Arthur dismounted, signaling one of his retainers to hand him his greatsword.
Though it bore the name of a so-called ancestral blade, the sword was neither Valyrian nor particularly well-forged. After just a few skirmishes, its edge was chipped, and under the spring sun, the blade trembled faintly—less a weapon of prestige, more a blunt reminder of Bracken poverty.
When I have coin, Arthur thought, I'll get a proper sword. Valyrian steel.
Despite the prestige surrounding Valyrian steel in Westeros, there were still a decent number in circulation. Even House Mormont—lords of Bear Island and poor enough that their Lady ruled in boiled leather—possessed one: Longclaw, a bastard sword later gifted to Jon Snow. If the Mormonts could keep one, there was no reason the Brackens couldn't reclaim one eventually.
The Valyrian steel dagger used in the attempt on Bran Stark's life, for instance, had belonged to King Robert Baratheon. Joffrey later gifted it to an assassin—proof that to some, even Valyrian steel was just another trinket to toss around. (Littlefinger's claim that the dagger was his had always been a lie. When Tyrion Lannister gambled, he always backed Jaime in melee tourneys. Catelyn Stark simply hadn't heard the full story.)
House Lannister, powerful as they were, lacked one because their ancestral sword, Brightroar, was lost when Tommen II sailed to Valyria and vanished, taking the blade with him.
It was known that over two hundred Valyrian blades remained in Westeros. With luck, cunning, and gold, Arthur could get one.
Across the line, Santaga took his two-handed warhammer from a subordinate. He smirked. "Hope you don't start crying for your mother when this gets heavy."
"I hope your hammer's as strong as your mouth," Arthur shot back, gripping his greatsword with one hand and stepping into the clearing between the armies.
The Brackens and Blackwoods watched tensely. Santaga sneered at his men, and they laughed openly. After all, the match looked one-sided.
Santaga was no green boy—he'd earned his post as captain of House Blackwood's personal guard through over a decade of battlefield experience. And Arthur, to them, looked like nothing more than a pretty-faced young lord trying to play knight. His lean build and refined features didn't help.
In the rear, some Bracken soldiers whispered:
"Isn't Lord Arthur being a little too extravagant?"
"I'd bet on Andrew over him any day."
"Maybe it's just another noble thing—always showing off."
"You don't get it," one soldier muttered sarcastically. "This is Lord Arthur being smart."
"How's that smart?"
"If he loses, it gives him an excuse to let the Blackwoods walk. Lord Arthur doesn't want a full-on war—and we're not always on the south bank. They control the other side."
They hadn't seen Arthur fight during training at Stone Hedge, or they might not have doubted him so quickly. But Arthur, hearing the whispers, didn't care.
They don't understand. I just don't want anyone dying for nothing.
Santaga hefted his hammer, both hands gripping its long shaft, and marched forward confidently, certain of an easy win. Arthur's eyes narrowed as he noted the size of the hammerhead—easily larger than a clenched fist. One good hit and this sword's done for, Arthur thought grimly.
He couldn't afford a new blade anytime soon. This kind of greatsword cost at least two to three gold dragons, and unlike a set of maester's links, there was no storehouse full of spares. The shorter, lighter blades standard to common infantry wouldn't suit his build or technique—he needed reach and power. If his sword broke, he'd be stuck swinging a glorified kitchen knife.
That hammer can't touch this sword, he decided.
Santaga roared and swung, and Arthur had to roll aside.
The captain's strikes were brutal, fast for a man his size, and accurate. Arthur dodged left, then back, then to the side again. Santaga pressed, hammer whistling through the air, never landing a hit. Behind him, Blackwood men began to boo, jeering at Arthur's evasions.
Even some Brackens chuckled at the sight of their lord dancing away.
Andrew turned and shot them a glare, and the laughter stopped.
"Oi, boy!" Santaga shouted, panting slightly now, "You going to do anything besides run? Or do you think dodging'll win you glory? Come on, draw some blood!"
Arthur stopped and turned, his face calm.
"As you wish," he said, as Santaga lunged again.
This time, Arthur didn't sidestep.
He charged.
But instead of using the sword, Arthur dropped it to the ground and caught the hammerhead with both hands, his palms protected by thick Bracken-forged leather gloves.
The so-called family heirloom blade lay abandoned in the grass.
At this, the Blackwood soldiers roared with laughter, even louder than before.
Wrestling for raw strength against a hammer-wielding brute like Santaga? It was like shoving your head into a chamber pot and hoping to come out clean.
Santaga bared his teeth in a feral grin. "That's your choice, boy."
The way things were going couldn't have pleased him more. That pretty-faced noble had just thrown away his blade to grapple with him—him, the man known from Riverrun to Seagard as Blackwood's Iron Bull. He could already picture Arthur Bracken gasping in the dirt, begging for mercy like a pup.
Once Arthur was down, Santaga could use him as leverage—either ransom him, march away untouched, or even demand Blackwood replace Brynden Tully with a real soldier.
With that goal in mind, he poured every ounce of strength into the hammer, forcing it downward, trying to break Arthur in a single stroke.
"Die!" he roared.
Blackwood men surged with cheers, already celebrating. The outcome felt inevitable.
And yet… nothing happened.
Arthur's arms didn't buckle. His face was impassive.
"Is that your idea of strength?" he asked coldly, his voice calm and mocking.
Then he moved—smoothly, in one controlled motion. His legs coiled like a drawn bow, channeling power from his calves through his waist, all the way to his shoulders. With an explosive twist, he hoisted both the hammer and Santaga clean off the ground.
Gasps echoed across both camps.
With one hand gripping the captain's waistguard, Arthur lifted the man above his head like the Mountain lifting a corpse.
Santaga writhed helplessly, face twisted in shock. "What… how—how can you lift something heavier than yourself!?"
The Blackwood men were stunned, their jeers dying on their lips.
A few of them, veterans from the Riverlands' border skirmishes, exchanged glances. Not since the tales of Ser Gregor Clegane—the monstrous knight who could crush a man's skull like a melon—had they seen such raw strength from a human being.
Even Andrew, who had watched Arthur fight back at Stone Hedge, couldn't believe what he was seeing.
He has divine strength, Andrew thought, like one of the old heroes from the Age of Heroes.
Among the Brackens, silence fell. Some soldiers lowered their heads in shame, now realizing how little they'd understood their young lord.
This little noble of ours… is anything but fragile.
Arthur grunted and hurled Santaga downward. The older knight crashed onto the grassy field with a dull thud.
The soil saved him from broken bones—barely.
For one brief second, Santaga considered himself lucky.
Then the sky darkened above him.
Arthur's shadow fell across his chest like a stormcloud.
"Do you know what my two favorite things are?" Arthur asked as he straddled the downed man, locking him to the ground like a warhorse pinning prey.
Santaga bucked and twisted like a speared boar, but the weight pressing down on him might as well have been steel. He couldn't move.
Desperate, he gave a thin smile. "I don't know what you like, Lord Arthur—but I respect it, whatever it is."
Arthur leaned in. "Riding horses. Beating men."
Then he grabbed Santaga's helmet and tore it off, revealing the man's startled expression to the crowd. Arthur raised his right fist high.
"Lucky you. Today you get both."
Then he began to punch.
Santaga's screams echoed across the field—loud, panicked, and high-pitched, the kind of scream that didn't belong to a proud soldier. With each blow, the tone shifted—from groaning rage to wheezing sobs to sharp, animal shrieks.
By the fourth strike, even the Brackens looked away.
By the sixth, some of the Blackwoods were praying silently.
When Arthur finally stood up, Santaga wasn't making a sound. His face was swollen and unrecognizable. He wasn't unconscious, but he was broken—physically and mentally.
Arthur's chest rose and fell with calm, controlled breaths.
He stepped back, picked up the discarded sledgehammer, and turned to the Blackwood soldiers—over a hundred of them, still frozen in shock.
He lifted the hammer.
"Would you rather be gently kissed by this," he said coldly, "or will you surrender—now?"