Arthur was momentarily stunned as he looked at the innocent little boy in his arms—but then he laughed, warm and genuine. A strange joy rose in his chest.
As for the child urinating on his shoes, he truly didn't mind. In fact, in some parts of Westeros, it was even considered a sign of fortune—especially when done by a child. The gods worked in strange ways.
He lifted the boy higher and rested the child's small head against his own brow. "Little man, what's your name?" he asked, his tone playful.
The boy blinked at him with large, round brown eyes but said nothing.
Arthur didn't mind the silence. Children were like that sometimes. But not everyone shared his patience.
Gray-robed Amber, ever vigilant and perhaps a bit too loyal, stepped forward and shouted, "Whose child is this? How dare he soil the lord's shoes? Get over here and clean it up at once!"
Several villagers echoed him, voices rising with nervous energy, scolding the unseen parents.
A flustered young woman finally pushed her way through the gathered crowd. Her flaxen hair was messy, and her cheeks flushed with fear.
"I—I'm sorry, Lord Arthur," she stammered, kneeling at his feet, "I truly didn't mean—he didn't mean—please forgive—"
She tried to reach for his shoes, intent on scrubbing them clean with the hem of her sleeve.
"It's fine, truly," Arthur said with a chuckle, pulling his feet back to stop her. "Leave it. Don't worry."
The woman paused, hesitating, her gaze flicking nervously to the child still resting in Arthur's arms. Her voice trembled when she spoke again. "He… he has no name yet, my lord."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Still no name? Then perhaps it's fate."
He looked down at the boy with a smirk. "That little splash might've been a blessing. Let me name him, then. Hm… how about Arthur? After me. To commemorate the occasion."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, followed by soft laughter. The mother was speechless at first, then bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord! Thank you!"
Arthur handed the boy back to her gently.
The gathered villagers suddenly erupted into applause, their laughter and cheers warm and sincere. They had never seen a lord so relaxed, so approachable.
A small hand tugged on Arthur's trouser leg.
He looked down in confusion but saw no one. So he exaggerated his reaction, squinting around and murmuring, "What's this? A ghost? An elf, perhaps? Have the Children of the Forest come to visit me?"
Laughter erupted again from the watching crowd.
A tiny, indignant voice responded, "Disgusting!"
Arthur glanced down and found a little girl standing there, holding up a peach—clearly half-eaten.
"Here. Try it. It's really sweet," she said earnestly, her voice soft but insistent.
Just then, Village Chief Jace pushed through the ring of people. His face turned bright red when he saw the peach.
"Girl! What are you doing?" he scolded. "How dare you offer the lord a half-eaten fruit? You couldn't bring him a whole one?"
Arthur gave him a disapproving look, snatched the peach from the girl's small hand, and took a hearty bite.
"Mmm. It is sweet," he said, chewing. "You hear that, Jace? Sweeter than your manners."
The crowd roared with laughter again.
"You, a village chief, showing more venom than a highborn? Gods, that's a rare sight."
Jace immediately put on a fawning smile and stammered, "My lord, I only meant—"
Arthur waved him off and knelt beside the little girl. "Thank you for the gift," he said kindly. "Next time, save the first bite for me."
The girl beamed.
The villagers, emboldened by Arthur's kindness, began calling out to him.
"Come have supper at my place, m'lord!"
"My boy needs a name too!"
"Could you take a look at my father's knee, m'lord? It's been aching bad…"
Arthur declined each request as gently as he could. He named two more children on the spot but raised a hand at the request for medical help.
"I'm no maester," he said honestly. "That's beyond me."
Someone in the crowd spoke up, "We haven't had a healer in some time. Sometimes, a wandering monk passed through with herbs. But not anymore. The monks are all gone now."
Arthur turned toward Jace. "You didn't think to mention this to me?"
The village chief blinked, confused. "Well… it's always been that way, my lord. Why trouble you with something so ordinary?"
Arthur sighed.
This man had no idea what leadership truly meant. A village chief who didn't understand the burden of his role was worse than no chief at all.
He made a mental note to eventually replace Jace with someone more capable—and more compassionate.
But he understood the core issue. These people were used to being ignored. Used to suffering in silence.
He thought back to the maesters in the Game of Thrones world—how in places like Winterfell or Riverrun, the great lords had maesters who healed wounds, set bones, treated the ill. But for the smallfolk in remote villages like this, there was rarely such care. Only in the North, where the Old Gods held sway, did some of the faithful monks and wandering healers care for the people.
But even they were now gone.
The people had been left to fend for themselves. And now, they turned to him.
Arthur looked around at the crowd.
He wasn't just their lord by title. He was their only hope of change.
Like Maester Luwin of Winterfell, who served the Starks faithfully for years, advising Ned Stark and teaching Bran, Arya, and Rickon, northern lords typically had maesters assigned by the Citadel. These maesters, trained in medicine, healing, and ravenry, also treated the common folk when needed, especially in places like Winterfell, where the old gods were still revered and the divide between lord and smallfolk was narrower. But in the south, where the Faith of the Seven dominated, monks and septons often acted as healers instead, relying more on faith and herbal knowledge than scholarly training.
The role of a maester was to heal and counsel—but mostly the noble families. In Arthur's small castle near the Red Fork, no maester had ever served. There were no ravens either, which meant no formal communication with other houses or Maester Luwin-style care for the people. The original Arthur Bracken, before Li Hao's soul replaced his, would ride to Shili City when he was sick, paying silver stags for physicians but never once asking about the health of his villagers.
Arthur also recalled that after Sandor Clegane—the Hound—was nearly killed by Brienne of Tarth, it was Brother Ray, a peaceful septon, who found him, healed him, and gave him shelter. That kindness had a profound effect on the once brutal man. This was part of why the High Sparrow, a former wandering septon, could later dominate King's Landing. He built his power by aligning himself with the smallfolk and acting as their voice.
"They take the mass line," Arthur thought, amused at the similarity to populist movements in his old world.
He rubbed his chin and asked the villagers, "There must be some place nearby where one can pay to get proper treatment, right?"
"Yes, m'lord," came the answer. "There's a healer at the Beauty Market, near Shili City. But he charges a silver stag just to look at you—doesn't even count the cost of herbs or tonics."
If it could be solved with money, that was simple. Arthur had just earned 180 gold dragons from Shili City's taxes, and Brynden Tully had quietly passed him nearly 3,000 more after the bandit-slaying incident. He was rich—for now.
Arthur waved dismissively. "Then hire him. If he can cure you, even a silver stag is cheap."
Some villagers murmured at the generosity, but one woman sighed, "It's too expensive, my lord. For us, it's not just coin. It's a winter's worth of food."
Arthur pretended to be magnanimous. "If it means you stay healthy and live to till the land, what does it matter if I spend a few dragons?" He turned to Amber. "Remind me to arrange this tomorrow. Invite the healer to visit."
Amber nodded silently, as the villagers erupted into cheers and grateful praise.
With the mood lifted, Arthur decided to move forward with his next plan.
"I intend to build a wooden stronghold nearby—to guard against enemies who may one day come from the woods or the hills."
He didn't mention Gregor Clegane—Ser Gregor the Mountain—that brute of a man, since no one would believe the mad dog of House Clegane might one day ride into the Riverlands unprovoked.
"My lord, are you preparing against Crow's Nest?" someone asked nervously, referring to the Brackens' rival cadet branch near the Blackwood border.
"As Lord Arthur says, we'll follow," said another.
"We will do whatever you ask us to do," echoed the crowd with genuine fervor.
Arthur caught the whispered suspicions—some feared he was guarding against the Blackwoods. He didn't confirm it, but neither did he deny it. Let them think what they will. Fear was useful.
He hadn't expected such warmth or obedience, but the villagers' support was enthusiastic and real. And since the harvest was still months away—summer in Westeros could last ten years—repairing and reinforcing the hamlets now wouldn't affect crop yields.
(The strange seasonal cycles in Westeros, created by George R.R. Martin, made Arthur silently question the planet's axial tilt or rotation—but such thoughts were useless here.)
After parting with the first riverside village under heavy thanks and reluctant goodbyes, Arthur and his men rode toward the next hamlet.
The remaining eight villages were all similar—poor, under-protected, but brimming with villagers who looked to Arthur for leadership. Each time, they pledged their support for the new fort and thanked him for his mercy and care.
By evening, great swaths of fire-red clouds stretched across the western sky, and the dying light gilded the plains and hills in warm gold. Wildflowers danced in the breeze as Arthur and his party rode through a sea of grass.
Surveying the scene, Arthur exhaled with satisfaction. "My lands are so beautiful."
"They've always looked like this," Amber replied flatly, offering a perfunctory nod.
Arthur smiled and added, "And my people are kind, honest, and full of heart."
"They might just be pretending," Amber thought silently. "Wait until the taxes are due."
But Arthur ignored him, basking in his own noble narrative. "I must protect them, no matter what."
"That's what a good lord is supposed to do," Amber answered diplomatically.
Arthur glared back. "Don't interrupt when I'm having a moment."
Amber pouted but said nothing.
They rode in silence as the twilight deepened, and before the stars took full command of the sky, they returned to the stone hall Arthur now called home. The torchlight flickered atop the walls, welcoming the young lord's return.
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