The villagers murmured among themselves, exchanging skeptical glances. Though Arthur had spoken with gravity, they believed the handsome young lord was merely indulging in theatrics. Perhaps it was all a jest, or some Westerlands humor they didn't understand.
Patrick, Desmond, and the other retainers were more seasoned. They had seen enough of war to know when words held weight. When Arthur described the "strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms," they needed no further clue.
It was obvious—he spoke of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. The brutal bannerman of House Lannister, known for his unmatched size and savagery. He was Tywin's deadliest weapon, feared even by his own men, and utterly devoid of knightly honor.
What made it bitterly ironic was that the man who had once dubbed him Ser was none other than Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—beloved heir of the Dragon Dynasty, a man remembered for kindness, music, and mercy. How twisted that Rhaegar's ideal of chivalry had inadvertently granted legitimacy to a monster.
Patrick frowned. "Come on, how's that possible? If the Mountain truly did that kind of thing, Lord Tywin would flay him alive—unless King Robert gave permission."
He dismissed the notion outright, still believing in some remnant of order and discipline among the great lords. Even in war, some things were too far.
Desmond, however, stayed quiet. Though he also found the idea improbable, he had known Arthur long enough to trust the instincts behind his words. He wouldn't risk contradicting him without reason.
The villagers, meanwhile, exchanged whispers. Their master had spoken, and they dared not challenge him to his face. But privately, they concluded it must be nonsense.
Still, to protect the young lord's dignity, they nodded solemnly and muttered their approval.
"Whatever the master says, that's the way it is."
"Even if the world turns upside down, we're just small folk. Who are we to question lords and knights?"
Only a young girl, no older than eight, dared to raise her voice with innocent curiosity. "That's not how the stories go. In the stories, a hero always comes to save the village."
Patrick chuckled, half-amused and half-pitying. "Silly girl. If it really is the Mountain, there won't be any heroes. Under his sword, no one can be saved—not even the hero."
Arthur heard those words and felt a bitter knot twist inside him. The words he had nearly spoken—urging the villagers to flee—were swallowed back. Instead, he found a different path for his prophecy to follow.
"The vision isn't finished," he said clearly. "There will be a man. Tall, fair, and brave. A man who carries the hopes and faith of the good people in this world. He will come to stand against the fire and blood, and he will deliver this village from ruin."
Why run? Why warn them to flee, when he could stand and fight? If the Mountain was truly destined to bring destruction to this place, then Arthur could rewrite fate with his own hands.
A new conviction took hold—firm, unshakable. Let this be the place where the Mountain's reign of terror ended. Let this nameless village, tucked near the banks of the Red Fork, become the first and last line of defense for the Riverlands.
The little girl clapped, delighted. "Who is this tall, handsome man? What's his name?"
Arthur stood straight and answered proudly, "His name is Arthur Bracken. He is called Arthur the Righteous by those who know him. But after this battle, perhaps they'll call him Arthur the Brave, for he will face down demons in mortal flesh and shield the innocent with steel."
Patrick couldn't help it—he burst out laughing, slapping his palm against the old table beside him. Desmond and the servants grinned, trying not to join in.
The old village chief, confused but earnest, looked around uncertainly. "Arthur the Righteous? Is he a knight of renown?"
Desmond grinned and pointed at Arthur. "That's him. The man standing before you."
The old man's eyes widened slightly. Though part of him wondered if this was all a young man's fantasy, he found himself smiling. Hadn't he too once dreamed of saving the village from raiders and beasts? The fire of youth was easy to mock, but it burned with real warmth.
With genuine feeling, he bowed his head and said, "Then on behalf of the village, I thank you. Thank you for traveling so far to save us."
Arthur heard those words and felt something stir. Maybe this was madness. Or maybe this was the only path he'd ever truly chosen.
"We'll meet again in just over a month," he promised.
Then he turned, and gave the command to leave.
Patrick and the others didn't press him further. They laughed at his theatrics, but they still listened to him. And they followed.
Within the hour, their group had packed up and set off down the muddy road, leaving the little red-roofed cottages behind. The red horse, for all its quirks, was left in gentle hands. It would be cared for.
…
Hours passed beneath gray skies.
When Patrick finally found himself no longer tempted to laugh every time he looked at Arthur, he nudged his horse forward and rode alongside him.
"I still don't get it," he said. "Why say that kind of thing to those people?"
Desmond joined them, silent, leaning forward slightly in his saddle to hear the answer.
Arthur didn't miss a beat. He smiled faintly, like a man with a secret. "You don't need to understand. I saw it in a vision."
Patrick rolled his eyes, struggling not to grin. "A vision, was it? Which god gave you this sight? The Seven? The Old Gods? Or maybe that new fire god all the red robes go on about?"
Arthur kept his gaze ahead and said with a straight face, "This god's name is Martin. He's not very well known—but his power is beyond imagination."
Patrick cracked up, unable to hold it in. Desmond laughed, too, shaking his head.
But Arthur just kept riding, the faintest smile on his face. Let them laugh—for now.
The road to King's Landing still lay ahead. But in the back of his mind, he was already counting the days until his path led him back to Shire Village.
Back to where fate had set the stage.
Desmond wore a blank expression for a few seconds. Then, after hearing Arthur's words, he finally let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I always thought Lord Arthur was a solemn and serious man," he said, "but it turns out he has the soul of someone more like Luffy from One Piece—wild, unexpected, and bizarrely interesting."
Arthur, however, waved off the compliment. "This isn't about being interesting. It's truth. Martin is a powerful new god. He's shared many secrets with me already. As our bond deepens, I'll gradually reveal more of his words and wisdom to you."
If he was going to pretend to be a prophet or a fraud, then he'd commit fully—no half-measures.
This god's name was Martin. His sole believer? Arthur Bracken himself. The miracle? That everything Arthur claimed so far would eventually prove to be real, just like how Gol D. Roger's treasure was thought to be myth until Luffy made it his goal.
"But your god has no miracles, no shrines, no priests! Isn't that a bit… suspicious?" Patrick countered quickly, as if he'd finally spotted a hole in Arthur's grand performance.
Arthur straightened, feigning offense, his tone laced with theatrical disbelief. "That's such a narrow way to think! What kind of god needs temples and clergy? Do the great ones in the Grand Line need monuments to prove their strength? Real power doesn't announce itself with gold and robes—it speaks through truth."
Desmond, observing Arthur's demeanor and catching the seriousness behind the theatrics, narrowed his eyes. "Then tell me this—how do you prove the existence of this so-called god, Martin?"
That gave Arthur pause.
How could he prove the existence of someone who didn't exist in this world? It was like asking someone to prove the One Piece was real before Luffy even reached Laugh Tale. But he adapted quickly, using the age-old trick of the charlatan—promise a prophecy, then let reality do the rest.
"I'll offer more predictions in the name of Martin," he said confidently. "When those prophecies begin to come true, their success will speak for itself. Time will prove everything. Just like the Log Pose leads you forward through the Grand Line—eventually, it guides you to the truth."
Patrick, not about to let the matter drop, leaned forward with competitive fire in his eyes. "Then how about you give me a prophecy? Tell me what'll happen to me in King's Landing."
Arthur didn't hesitate. "You're too small a ripple in the ocean. Martin doesn't waste divine energy on minor figures."
Patrick scoffed. "Then let's test your god with someone major. If Martin can't predict the fate of a powerful figure, then he's no better than a joke conjured up by you."
After a moment's thought, Patrick offered his challenge. "Let's talk about the newly appointed Hand of the King—Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
Arthur fell silent for a beat.
He searched the canon of the original work in his mind. Eddard's death had always felt inevitable. A good man in a sea of vipers. And nothing Arthur could do would prevent that fall. So if he were to make a prediction, he'd better focus on what happens afterward—the consequence, not the event.
But before giving the prophecy, he knew what had to come first.
Just like the story arcs in One Piece, where a pirate's strength was not shown immediately, but built through moments of tension and awe—Arthur had to first make them believe.
This was the first act of showmanship. And the first step to making them think: maybe this Martin is real.
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