The next morning, Arthur Bracken followed one of House Tyrell's stewards through the corridors of Highgarden, heading toward the southern armory to collect the weapons and armor that Lord Mace Tyrell had promised.
Last night, the Lord of Highgarden had boasted with typical flair that Arthur could take "whatever he wished" from the Tyrell stores. But now, in the sober light of day, his steward proved far less generous than his lord. Despite the grand offer, Arthur was limited to fifty suits of plate armor, while the remaining two hundred and fifty sets were merely chainmail.
It's like the Seven Hells themselves are easier to face than a steward with a ledger, Arthur thought grimly. The King of Hell is easy to meet, but the little devils are the real trouble.
Still, he didn't argue. The armorer from Red Mill, who had accompanied Arthur to supervise the loadout, made swift and pragmatic selections. The armor was followed by an equal number of weapon sets: mostly hand-and-a-half swords paired with small, round one-handed shields, chosen for their versatility.
Once the equipment was selected and inspected, the steward ordered the crates to be packed into ox-drawn carts and sent to the Ferry Town at the confluence of the Mander River, where Arthur's company was gathering.
Despite the limits, Arthur was satisfied. The entire purchase—fifty plate suits, two hundred and fifty mail suits, and three hundred weapon kits—came to two thousand four hundred and sixty-five gold dragons. When he reviewed the final figures with Lord Mace in his solar, the florid lord simply waved a hand and shaved off the excess sixty-five dragons with a chuckle.
As for the 2,100 gold dragons from the Arbor, paid earlier through Paxter Redwyne, they had already been accounted for by the Tyrell treasury.
When it came to coin, Mace Tyrell—for all his pomposity—was surprisingly straightforward and did not haggle or stall. In that at least, Arthur found him dependable.
At present, Arthur still had 53,500 gold dragons deposited in the coffers of House Tyrell. After some consideration, he decided to withdraw 1,500 for immediate expenses and leave the rest secured in Highgarden. With the power of House Tyrell, the wealth of House Redwyne, and the influence of House Hightower, there was no safer place in Westeros to store funds—save perhaps the Iron Bank of Braavos in distant Essos.
Besides, during times of war like the War of the Five Kings, coin wasn't always the deciding factor—strength of arms often mattered more. Gold could be hoarded, but glory came from steel. Still, Arthur planned to keep some coin on hand to reward loyalty and good service.
That afternoon, Arthur rode downriver to Ferry Town, where he met with Wag Huot and Ange, the co-commanders of the Blood Troupe. They were there to oversee the arrival and vetting of new mercenaries answering Arthur's call.
This time, the town square was better organized. The mayor, likely pressured by coin and urgency, had assembled seventy to eighty able-bodied men in neat rows. As soon as Arthur approached, the hopefuls began shouting over one another:
"Ser! Choose me! Choose me, I'm the best sword here!"
"I killed five men in one fight! I could take the Mountain myself!"
"He's full of horse dung," another snarled. "I'm your man. I'll do whatever you say, no questions."
"This lot? Trash. You need someone with real armor and a longbow, like me!"
Arthur hadn't even dismounted before the boasts and jeers began flying. Fortunately, Wag Huot, despite his occasional stutter, had been through this sort of chaos before. With a quick nod, he sent one of the Blood Troupe's hardened sergeants forward. The man roared at the crowd, instantly silencing the square.
Arthur knew he lacked the expertise to judge individual fighters, so he left the evaluation to Wag and Ange, trusting their veteran eyes. He settled into a wooden chair the mayor had hastily provided, playing the role of the quiet patron while keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings.
Over the next two hours, men arrived in waves, eager for gold or glory. Wag and Ange went through them one by one, probing backgrounds, checking weapons, testing stances, and watching for discipline.
In the end, they selected sixty-three men.
Most brought their own gear, primarily chainmail, with a handful in worn plate. Their weapons varied—longbows, arming swords, a few crossbows, and several hand-and-a-half swords. As always, spear-fighters were rare in this part of the Reach—unlike the Dornish, who swore by their spears.
The mercenaries' wages averaged between 15 and 20 gold dragons per campaign. Wag Huot, who had negotiated a flat rate of 20 dragons per man for his own elite company, insisted on maintaining wage discipline so that these irregulars wouldn't earn more than his veterans.
Those who failed the test weren't sent away empty-handed. Arthur had Wag pay them two silver stags each for their time—enough to keep tensions low and spirits calm. Wag also personally ensured that freeloaders or troublemakers were escorted out. The man had no patience for idlers.
[Sixty-three Reach River Infantrymen have joined your company.]
As soon as the gold was paid, a subtle blue light screen shimmered before Arthur's eyes—another confirmation that his growing force was taking shape.
…
The next morning followed a similar rhythm. Word had spread across the region that a noble lord was hiring—and paying fairly.
As a result, even more mercenaries trickled into Ferry Town. After nearly three hours of interviews, drills, and negotiations, eighty-seven more reliable fighters were added to Arthur's ranks.
According to Ange, aside from facing a behemoth like Ser Gregor Clegane, this group of newly hired mercenaries would hold up well in the field. They were tough enough to fight in proper engagements, raid hostile villages, and collect taxes like household troops under any noble banner.
After all, Westeros had been in relative peace for nearly a decade, ever since Robert's Rebellion, and jobs for sellswords had grown scarce. The result? Even experienced fighters were desperate for contracts—competition was fierce, and those who rose to the top were usually dependable.
The ones selected by Wag Huot and Ange weren't just lucky—they were capable.
[Eighty-seven Reach River Infantrymen have joined your company.]
The caravan prepared by the mayor of Ferry Town was ready to depart. The six hundred sets of armor and weaponry—fifty plate, two hundred fifty chainmail, and three hundred complete weapon kits—were spread across more than twenty ox-drawn wagons. The remainder of the carts were filled with grain, dried meats, hardtack, and other provisions.
The journey north toward the Riverlands was estimated to take at least two to three weeks, depending on terrain and weather. Without adequate supplies, they wouldn't make it far—especially with nearly three hundred mouths to feed.
Once the midday meal was finished, Arthur Bracken gave the order to move.
Between the weapons, armor, and the 161 mercenaries—including the Blood Troupe, the Dornish spearmen, the archer Anguy, and the newer recruits—the trip to Highgarden had proven extremely worthwhile.
Six days later, they reached the Bitterbridge, where the Mander River narrowed beneath a great stone span. There, Arthur and his party waited as planned.
"Lord Arthur, I am here as promised."
The voice belonged to Dickon Tarly, who appeared mounted atop a dappled courser, clad in silvered plate armor bearing the boar-and-huntsman sigil of House Tarly. Two men rode behind him, wearing Tully red-and-blue cloaks over chainmail, with bows slung over their backs and half-swords on their belts. From their attire, they looked like rangers or scouts—perhaps retainers from Riverrun sent to guide Dickon or observe Arthur.
The Tarly family motto, "First in Battle," was no hollow boast. From the stern expressions and precise gear of the escorts, Arthur could tell these men had seen real action. Randyll Tarly's house was famous for its strict discipline and martial pride—his household troops reflected that.
When the riders approached, Dickon's otherwise serious face broke into a rare, eager grin.
"Where's the caravan?" he asked, eyes scanning the road.
Arthur gestured northward. "They've gone ahead," he replied simply. "We'll catch up soon."
The truth was, the mercenaries Arthur had recruited in the Reach were almost all infantry, and the ox carts were painfully slow. The distance to Bitterbridge had taken six days via the Rose Road, which was more time than Arthur had anticipated. So, after ensuring the caravan's path was secure, he had decided to wait at the bridge with Ange and a few others to keep his promise to Dickon.
Half a day later, the young man from the Tarly household had shown up—on time, and armed.
Though they had crossed into the northern half of the Reach, only a third of the journey was complete. The next leg of the trip would carry them due north along the Gold Road, before fording the Blackwater Rush to enter the western Riverlands.
There, Arthur hoped to gather reliable intelligence—on King's Landing, Tywin Lannister's host, and the movements of Ser Gregor Clegane's raiders—from passing travelers and scouts.
Dickon, seemingly in high spirits, trotted his horse alongside Arthur and raised a longsword for inspection. "Look what I brought," he said, half-laughing.
Arthur took the blade, surprised by its lightness. The steel shimmered unnaturally in the sunlight—clearly Valyrian steel.
"This is your family's blade?" Arthur asked, weighing it in his hands.
"Heartsbane," Dickon said proudly. "My father's sword, the sword of House Tarly, passed down for generations. I… borrowed it. Figured it should see real battle again. From now on, it'll ride with me across the Seven Kingdoms."
Arthur blinked, half amused, half bewildered. "Well… that's certainly one way to start your adventure."
He tossed the Valyrian steel sword back to Dickon with a wry smile. So both brothers had stolen the ancestral sword, he thought. First Sam took Heartsbane after defying his father at Horn Hill. And now Dickon, too. Seems like rebellion runs in the blood.
One could only wonder what Samwell Tarly, still guarding Castle Black, might take next if he ever returned home again.
Arthur said no more. He nudged his horse into motion and rode on with the rest of his company.
Seven days later, their full caravan—nearly three hundred strong, counting carts, guards, and mercenaries—finally reached the junction of the Gold Road and the Blackwater Rush.
There, Arthur received his first solid intelligence in days.
Word had spread quickly: Tyrion Lannister, known as the Imp, had been captured by Catelyn Stark at the Crossroads Inn and taken east toward the Eyrie. The arrest had enraged Lord Tywin, who began mustering House Lannister's forces in the west, summoning his bannermen at Casterly Rock to prepare for war.
In response, the Tullys of the Riverlands were rallying their own banners. Ser Edmure Tully, acting in the name of his ailing father Hoster, had called upon his vassals and fortified Riverrun. Reports placed them massing troops around the Red Fork, near the village of Stone Hedge and along the Tumbling Stone.
The two Great Houses—Tully and Lannister—stood on the brink of open war.
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