In the open space at the center of the village, Arthur and his companions sat on wooden stools provided by the locals, eating around a rough-hewn table under a sloping canvas awning. The storm had passed, but their clothes were still damp, and their horses grazed quietly nearby.
Dinner came in the late afternoon, well past the usual time for lunch. But given the day they'd had, no one complained. As long as there was hot food, the hour hardly mattered.
Fortunately, the villagers cooked well. After Arthur devoured half a roast chicken, a leg of lamb, and three thick slices of freshly baked barley bread, his stomach finally settled its noisy protests.
"Where's the village chief? Bring him here," Arthur said, wiping foam from his lips after a swig of the local ale, which was dark, earthy, and surprisingly strong.
A wiry old man with deep-set eyes, wearing a faded wheat-colored tunic and gray linen trousers, came over at once, his face all smiles and deference. The lines on his face were etched by a lifetime in the fields.
"My lord, I hope everything was to your liking?"
Arthur nodded, leaning back slightly. "How much do I owe you?"
This was the eastern Riverlands—lush, fertile, and more prosperous than the war-ravaged western regions upstream of the Red Fork. But it was still rural, and bartering was more common than coin.
"Six silver stags, my lord. That would cover everything."
Arthur appreciated the man's honesty. In his experience, peasants overcharged nobles whenever they could, especially those who didn't wield a sword or banner.
Two young lambs, seven chickens, baskets of river fruits, mugs of foaming ale, and all the bread they could eat—for just six silver stags? Arthur felt like he was cheating the man.
He reached into his leather pouch and pulled out eight stags, slapping six into the old man's weathered hands. "This is for the food."
Then, handing over the remaining two, he added, "And this is for your trouble—and for tending to our horses."
The village chief clutched the coins quickly, tucking them out of sight like a squirrel hoarding nuts. His smile grew even wider. "Thank you, my lord. It is an honor to serve you. I'll make sure everything is seen to personally."
He turned to leave, but Arthur pulled another coin from his pouch—a golden dragon this time. The glint of real gold froze the old man mid-step.
Arthur began flipping the coin in the air with his thumb, catching it lazily. Each toss caught the man's eyes like a flame catches moths.
"My lord… whatever you need, name it. We'll do it."
Arthur smiled slightly. "I need two or three strong horses—ones that can carry both rider and gear—and a plan for the red stallion. It needs rest and care. Can your village handle that?"
The old man's weather-worn face lit up. "Of course! We've got sturdy field horses. No warhorses, but they'll carry you well enough if you ride them in shifts. As for the red, we'll treat him like a prince. I'll personally make sure he's healthy and fat when you return. Shiny red coat and all."
Arthur raised a brow. "And how do you know I'll be coming back this way?"
The old man grinned knowingly. "Even if you don't, you'll send someone. A lord like you doesn't abandon a horse he carried across half the Riverlands."
Arthur chuckled and nodded. "Fair enough. See to it."
He flipped the golden dragon toward the man, who caught it midair with both hands as if it were sacred. "We'll ride out as soon as we're done eating."
"What's the name of this village?" Desmond asked, standing beside him.
"Shire, my lord. Shire Village." The old man turned and jogged off with surprising agility, the coin clenched tight.
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly. That name. He turned it over in his mind like a blade he couldn't quite place—until it clicked. Shire was one of the villages massacred by Ser Gregor Clegane during the early days of the War of the Five Kings. Burned, pillaged, left in ashes.
Arthur's appetite waned a little. He looked toward the red horse, still lying calmly beside the cart. He would return for it. He had to. Before the Mountain did.
According to the events portrayed in the Game of Thrones series, after Ser Gregor Clegane—known as the Mountain—received orders from Lord Tywin Lannister, who had taken up command at the headwaters of the Blackwater Rush near the southern edge of the Westerlands, he began a brutal campaign across the Riverlands. The Mountain did not start at Casterly Rock, but from Tywin's war camp, which was established near the borderlands between the Westerlands and Riverlands—just below the Blackwater—and marched eastward.
He led his brutal band of cutthroats along the Gold Road, bypassing King's Landing, then crossed the Blackwater Rush and turned north, laying waste to the eastern side of the God's Eye. His path of destruction eventually pushed northward along the rivers that feed into the Red Fork, torching villages and slaughtering innocents along the way. Villages such as Shire—small and defenceless—were among those doomed.
The aim of this terror campaign was threefold: first, to scatter the bannermen of House Tully and force them into disorganized responses; second, to weaken the Riverlands' capacity to mobilize for war; and third, to mire the lords in putting out fires—both literal and political—leaving them too disjointed to rally to Riverrun when Lord Hoster Tully called his banners.
Lord Tywin, once Hand of the King to Aerys II for two decades, was no brute with a sword—he was a master tactician. Among the Seven Kingdoms, few could match his ruthless brilliance. His scorched-earth strategy in the Riverlands nearly shattered the Tullys' authority in their own realm.
So effective was the cruelty that in whispered corners of taverns and peasant fields, a bitter saying took hold: "Spit thrice—for Lannister, Stark, and Tully alike." It was a cruel reminder of how much the Riverlands had suffered and how little they trusted even their supposed protectors.
Arthur never expected the quiet village they stumbled across to be among those destined for the Mountain's mercy. But fate had a grim sense of irony. Shire Village—simple, remote, nestled near the eastern banks of the Red Fork—was fated to be swept away in fire and blood.
It seemed that some shadow had woven a thread between him and Ser Gregor Clegane. Sooner or later, that thread would pull them together.
Just then, the village chief returned with a handful of men, leading three lanky but sturdy horses.
"My lord," he said, "are these to your liking?"
Though gaunt from plowing, the horses were large and sound. They'd suffice: one for riding, one to bear Arthur's sledgehammer and his moon-forged sword Shuo Yue, and the last as a backup in case of trouble.
Arthur, ever courteous, smiled at the old man. "They're perfect. And in light of your hospitality, I feel moved to offer your village a prophecy… and a warning. Would you like to hear it?"
He hadn't planned this. But perhaps, in some small way, he could give these people a fighting chance—or at least a sliver of hope.
The village chief, puzzled but eager, nodded quickly. For the silver stags and golden dragon he'd already received, he'd listen to anything.
"Please, my lord. Speak. I'll remember every word. If it comes to pass, I'll act as you say."
Patrick, curious and amused, leaned toward Desmond and whispered, "What's he playing at now? Prophecies and omens? Does he fancy himself a Red Priest?"
Desmond shrugged. "I've long given up guessing. You've seen what he can do—he might be half-ghost already."
Arthur stepped away from the dining table and benches, out into the center of the square. The rain had stopped, but the ground was soft beneath his boots. He let his arms hang loose, closed his eyes, and stood still as if communing with something beyond the reach of men.
Then, deliberately, he raised his right hand toward the grey sky. He murmured a string of incomprehensible words, his voice low and solemn.
He lifted only one arm—not two—deliberately avoiding the posture that looked too much like the salute from the Free Cities' militias, which he found distasteful.
This was all part of the performance. A dry run for his future role in King's Landing, where fortune-tellers and charlatans earned more coin than some knights. He had to make it convincing.
The villagers whispered among themselves. Some watched in awe, others with cautious amusement. His servants, Mei Dan among them, looked unsure whether to be impressed or concerned.
Then, Arthur opened his eyes and gasped theatrically, his shoulders rising and falling.
"I have seen it," he said, his voice hard and cold. "In little more than a month, this village will be set upon by raiders. Led by a giant of a man—the tallest in all the Seven Kingdoms. He and his men will slaughter and burn everything they touch. You will bleed, and then they will vanish northward, their trail marked by smoke and the cries of the dying, along the God's Eye and toward the Red Fork."
Silence followed.
A few villagers laughed nervously. Others stood stiff, uncertain if they'd just been blessed—or cursed.
Arthur turned to the chief. "Take it seriously. Send your women and children away. Hide your food. Set scouts. Whether you believe me or not, prepare."
And with that, he walked back toward the horses, leaving the weight of his words hanging like the scent of rain after fire.
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