. He'd had enough of trout; the Riverlands had more trout than the Trident itself, and he'd grown tired of it.
Give him meat fried slowly in fat, with golden skin and a rich aroma. Better yet, let there be condiments—garlic, vinegar, ground pepper, or even Dornish chili. A little heat on the tongue, some sourness to balance the richness, and it would be a feast worthy of the Small Council.
As if summoned by thought, the storm began to ease.
The rain, which had pounded down since midday, finally began to break apart as they reached the village. The clouds parted slightly, and the last of the water dripped from their cloaks.
"Typical," Desmond muttered, slicking his wet hair back. "Rain stops the moment we arrive."
"Fresh rain clears the dust. That's good luck," Arthur replied, though he was drenched head to toe. He didn't mind it so much. Rain always brought a kind of peace with it.
He pulled a silver stag from his coin pouch and tossed it to the old man. "Here's what I promised. Now go rally your people. We need dry clothes—and meat."
The old farmer had been eyeing the silver coin since the moment it appeared, and now he caught it with both hands, grinning like a boy at harvest.
"Right away, my lord. We've got chickens, lambs, fish—and dogs, if you like dog meat. All fresh. Just say the word."
Arthur was pleased by the man's efficiency. "Two lambs, and maybe seven or eight chickens. The rest is up to you. Get moving."
Twenty men meant twenty hungry bellies—and Arthur's might count for two by itself.
The oxcart rattled deeper into the village. The old man leapt down and hurried off to find the village elder.
The others dismounted and began to dry themselves under the eaves of a long barn. Arthur moved the red horse off the cart gently, letting it lie more comfortably under a thatched lean-to.
Before long, the horse opened its eyes and began to breathe normally. The worst had passed.
"This village looks prosperous," Patrick observed, brushing hay from his cloak. "Stone walls, stone houses… that's rare."
Desmond gave a knowing grin. "Do you see any Hean banners? They don't even try to collect taxes here anymore. The family barely has enough men to keep their lands safe."
"No taxes, no tithe—no wonder they're rich," Patrick agreed. "And it's only three or four days' ride from King's Landing. Bandits don't even bother with places this close to the Crownlands."
Arthur wasn't paying attention. He was already thinking ahead, his eyes fixed on the horse's heaving sides. It wouldn't be rising anytime soon.
He still had a long ride to reach King's Landing, and unless someone offered him another steed, he wasn't sure how he'd get there.
Not on foot—not with a warhammer and a two-handed sword on his back.
Not if he wanted to make it in time for the tourney
JOIN MY PATREON TO READ ADVANCE 40+ CHAPTERS
Patreon.com/Kora_1