[Baron: Arthur Bracken]
[Level: 6]
[Experience: 4024/6000]
[Strength: 18]
[Agility: 12]
[Intelligence: 7]
[Charm: 9]
[Skills: Iron Bones 4, Power Attack 7, Power Throw 1, Power Bow 1, Weapon Mastery 2, Shield Defense 2, Running 2, Riding 6, Horse Archery 0, Looting 0, Coaching 0, Tracking 0, Tactics 1, Guide 0, Scouting 0, Healing 0, Surgery 0, First Aid 0, Engineering 0, Persuasion 1, Prisoner Management 1, Command 3, Trading 0]
[Weapon Proficiency: One-handed Weapons 74, Two-handed Weapons 125, Polearms 97, Bows 31, Crossbows 31, Throwing 31]
The experience earned from slaying that monstrous boar in the woods outside Shire—an act witnessed by Desmond and corroborated by Patrick—and from the rigorous daily training drills at the Red Mill camp had finally pushed Arthur to level 6. The drills, designed to ready his men for the chaos looming on the horizon, now brought in a steady trickle of experience, around forty to fifty points per day.
But strangely, the numbers had become inconsistent.
Arthur narrowed his eyes at the figures. Some days the experience gain dropped inexplicably. The variation wasn't due to any external event he could recall. That only meant one thing: someone in his ranks was slacking. Probably more than one. Training standards clearly weren't being upheld while he was away in King's Landing.
A sharp lesson would be delivered the moment he returned. Arthur was not about to let discipline rot from within. Not when war loomed.
He assigned the new attribute point to Strength, pushing it further above the human norm—already the hallmark of his terrifying presence on the battlefield. The skill points went into Shield Defense, which he needed for the joust, and Riding, to sharpen his performance in the Hand's Tourney just days away. The weapon proficiency points, all ten of them, went into Polearms—specifically for the golden guandao being forged for him by Tobho Mott, master smith of Qohor working on Steel Street. It would be his mainstay in mounted combat.
Arthur closed the panel with a soft exhale and stepped out to find Patrick and Desmond.
The three of them had appointments to keep: a visit to Steel Street to check on their orders—custom wargear made at great expense. The guandao, the massive pumpkin-headed warhammer, his own custom full plate, and the two hundred suits of lamellar armor commissioned from local blacksmiths, all had to be inspected. At least a portion had to be completed and delivered before the Hand's Tourney began in three days. If not, his plans would start to unravel.
Five days ago, during Loras Tyrell's private gathering near Maegor's Holdfast, Arthur had finalized an agreement with the Redwyne twins. They would help coordinate armor purchases across the Reach, offering him a way to scale his forces faster than most minor lords could dream. And that wasn't all.
In less than a fortnight, according to Ned Stark's intel and Varys' whispers from the Red Keep, Ser Gregor Clegane would begin his campaign of fire and blood along the Red Fork. It would mark the unofficial beginning of open conflict—the War of the Five Kings. Arthur had to move before then. He needed to return to the Riverlands and intercept the Mountain's forces near Shire, where desperate smallfolk were already packing what little they owned and fleeing.
He couldn't afford to be late.
Because this confrontation wasn't just about glory—it was the opening act in his campaign to win hearts and minds. Dozens of Riverlands villages, abandoned by their lords or betrayed by cowardice, would soon be helpless before Gregor's iron fury.
But what if a young noble—well-armed, freshly returned from King's Landing, flanked by disciplined retainers—rallied to their defense? What if he appeared out of nowhere to stand between the Mountain and a hamlet of terrified farmers?
To the peasants, he would become more than a lord. He would be a savior. And to Arthur, they would become his foundation. Not just soldiers—but loyal settlers, sworn men, farmers, craftsmen. A new generation of men who would raise arms for him not because they were paid to, but because they believed in him.
The lords of House Darry and House Mooton would shut their gates and pray. Arthur Bracken would ride into fire.
The Mountain would burn. And from his ashes, Arthur's legend would rise.
"My neighbor farms," he thought grimly, "and I make weapons. My neighbor feeds me, and I defend him. But if the neighbor can't protect his fields anymore—he'll give them to me instead."
And so the plan moved forward. Every set of armor, every weapon, every ounce of strength mattered now. Not one coin would be wasted.
And no one, lazy or not, would be allowed to stand in the way.
Chapter 68 Someone is Lazy (Revised)
[Baron: Arthur Bracken]
[Level: 6]
[Experience: 4024/6000]
[Strength: 18]
[Agility: 12]
[Intelligence: 7]
[Charm: 9]
[Skills: Iron Bones 4, Power Attack 7, Power Throw 1, Power Bow 1, Weapon Mastery 2, Shield Defense 2, Running 2, Riding 6, Horse Archery 0, Looting 0, Coaching 0, Tracking 0, Tactics 1, Guide 0, Scouting 0, Healing 0, Surgery 0, First Aid 0, Engineering 0, Persuasion 1, Prisoner Management 1, Command 3, Trading 0]
[Weapon Proficiencies: One-Handed 74, Two-Handed 125, Polearms 97, Bows 31, Crossbows 31, Throwing 31]
The experience Arthur gained from slaying wild boars in the Crownlands forests and personally drilling his men in Shire was finally enough to reach level 6. His current training routine yielded between 40 to 50 experience points a day—but the inconsistency was suspicious. Some days, the total dipped into the thirties. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the stat screen.
Someone was slacking off during training.
He couldn't confirm who it was from King's Landing, but once he returned to the Red Mill, he intended to find out. Maybe it was the new recruits from the Trident who lacked discipline—or some cocky veteran thinking Arthur was too far away to notice.
As usual, he invested his newly earned attribute point into Strength. For skills, he added one to Riding—useful for the upcoming tourney—and one to Shield Defense, since the joust demanded both speed and protection. Ten more weapon proficiency points went into Polearms to improve his handling of the golden guandao Tobho Mott was forging.
After closing the stat panel, Arthur left his modest quarters at the inn and regrouped with Patrick and Desmond. Together they made their way uphill toward the top of Visenya's Hill, where Steel Street cut through the heart of the smithing district. The air shimmered with heat and the sound of hammers rang across the cobbles. They stopped at Tobho Mott's famed forge.
"Ser, your warhammer, sword, and full plate are finished," the master armorer declared after confirming Arthur's identity with the sigil-marked token.
Three apprentices emerged quickly, each bearing parts of the plate armor and the newly-forged longsword. But the warhammer was another matter—it took two thick-armed journeymen to carry it out. The head of the hammer was massive, roughly the size of a melon, and it shimmered with oil and runes etched deep into the iron.
Tobho Mott smiled proudly, though with a touch of sarcasm. "A masterpiece, yes—but I daresay no man can wield it. Even Ser Gregor Clegane might struggle."
His eyes scanned the group, unsure how they would transport the weapon back. If they asked for help, Tobho was ready to charge them a gold dragon just for the trouble.
When the hammer touched the cobblestone, it made the ground tremble slightly. Passersby stopped to gape. One of the apprentices spoke aloud, awestruck: "If anyone can swing this, no armor in the realm could withstand a blow."
"But who could?" another said. "Not even the Mountain… This is just a showpiece for some lord's great hall."
One man in the crowd laughed. "Aye, put it behind the dais, so guests can marvel at it. Doesn't matter if it can't be used."
Patrick snapped back, "Lord Arthur has the strength of ten men. He'll use it in battle."
Desmond crossed his arms. "The Mountain's strength is brute. Arthur's is trained. He'll lift it easily."
The onlookers didn't seem convinced—until Arthur stepped forward.
He bent, grasped the handle with both hands, and lifted. Slowly, steadily, the massive warhammer rose from the ground. A hush fell over the gathered crowd.
Arthur swung it side to side a few times, testing the balance. It was heavy, yes—heavy enough to slow his stride—but not unwieldy.
"How… How is that even possible?" one of the gawkers muttered, mouth agape.
"He lifted it like a sack of flour…"
"I'm truly a fool."
Even Tobho Mott stared with round eyes and an open mouth. Only he knew the exact weight: nearly 80 pounds of blackened steel. Four strong men had struggled to hoist it onto the worktable. And this young lord carried it away like it was a sword of bronze.
Arthur handed over the final payment—gold dragons and silver stags in equal weight—before instructing three of the Redwyne servants to deliver the plate armor and guandao back to the inn.
He, however, carried the warhammer himself as they walked a few blocks south toward the smaller blacksmith shop that was crafting the bulk order—200 suits of iron lamellar armor.
"Ser, the armor's coming along, but I need more time," the shop's master said, sweat rolling down his sunburned shoulders. Sparks flew in the yard behind him as men beat red-hot iron into shape.
They were making square plates by hand, as Arthur requested. But even with the forges of the surrounding shops enlisted, production was barely halfway done.
Arthur didn't speak. Instead, he let the warhammer drop to the stone.
Boom.
The entire shop rattled. The blacksmith paled instantly.
"That… hammer… it must weigh—" He stopped himself. "Apologies, my lord. I swear on the Seven, we'll finish on time. No food, no rest—we'll meet the deadline."
"See that you do," Arthur said coolly, then turned and left, the warhammer resting across his shoulders.
Now came the next errand: finding two strong, well-trained destriers—one for the joust, one for the campaign. Warhorses that could carry a man in full plate, wielding a tower shield and a weapon forged for giants.
It was shaping up to be a busy few days.
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