Finding Cyril was non-negotiable. Seven hundred gold dragons didn't vanish into thin air.
But Arthur couldn't march into Blackwood territory himself just to catch a runaway servant. If he were recognized by a Blackwood scout or, worse, someone loyal to House Tully, he risked being seized and ransomed like some hedge knight. The political tension between Brackens and Blackwoods was no secret—old blood feuds ran deep in the Riverlands, older than even the Andals.
Besides, Cyril and his son John had fled in secret, like rats abandoning a sinking ship. They wouldn't show their faces in broad daylight, not if they had a drop of sense.
This wasn't a task for armored knights or green recruits. It required someone with a knack for shadows—someone who understood the desperation of the lowborn, and could sniff out cowardice like a bloodhound.
Who could he send?
Arthur was still mulling this over when Amber entered the hall, mud still clinging to the hem of his grey robes.
"My lord, the ditch you ordered has been dug. It circles the base of the hill as instructed."
Arthur's thoughts clicked into place. He looked at Amber and remembered the first name he'd heard upon arriving in this world: Jules.
Uncle Jules.
A wandering scoundrel, well-versed in the underbelly of Westeros. He'd drifted across inns and border towns for over two decades, doing mercenary work, small-time cons, and tavern brawls. If anyone could track a snake through the brush and not blink, it was Jules.
"Good. Now fetch Jules and Javier," Arthur ordered briskly.
Amber bowed and left at once.
Sending Jules alone wasn't an option. If he caught Cyril and found the stash of coin, he might vanish with it. That much Arthur knew from watching how his uncle lingered a little too long around the armory and counted coin with too much affection.
No—he needed someone to keep him honest.
But who?
Arthur's retinue had little to offer in terms of true knights. Most of his men had only rudimentary martial training—barely above the level of militia from nearby villages. Even Arthur himself had inherited little more than half-formed sword drills from the previous body's memory.
Amber, his steward, was solid with a spear and bow but admitted he hadn't trained since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Age and duty had dulled his edge. He might match Jules one-on-one, but certainly couldn't watch him and track a fugitive at the same time.
But Javier was different.
Captain of the hundred-man garrison loaned by Lord Bracken of Stone Hedge, Javier had fought against the Brotherhood Without Banners in the southern marches. He was disciplined, quiet, and had the look of a man who survived battles because he knew when to speak and when to swing.
He'd be perfect to keep Jules in line.
Arthur felt a weight lift from his chest. With those two, the task might actually get done.
Soon, all three returned to the hall. Arthur explained the mission briefly, keeping the details sharp and clear. Track Cyril and his son. Don't engage unless necessary. Recover what you can—and report back.
"You only ever call me when there's work," Jules grumbled, arms folded.
He'd gotten used to his lazy post at the gate. Standing sentry meant low risk, no effort, and a chance to sneak off for wine during long shifts.
Now Arthur was sending him north—straight into Blackwood territory. That alone was dangerous. The Blackwoods didn't take kindly to Bracken spies, and Jules knew it.
"I'll give you a full set of plate armor—the kind forged in Lannisport," Arthur added, dangling the offer like a carrot before a stubborn mule.
Jules perked up immediately. His eyes gleamed.
"Nephew, why didn't you say that earlier?" he clapped his chest, emboldened. "If there's ever anything you need, you come to me. Don't let this whole 'elder' business stop you."
Arthur smirked. "Then go change. And don't forget your boots."
He knew his uncle's weakness well. A proper suit of armor—especially one from the Westerlands—was like Valyrian steel to a hedge knight. Jules had likely dreamed of it for years, only to wake up with flea bites and a hangover in a stable loft.
Once the two set out, Arthur turned to Amber.
"Come. Let's inspect the territory."
After two days of rest, Arthur was ready to begin something big. The foundations of a real stronghold—one capable of housing a growing population and fending off raiders.
His idea? Mobilize the people to construct a fortified village surrounding the hill beneath his keep. If successful, it could house thousands. But such a massive project would require at least two thousand workers and weeks of labor. With Daemon's mountain men rumored to be crossing the Red Fork soon, there wasn't much time.
Arthur could, by right, force the peasants into labor. Lords across Westeros did it all the time, especially House Frey at the Twins or Harren's cursed lineage at Harrenhal. But Arthur was not Harren the Black. He wouldn't bleed his people dry for stones and mortar.
He was a modern man.
Their lives were already harsh—scraping by through flood, tax, and war. He wouldn't add to their burdens without first walking among them.
Arthur rode out with Amber and a few guards. The construction site, a ring-shaped pit surrounding the central hill, was already half a man deep. Dug in an inverted trapezoid shape as Arthur had designed, it was a primitive moat, cut straight from the clay and stone of the Red Fork's banks.
If completed, it would make a frontal assault costly.
A stone wall was to be raised half a step from the pit, just high enough to reach a man's waist. Above it, a wooden palisade would be mounted, creating a layered defense. It wouldn't stop a Lannister army, but it would frustrate smaller raiding parties or bandit hosts.
The concept was simple: force attackers to cross the pit, lose momentum in the slope, and then face defenders firing from a height. Anyone who watched the Battle of Blackwater Bay—or had seen how King's Landing's walls repelled Stannis' men—knew how critical elevation and bottlenecks were in a siege.
Arthur had no delusions. Only Riverrun or the Twins could hold off a true army in the Riverlands. The rest of them could only delay and flee.
Still, if it bought him even a day, it would be worth it.
He stood at the edge of the growing pit, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.
This was no longer just a temporary holding. He was building something that might last.
Arthur was very satisfied with his idea.
The dozens of smallfolk digging trenches along the road spotted Arthur riding up on horseback. Most of them paused their work, shielding their eyes from the rising sun, and broke into smiles as they recognized their young lord.
Several raised their hoes or waved in greeting.
Arthur returned every gesture with a nod or a word.
News of his defense of Darren had spread like wildfire across the territory. Standing up to a knight from House Blackwood—one of the Tully bannermen—had earned Arthur the people's respect, and now, wherever he went, the common folk greeted him not with fear but with genuine admiration.
It was early morning, the sky unmarred by clouds. A soft breeze from the Red Fork stirred Arthur's grey-gold hair, giving him the sort of wind-swept charm usually reserved for lords sung of in tavern songs.
Grey-robed Amber followed closely behind, his boots crunching over loose gravel. He watched the young lord with a quiet sense of awe. In his heart, though uneducated in poetry or courtly language, Amber could only think one thing: "The lord looks truly heroic."
The first stop was the closest settlement—Riverside Village, built just beyond the banks of the Red Fork.
As they neared, Arthur and his escort dismounted, leading their horses on foot. He didn't want to tower over the villagers on horseback. That posture belonged to lords who ruled by fear. Arthur intended to rule by trust.
"Look there! It's Lord Arthur!"
"The just lord—the one who faced down Blackwood's dog!"
Shouts and murmurs spread as the group approached. A few children ran ahead to fetch the village elder, while others gathered around with bright eyes. Most of the able-bodied were out tending the fields or working the carpenters' sheds, so the village square was filled with the elderly, women, and a gaggle of curious youths.
Still, the moment they recognized their lord, every one of them offered a smile or a respectful bow.
Arthur reached the center of the village, where a stone well stood under the shade of a gnarled old weirwood stump—its face long since carved away by fire in some old purge of the old gods. Villagers clustered around him, murmuring among themselves.
He could hear snatches of conversation: tales of him shielding Darren from a Blackwood knight's wrath, how he'd stepped in when no one else dared, how he'd spoken like a true noble with honor, not arrogance.
Every version of the tale was different—some said he drew steel, others claimed he cowed the knight with words alone—but in every telling, Arthur was a hero. The tellers swelled with pride, as if they'd stood beside him that day.
Arthur listened, smiling faintly. He hadn't expected all this.
When he'd confronted the Blackwood men, it was out of instinct more than strategy. He hadn't been able to stomach the way Darren—a peasant, barely more than a boy—was being treated like livestock by men who thought their noble blood made them gods.
Yes, he'd known there would be consequences. Blackwood was one of the stronger houses in the Riverlands. Tully's favored bannermen. But if he were put in that situation again, he would do the same.
Not for strategy. Not even for the loyalty it earned.
But because of the simple, stubborn fire in his chest. A refusal to look away.
As he stood there, basking in the warmth of the crowd's gratitude, something wet splashed against his foot.
Arthur looked down.
A small child—barely more than a toddler—had wandered up and peed directly onto Arthur's cloth shoes.
In the summer heat, he hadn't worn his usual boots or steel greaves—just soft linen socks and simple cloth shoes. He felt the warmth seep into the fabric with a jarring clarity.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, someone let out a nervous chuckle.
Arthur looked at the child, who stared back innocently, pants still damp.
He laughed.
It started as a small grin, then bubbled out of him as a full, genuine laugh.
The villagers joined in, the tension melting away.
Arthur bent down and tousled the boy's head. "Don't worry. It's not the worst thing I've stepped in."
Amber, standing to the side, blinked. "I'll fetch another pair of shoes, my lord."
Arthur waved him off. "Later. Let them see I'm not made of silk and gold."
And with that, they continued the inspection, wet shoes and all, the people's laughter following them like a banner in the wind.
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