The Blackwood soldiers, though not cowards, were no fools. Most broke ranks and fled in disarray, not daring to look back. They left behind a trussed-up Brynden Blackwood and the groaning form of Santaga, still dazed from his brutal defeat.
Andrew made to order a pursuit, but Arthur raised a hand.
"Hold," he commanded.
"Why stop now? We've got the advantage," Andrew questioned, frowning beneath his helm.
"We need to get Brynden to Riverrun as fast as possible," Arthur explained, his tone sharp and clear.
He knew that if Tytos Blackwood, the head of House Blackwood and a known supporter of House Tully, received word of his son's capture and Santaga's defeat, he might send a sizable force from Raventree Hall in retaliation. Arthur's thirty-five well-trained men-at-arms and twenty or so levied peasants would stand no chance against a host of several thousand.
It was common knowledge that both House Bracken and House Blackwood maintained standing forces of over 3,000 men each—an unusual feat outside of the Riverlands and the Reach.
The lands stretching from the Blue Fork in the north to the Red Fork's northern bank were largely Blackwood territory, with scattered holdings sworn directly to House Tully.
Given how the Red Fork and the Tumblestone split Tully territory into awkward thirds, it remained uncertain whether Lord Edmure Tully could even reinforce or defend his own northern vassals.
But once Arthur reached the heartland of the Tullys westward, Raventree Hall would think twice before marching an army through the overlord's lands.
He would present the captured Brynden and written confessions—signed and sealed—and leave justice in Lord Edmure's hands.
Andrew scratched at the leather strap beneath his helm.
"But… Lord Hendry didn't order us to follow you all the way to Riverrun."
"I'll compensate him generously. A full purse of gold dragons for your service. And every man here will receive three silver stags as reward."
At the mention of silver, the mood among the Bracken troops changed instantly.
"We're Brackens through and through—Lord Hendry will approve!"
"Aye, Andrew, you're just a knight. How could you refuse Lord Arthur now?"
"Riverrun's a fine place! I'd not mind their wine and warm fires for a few nights."
"The Tullys treat guests well. We'll go!"
Most of these soldiers were landless smallfolk, their bellies often empty, their wages barely enough to feed a family. Three silver stags—nearly a month's pay for some—just to march to Riverrun was a gift from the Seven.
The Riverlands and the Reach were rare in Westeros for their ability to support large standing forces. Fertile river valleys and bountiful harvests meant food could be spared for soldiers year-round.
And with warm summers and no concept of population control among the smallfolk, numbers had swelled since Robert Baratheon's rebellion fifteen years ago.
Now, as the long summer neared its end, tensions simmered. Soon, even with Robert alive, the realm would begin to unravel—too many mouths, not enough grain.
During the Targaryen reign, wars with Dorne and repeated Blackfyre rebellions had conveniently culled excess population. Without those, famine might do the work instead.
It was worth noting: House Bracken had long been among the staunchest supporters of Daemon Blackfyre, the Targaryen bastard who launched the first of many rebellions—hence their lingering reputation as Black Dragon loyalists. Old loyalties still simmered beneath the surface, even decades later.
Faced with the roaring support of the men, Andrew hesitated no longer. He nodded.
"As you command, Lord Arthur."
With Santaga tied to a pole like a boar ready for roasting and Brynden Blackwood shackled at the center, the procession of over 500 men reformed their lines and began the westward march.
Soon, the stone towers of Arthur's keep loomed ahead. But the sight that met them was not reassuring. Several bodies lay sprawled near the gate. A peasant cradled a limp figure, wailing in despair. Steward Umber and several peasant soldiers stood grim-faced nearby.
Arthur kicked his horse forward into a gallop, dirt flying in his wake.
The sobbing man turned out to be Darren, a commoner from Riverside Village who had volunteered the day before for the raid on Blackwood's camp.
Three bodies lay before him, lifeless and broken. Their bruises were deep, their limbs twisted. One of them—a young woman—lay in Darren's arms. Her belly was swollen from pregnancy, but now blood pooled beneath her thighs. She had miscarried, perhaps from beating, fear, or worse.
Arthur felt bile rise in his throat.
"Seven hells…" he growled. "Was this the work of that bastard officer from House Blackwood?"
Darren's sobs only grew louder, but Umber answered with shame in his voice:
"Yes, my lord. I failed you. While you were gone, he returned in secret, looking for Brynden. We tried to stop him, but we were too few. I… I am not fit to be your steward."
Arthur stared down at the blood-soaked earth, hands tightening around his reins. He swore then, not softly, but loud enough for every man around him to hear:
"There will be justice. For this. For her. For all of them."
It's alright." Arthur said gently, placing a hand on Darren's shoulder in quiet solidarity.
Seeing the devastated villager holding his dead wife, Arthur's heart grew heavy.
He dismounted, his boots hitting the damp earth with a dull thud, and stepped toward Darren. "I failed you. I should have protected you and your kin. I swear this on the Seven—House Blackwood will pay for what they've done."
The people of Riverside were simple folk, decent and loyal. They hadn't asked for war or bloodshed—only to live and work the land passed down to them. And now, three families were destroyed in the span of a day because Brynden Blackwood chose to masquerade as a common bandit, using deceit to stir conflict.
This wasn't like the faceless NPCs Arthur had raided in Mount and Blade—these were real people with families, memories, stories. That woman, whose blood now soaked the earth, was someone's wife, someone's daughter—perhaps both. And now, she was gone, violated and left to die like cattle.
Arthur clenched his fists, seething not just at Brynden, but at the officer who had given him command.
"Umber," he called with cold authority, "bring Brynden and his men out. They will march to Riverrun with us, and stand before Lord Hoster Tully. Let the Duke of the Trident judge them."
He turned to Darren and lowered himself to eye level. "Will you come with us to Riverrun and testify? Duke Hoster is a just man. He'll see the truth and make this right."
Darren sniffled, eyes unfocused. "I… I'll go. But can—can my wife and children be buried properly?"
Arthur exhaled slowly. "They will be taken with us. Their bodies are proof of what happened here. We'll preserve them with salt—the maesters say it holds decay at bay. I swear, they will not be forgotten."
Darren nodded faintly, his gaze drifting to the bloodstained earth.
Arthur signaled the household servants. "Bring out the salt—enough for three corpses. Wrap them well."
He also ordered the castle's soldiers to prepare rations for the road ahead. Riverrun lay several days west, at the very heart of the Riverlands, where the Red Fork and the Tumblestone met. The journey would be harsh, and the host large—over five hundred men marched with him now, counting peasant levies and armored retainers.
Fortunately, Moulin Court's granaries were still well-stocked, thanks to the early harvest.
Before leaving, Arthur turned to Umber, his steward. "You remain and guard the keep. Keep the gates barred and the banners raised. Should Blackwood retaliate, do not engage—send riders to Riverrun."
Umber bowed stiffly, guilt still etched across his face.
Then, with Brynden and his men chained behind wagons, and the bodies of Darren's family laid in salted cloth within a covered cart, Arthur led his company westward, toward Riverrun.
—
Raventree Hall
"My lord, Master Brynden has been taken captive by Arthur Bracken of Moulin Court."
The sentry, panting and mud-streaked, had galloped through the gates of Raventree at first light. His arrival startled the household, but none more than Lord Tytos Blackwood.
"What?" Tytos's voice echoed through the longhall, lined with carved weirwood columns. "Where were the men guarding him? Where is Ser Santagar? And Roger? Did a single Bracken scurry out of the ruins of Stone Hedge and rout them all?"
The sentry swallowed hard. He dared not mention Brynden's charade—the dishonor of a Blackwood dressing as a brigand would bring shame upon the entire House. "They were overwhelmed, my lord. Ambushed. Some men fled and are returning now, like me, to report the news."
Tytos narrowed his eyes, unmoved. "Cowards, the lot of them. Worthless. All of them."
He stormed from his carved seat beneath the looming tapestry of the Old Gods and began pacing furiously. After several circuits, he barked at his steward, who stood frozen beside the hearth.
"Rally every man near Raventree! Gather the levy and ready the outriders—we ride at dawn. My son is in chains, and the Brackens will answer for it."