"It seems your strength exceeded even my highest expectations," Ser Loras Tyrell murmured, glancing at Horace with lingering unease.
Horace Redwyne was seated nearby, flanked by four or five squires desperately trying to unfasten his plate armor. The steel around his thigh had crumpled inward from Arthur's warhammer blow, grotesquely deformed and nearly fused to the leather padding beneath. He groaned hoarsely in pain, occasionally letting out guttural cries, his leg visibly trembling. The poppy milk had yet to arrive from the maester's tent.
"It's not that I'm strong," Arthur Bracken replied as he pulled off his helm and raised the visor. He took the damp cloth handed to him by Medan and wiped the sweat from his brow. "They're just too weak."
To defeat the Redwyne twins, Arthur had relied on sheer brute force and superior agility. When the gulf in strength is wide enough, finesse becomes irrelevant.
Arthur himself knew his martial skills still lacked refinement. But the Reachmen watching, especially Loras, seemed to think otherwise. To them, Arthur wasn't a warrior who bypassed skill—he was so powerful that he made skill look unnecessary.
After all, the Redwyne twins were not common hedge knights. They were heirs of House Redwyne of the Arbor, one of the most powerful vassals sworn to Highgarden, commanding a fleet of over one hundred warships and fielding thousands of trained men. Only a few families in Westeros—like House Lannister, House Tyrell itself, and House Hightower—could claim greater military might.
For many observing noble youths, especially those from the second- and third-tier houses of the Reach, the defeat of the Redwyne brothers was a wake-up call. A few smarter ones, shedding their earlier arrogance, approached Arthur and Patrick to strike up conversation.
Some recognized the Valyrian steel longsword New Moon that hung at Arthur's hip—a blade that once belonged to House Whent of Harrenhal. When asked about it, Arthur didn't hesitate to recount how he came by it during a boar hunt on the way from the Riverlands. Patrick had previously bragged about Arthur killing five boars with nothing but that sword, and now, the tale seemed far less exaggerated.
The doubters began to understand: the wild tales they'd mocked earlier were true.
"The fool was me," many of them realized, quietly stewing in embarrassment.
By the time word of the duel finished echoing across the training yards and stables of the Red Keep, Arthur Bracken's name had already begun to spread beyond the Reach retinue. Comparisons sprang up: Was his raw power a match for Ser Gregor Clegane? Could he best the famed Ser Jaime Lannister, or even Ser Barristan Selmy, should the White Sword Tower ever be threatened again?
Of course, only time would answer such questions.
Arthur, Patrick, and Desmond remained at the practice ground through lunch, sampling some of the fine fare brought by Tyrell retainers—fig-stuffed duck, honeyed bread, and Arbor red. After a short ride and lance practice near the Dragonpit, the group returned to their quarters to prepare for the evening's gathering.
Ser Loras had personally extended an invitation to Arthur—and, by extension, to Patrick Mallister and Ser Desmond of Riverrun—for an exclusive party hosted by the Reach nobility.
The Reachmen were known for their decadent lifestyle and fondness for festivities. House Tyrell, being kin to the Redwynes, Hightowers, Rowans, and Fossoways, regularly hosted elaborate feasts and masked balls at Highgarden. These customs had followed them to King's Landing. Tonight's event, held in a sprawling Tyrell-owned villa near the Red Keep, was a private affair with attendees limited to core heirs and scions of Westeros's first- and second-tier noble houses.
In truth, Patrick and Desmond—respectively an heir from a minor Riverlands house and a sworn knight without lands—would never have made the guest list on their own. But Ser Loras had insisted on including them as Arthur's companions.
It was an unspoken sign of respect.
And the two knew it.
"There are benefits to following a tough bastard like Arthur," Desmond whispered with a half-smile as they exited their lodgings near the Street of Steel.
"You look like a merchant prince," he added as they entered the better-lit thoroughfares close to the Red Keep.
Arthur, dressed in a vibrant yellow silk tunic embroidered with a sinuous dragon wrapped around a pair of stag antlers, cut a striking figure. His build was imposing yet elegant, his gait commanding, and his face clean-shaven and youthful. His cloak was clasped with a miniature silver hammer, an emblem freshly forged.
Onlookers along the narrow streets—smiths, washerwomen, sellswords, and even a few Gold Cloaks—turned their heads to look.
The golden dragon motif stitched onto Arthur's chest had many whispering. To the common folk of King's Landing, who knew every noble sigil from years of tourneys and war, the design was unfamiliar. The golden dragon with a snake's tail and antlers didn't match any known Westerosi house.
Some speculated he was a Qartheen emissary. Others whispered he might be the bastard of a foreign prince—or perhaps a Braavosi arms merchant with Valyrian steel to trade.
But none who saw him believed he was anything less than important.
And Arthur, for once, didn't mind the attention.
Then he could only be a distinguished guest from the Free Cities of Essos—or so many onlookers assumed.
"That makes me look like your page," Patrick grumbled, a touch of resentment in his voice.
Though his clothes were cut from the same fine Dornish silk as Arthur's, they lacked the flair. Where Arthur's robes shimmered with foreign embroidery and noble mystery, Patrick's appeared plain by comparison. The heir of Seagard, once proud and composed, now found himself sour with envy.
"I'm just a minor landed knight," Arthur replied humbly.
He didn't let the stares from the street nor the quiet admiration of his companions get to his head. What occupied his mind was far more strategic—how to build genuine alliances with the great houses of the Reach.
Among the dominant Reach houses, House Tyrell—the Lords of Highgarden—could muster over twenty thousand soldiers in full strength. House Hightower, sworn to Oldtown, maintained a standing force of over fifteen thousand, including citadel-trained engineers. House Redwyne commanded the largest fleet in the Reach with nearly one hundred warships and close to ten thousand men. House Rowan of Goldengrove could bring around five thousand to bear, not to mention the combined strength of lesser houses like Tarly, Fossoway, and Florent.
While it might be difficult for any one house to forge hundreds of elite suits of armor, if all four major families each produced a hundred or two, Arthur reasoned he could eventually purchase five to six hundred full sets with ease.
He envisioned a future where he used his tournament winnings and prize money to purchase not just arms, but respect. If the alliances worked out—if he could win the favor of Tyrell, Hightower, Redwyne, and Rowan—he could equip a full battalion in elite armor. Even though he had already placed an order for two hundred suits of lamellar in King's Landing, there was no such thing as "too much" armor in the coming storm.
The lamellar from the smaller blacksmiths was made to order, handcrafted, and varied in quality. But the major Reach families had large-scale smithies—factories, almost—producing arms and armor in standardized batches, with consistent quality. For war, that mattered.
The party hosted by Ser Loras Tyrell was held in an estate courtyard not far from Maegor's Holdfast, the inner stronghold of the Red Keep.
Its location alone said everything about House Tyrell's current standing.
On the one hand, the Tyrells were the most powerful vassals in the Reach and rich enough to purchase or lease a grand villa within sight of the Red Keep. On the other hand, they were still not part of the royal inner circle. Close to power, but not within it.
"You must be Ser Arthur Bracken? Please, this way."
A dozen house retainers were already lined up at the courtyard entrance. One, clearly briefed in advance, stepped forward as soon as he saw the gold-threaded dragon and antler emblem on Arthur's chest—a unique sigil designed in Seagard and unfamiliar to most. His words were polite, but his eyes flicked over Arthur and his companions with open curiosity.
Arthur gave a silent nod, and under the watchful gaze of the servants and passersby—some envious, some calculating, some quietly awed—he and his companions followed the retainer inside.
They passed through a narrow covered walkway of Dornish tiles and painted stone columns. Beyond that came a lush courtyard blooming with late spring roses, and then a series of arched halls with marble floors and Reach tapestries.
The walk took several minutes, long enough to realize just how expansive the estate truly was. The Tyrells hadn't just rented a villa—they had claimed a minor palace of their own in the capital.
When they finally reached the grand receiving hall, the retainer swung open the carved wooden doors with an elegant bow.
Immediately, a wave of sound spilled into the corridor—laughter, clinking goblets, and the low hum of lutes and harps being played in the far corners.
Arthur was greeted by a dazzling sight.
Dozens of highborn youths and Reach scions filled the chamber, clad in silks and brocades of every color. Laughter echoed off high ceilings. The air smelled of jasmine and sweet Arbor red. Girls with flower wreaths and painted lips moved between golden pillars, while handsome sons of noble houses traded gossip with an easy arrogance. Some of the prettier serving girls were groped in passing, giggling or frowning depending on the status of the one who touched them.
So this is the life of the capital's upper crust, Arthur thought, absorbing it all. Born to a warrior house in the Riverlands, this kind of refined revelry was still new to him.
He exhaled slowly.
Then, squaring his shoulders, Arthur Bracken stepped into the hall.
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