Chapter 4: The Road to Uncertainty

The journey to Stone Hedge was long and grueling. Arthur and the remnants of Lord Bracken's retinue moved through a landscape marred by war. The Riverlands, once a patchwork of villages and fertile fields, now felt like a ghost of its former self. Abandoned homesteads dotted the road, their windows dark and doors swinging in the wind. Crows circled overhead, their calls echoing through the silence. Arthur tightened his grip on the reins, his eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of movement.

"Nothing but ashes left here," Tom muttered from beside him, his voice low. He glanced at Arthur, who nodded in grim agreement. The older knight had become wary in the weeks following their defeat, his once confident demeanor now edged with caution.

"There's nothing for anyone in these villages anymore," Arthur replied. "The people have either fled or... worse."

As they passed through yet another empty settlement, Arthur noticed the remnants of a burned-down inn, its sign hanging askew. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, and he felt a pang of loss—these lands had once been under his family's protection.

By midday, the silence was broken when an arrow whizzed past them, lodging into the ground. A cry went up from one of the scouts, and chaos erupted as bandits descended from the tree line. Arthur unsheathed his sword, the familiar weight grounding him. The clash of steel filled the air as Lord Bracken's men formed a protective circle around their lord. Arthur moved swiftly, his sword arcing through the air to parry a blow aimed at Tom.

"Hold the line!" Arthur shouted, pushing forward. He felt the sting of adrenaline, the familiar thrill of battle that ignited his senses. One of the bandits lunged at him, a wild look in his eyes, but Arthur's blade met him, cutting through the man's leather armor. Blood sprayed, and the bandit fell, clutching his side.

Tom fought beside him, his shield raised. "There's more in the woods! Stay close!"

Arthur nodded, his eyes scanning for Roose, who had been riding a few paces ahead. But Roose was holding his own, already dismounting to help reinforce the line. Lord Bracken, surrounded by his most loyal men, bellowed commands that cut through the din of battle. Despite their numbers, the bandits fell back, unprepared for the disciplined defense put up by Bracken's men. Arthur watched them go, his chest heaving as he wiped blood from his brow.

"Scouts," Lord Bracken ordered, his voice sharp. "Make sure they don't regroup."

Arthur exchanged a look with Tom as they sheathed their weapons. "We need to be cautious. If they know we're traveling through, others might too."

Lord Bracken nodded, his expression grim. "We push forward, but we stay alert. We cannot afford another skirmish like that."

The next weeks of travel were tense. The party moved cautiously, avoiding main roads and traveling through forests and hills to minimize the chance of ambush. Each night, they set up camp in secluded spots, and the men kept watch in shifts. Arthur found himself growing closer to some of the soldiers, sharing stories over the campfire. These were men who had bled beside him, and despite their suspicion of his Andal blood, he felt their respect growing, little by little.

By the time they reached Stone Hedge, the journey had taken its toll. They had been on the road for a moon, and each of them bore the weariness of long travel. The sight of the castle's towering walls, covered in thick ivy, was a welcome relief. Stone Hedge stood like a sentinel over the Riverlands, its battlements and stone towers defiant against the approaching winter.

Royce Bracken was the first to greet them as they rode into the courtyard. The young man's eyes lit up as he saw his father, and he moved forward to embrace him.

"Father, you've returned." Royce's voice held a note of relief, but there was tension in his eyes as he glanced at the men surrounding Lord Bracken.

"Royce," Lord Bracken replied, gripping his son's shoulder. "I trust you have news?"

Royce's expression darkened. "The Andals are marching on Muddy Hall. They plan to lay siege to it.."

Arthur felt the blood drain from his face. Muddy Hall, the keep of House Mudd, was under threat. The keep where his ancestors had ruled for generations was now under threat of the invaders.

"There's more," Royce continued. "Ravens have come from the surviving Riverlords. With the death of King Tristifer V, they've begun calling him 'The Last.' They claim House Mudd is extinct and have declared themselves kings."

Lord Bracken's face hardened, his eyes narrowing. "So they think to carve up the Riverlands themselves." He glanced at Arthur, who stood silently beside him, absorbing the news.

"Take these men and see to their needs," Lord Bracken ordered. "We'll speak further in private." Royce nodded, and the men began dismounting, eager for rest after the long journey.

As the crowd dispersed, Royce turned to Arthur. "You must be Arthur Rivers. My father's spoken highly of you."

Arthur inclined his head. "I'm honored to be in the service of your house."

Royce smiled. "It's good to have you here. We'll need all the help we can get in the days to come."

Arthur found himself liking Royce immediately. The young Bracken was confident, yet carried himself with the humility of a soldier who had earned his place. It was clear he hadn't been at the Battle of the Eight Kings, and Arthur wondered if that absence had made him eager to prove himself.

Later, Arthur was shown to his quarters, he was escorted by a comely girl no older than fourteen. She had dark hair and bright eyes that seemed to take in everything.

"I'm Beatrice," she introduced herself with a curtsy. "My father asked me to show you around."

Arthur smiled softly. "Thank you, Beatrice. You're the lord's daughter, then?"

She nodded. "I am. And you're the half-Andal bastard."

Arthur winced at the bluntness of her words, but there was no malice in her tone—only curiosity. "That's right," he admitted.

"Well, welcome to Stone Hedge, Arthur Rivers. I hope you're not like the other men who come through here. Most of them leave as quickly as they arrive."

He chuckled softly. "I'll do my best to make myself useful."

Beatrice led him through the winding corridors, pointing out various rooms and the keep's many tapestries, each depicting battles and feuds between the Brackens and their enemies, especially the Blackwoods. She seemed eager to share her knowledge, and Arthur listened, feeling a sense of warmth in her presence. She reminded him of the innocence he had lost long ago.

That night, a grand feast was held in the Great Hall. The long tables were filled with lords and knights loyal to House Bracken. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and the sound of laughter. Arthur sat near the back, observing as Lord Bracken stood to address his court.

"My friends, we face a choice," Lord Bracken began, his voice carrying through the hall. "The Andals have taken much from us. Our king is dead, and the Riverlords have carved up the realm. We are alone."

Arthur's heart sank as he listened. Lord Bracken's words were heavy, and Arthur could see the resignation in his eyes.

"It may be time to accept that we cannot win this war. I intend to swear allegiance to the Andals to preserve what remains of our lands."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, but Arthur felt a cold anger rising in his chest. He glanced down at his hands, feeling the weight of his ancestors. The memory of Muddy Hall, its stone walls and banners, flashed before his eyes. Then, suddenly, another vision overwhelmed him—a memory, but not his own. He saw a battlefield, Britons in disarray, and himself—no, another version of him—riding through the ranks, rallying the men with words of defiance.

Before he could think, Arthur stood. "My lord, if I may speak."

The hall fell silent, all eyes turning to him. Lord Bracken's expression was unreadable, but he gave a nod.

"We've lost much, yes. But bending the knee will only bring temporary peace. The Andals want our land, our heritage. They will not stop until everything we know is gone." Arthur's voice grew stronger, fueled by the vision. "We must not surrender. We must rally the remaining Riverlords, forge alliances, and fight back."

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, the hall was silent. Then, a few voices murmured agreement. Royce, sitting near the front, nodded, his eyes bright with determination. But Lord Bracken's face darkened.

"You speak out of turn, bastard," he said coldly. "And you forget your place."

Arthur felt the weight of the court's eyes on him, but he didn't back down. "I may be a bastard, but I still carry the blood of House Mudd. We cannot give up now."

The hall erupted in murmurs. Lord Bracken's eyes flashed, and he signaled to the guards. "Arthur Rivers, you will be punished for your insolence."

The guards grabbed Arthur roughly, pulling him from his place. He did not resist as they dragged him to the stocks. The hall watched, some with pity, others with disdain.

The next morning, the punishment was carried out. Arthur's back burned as the lash struck, each blow searing his flesh. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out. Faces blurred in his vision, and he heard the jeers of those who resented him for his Andal blood.

When it was over, Arthur was left alone, the cold wind biting at his skin. Hours passed before he saw anyone again. To his surprise, it was Beatrice and Royce who approached. Beatrice carried a bucket of water, while Royce brought a cloth.

"We're here to help," Beatrice said softly, her eyes full of concern. "You were brave to speak, even if it got you in trouble."

Royce nodded, kneeling beside Arthur to tend to his wounds. "You made an impression on my father, even if he won't admit it. In fact he decided not to follow through on his decision to bend the knee, he and his vassals are considering other options as we speak."

Arthur managed a smile, feeling grateful that his words had an effect. "Thank you, both of you. It means more than you know."

As Royce and Beatrice cleaned his wounds, Arthur felt a glimmer of hope. He was not alone; there were still people who believed in him. And with that, he knew he had to keep fighting, for them and for the memory of his house, of House Mudd.