Westeros, 298 AC, Red Fork River, Riverlands — Castle Redmill, seat of a minor Bracken cadet branch.
"Ser, your uncle wants to see you."
A voice—deep, masculine—cut through the haze of sleep like a sword through fog. Li Hao stirred, his consciousness caught between a modern apartment in Chengdu and something… older. Colder.
Ser? Since when did a 21st-century otaku like me become a medieval knight? He tried to roll over and keep dreaming, but reality, stubborn and insistent, refused to let go.
"Ser," the voice continued, firmer now. "If you don't get up, Ser Jules said he'll help himself to all the gold dragons in the treasury."
A firm shove accompanied the warning. Li Hao's eyes snapped open.
A man stood before him, middle-aged, robed in the sober grey of a steward. The room was dim, lit only by a high, narrow arrow slit. Stone walls. Wooden furniture, rough-hewn and practical. This was no bachelor pad. No smell of instant noodles or sound of traffic—only old wood, damp stone, and the distant caw of crows.
The steward bowed slightly. "Ser Jules departed for King's Landing at dawn. He says he's been invited to the Hand's tourney by Lord Stark himself. He asks for one hundred gold dragons to fund his travel."
Ser Jules. Ned Stark. Gold dragons. The names pried open Li Hao's mind. Like a floodgate bursting, memories surged in—foreign yet familiar.
He had transmigrated.
This wasn't just any medieval world. This was Westeros—the blood-soaked, intrigue-ridden land of Game of Thrones.
He was now Arthur Bracken, minor landed knight of House Bracken's cadet line, sworn to Riverrun and the Tullys. Twenty-two years old, the original Arthur was known more for his looks and height than any useful skill. In the cruel calculus of Westeros, he was cannon fodder at best.
But for Li Hao, freshly armed with modern knowledge and the instincts honed by hundreds of hours in Mount & Blade: Warband, this was a dream come true.
Back on Earth, he'd lived a typical life: nine years of school, an average university, and a middling office job earning 6,000 RMB a month. He coasted through life with no grand ambition, his only passion being the sandbox freedom of Mount & Blade. Whether in the office or on the subway, he played obsessively.
So when a blue system window blinked into existence before him, he was not surprised—only elated.
[Name: Arthur Bracken]
[Title: Baron of Redmill]
[Level: 1]
[EXP: 149/600]
[Strength: 12 | Agility: 9 | Intelligence: 7 | Charisma: 9]
[Attribute Points: 4 | Skill Points: 5 | Weapon Points: 10]
Skills: Power Attack 4, Weapon Master 2, Riding 3, Tactics 1, Persuasion 1, Command 3, others all 0
Weapon Proficiencies: One-Handed 74, Two-Handed 72, Polearms 77, others all 31
Mount & Blade's stat panel?! This was a cheat code dropped by the gods of gaming themselves.
Knowing war loomed on the horizon, Arthur quickly allocated his stats—three points to Strength, one to Agility. This wasn't the time for a diplomat's charm or a scholar's wisdom. He needed brawn and reflexes.
Skills were distributed: three into Power Attack, one into Archery, one into Throwing. All ten weapon points went into Two-Handed, in honor of his family's ancestral greatsword.
With the panel dismissed, Arthur tossed off his nightclothes and reached for his tunic. He needed to confront this Ser Jules—a man who asked for 100 gold dragons as if they were copper pennies.
The steward, Amber, retrieved a fur-lined cloak and helped Arthur dress. Amber's name surfaced from memory—loyal, meticulous, and quietly overworked.
As Amber fastened his belt, Arthur recalled the geopolitical mess he'd landed in. The Riverlands, a fertile but war-prone region, were about to become the main battleground of the War of the Five Kings. Already, the spark had been lit—Catelyn Stark had seized Tyrion Lannister at the Crossroads Inn. Tywin Lannister would retaliate with fire and sword. And Gregor Clegane—The Mountain—would lead brutal raids along the Red Fork, burning villages and hanging smallfolk.
Arthur's fiefdom, Castle Redmill, was a minor holding of House Bracken—an old First Men house long at odds with the Blackwoods. But this was not even the main Bracken seat at Stone Hedge. Redmill was a minor offshoot, much like the Karstarks to the Starks.
He had only nine hamlets under his banner, a tiny garrison of thirty-five men, and barely enough strength to intimidate Frey servants, let alone face Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain's raids would reach here within months.
If he'd been reborn in the Vale, the Reach, or even sleepy Dorne, he might have been safe. But the Riverlands? It was the anvil of Westeros—where the hammer always fell hardest. And Lord Hoster Tully, aging and infirm, could do little to shield his vassals.
Still, all was not lost. Arthur's family vaults held seven hundred gold dragons. Enough to flee to Saltpans, Seagard, or even King's Landing and wait out the storm in comfort.
Compared to fat Walda Frey's dowry—worth over a hundred silver stags, about the same in gold dragons—Arthur's savings were considerable.
He made up his mind. He would stall Jules, prepare his guards, and plan his exit.
Amber opened the chamber door. Arthur nodded and summoned four of his best men. "Arm yourselves with bows. Wake the others. Full kits."
The castle wasn't large. By the time he reached the main hall, four more guards had joined with extra gear: eight archers total, and his family's prized two-handed Valeman steel sword—though not Valyrian, it was a fine blade of Westerosi make, passed down three generations.
Amber offered the sword with reverence.
Arthur entered the stone hall, lit dimly by torches even at midday. At the far end, sprawled across the high-backed lord's chair, lounged a man in his forties—chainmail poorly hidden under a stained velvet doublet. One foot rested arrogantly on the dais.
He looked more like a hedge knight pretending to be a noble than the minor Bracken he was.
Jules Bracken. Arthur's uncle.
Like most second sons, Jules was trained for war, not governance. He'd left Redmill decades ago and wandered the Free Cities, the Westerlands, and Oldtown, returning only recently for Arthur's father's funeral.
He stayed ever since, leeching from his nephew's hospitality like a wartime bard overstaying his welcome.
At first, the original Arthur had admired him—his tales of Braavos courtesans, Qohor blacksmiths, and fighting in the Second Sons. He brought color to a quiet life.
But over the months, the mask slipped. Jules drank too much, wore silks he didn't pay for, and spent more time ogling tavern maids than training the garrison. The original Arthur—naïve but dutiful—slowly began to see the rot beneath the charm.
Now, he wanted money. A hundred gold dragons. To travel to King's Landing and witness Ned Stark's first tourney as Hand of the King.
Arthur's jaw tightened.
Not without a price, Uncle Jules. Not anymore.
The much-disliked uncle, Ser Jules, could sense the cold disdain in his nephew's eyes. Like a cornered sellsword with debts in Braavos, he knew it was time to flee—but not before trying to pocket some coin.
And so, the scene unfolded.
"Well now, if it isn't my dear nephew Arthur," Jules drawled with forced cheer. "Spare me a hundred gold dragons and I'll ride to King's Landing, enter the tourney, and win the Bracken name a bit of glory."
He said it lightly, as though gold dragons grew on trees in the Riverlands. But his shifting eyes, flicking from the window to the door where Arthur and Amber had just entered, betrayed the desperation beneath his swagger.
"Uncle Jules," Arthur said from the threshold, voice calm but cold. "Do you think we're Lannisters with a gold mine under our hall? You speak of a hundred dragons like it's supper coin."
Even in the richest years, Moulin Rouge never pulled in such gold within a decade.
Jules kicked his muddy boots onto a nearby bench, tone turning sharp. "So that's a no, then?"
Arthur remembered Jules's actions after his father's funeral—the false grief, the whispered dealings, the quiet looting of the cellars—and felt no urge to part with even a copper. "No coin. No favor. Even if I had it, I wouldn't give it to you."
Jules looked Arthur over—his plain traveling leathers, Amber's muted gray robes—then glanced at his own gleaming Riverlands-forged plate, the same armor Arthur's father had bought him for three gold dragons. That little boost of confidence made him bristle.
He stood abruptly, hand sliding toward the hilt at his hip, and barked, "Do you want to see if my blade's still sharp?"
Amber stepped forward at once, interposing herself between Jules and her lord. "Stand down. What are you planning to do, Ser?"
Arthur, unfazed by his uncle's theatrics, raised his voice: "Guards! Enter and ready bows."
Eight men armed with hunting bows filed in from the courtyard. As trained, they swiftly strung their bows and nocked arrows in one fluid movement.
Arthur's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Uncle Jules, do you want to test whether my arrows fly faster than your steel?"
Jules froze. Color drained from his face as the bows were drawn. He raised his hands, a grin plastered to his face like a mummer in a play. "Ah—Arthur, my boy! There's no need for threats between kin! I came all this way for your father's funeral, didn't I? Uncle was merely jesting!"
Perhaps if Arthur were still the timid heir who let his uncle eat and drink through half the cellar, Jules might have gotten away with it. But the man before him was no longer that boy.
Arthur sneered. "Enough. Disarm yourself."
Jules hesitated, then slowly removed his sword, laying it on a nearby table. Amber retrieved it, keeping her gaze on him.
"Lower your bows," Arthur ordered. The guards relaxed, though their eyes never left Jules.
Then Arthur raised his chin and addressed him like a captain addressing a disgraced man-at-arms. "Two choices. One: join my guard. Daily patrols, five silver stags a month."
"Two: take off that plate, put on the rags you arrived in, and get out."
Jules's plate armor, purchased years ago in Fairmarket, was one of the few luxuries the Brackens had been able to afford—and even then, only because Arthur's father bartered horses and grain. In King's Landing, it might've fetched double. In the North, it could buy a holdfast.
"Five silver stags?" Jules spat. "You think I'm some foot soldier you can boss around?"
Arthur gestured again. The guards lifted their bows in unison.
"Isn't that what you are?" he said coolly. "The mountain clansmen under the Bloody Gate dress better than you did last month."
Amber, now holding Jules's sword, pointed it at the older man. Jules's eyes darted to Arthur, then to the guards, and finally to Amber. Years of wandering from Gulltown to Lannisport had taught him one thing: survival meant knowing when to bend.
"Ah, we're all kin," he said, chuckling nervously. "Of course I'll serve. Guard duty, easy enough."
He bowed his head, hiding the flicker of resentment beneath a mask of sheepish obedience. If he couldn't get gold, at least he'd keep the armor—and a roof over his head. Better this than sleeping in hedges, chased by wolves or worse. And who knows? Moulin Rouge had a brothel or two, and Jules still had his appetites.
He also began to reassess Arthur. A man willing to humiliate his own uncle? That was someone worth watching.
Arthur gave a satisfied nod. "Amber, assign him a post. And fit him with proper chainmail—nothing more."
Amber sheathed the blade and nodded.
Jules's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. With eight bows trained on him minutes ago, compliance was the wiser path.
Just as Amber and Jules turned to leave, a guard burst into the hall.
"Milord! The village elder from He'an and some of the folk—begging an audience!"