[Baron: Arthur Bracken]
[Level: 5]
[Experience: 3265/4000]
[Strength: 17]
[Agility: 12]
[Intelligence: 7]
[Charm: 9]
[Skills: Iron Bones 4, Power Attack 7, Power Throw 1, Power Bow 1, Weapon Mastery 2, Shield Defense 0, Running 2, Riding 4, Horse Archery 0, Looting 0, Coaching 0, Tracking 0, Tactics 1, Guide 0, Scouting 0, Healing 0, Surgery 0, First Aid 0, Engineering 0, Persuasion 1, Prisoner Management 1, Command 3, Trading 0]
[Weapon Proficiency: One-handed Weapons 74, Two-handed Weapons 125, Polearms 77, Bows 31, Crossbows 31, Throwing 31]
The experience Arthur had gained from completing the mission to retrieve Cyril had pushed him up to Level 5. With the new attribute point, he chose to continue investing in Agility to balance out his brute strength, while distributing two skill points into Running and Prisoner Management. As always, he focused his weapon proficiency increases on Two-handed Weapons.
After carefully adjusting his stats, Arthur closed his panel. With his Strength at seventeen, he was approaching the physical prowess of seasoned knights in Westeros. While he was still not at the monstrous level of Ser Gregor Clegane—the Mountain that Rides—he felt confident that he could now rival many household names among the river lords' bannermen.
Fortunately, his growing force of trained soldiers also contributed to his overall experience gains, making future leveling more efficient.
It was midday when Arthur and his company found a roadside inn nestled along the Green Fork. They secured their horses and ox-carts in the stables. Nine bound captives—the gamblers they had apprehended—were led inside under guard. For a few extra copper stars, Arthur instructed the stableboy to feed the animals concentrated feed—barley, cracked corn, and soy mash—on top of the usual hay. The Riverlands were fertile, especially near Riverrun and the Red Fork, so even a modest inn like this could provide such luxuries.
Arthur tossed the boy ten coppers. The lad, quick to pocket the coins, promised to tend the mounts well.
With a glance at the fine destriers outside—clearly warhorses bred for battle—the innkeeper immediately recognized that these were not wandering hedge knights but elite retainers of noble birth. She decided to serve them with extra care.
Since this was a rural establishment, meals were limited to the day's offerings. The inn's slate, written in chalk and hung beside the hearth, listed roasted lamb chops with cracked black pepper—only eight portions available—and green sauce vermicelli as the staple. The lamb chops were clearly the prized dish.
Arthur raised a hand. "Mistress, we'll have eight portions of the black pepper lamb, and seventeen of the green sauce noodles."
The captain's men had healthy appetites, and extra noodles were a standard request. The lamb, however, was reserved for Arthur and his seven closest men. The gamblers would receive the noodles—generous enough for prisoners.
"Right away, m'lord!" the innkeeper beamed. She was middle-aged, with flour-streaked hands and a practiced courtesy. Arthur's noble demeanor and polished armor made his status unmistakable. Inns like this didn't often receive lords of the blood, especially one flanked by mailed soldiers.
But in recent days, with rumors of a grand tourney in King's Landing—hosted by King Robert to honor his new Hand—noble travelers and mercenaries had been pouring into the Riverlands. Bards, courtiers, smiths, thieves, and hopefuls of every stripe followed the roads southward. The prize? Glory and gold—tens of thousands of dragons for the joust's champion. Naturally, such news had lured many second sons and minor knights.
Thanks to this surge, inns across the Trident now stocked finer goods, including delicacies like roast lamb. The innkeeper no longer worried about leftover chicken.
She deliberately ignored the bound gamblers. Nobles had their own ways, and common folk knew better than to question.
Just as she turned toward the kitchen, a voice from the door called out:
"Hold a moment. Leave the lamb chops for us. They can eat the noodles."
The innkeeper froze. A group of five men had entered. At their head stood a young man clad in fine yellow silks. His tunic was emblazoned with silver embroidery, and he wore a jeweled sword belt. His boots were dyed to match, with gilded spurs on his heels.
Clearly a noble of high birth.
Compared to Arthur, whose armor and stature spoke of martial strength, this man carried the effortless arrogance of old blood. A scion of a ruling house, no doubt.
"But m'lord," the innkeeper hesitated, "the lamb was ordered by that gentleman first…"
She dared not refuse outright. Both men were nobles, and the wrong move could mean ruin.
"Just serve me the lamb," said the man in yellow silk, ignoring Arthur. "In the Riverlands, any who see my purple-and-silver eagle will step aside."
The innkeeper gave a tight-lipped nod and walked cautiously over to Arthur's table.
"My lord…" she began, "the gentlemen at the door—he claims noble precedence. Might I… ask if you'd be willing to yield the lamb chops?"
Arthur, who had been watching the exchange, chuckled softly.
He looked up, voice calm but cold: "We arrived first. We placed our order first. The lamb chops are ours. Tell him—no, tell Lord Purple Eagle—I intend to eat them myself."
The man in yellow silk didn't wait for the innkeeper to return.
"I don't care who he is. My name is Patrick Mallister. This lamb belongs to me. And I'll not be denied by some hedge-born upstart."
Mallister.
That caught Arthur's attention.
Javier leaned in and whispered, "He's from Seagard. Heir to Lord Jason Mallister. They're proud men—old blood, highborn—and prone to vanity."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "So even you advise me to step back?"
Javier shrugged. "Only that he's not worth the noise."
Arthur grinned and turned to face Patrick directly. "Then let's make it simple."
He stood and strode forward, placing himself eye-to-eye with Patrick.
"The lamb is ours," he said, voice like cold iron. His hand dropped to the haft of his warhammer.
Patrick tensed and stood—but did not reach for his sword.
Instead, his eyes lingered on Arthur's face.
Not in defiance, not in challenge—but something more curious. His expression softened, even slackened.
Arthur blinked. That look…
It was the same half-dazed, longing gaze the gamblers had given him when captured.
Arthur stiffened.
"What is he looking at?"
He glanced sideways.
Jules, ever smug, whispered with a smirk: "Isn't it obvious? He's smitten."
Arthur shuddered.
Jules had worn that same smile earlier that morning—when he warned Arthur about the sheep.
No good could come of it.
Javier, trying to be reassuring, added: "You do have the kind of face that draws eyes, Arthur. Man or woman."
Arthur groaned.
"I'm going to eat the lamb," he muttered. "And he's going to sit his silk-wrapped arse down and like it."
He didn't wait for the innkeeper to carry any more messages.
Let the nobles of Seagard glare and grumble.
Arthur Bracken would have his lamb chops.
Even if it meant hammering some manners into a Mallister.
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