"I've never seen a lord care so much for his smallfolk," Benji observed, watching the workers haul timber across the muddy field.
He wore the formal gray robes of a Maester, with a chain of varying metals resting around his neck—a sign of the disciplines in which he had forged links. Though Arthur had never dealt much with the Citadel in Oldtown, he recognized iron for warcraft, lead for poisons, and black iron for ravenry among Benji's links. The rest remained unfamiliar.
"I simply treat them as people," Arthur replied calmly, brushing sawdust off his tunic.
Benji had been at the riverside village for ten days. Since then, the project had shifted from chaos to order. Unlike the scattered attempts from before, construction now mirrored the structure of castle-building efforts in the North or at places like Harrenhal—efficient, layered, and driven by clear purpose.
The ring trench had been under excavation for nearly half a month now, and the timber walls were finally rising. With Benji's guidance, the defensive moat surrounding the village had been adjusted. Rather than a simple trench, it now sloped slightly inward—a feature reminiscent of some defenses seen at Moat Cailin in the Neck, where swampy terrain trapped advancing armies.
Benji had also suggested filling the pit with stagnant water and thick river mud, mixing it with reeds and soft earth from the riverbanks. At nearly five feet deep, it was enough to trap even armored men, especially with the bootsucking mud that Arthur himself had fallen into more than once.
He had to admit—scholars were sometimes more devious than sellswords.
The two thousand adult men that Earl Janos had promised had arrived days ago. Under the supervision of seasoned stonemasons, they hauled river rocks daily, carving them into wall foundations or stacking them as barricades. The village, once a humble hamlet, now bustled like a small town near the Twins, able to sustain over three thousand men with food, water, and sanitation.
Arthur had personally ordered ten new wells dug and dozens of latrines constructed—lessons taken from the failures at the Siege of Storm's End, where lack of hygiene had nearly undone Stannis Baratheon's cause. Surrounding the keep, wooden barracks sprang up like mushrooms after rain, made from beechwood—plentiful and strong, often used by the woodworkers of Fairmarket to craft riverboats and furniture alike.
"Keep things moving, Benji. I'll check on the recruits."
"At your service, Lord Arthur," the Maester replied with a polite nod.
Arthur made his way to the training field, where the sound of grunts and clashing metal filled the air. Amber, his grizzled veteran and temporary master-at-arms, was shouting orders. The fifty newly recruited militia were mid-drill, practicing footwork and strikes with their freshly forged weapons.
After announcing the construction of the defensive stockade, Arthur had ordered the recruitment of fighters under the guise of bolstering the garrison. These men, drawn from surrounding villages and chosen for strength, were not required to join the construction crews. Instead, they trained daily under Amber's watch and the supervision of a few former Bracken guards.
Arthur had few loyal subordinates, so relying on mercenaries or outsiders like the former Bracken men was too risky. Giving command to Amber—a trusted and battle-hardened soldier—was the safest choice.
Armor, however, remained a problem. None of the new recruits had proper gear. Arthur wasn't sure whether he should seize some from a caravan or petition a noble like Ser Raymun Darry for help. For now, they trained in padded jerkins and sweat-soaked linen.
At least they had weapons.
From the bustling marketplace at Fairmarket, Arthur had acquired a hundred arming swords—known throughout Westeros as half-swords or knight's blades. These single-handed swords were the mainstay of Westerosi warfare, used by foot soldiers and hedge knights alike. Their versatility allowed for stabbing like the Braavosi, hacking like the Northmen, and slashing in a way that mimicked the Reach's tourney fighters.
While not specialized, their balance made them the go-to weapon of most Westerosi houses, especially for massed infantry.
Besides swords, many of the men carried round shields or the narrow heater-style duel shields. Arthur noted, however, that no one seemed interested in training with spears or pikes. It baffled him. Despite the obvious utility of polearms in larger engagements—like those seen at the Battle of the Blackwater—lords across the Riverlands still favored sword-and-shield infantry for their levies.
Crossbows, too, were scarce.
Arthur understood that longbows, like those used by the archers of House Tully or the Stormlands, required years of training. But why not use crossbows? They were easy to teach and deadly in tight formations.
Was it tradition? Pride? Or just stubbornness?
Either way, Arthur was determined to change that.
As the clang of steel echoed over the muddy training ground, he narrowed his eyes at a pair of recruits sparring too gently. The days of peace under King Robert and Lord Eddard Stark might still hold, but Arthur knew what was coming. The War of the Five Kings would begin within the year.
And when it did, he wouldn't be caught unprepared.
Whether it was the light, hand-drawn crossbows used by merchant guards, the heavier waist- or leg-drawn models used by city watchmen, or even the rare crank-and-winch rocker crossbows like the one King Joffrey Lannister once flaunted in King's Landing—none were widely adopted by the standing armies of Westeros. Not even the powerful scorpion ballistae, like those Qyburn developed to threaten Daenerys's dragons during Cersei's reign, were mass-produced for infantry use.
Arthur found it baffling. Crossbows, even simple ones, could pierce most common armor types—whether chainmail, lamellar, or even the brigandines favored by northern levies. Against leather jerkins or padded gambesons, their bolts tore through with ease. In contrast, bows required strength and years of practice, while crossbows could be used by any peasant with minimal training.
He speculated that the stagnation in weapon innovation was the fault of the Targaryen dragons. Ever since Aegon's Conquest, the presence of creatures like Balerion the Black Dread made infantry tactics almost irrelevant. After all, when one dragon could burn an entire host in minutes, why prioritize disciplined formations or armor-piercing ranged weapons? In such a world, Arthur mused, knights became more ceremonial than strategic, while foot soldiers became glorified tax collectors or retinue guards.
Perhaps that was why no great house, not even House Lannister with its immense wealth, equipped their men with crossbows in large numbers. The emphasis had shifted toward plate armor—like that worn by Jaime Lannister during the siege of Riverrun or the Kingsguard in the Red Keep—while offensive weapons stagnated.
Arthur rubbed his chin, pondering whether to consult Benji about acquiring or crafting spears, long pikes, and crossbows for his own troops. Unlike most Riverlords, Arthur had no dragons to fear—only bandits, raiders, and eventually, the storm of war brewing across the Seven Kingdoms.
"My lord, our training efforts are going strong," one of the new recruits reported, trying to sound enthusiastic.
Though they were called "recruits," Arthur's panel labeled them plainly: Peasant Soldiers.
He'd studied the system carefully. His troops followed a five-tier path: beginning as unarmored Peasant Soldiers, they could progress to Recruits, then Veterans, then Warriors, and finally, Heavy Infantry with Tower Shields—the kind of soldiers who could stand against cavalry charges, like those seen during Stannis Baratheon's march north.
The elite 100 who had fought to defend Shili City (as per previous chapters) were considered third-tier veterans. Amber, his steward and default commander, also fell into that tier. The rest? Just green recruits or raw levies with no real combat experience.
The 35 militia Arthur personally raised from nearby villages were only second-tier Recruits, barely trained, having never seen battle.
Arthur had been shocked by this realization. For all the effort he poured into his domain, he possessed only one third-tier veteran truly loyal to him—Amber—and the rest were essentially armed farmers.
Too weak to field in real battle, he couldn't risk them on expeditions to gain combat experience. Instead, he enforced rigorous training schedules, praying they could improve through sheer repetition.
"Keep training," he said, voice calm but firm.
"Amber, you too. No exceptions," Arthur added after noticing the steward observing idly from the sidelines.
Amber groaned but joined in, reluctantly swinging a blunted practice sword under the watchful eyes of the former city defenders.
Arthur watched with a sigh as the steward's sword dance wobbled more than sliced.
He soon turned back to the fort's construction site. The work was progressing steadily. Whether they were sworn subjects or southern laborers sent by Earl Janos, all worked with diligence and purpose. Not a single idle hand in sight.
Perhaps it was loyalty, perhaps discipline—or maybe fear. Whatever the reason, Arthur saw no one slacking.
Still, life as a minor lord was crushingly dull.
There were no silk-clad handmaids lounging in his hall. No feasts, no tournaments, no bardic singers like the ones that roamed the courts of Highgarden or Sunspear. He finally understood why kings and great lords like Robert Baratheon loved hosting tourneys. It wasn't just for honor or alliances. It was to escape the soul-numbing routine of ruling land and grain.
He was no Walder Frey, with his dozen wives and fortress of sons and daughters to amuse him. And no lord of standing had yet offered their daughter for marriage. Not to a minor Bracken from a cadet branch, no matter how diligent or competent.
Just as Arthur brooded on his lack of prospects and excitement, a scout rushed to him across the clearing, panting from exertion.
"My lord—we've found a trace of Cyril."
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