Cyril's confession left Arthur feeling conflicted.
Had Cyril been wrong to steal the golden dragons? Absolutely. Theft was a crime, and betrayal even worse. But was he wrong to hope for a better life for his son? To wish for his bloodline to rise above the mud? That desire, Arthur understood all too well.
In Westeros, the aristocracy hoarded nearly all the wealth, opportunity, and privilege. For smallfolk like Cyril, the paths upward were few and grim. Unlike the civil examination system from Arthur's memories of Da Xia, where even the low-born could rise through scholarship or military merit, Westeros was a land where birth determined everything.
Here, the common folk had no real avenues for advancement. Join the Night's Watch and wear black until death? Drag chamber pots in the Citadel, praying to be noticed by a maester too old to care? These were not promotions — they were punishments wrapped in false hope.
Even the "success stories" weren't truly common-born. Lord Varys, the Spider, supposedly began life as a slave, but his origins hinted at dragonseed — bastard blood from House Targaryen's Blackfyre branch. Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger, often claimed low birth, yet his house owned land in the Fingers and traced noble ancestry. He rose not through labor, but through courtly games and support from petty lords in the Vale — nouveau riche eager for status.
These were not peasants. These were new nobles jockeying for position among old lions.
Bronn, a sellsword knighted after the Battle of Blackwater, and Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight raised by Stannis Baratheon, were true exceptions — and even they served lords who needed expendable pawns. Two names in a thousand years.
The rest of Westeros? The true smallfolk? They had no surnames, no sigils, no maesters, and certainly no knights to fight in their name.
They were born to toil and die, their ashes scattered without memory.
Cyril had hoped to break that cycle. He saved and sacrificed for his son John, sending him to study with monks and to spar with free knights — wandering swords without allegiance. But not all monks teach virtue, and not all knights live by chivalry. Some sold prayers like cheap ale; others taught cruelty under the guise of swordplay.
John fell, seduced by vice and vanity, and Cyril — who had never known better — blamed himself.
Compared to John, Arthur's original self had been a golden stag: tall, handsome, sharp, and well-behaved. His father, the former Lord Bracken, had never mistreated Cyril — he even helped John once, pulling strings to bail him out of some foolish crime. And each act of kindness, each undeserved favor, stabbed Cyril's pride like a hot needle.
"I hated him most for never giving me a reason to hate him," Cyril had said.
Arthur approached with the torch. Cyril was still now, his head tilted to the side, his cloudy eyes fixed on nothing. The old servant was dead.
"May you be born into a better house in your next life," Arthur whispered, lowering the torch. There was nothing else he could offer. He gently closed the man's eyes, then sat nearby and dozed lightly, his hand on the hilt of his hammer.
"They're back."
Jules' voice snapped Arthur awake. His eyes opened sharply. The warmth of sentiment cooled instantly. War returned to his mind.
Arthur reached for his sledgehammer. Whatever feelings he had earlier would not dull his edge now.
It was just before dawn. Pale light crept through the cracks in the door, but the room remained dark enough to conceal movement.
Eight fighters — including Arthur and Jules — crouched silently by the wall. The plan was simple: wait until the gamblers walked in, then strike hard and fast. Javier, the grizzled officer from Gulltown, would give the order. Arthur, for all his combat strength, had never led men in real battle. Best to leave the command to a seasoned soldier.
According to Jules, their side had nine "spinach monks" — the term Arthur's men used for their bald and robed comrades — plus six armored veterans. With Javier's leadership and Arthur's brute power, they had more than enough to crush the returning gamblers.
Still, Arthur reminded himself to hold back. One over-enthusiastic swing and there'd be no one left to question.
Laughter echoed outside the door. The gamblers were here.
"Damn it, Tamad. Luck's turned against us today."
A rough voice grumbled. Another replied with mock cheer.
"John, your gold's been cursed. Lost two hands in a row."
"How could I mind?" came John's unmistakable drawl. "Making my brothers smile is the finest use for a golden dragon."
"Is your old man still alive?"
"If he dies, he dies. Who gives a damn about a worm rotting in the cellar?"
Arthur's fingers curled around the handle of his warhammer.
It was time.
Just listening to the sporadic conversation outside, Arthur felt his blood pressure surge.
That's my money—my golden dragons.
He screamed silently in his heart.
Creak—
The wooden door gave a strained groan as it opened. Two entered first, followed by another seven, and after a delay, the final man stepped inside. Once silence returned outside, Javier gave the order.
"Ouch! The shadows strike like angry wives!"
"I don't owe the pits anything! Why would someone be here for debts?"
"Ser knight, please—go easy on my arse. I still need it in one piece!"
In a matter of seconds, ten men lay sprawled across the floor, completely defenseless. Arthur had only managed to crack the shin of a spinach monk with his hammer when it was already over.
He paced the room, his eyes sharp, until they landed on John. He was closest to the door, and the last to enter—suspicious.
"Where are my golden dragons?" Arthur asked coldly.
John was badly bruised and disoriented. It took him a moment, blinking through swelling, before realizing who stood before him.
"Seven hells… My lord? How did you—how did you even find this place?" he gasped, ignoring the question in pure disbelief.
Arthur gestured wordlessly, and the nearby soldiers laid into John without hesitation. A few punches later, John wheezed out a plea.
"Stop! Stop—I'll talk! I'll talk!"
When they eased off, he took a rattling breath. "Some are in my shoes… others, in my sleeves…"
Arthur's brows furrowed. That's not all of it. Not even close. A dragon might be small, but stacked together, hundreds of them were heavy and noticeable.
"Where's the rest?" Arthur pressed, voice tight with rage.
"A bit went to debts… some, to cheer the boys up… and a few dragons lost at the tables," John whimpered.
The soldiers frisked him thoroughly, pulling out about thirty or forty golden dragons in total.
Arthur's expression darkened. "Seven hundred golden dragons, and this is all that remains? Where did it go?"
In Hejian, the per capita living cost was so low that even a few copper pennies could keep a peasant fed. When Arthur organized his three thousand-strong workforce, he made sure they ate well—generous portions of chicken, pork, and even mutton—yet still spent no more than two or three dragons a day in total.
For ten gamblers to burn through over six hundred golden dragons in a few weeks? Impossible. The gambling dens at the Beauty Market catered to smallfolk. Wagers rarely exceeded a few silver stags, let alone gold.
And if someone had been throwing dragons around, the Ward family—minor nobles sworn to House Tully and known for currying favor with the richer Blackwoods—would've noticed immediately. They operated the Beauty Market and sniffed out wealth like hounds. If they hadn't sniffed these men out, then they clearly hadn't been flaunting wealth.
"Search the others too," Arthur ordered.
The soldiers moved efficiently, but the remaining nine yielded little more than pocket change. Nothing significant.
"My lord! We really don't have anything else. Just what John had!"
"You're angry at him—why beat us?"
They pleaded, but Arthur saw through it. All eyes had flicked to John when the topic of money arose. They know something. They just won't say it.
John's position by the door and his delayed entrance stuck in Arthur's mind. Something stank. He gestured to Jules.
"Take one of them outside."
Jules dragged a squirming man into the yard. Screams echoed not long after, sobs and whimpers following. Arthur didn't stop until the gambler fell quiet. Then, dragging the man into the dark wilderness beyond the yard, he gave orders for Jules to keep watch.
"Where's the rest of the money?" Arthur asked, voice low.
The man, face battered beyond recognition, gave a momentary look of surprise before masking it with confusion.
"My lord… I don't… I don't know what you mean…"
Arthur didn't press further. He had already decided.
"I don't need you to tell me," he muttered. "Just stay alive."
He turned back toward the house.
John was the key. Arthur was sure of it now. He had hoarded the dragons somewhere safe, and the others, even if they didn't know where, knew that he had. That alone was enough to break them. He didn't need their confession—only their silence and his own resolve.
PS: A Game of Thrones joke of the day:
After the High Sparrow took control of King's Landing, Queen Margaery Tyrell stood by his side and declared piously,
"Since ancient times, change always demands blood. Yet today, there is no blood, no sacrifice in King's Landing… That is why this revolution is doomed to fail."
She paused, and smiled sweetly, "But if we must begin… perhaps start with Cersei Baratheon?"
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