The speaker wore a velvet doublet lined with black silk and delicately embroidered with golden roses, the sigil of his house. He stood tall and composed, his features strikingly handsome—so much so that Arthur thought he resembled Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of Flowers. The resemblance was no coincidence.
At his side stood a bald, middle-aged man with a close-cropped white beard and a face carved from granite. His eyes were cold, and his expression stern—clearly not a man given to pleasantries.
"Lord Tarly, welcome to my home," said Lord Mace Tyrell from his seat behind an opulent table carved from heartwood and inlaid with gold leaf. He gave the gruff knight a courteous nod before turning toward his son with a furrowed brow. "Why do you refuse to give arms to Ser Arthur? Loras made the recommendation himself in his letter."
Hopper, ever discreet, leaned in to whisper in Arthur's ear, "That's Ser Garlan, Mace's second son. And the other one is Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill. Hates Dornishmen with a passion."
With that reminder, Arthur quickly realized the root of the tension. Horn Hill sat near the Dornish Marches, and House Tarly had for centuries served as the Reach's first line of defense against Dornish incursions. It was no surprise that Lord Randyll harbored deep animosity toward the people of Dorne.
Randyll Tarly was a hardened veteran, known across the realm for his brutal discipline and martial prowess. He had even bested Robert Baratheon at the Battle of Ashford during the rebellion—a rare feat. And his reputation for ruthlessness extended to his own kin. It was said that, disappointed with his soft-hearted firstborn, he had turned to blood magic to toughen the boy. When the attempt failed, he beat the supposed mages out of his halls and forced his son, Samwell, to take the black. That left his second son, Dickon, to inherit and embody the family's militaristic legacy.
Now, Arthur found himself facing this iron-willed man—while traveling with a dozen Dornish mercenaries.
Garlan Tyrell responded calmly to his father's query. "This man brought the Blood Troupe into the Reach. Given their reputation, I deemed Ser Arthur too dangerous to be armed further. Distributing weapons to such men could endanger innocents. I urge you to deny the sale, Father."
Lord Mace's face darkened at that. His jovial demeanor slipped away in an instant. Either his youngest son Loras had been misled, or Garlan's instincts had proven right. Caught between them, Mace made his decision.
He turned to Arthur. "You heard my son. I've decided that Highgarden will no longer provide weapons or armor to you. You may collect the fifty-eight thousand gold dragons deposited, but beyond that, our dealings are concluded. If there's nothing more, you are dismissed."
He waved a hand, already shifting his attention to the next matter—a land dispute between House Oakheart and a vassal of House Lefford from the Westerlands.
There may be no wrong names, but there are certainly no wrong nicknames.
Arthur finally understood why Mace Tyrell was so often called "the Inflatable Fish." The man had flopped from warm host to rigid obstacle within minutes. The reputation of the Blood Troupe might have been dubious, but they had not broken any laws. For them to move freely across Westeros yet be denied arms on principle reeked of prejudice.
It was clear Lord Randyll had influenced Garlan's judgment. And just like that, Mace had reversed a promise, swayed by a single comment from his second son.
What kind of lord rescinded his word so easily?
Arthur doubted such behavior would inspire much faith in Mace's bannermen.
His true ally, Loras Tyrell, was far away in King's Landing and couldn't intervene. The plan to purchase arms from House Tyrell was a failure.
But not all was lost.
The Redwyne fleet still supported him, and through their alliance, three hundred sets of armor and weapons could be acquired. Coupled with the recruitment of free swords from the Reach, the journey wasn't wasted.
Arthur didn't dwell on it. He gestured for the twins to accompany him to find Lord Paxter Redwyne.
After navigating Highgarden's sprawling halls, they finally reached the apartments where the Lord of the Arbor was staying—a guest in his aunt's household.
"It's nothing serious—just a bit of courtesy. No need to make the journey yourself," Paxter greeted warmly as Arthur entered.
Perhaps it was his dealings with wine traders from across the Narrow Sea, but Paxter Redwyne had the easy grace of a seasoned diplomat. He rose from his seat with a smile, offered Arthur a chair, and signaled the servants to bring fruit, cheese, and Arbor Gold.
From the moment the conversation began, his tone was affable, his demeanor relaxed. In contrast to the icy reception from the Tyrells, Paxter was warm and engaging.
Arthur found him instantly likable.
"It's not a waste of time," Arthur said as he accepted a cup of wine. "At the very least, I've had the honor of meeting the Lord of the Arbor."
Arthur was not one to hold grudges for long.
If others gave him respect, he returned it in full.
One heart for one heart.
Since being won over by him, the twins Hopper and Horace had conducted themselves with loyalty and care. They took every opportunity to uphold Arthur's honor, both in public and private, even going so far as to accompany him on a rushed return to Highgarden solely to aid him in acquiring arms and armor.
Now that their father had shown such hospitality, Arthur believed there was real potential to deepen his alliance with the Redwyne heirs.
Lord Paxter, curious and affable, asked how Arthur had come to know his sons and how he'd managed to win not one but two championship titles in King's Landing, besting many renowned knights from across the Seven Kingdoms.
Arthur and the twins took turns recounting the story of the Hand's Tourney and the chaotic melee that followed, weaving a tale of shattered lances and clashing steel beneath the shadow of the Red Keep.
"Seven bloody hells," Lord Paxter muttered in awe. "Who in the whole of Westeros can stand against your hammer now?"
"The Mountain? Too slow. A brute who only knows how to smash. He'd get beaten to death before he could land a proper blow on you. Your foes are cursed with poor luck—some may not even leave a corpse."
The Lord of the Arbor chuckled at his own dark humor before rising. He kept the conversation warm and light for a while longer, then called in two of his household stewards and instructed them to escort Arthur to Ferrybridge, where the equipment was waiting.
Though Lord Paxter treated all men with courtesy, his rank still carried weight. It would not do for a noble of his standing to personally oversee something as mundane as armor distribution.
Arthur understood this well. Nobles often mingled without strict adherence to rank, but the lines between high and lowborn, liege and vassal, were never truly erased.
The Redwyne twins joined Arthur for the inspection. Given their family ties to the region, they considered themselves hosts of a sort and were determined to see their guest properly tended to.
The road to Ferrybridge followed much the same route as the one they had traveled the night before. After several hours under the sun, the group finally reached the riverside town.
"It's all accounted for, my lords. Please take a look," one of the stewards said.
He and his companion led Arthur and the Redwynes down to the docks, where a longboat was moored, its hold full of crates and bundles wrapped in oilcloth. At a gesture, the boatmen began unloading the contents for inspection.
The shipment included three main types of weaponry: full-length longbows, reliable half-swords suited for close combat, and sturdy battlefield spears. As for armor, the bulk was composed of good-quality mail shirts with reinforced neck guards. Most valuable of all were thirty full suits of gleaming plate armor.
"You're sincere, and your father is a true gentleman," Arthur said with satisfaction, running a hand along the polished steel.
Those thirty suits alone justified the entire journey. They were full sets—helm to sabaton—well-balanced and expertly crafted. Mail for the rank-and-file, lamellar for the seasoned veterans, but plate was the hallmark of elite troops.
In Arthur's hands, with an organized force clad in heavy plate, he could lead a spearhead that could smash through enemy infantry lines—even ones ten thousand strong. That kind of shock power was priceless.
All told, the shipment cost 2,100 gold dragons—a sum far beyond the means of minor lords or landed knights. But for Arthur, who had earned 60,000 dragons in winnings at the tourney—thanks to King Robert's extravagant generosity—it was well within reach.
The prize money of a single tournament had now become the foundation of a real fighting force. Arthur couldn't help but marvel at Robert's indulgence—his love for sport and spectacle was costing the crown dearly.
Once the inspection was complete and everything was loaded onto wagons for the return journey, the party made their way into the heart of Ferrybridge for a proper meal.
They chose the finest tavern in the town—an ivy-covered inn with good Riverlander ale and a warm hearth—and settled in for lunch.
As the food was brought out and the ale began to flow, the twins suddenly stiffened and looked toward a corner table.
"Cousin?" one of them called out. "What are you doing here?"
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