Chapter 15- This is Called Fighting

After donning the chainmail brought by Hendry's attendant, Arthur secured the horse-faced visor crafted in Shili City. He gripped his two-handed greatsword, gave it a few experimental swings, and felt its balance settle into his grasp. The blade no longer felt foreign—it felt like an extension of his body.

Sure enough, the increase in his two-handed weapon proficiency had enhanced his control. Though his actual sword technique hadn't advanced, the added familiarity let him maneuver the blade with greater ease and precision.

Confidence welled within him.

Who cares if he's Hans Darry? I, Arthur Bracken, will fell him with one clean strike.

The attendant led Arthur through the narrow passage to the rear practice yard of Stone Hedge Castle. The field, ringed by banners and expectant onlookers, held only one man.

A stout figure stood at the center of the yard. His silver-plated armor bore the distinct utilitarian design of the Westerlands—a practical choice for seasoned hedge knights. The man's hair and beard were streaked with grey, and though a head shorter than Arthur, he was broader in the chest and arms. The veteran's presence exuded strength and familiarity with battle.

So this was Hans Darry.

Once a loyalist house to House Targaryen, the Darrys had stood with Prince Rhaegar during Robert's Rebellion. After the fall of King's Landing and the death of the Mad King, Robert Baratheon had seized Darry lands, reducing their income and levying harsh taxes. To ease the burden, many martial retainers of the house were dismissed or sent to find their fortunes elsewhere. Hans Darry, despite his skill, had been among them.

A waste of talent, were it not for Hendry hiring him for this duel.

As Arthur approached, Hendry smirked and said with practiced humility, "Dear cousin, Ser Hans is a man of many battles. Take care."

Arthur, remembering the 180 gold dragons from his previous winnings, replied casually, "I gave my one hundred and eighty gold dragons to the two guards who accompanied me."

Hendry looked surprised. "Not betting on yourself this time? The odds are even."

Arthur shook his head. "Not worth the risk."

He wasn't some fool willing to gamble everything for glory. If he won today and secured the support of five hundred Bracken soldiers, he'd be able to openly challenge Blackwood's encroachments. And if he lost, at least his guards wouldn't return empty-handed.

As for Brynden Blackwood, Arthur would have to travel to Riverrun and seek Edmure Tully's arbitration. Lord Edmure, kind-hearted and easily swayed by sentiment, was known across the Riverlands as being more empathetic than shrewd. Arthur's odds were decent—especially if he played the card of familial obligation.

But extorting coin from Brynden Blackwood? That would be a taller task.

"Then let us begin," Hendry declared, his tone softening. He, like the rest of the audience, believed the outcome was already decided. Hans Darry had years of experience; Arthur had only two minor duels to his name.

The crowd was vocal in their support for Hans. Cheers and chants filled the air, most of them hailing the knight's name. Few voiced any hope for Arthur—those who had bet on him kept their mouths shut, wary of being mocked.

Hans drew his sword, the metal rasping sharply. The blade was long—closer to five feet—typical for Riverland knights who preferred reach over finesse.

"I watched your last bouts," Hans said, his voice gruff. "You've got promise. With training and time, you might even manage to hold your own against me."

The implication was clear: Arthur didn't stand a chance—yet.

Arthur tilted his head, expression unreadable behind his mask. "Wrong."

Hans furrowed his brow. "What?"

Arthur's voice rang out, clear and bold: "You should say, few in Westeros can stand as my equal."

Hans blinked. For a moment, he didn't respond. Then, with a grunt, he unsheathed his blade fully, gripping it with practiced strength.

With surprising speed for a man of his size, Hans lunged. His blade arced low from Arthur's left side, aiming for the vulnerable joint beneath the ribs. The angle was precise and difficult to counter with raw force.

Arthur reacted instinctively. He stepped into the attack, using his left thigh to guide his blade into a blocking position, bracing for the impact. The swords clashed, the vibration singing up his leg.

At the same moment, Arthur's right hand shot forward, fist flying toward Hans' bearded jaw.

Who said a swordsman couldn't throw a punch?

Hans twisted back, narrowly avoiding the strike. The distance between them widened.

Arthur followed up immediately. He scooped up his sword with both hands and drove it forward in a sudden lunge.

"Fast," Hans muttered, his tone genuinely surprised. He shifted sideways and countered with a diagonal slash aimed at Arthur's shoulder.

I've always been this fast. I'm just a fast guy," Arthur replied with a half-smirk, adjusting the position of his toes and heels, shifting his weight with precision learned not just from training, but from actual life-or-death skirmishes. Each motion adapted to the need for explosive force from the legs—something any seasoned knight from the Vale or the Stormlands would instantly recognize.

He met Hans's thrust head-on. The swords clashed in a burst of sound that rang like hammer on anvil, like the blacksmiths of Qohor forging Valyrian steel. The ring of metal echoed throughout the training yard, drawing shouts and gasps from the gathered crowd.

Without missing a beat, Arthur raised his blade and counter-chopped, his movement fluid, like a water dancer of Braavos with the weight of a greatsword. Hans absorbed the strike with a grunt, his strength easily rivaling Arthur's—his silvered plate armor clanged, but didn't buckle. The veteran knight's sheer bulk and grounded stance were as immovable as Ser Gregor Clegane's in his prime.

This was no staged duel or practice match. This was real. Steel against steel. Grit against grit.

"The kind of clash that legends are written about… the kind that makes bards weep if they miss it," Ma Ke muttered, awestruck, lips parted slightly as his eyes tracked the blades. "If there's ever been a time to use the phrase 'a formation to kill generals and suppress mountains and rivers,' it's now. This is called fighting."

He wasn't wrong. In just one exchange, the two had displayed a depth of skill and ferocity greater than Arthur's prior two fights combined.

Hendry, seated beside Ma Ke, looked as if someone had just spat in his wine. "How… how is this possible?" he murmured, unable to keep disbelief from his voice. "How is he catching Hans's moves?"

He had seen Hans fight before. Not just in Hejian, but during a brief campaign near Maidenpool when bandits threatened the Blackwater Rush. Hans Darry was no sellsword—he was a true knight, hardened in the waning days of the rebellion. His strikes were clean, purposeful, and precise. Even among guest knights of Shili City, Hans stood near the top—if not by lineage, then by sheer talent. There were precious few in the Riverlands who could best him in single combat, and even Ser Jason Mallister would hesitate before calling Hans inferior.

Arthur? Arthur had been a no-name until a week ago.

Yet here he was, steel-for-steel with Hans Darry.

Even if he lost, this match alone would make him the talk of Hejian. Come the next tournament—be it in Fairmarket, Saltpans, or even Seagard—every minor lord and hedge knight would remember Arthur Bracken's name. Hendry realized, belatedly, that he had underestimated Arthur, and perhaps mishandled the young knight's appeal for aid against the Blackwoods.

Across the stands, Caryl Vance's sour expression from Dylan Weishui's loss began to ease. Watching Hendry squirm was its own small victory.

After all, Caryl's man had lost badly—and that reflected poorly not just on the knight, but on Caryl's judgment. If Arthur won this bout, then Caryl would no longer be the only one whose pick had faltered, and the laughter of his peers would be more evenly shared.

Clang!

Another heavy blow echoed from the yard. The two fighters were locked once more, their swords clashing in a dance of speed and strength. Arthur, knowing his lack of experience in drawn-out combat, abandoned defense. He went on the offensive, hammering down with brutal strikes, choosing force and momentum over form.

Hans met each with practiced calm. His stance barely wavered, parrying each strike with the sort of defensive poise that reminded some watchers of Barristan Selmy during the Tourney at Harrenhal—when even Rhaegar had hesitated to face the legendary knight.

The younger spectators stared in awe, lips parted in admiration. Hans's textbook-perfect defense was a sight few got to see outside the pages of old manuals or the tales of Ser Arlan of Pennytree. For many low-born squires and hedge knights in the crowd—those too poor to afford a proper master-at-arms—this was a once-in-a-season opportunity.

In Westeros, martial training varied wildly depending on birth. A great house like House Tully of Riverrun had full-time armsmasters, like Ser Desmond Grell, training generations of squires. A poor knight might learn only through trial and error—if not from the point of a brigand's blade.

Unless one was like Petyr Baelish, the son of a minor noble who'd become Hoster Tully's ward and enjoyed Riverrun's resources—though in Littlefinger's case, martial talent never caught up to his ambitions.

Arthur's form, by contrast, had the wildness of someone self-taught, honed not in tournaments but in back-alley skirmishes, ambushes near the Ruby Ford, or bandit raids along the Red Fork. But what he lacked in polish, he made up for in sheer aggression and innovation—like a sellsword who survived because he had to, not because he was trained to.