Desmond watched the stunned expressions of the Reach nobles—many of them sons of lords, heirs of viscounts and bannermen—and couldn't help feeling a surge of pride.
Even among highborn sons, none had heard tales of Arthur Bracken. That alone gave him a sense of smug satisfaction.
So what if you're the sons of Lords from Goldengrove, Brightwater Keep, or Old Oak? Desmond thought. You lot haven't even heard of Arthur's legend? How provincial.
"This is outrageous. I don't believe it," one young knight muttered, his House Fossoway cloak trailing as he turned toward Desmond. "Killing dozens of enemies? Maybe. I'll pretend ignorance and try to accept that. But three hundred? That's beyond ridiculous."
"Aye," said another, bearing the red-and-yellow colors of House Merryweather. "He'd have to be the Mountain reborn to do something like that."
Several of the noble youths scoffed openly, exchanging incredulous looks.
Desmond, ever the provocateur, raised his index finger and wagged it smugly.
"That's where you lot go wrong. You've spent your lives nestled in the Mander valley, fattened by good wine and softer battles. You've never seen what lies beyond the Reach."
His voice rose as he turned slightly, letting more of them hear. "Arthur Bracken isn't some lordling with pretty armor. He's a true god of war. One man, one army. When he draws his warhammer, you'll see the truth."
The Riverrun coach was laying it on thick, but among the Reach nobles, that kind of boast rang hollow. They had seen tourneys. They had trained since boyhood. Exaggerated tales didn't impress them.
Yet the commotion drew the attention of Ser Loras Tyrell himself, seated in a place of honor not far off. The Knight of Flowers, always quick to detect shifts in tone and energy, glanced over.
At first, he thought it was the usual posturing. But then he caught a few key phrases: god of war… three hundred dead… Bracken.
He turned to Arthur, the quiet young lord seated beside him. "It sounds like that coach from Riverrun is talking about your story?"
Arthur didn't flinch. "He is," he replied, then calmly explained the incident with House Blackwood from the month before—the incident that had catapulted his name into whispered rumors across the Riverlands.
He didn't embellish. He laid out the facts: the unprovoked ambush by the Blackwoods, the loss of his men, the formal complaint brought to Riverrun, and the ensuing confrontation on the field.
"To be precise," Arthur clarified, "I killed just over a hundred in the fighting. The rest died later—of wounds, exhaustion, the heat. You know how it is: when the maesters and monks who march with an army are more skilled at leeching and bleeding than stitching wounds or removing arrowheads…"
His voice was even, with no sign of boasting. He presented it as a soldier's tale, grim and practical.
That note of realism shifted the tone. Some of the Reach youths—those less prideful—began to doubt their own skepticism.
Arthur had a reason for presenting the truth in this way. House Tyrell, after all, was known in Westeros as one of the few noble families who showed genuine care for their smallfolk. Like the Starks of the North or the Mormonts on Bear Island, the Tyrells understood the value of justice and reputation. The Knight of Flowers, especially, had a sense of chivalry that bordered on idealism.
By painting himself as a wronged lord rather than a bloodthirsty butcher, Arthur could win their favor. And the truth helped—it made his victory seem all the more impressive, not less.
Though Arthur believed House Tyrell's compassion for commoners was partly political—especially given their relatively recent rise from stewards to lords of Highgarden—he couldn't deny that their policies had helped their subjects. In that respect, they deserved respect, if not awe.
The Reach lacked the deep-rooted ancient blood of the Starks or the Martells. Its nobility often jockeyed for status. In such an environment, cultivating goodwill among the people became a potent tool of legitimacy—and the Tyrells wielded it masterfully.
"I admire your courage," Loras said, after a long pause. "If it were me… I don't think I'd dare stand against five hundred with only a third of that number."
His voice was sincere, but a flicker of doubt still lingered in his eyes.
He didn't voice it, of course. Not out of fear, but etiquette.
After all, on the battlefield, slaying three or five men was already the mark of a champion. Those who claimed ten were often commanders. Twenty, and the bards would sing your name across the land.
But over a hundred?
It seemed the stuff of legends, not men. Even Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, hadn't been credited with so many in a single battle.
Still, Loras held his tongue. There was something about Arthur Bracken—the calm confidence, the way he avoided bragging—that made him difficult to dismiss.
It was one thing to lie for glory.
But it was another to speak plainly, and let others build the legend for you.
And from what Loras could tell, the legend had only just begun.
As for legendary figures like Ser Arthur Dayne, the famed "Sword of the Morning," it was said that he bested five of his Kingsguard brothers in training with such ease that tales grew absurd—some even joked he could defeat them while relieving himself. Whether that tale was truth or exaggeration, there was no question that Dayne stood as the pinnacle of single combat prowess in Westeros for a generation.
Of course, in duels, no one could match the grace and lethality of Dayne wielding Dawn, his ancestral blade forged from a fallen star. But in the chaos of the battlefield, warriors like Robert Baratheon and Arthur Bracken, those with unmatched brute force and fearless momentum, often wrought greater havoc. For smashing through armor and shield walls, nothing could rival the sheer weight and impact of a warhammer—far more effective than even the finest greatsword.
Loras Tyrell, seated with Arthur in the noble stands, gave no outward sign of doubt, but it was plain enough that others remained unconvinced.
"But we haven't actually seen Lord Bracken's strength," one Reach noble called out. "How do we know any of it's true?"
"That's right," another added. "All I saw was this baron cleave through Ser Meryn Trant's blade in a tavern brawl. Impressive, sure—but it hardly proves Desmond's tale of hundreds dead."
"Everyone brags," sneered a third. "Especially you riverfolk. You talk like the Riverlands are full of heroes, but when the real wars come, you're the first to bleed and the last to stand."
"The Riverlands are just the footcloth of the Seven Kingdoms," muttered one in a green-and-yellow surcoat. "Maybe there's one man of note—Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish—but the rest? Hmph."
The contempt was open now. Around Arthur, several first- and second-tier Riverland nobles, uncomfortable and outnumbered, shifted awkwardly. Their status and honor were being picked apart.
Arthur might have ignored it if the insults weren't personal. But they were mocking him—his deeds, his house, his honor. And for that, his patience snapped.
He turned slowly to face the Reach nobles who had spoken with such disdain.
"Why?" Arthur asked, his voice level but cold. "Do you mean to test my strength for yourselves?"
A tall, broad-shouldered knight with thick brown hair stood immediately.
"Gladly. Don't think I'm afraid of a puffed-up baron with a big mouth."
Another man rose beside him, similar in build and manner—clearly his twin—and added, "All you did was break one sword in a drunken squabble, and now you expect Ser Loras to believe these tall tales? You insult us by even sitting here."
Their frustration wasn't just about the story. It was about who sat beside Ser Loras. Arthur had barely arrived and was already treated as an honored guest. These two, despite being part of the Tyrell inner circle, had been seated behind the main dais.
"These are the Redwyne twins—Horace and Hobber," Loras murmured to Arthur with a resigned smile. "My cousins. They mean well. Most of the time."
Then, raising his voice, he addressed them both with a firm but composed tone: "Sers, please. Show our guests the hospitality the Reach is known for. Let's not behave like Dothraki raiders, quarreling over a horse."
Though all three were knights, the difference in status was evident. Loras' words were soft, but authoritative. The Redwyne twins, despite their glowering expressions, obeyed. They sat back down, though their knuckles were white against the arms of their chairs.
Trying to steer the conversation back to civility, Loras said lightly, "Now, Arthur, we were just discussing strength. Perhaps we can continue—"
But Arthur raised a hand. "No, no. I think it's time these two knights gained some real life experience," he said coolly. "So that next time, they'll learn not to scorn what they don't understand."
The Lord of the Red Mill saw his opportunity. He had long understood that fame was a tool sharper than steel. If he could prove himself here, in front of Loras Tyrell and dozens of noble sons from across the Reach, his influence would spread like wildfire. The likes of Desmond and Patrick—his devoted companions—would become his heralds, sharing his exploits across taverns, keeps, and castles.
Make yourself a name, and the path ahead will open.
Loras blinked, surprised. "You mean… you intend to challenge one of them?"
The Redwyne twins stirred again, their pride clearly stung. Horace clenched his fists, rising halfway out of his seat.
"What, you want to fight me now?"
"Either of us could crush you, liar," Hobber spat. "You think we'll let you spin more yarns beside Ser Loras?"
Arthur didn't flinch. He shook his head slowly.
"You misunderstand," he said.
Then, after a heartbeat's pause, and to the astonishment of half the Reach nobles present, he looked at them both—and said clearly, "The two of you. Come at me together. I, Arthur Bracken, fear no man."
Gasps rippled through the viewing stands. Even some older knights leaned forward, eager to see if the boast was bravado—or prophecy.
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