Chapter 13-This wine is good

"Ironflesh" was one of Arthur's skills on the Mount and Blade panel—renamed here as Iron Bone, a trait that increased his survivability. In the original game, each level granted roughly two points of health. Although Arthur's stats panel didn't show exact numbers like health, he inferred its effect based on experience. Since the average soldier in Mount and Blade began with about 40 HP, he estimated that each point in Iron Bone gave a roughly 5% increase in durability.

After the ambush and capture of Brynden Tully—the infamous Blackfish who once held Riverrun for House Tully—Arthur used his level-up reward to add two points to Iron Bone. He did so because he realized that if he couldn't always dodge a blow, he had to endure it. This stat, unlike many others, had the unique property of being practical even without weapons in hand.

With that logic in mind, Arthur faced Dylan in the ring. As Dylan's sword thrust forward, Arthur twisted his torso just slightly, letting the blade glance off the edge of his ribs, using the steel curve of his plate armor to redirect it.

Dylan was trying to box him into a corner, driving Arthur toward the wooden fence of the makeshift dueling ring set up in the courtyard of Stone Hedge. Dylan, like many free knights in the Riverlands, was a veteran of the War of the Five Kings, someone who had seen the banners of Stark, Lannister, and Baratheon raised and burned. Now, he served Carle Vance, temporarily, but his ambition gleamed through his visor.

Arthur's reaction was unexpected. Rather than dodge, he took the thrust directly. Dylan hadn't expected this; his blow wasn't aimed to kill—after all, these were mock duels meant to decide troop movements, not lives. He'd aimed for the gap between Arthur's shoulder and breastplate, usually protected by cowhide beneath. Arthur's timely twist turned a deadly stab into a grazing wound—just enough to break skin but not puncture deep.

Dylan's sword got caught in the armor's overlapping plates. Arthur closed the distance. There was no time for finesse. He dropped his shoulder and delivered a left hook, the kind of punch a sellsword might throw in the back alleys of Flea Bottom. His cowhide gauntlet slammed into the steel of Dylan's faceplate, sending a shockwave back through Arthur's knuckles.

The blow stunned Dylan. His right eye went numb, vision blurred. Arthur followed up with a second punch, a hook to the jaw, pushing the stunned knight back. Dylan yanked his sword free and stumbled, barely escaping Arthur's third swing.

Arthur kept his sword raised, chest heaving, and remembered what an old bandit captain once told him in the Riverlands wilderness: "Hold the blade in front of your chest, lad. It ain't just for swingin'. It's your damn shield."

Arthur's armor had been pierced, skin broken. Dylan had been staggered. Neither held the clear advantage. To the spectators, the match teetered like a scale awaiting a final weight.

"Go on, Dylan! Hit him again!"

"Arthur, stop posing and cut the bastard!"

From the crowd of nobles, hedge knights, and retainers seated along the edge of the dueling pit, shouted voices egged them on. Blood stirred something primal.

The sight of Arthur's bleeding chest made the crowd go wild. A noble duel had turned brutal—just the kind of entertainment lords at Stone Hedge enjoyed after supper and sour red wine.

Dylan and Arthur circled once more, this time at a cautious distance of three steps, blades drawn.

"You'll pay for those punches, boy," Dylan muttered, one eye swollen beneath his visor.

Arthur grinned. "Hey, bastard of King's Landing—mind your tongue. You're talking to a lord."

In the Seven Kingdoms, bastards were given surnames based on their region—Waters for King's Landing, like Snow in the North or Sand in Dorne. Dylan Waters was his full name, and Arthur wasn't about to let that insult slide.

"So what if I'm a bastard?" Dylan sneered. "I'll still knock you flat, my lord."

Arthur answered with steel, not words. He stepped in, sword raised high, then swung sideways—an unexpected cut, aimed low and from the left. Vertical strikes were easier to block; lateral ones forced Dylan to react quickly or take the blow directly.

Dylan parried, blade vertical—but Arthur was waiting for it. He braced, ready to push in with weight.

Then the world spun.

The audience could see it: Dylan's stance shifted. He pivoted, sliding past Arthur's guard like a Bravoosi duelist. His foot snapped out and kicked Arthur's right knee.

Arthur crumpled, knee hitting the earth. Dirty move, Arthur cursed internally. But he kept his balance by planting his sword like a cane. Dylan lunged, blade aimed at Arthur's exposed back.

Arthur didn't look, he just moved—rolled forward across his shoulder, then spun up onto his feet like a trained fighter from Essos. The stab missed by inches.

But Dylan wasn't done.

The next strike lashed at Arthur's jaw. His helm protected most of his head, but he wore no gorget, no neckguard, no visor—like many knights in a trial duel. There wasn't time to block. Arthur leaned back just in time, the blade slicing air in front of his face.

Now they were chasing each other in a deadly dance.

From the high table, Carle Vance watched with delight. Dylan served under him, and a victory here would bring him prestige among the Riverlords—especially if Hendry Bracken upheld his word and sent troops against the Blackwoods.

"Arthur's losing ground," Carle said, sipping wine from a goblet chased with the red horse sigil of House Vance.

Carle had considered elevating Dylan to a sworn knight. Unlike wandering free knights, sworn knights took oaths of loyalty. In return, they were promised shelter, gold, and lifelong service—a risk and a privilege for any lord.

Maester Marco Piper scoffed from the next seat. "Dylan's a fool. He gave up his reach to brawl with Arthur. Should've kept his distance."

"Because you bet ten gold dragons on Arthur, now you're his champion?" Carle raised an eyebrow.

Marco grinned. "I don't bet on losers. And the bastard's already panting."

Don't use your own petty thoughts to guess the heart of a nobleman like me," Ma Ke said with a cold smile as he took the wine cup offered by the page. The goblet, a Riverlands make etched with Bracken horses, shimmered in the morning light. "Arthur fought not just for glory, but for the lives of the smallfolk beneath his banner. A lord who bleeds for his people—he earns respect in any corner of Westeros."

He turned toward Hendry Bracken, his tone turning diplomatic. "Why not extend a branch to House Blackwood? You send a rider, and I'll send one as well. Two great Riverland houses showing restraint over a patch of land no larger than nine villages—surely the gods would smile on that."

Hendry accepted a cup himself, swirling the dark red liquid before taking a sip. "Hmm. It's quite fine," he muttered, raising his voice to steer the conversation away. "This the wine you brought from Seagard? Much better than the horse piss they brew along the Red Fork."

Ma Ke narrowed his eyes, but said nothing more. Clearly, Hendry was pretending not to hear. With a snort, Ma Ke shifted his focus back to the match below.

In the dirt-floored arena, the duel dragged on with visible toll. Arthur's chestplate and greaves had broken away—metal torn loose by repeated strikes. Blood streaked his silver calf armor in dark crimson trails. The right side of his armor hung ragged like a half-shed skin. Across from him, Ser Dylan fared little better. Arthur had shattered his faceplate earlier with a brutal pommel strike, and now half his face was bruised and swelling beneath his temple.

Still, Dylan pressed forward, favoring close combat again. But his movements had dulled. The momentum that once made him seem quicker than a shadow now felt like it belonged to a wounded boar.

Arthur looked every bit the lumbering knight—his stance heavy, his sword swings wide. Yet the crowd's chants began to lean toward Dylan. Though bloodied, he stood more intact, and to the untrained eye, seemed the likely victor.

Then came a decisive exchange.

Dylan, seizing the perceived advantage, lunged in with a clean thrust aimed at Arthur's exposed chest. The damaged armor offered little protection now—if that blade landed, it would tear through his ribs.

Arthur, lacking time to parry, leaned back while swinging with one arm, trying to turn the blow aside. But the blood under his boots betrayed him—he slipped and collapsed in a heap.

Dylan's eyes flashed. He danced aside Arthur's sword and stepped forward, blade raised high, aiming for Arthur's bare neck. A clean kill would bring him victory, and Arthur had yet to cry yield.

Those watching from the viewing platform gasped aloud. Several nobles leapt to their feet, including Ma Ke. "Seven save him… is this how Arthur Bracken falls?"

A louder roar surged from the crowd—some lamenting the fall, others cheering Dylan's triumph.

But just before the killing blow fell, the tide turned.

Arthur lashed out with a swift kick to Dylan's leg, throwing him off balance. Simultaneously, he raised his gloved right hand—still clad in heavy cowhide—and caught Dylan's blade just as it came down. Leather met steel in a desperate grip, and pain lanced through Arthur's fingers.

The sword veered to the side.

Dylan, unbalanced, stumbled forward and crashed atop Arthur. Their limbs tangled, the sword now pressed against Arthur's gauntlet. Both men strained against each other, teeth clenched and faces red.