CHAPTER 76

Everything proceeded as planned.

On the morning of the second day, Arthur bid farewell to the northern-bound party at the Gate of the Gods, one of the main exits from King's Landing, facing the Kingsroad.

Ninety-seven free mercenaries, the clever young accountant Hayley, and a caravan bearing two hundred sets of newly-forged iron lamellar armor made up the core of the northbound column. Desmond, the seasoned coachman from Riverrun, took charge of escorting them back to the Red Mill.

Arthur also entrusted Desmond with a sealed letter addressed to Amber, the Bracken household's steward. Amber would be responsible for receiving the arriving forces and overseeing the preparations back home.

The massive red warhorse, Red Hare, also went with the convoy. Though a majestic steed, it lacked the speed and endurance for a forced march south. Likewise, Arthur's oversized warhammer was sent north as well. When Tobho Mott had crafted Arthur's ornate plate armor, he assumed the warhammer was a ceremonial piece—something to mount on a wall—so he hadn't designed any back-mounting mechanism for it.

The golden guandao, however, had been fitted with a proper back holster, allowing Arthur to travel with it across long distances. Carrying the warhammer by hand would've exhausted even him, and would've burdened his destrier, Lu, too heavily.

Patrick's father, Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard, was also among the northbound group. He had arrived in King's Landing to compete in the Hand's Tourney but was eliminated early in the tilts. As a powerful lord from the Trident, his presence added authority to the convoy.

With a nobleman of Jason's stature, the heavily patrolled Kingsroad, and nearly one hundred hired swords, Arthur was confident that few would dare trouble them.

The southern-bound company, by contrast, was a far more eclectic force.

It included more than twenty retainers belonging to the Redwyne twins, Horace and Hobber, the skilled archer Anguy, thirteen disciplined Dornish spearmen, over one hundred battle-hardened members of the Blood Troupe, Arthur himself riding Lu, and four of his own handpicked retainers.

A letter of thanks had been written for Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, acknowledging his support. Arthur carried one sealed copy, while several others had already been sent by raven to Highgarden, the Tyrell family seat.

Arthur had won two events in the royal tourney—both the melee and the archery competition—and was awarded a total of 60,000 gold dragons. He had already spent over 3,000: commissioning his personalized plate armor, the warhammer, the golden guandao, the bulk order of iron armor, the cost of living in King's Landing for more than a week, and the down payments for hiring multiple mercenary companies.

Since he had brought over 2,000 dragons with him at the start, he now retained over 59,000. Before departure, he entrusted 58,000 gold dragons to Loras for safekeeping—potential leverage for a future alliance—and left with more than 1,600 gold dragons on his person.

Their journey first led them across the Blackwater Rush via the Stone Bridge south of King's Landing. From there, they continued along the well-worn Rose Road, the main trade route linking the capital to the Reach.

The Royal Forest—second only to the Wolfswood in size among Westeros' ancient woods—posed the first challenge to the southbound force. Though the Rose Road cut through it, the route was dotted only with sparse and distant roadside inns. Proper provisioning was essential.

Fortunately, the company had 244 horses, and with only 153 people, they weren't lacking in transport or hauling capacity. Supplies of dried food, hardtack, water, and oats were replenished in a small village at the forest's northern edge.

Despite the natural temptation to rest in town, Arthur ordered the group to press on into the woods without delay. Some veterans among the Blood Troupe grumbled, but none openly challenged him—especially not with the gleaming golden guandao slung across his back.

The Third Day in the Royal Forest.

"Let's halt for a bit, Lord Arthur," Horace Redwyne suggested, panting as he removed his helmet. "We could use the rest."

"He's right," Anguy agreed, wiping sweat from his brow. "We're half a day from the southern edge. A short break, a bite, a drink—and then we push through in one go."

Arthur turned in the saddle, surveying the riders behind him. Weariness was written on every face. The previous day's hard pace had taken its toll, especially on the less-seasoned riders. Many shifted uncomfortably in their saddles or slumped forward, dulled by the rhythm of the road and the pounding of hooves.

The long gallop from King's Landing to the forest's edge had worn down both horses and men, and three days of relentless travel through the woods hadn't helped. The steady jolting on horseback left even the hardened Blood Troupe aching.

Arthur relented.

"Very well," he said. "Everyone rest here. I'll head into the woods and try to bring back something fresh. Let's have a proper meal for once."

The men visibly brightened. For days, they'd subsisted on hard biscuits, dry jerky, and bland barley porridge—enough to keep them alive but not much more.

Man is iron, meat is steel. Arthur thought of that saying again. Too many days without meat, and even the strongest lose their edge.

"Praise the Seven!"

"Thank you, my lord!"

"Bring back something with antlers!"

The mood lifted instantly. Arthur's decisiveness and thoughtfulness helped him earn more than just obedience—he earned admiration.

Most of the men dismounted and sprawled across the clearing beneath towering beech and oak trees. The canopy above filtered sunlight into thin beams that danced across the forest floor.

Aside from Arthur, Jules, and the Redwyne twins, the rest of the company were common-born—free lances, former sellswords, and hedge knights. They were well accustomed to rough nights on the road, sleeping under trees or next to old wooden fences.

"Hedge knights" was the name given to landless knights, wandering warriors who refused to spend coin on inns. Many had once served lords but now sold their swords to the highest bidder. Their ways were plain, but they were not without honor.

Arthur pointed to several men who still looked alert and ordered them to maintain watch along the tree line. With that done, he gathered a small hunting party—those with bows or sharp eyes—and set off deeper into the forest in search of game.

Half an hour later…

Hey, how come we haven't seen any wild boars in this forest?" Anguy asked, narrowing his eyes at the brush around them.

"Maybe the scent of Lord Arthur's boar-slaying exploits scared them off," said Hobber Redwyne with a smirk. He was clearly the more spirited of the Redwyne twins and had eagerly joined the hunt.

"What's this about a boar-slayer?" Anguy asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hobber wasted no time recounting the tale—Arthur's string of kills near Harrenhal, where he'd personally brought down five full-grown wild boars in a single afternoon, one of them nearly the size of a horse. The account, embellished just enough, drew murmurs of respect from the small cluster of mercenaries within earshot.

"Lord Arthur's bravery exceeds the legends," one of them said in awe.

"If he could crush wild boars with a regular warhammer," another mused, "then what hope would any man have against him wielding that enormous custom hammer?"

"I'd wager only that monstrous Mountain could take such a beating," said a third.

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "If Ser Gregor Clegane were fully armored, with mail and plate head to toe, he might survive a few strikes from my hammer. If I ever face him again, it'll come down to who breaks first."

That brief clash with Gregor during the melee at the Hand's Tourney had given Arthur insight into the Mountain's true strength—and his own.

He wasn't stronger than the Mountain, not outright. But the gap wasn't as wide as people assumed.

Where the Mountain was a brute wall of rage and muscle, Arthur had the advantage of control and agility. His custom-forged plate from Tobho Mott, tailored for both strength and speed, let him move with the ease of a lighter man. His strength allowed him to wield the massive warhammer fluidly—something Gregor likely couldn't do.

Sure, the Mountain could swing such a hammer, but he'd be slow, forced into broad, predictable movements. In their earlier duel, he had relied on a relatively light two-handed greatsword to stay nimble. It had worked well enough in the melee, but in a duel where every blow counted, it was a tradeoff.

Arthur, on the other hand, could move freely even with a weapon as heavy as the giant hammer. That gave him a critical edge. Blow for blow, he could match the Mountain—and then surpass him through sheer resilience.

All of which made Arthur look forward to their inevitable rematch.

"Hush," Anguy suddenly whispered, crouching low. "White hart."

A white deer. Even in the depths of the Royal Forest, such a sight was rare enough to make hardened men forget their own chatter.

The others stilled immediately, watching as the elegant creature stepped silently between the mossy trunks. Anguy, already nocking an arrow, narrowed his eyes and pulled back his bowstring.

The shot came clean and fast—but missed.

By chance, the white deer startled and charged straight in their direction.

Arthur stepped forward calmly, drawing his crescent-bladed sword—New Moon. In a flash of steel, the deer fell at his feet.

"A white deer…" one of the mercenaries murmured, walking up slowly. "That's rare. Don't know whether it brings blessing or doom."

"Could mean anything," another said. "Some say it's a sign from the gods. Others say it's a curse."

Arthur looked down at the white hart, its still eyes glinting in the fading light, and felt certainty swell in his chest.

To him, this was no curse. It was a sign.

House Baratheon had lost its stag.

And Arthur had just claimed his.

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