The position was awkward, but Arthur knew this was his moment. As Dylan toppled, Arthur shoved the blade aside with his cowhide-gloved right hand, rolled forward, and mounted him with one fluid movement.
With both fists clenched in armored gauntlets, he began to strike.
Under the stunned gaze of the same crowd that had been cheering Dylan just moments ago, Arthur landed seven or eight brutal punches in succession—each blow unflinching, fueled by adrenaline and fury.
Poor Dylan had never been humiliated like this in his entire life. His swollen face and bloodied lips testified to Arthur's ruthless resolve.
"Agh—alright, I surrender! I yield!" Dylan finally croaked, his voice slurred through broken teeth. Though half-blind and reeling, he managed to lift a shaking hand in surrender.
Any more, and he might have ended up like Ser Hugh of the Vale at the Hand's tourney—dead before a maester could arrive.
The referee rushed in at once, prying Arthur off with help from two guards before things turned lethal.
After confirming Dylan was still breathing, the senior official declared, "Victory belongs to Lord Arthur Bracken!"
Ma Ke was the first to rise and clap, followed by a few others who appreciated true martial strength. But for many in the stands, the result was infuriating.
Curses filled the air—most directed at Dylan. His embarrassing loss had emptied more than a few coin purses. Wagers laid on the Blackwood champion now burned in their pockets.
As Dylan was carried off, unconscious and bruised, several angry spectators spat at him. While Arthur was equally responsible for their losses, no one dared provoke a man who had defeated both Aegor and Dylan in one day.
The murmurs began: "Maybe even Ser Vardis Egen would've had trouble…" "He could hold the ford alone like Ser Barristan…"
It became clear to many that, short of a miracle, no ordinary knight present could best Arthur.
By dusk, the name Arthur Bracken would echo all along the south bank of the Red Fork River.
A new warrior had risen.
Khalil, seated stiffly, looked visibly embarrassed—Dylan had been his favored pick. Any thoughts he'd entertained of taking Dylan into his personal retinue vanished.
Across from him, Hendry's face was dark with thought. His mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
Then the acting mayor of Stone Hedge rose, robes swaying in the breeze. His voice boomed over the crowd. "We now begin the third bout!"
Everyone stilled. His eyes scanned the field, searching among the gathered knights like a hawk choosing prey.
Noble knights, some armored in polished steel and others with sigils embroidered on cloaks—forty or fifty men in total—followed his gaze, wondering who would be next.
Arthur, still breathing hard, walked over to the wooden barrier and took a goblet from a passing servant. Sweat clung to his brow, and two minor wounds throbbed along his ribcage. He needed the wine to ease his pulse and steady his limbs.
From the high seat, Hendry's voice rang out:
"Ser Hans Darry."
Gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through tallgrass.
"Hans Darry? The man who bested the Blackfish?"
"He's kin to William Darry—Master-at-Arms in King's Landing!"
"And cousin to Viscount Raymond Darry, lord of Darry proper."
Arthur's jaw clenched. He knew of Raymond Darry—head of House Darry and mayor of Darry town, a minor but respected lord along the southern banks of the Trident. The Darrys had long-standing loyalties to House Targaryen, though times had changed.
He also knew of Ser Brynden Tully—called the Blackfish—Edmure's uncle and one of the most feared swordsmen in the Riverlands. Last he'd heard, Brynden was in the Vale, guarding his niece Lady Lysa Arryn at the Eyrie.
The other two names tickled Arthur's memory, but he couldn't place them yet.
Still, one thing was certain—Hendry had just called upon a seasoned killer.
As for the Gold Cloaks—the City Watch of King's Landing—Arthur recalled there should be around 1,200 men stationed in the capital at present.
Accepting a goblet of watered wine from a passing servant, he took the chance to ask, "Is William Darry still the commander of the City Watch?"
The servant gave him a surprised look and leaned in to whisper, "Of course not. You don't know who he is?"
Arthur, ever curious, asked, "Then who is he?"
Glancing around, the servant lowered his voice. "William Darry was the commander of the Gold Cloaks back during the Mad King's reign. He was a fine swordsman—loyal to House Targaryen to the end. When Robert's Rebellion ended, it's said he smuggled young Prince Viserys out of Dragonstone under siege and sailed across the Narrow Sea to Essos with him."
Arthur's brow lifted. "What about Hans Darry?"
The servant seemed more relaxed discussing Arthur's next opponent. "That's William's cousin. A seasoned knight known both in King's Landing and throughout the Riverlands for his prowess. A veteran from the later days of the rebellion, though he never left Westeros."
Arthur gave a thoughtful nod, signaling he understood.
The servant hesitated for a few seconds, waiting for a copper as tip or for Arthur to return the goblet. When neither came, he turned and left.
House Darry's seat lies close to the Kingsroad, on the south bank of the Trident. Like Harrenhal, it holds influence within what's sometimes called the 'Crownlands fringe'—a region often politically tied more closely to King's Landing than Riverrun.
Since the days of Aegon's Conquest until Robert Baratheon's coronation, the Iron Throne had favored Harrenhal and Darry more than the Tullys of Riverrun.
The Blackwood-Vance-Piper alliance west of the Red Fork had their own sphere of influence—socially distinct and often excluded from the Darry-Harrenhal-Crownlands circle.
In that context, it wasn't strange that Arthur hadn't heard of Hans Darry before.
But now, as the crowd buzzed with recognition, it was clear—this Hans Darry was no ordinary knight.
Arthur felt a twinge of pressure settle over him.
Hendry, hearing the rising murmurs from the stands, was thoroughly pleased with himself.
"I didn't think you'd have someone like Hans on your side," Ma Ke said excitedly. Unlike many highborn sons, he held an honest admiration for martial skill.
Khalil, too, looked unsettled. "Hans once held even with the Blackfish in a sparring match. Isn't it overkill to pit him against Arthur?"
Hendry smirked, relishing their reactions.
Normally the two men were aloof, composed—yet now, surprised like common squires. Hendry felt a rare satisfaction.
"Come now," Hendry replied. "My cousin beat the knights you both selected. He's no green boy. Ser Hans is a worthy test."
Not waiting for rebuttal, he turned toward Arthur and called out in a tone laced with faux kindness, "Cousin, would you like to change into better armor? That boiled leather looks rather flimsy."
Arthur welcomed the offer. "I'd prefer a helm, or even a mask if there's one."
Hendry waved a hand and blinked at the servant.
The manservant nodded—he understood perfectly. Hendry wanted Arthur fitted with nothing better than common chainmail.
So Arthur followed him toward the armory while the highborn crowd stirred with anticipation. Stories of Hans Darry's achievements—his duels in the Dragonpit, his training under Ser Harwin Strong's last squire—circulated rapidly.
"It's over for Arthur this time."
"Hendry didn't even bother pretending to protect his kin."
"If Arthur beats Hans, he'll become a legend overnight."
"Ha! If Arthur Bracken wins this one, I'll eat my boot—boiled leather and all."
"Better start chewing now. I'll bring the salt."
Inside Stone Hedge's armory, Arthur eyed the dingy chainmail brought before him. "Is this the best you've got?"
"You're taller than most, m'lord. That's the only set that'll fit," the servant lied with a smile.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. He didn't need a raven from Maester Luwin to figure this was Hendry's doing. But he let it go—no use blaming the errand boy.
He sat on the wooden bench and began to unbuckle his old armor. As he worked, he focused inward.
A soft hum filled his mind. The glowing blue panel appeared again.
He had fought twice today—each sword swing had earned him a few experience points, and the bouts themselves had given even more.
He should have just enough to reach the next level.
Agility went up by one. Skill points went into Iron Bones for durability and Two-Handed Weapons for raw power.
His updated data appeared in shimmering script:
[Baron: Arthur Bracken]
[Level: 3]
[Experience: 1233 / 2200]
[Strength: 16]
[Agility: 11]
[Intelligence: 7]
[Charm: 9]
[Skills:] Iron Bones 4, Strong Attack 7, Strong Throw 1, Strong Bow 1, Weapon Mastery 2, Shield Defense 0, Running 0, Riding 3, Horse Archery 0, Looting 0, Coaching 0, Tracking 0, Tactics 1, Guide 0, Reconnaissance 0, Healing 0, Surgery 0, First Aid 0, Engineering 0, Persuasion 1, Prisoner Management 0, Command 3, Trading 0
[Weapon Proficiency:] One-Handed Weapons 74, Two-Handed Weapons 105, Polearms 77, Bows 31, Crossbows 31, Throwing 31
His confidence grew. Hans Darry was strong—but Arthur had leveled up.