Desmond thought he understood Arthur's prowess with a weapon—but nothing could have prepared him for what he witnessed.
The tavern had become a warzone: chairs overturned, tables splintered, tankards rolling across the stone floor. And in the center stood Arthur Bracken, fists bloodied but calm, like a storm that had just passed.
He had knocked a man unconscious with a single blow—one of Cleos Frey's hired swords. In mere breaths, all twenty men Cleos brought had either been laid out cold or were writhing in pain on the ground. A few, who hadn't even been hit, had the good sense to fall down early and groan convincingly, hoping to avoid Arthur's wrath.
"Seven hells!" Patrick Mallister exclaimed, stunned. "I didn't even get a chance to swing."
He had risen when the fight began, eager to impress Arthur with his swordsmanship—but by the time his hand found his hilt, it was over.
Most of Cleos's men were little more than alley thugs and tavern sellswords—armed with table knives, clubs, or empty bravado. The few with steel never got to draw; Arthur dropped them first. One sword, struck while half-drawn, now bore a clear indent of Arthur's knuckles where fist had met blade.
Patrick stared at the bent weapon, eyes wide. "Is that a fist mark?"
Arthur, feeling the heat of his friends' astonished gazes, chuckled and shook his hand. "Damn, that actually stung."
In truth, it barely hurt at all. Since training in the Ironbone technique—something passed down in old Bracken war-circles—his body absorbed impact like hardened oak. As long as no blades cut deep, pain rarely lingered.
He moved among the fallen, kicking a few moaning bodies to make sure they stayed down. Only then did he glance toward the Goldcloaks.
They were only now starting to move.
The lead captain, who had been dithering during the standoff, suddenly looked relieved he hadn't stepped in earlier. Had he tried to interfere, he would surely be among the unconscious.
This man is terrifying, the captain thought.
"We're only here to keep the peace!" he declared quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "We don't serve Frey or Lannister. Just King Robert!"
He tried to sound righteous, but Arthur could hear the fear in his voice.
The captain turned dramatically toward Cleos. "Ser Cleos! You—ordering thugs to beat honest citizens? That's not in line with His Grace's law. I advise you head straight to the Red Keep and explain yourself—to the King or the Hand!"
His words were a thinly veiled plea: run, now, before you get smashed like your cousin.
Cleos wasn't listening.
He was staring, pale-faced, mouth agape. His eyes had locked on Arthur like a child glimpsing a White Walker in a nightmare.
"Impossible," Cleos muttered. "Not even the Mountain could've done this."
Arthur grinned as he walked forward. "The Mountain? I've fought smarter livestock."
Cleos's cousin and the rest were paralyzed. Whether from awe or fear, they couldn't flee—even though their legs trembled beneath them.
Arthur grabbed Cleos's cousin by the neck with one hand and slammed him onto a table. Wood cracked. Men flinched.
"Ser, stop!" someone in the crowd called out. "That's the Queen's cousin!"
"Yeah, Cersei's kin. You can't touch him. You'll draw the King's wrath!"
Arthur shot the onlookers a glare that silenced the room.
"If the King of the Seven Kingdoms tries what this pig did to that girl, I'll beat him too. Blood's blood—wrong is wrong."
"Well said!" Patrick cheered, clapping. "Gods, I thought Arthur Dayne was my hero. I was wrong. It's Bracken, no question!"
Arthur Dayne might've been a legendary knight, but Arthur Bracken had just fought a legend into reality.
Arthur turned back to his stunned opponents. "Let's be honest. If you hadn't groped that poor girl, or played victim like a court jester, none of this would've happened."
He bashed Cleos's cousin's head against the table—once, twice, a dozen times—until blood streamed from the man's brow and Arthur exhaled, satisfied.
"And then you tried to extort us?" Arthur added, glaring at Cleos. "A thousand gold dragons? You think I'm a fool? This is King's Landing, not Harrenhal. You don't get to bully folk here."
Cleos, bruised and silent, received the same treatment.
When Arthur finally released them, both collapsed, groaning. They couldn't leave. Their legs wouldn't obey.
The captain of the Goldcloaks looked painfully awkward. He should've stepped in. Duty demanded it. But after witnessing that display, he kept his distance.
Then he caught sight of his commanding officer—just outside the tavern doors—arriving with nearly fifty Goldcloaks.
"What now?" Patrick asked, eyes gleaming. "Round two?"
Arthur shook his head. "No. Time to run."
But their exit was blocked.
"You dare brawl in King's Landing?" barked the new officer, voice echoing through the wrecked tavern. Then he paused, eyes locking on Patrick's silver eagle—a Mallister of Seagard.
"Ah… Lord Mallister. Are you harmed?" His tone flipped to deference.
Patrick puffed his chest, but said nothing. He was still young and unsure of court manners.
Desmond stepped up, older and wiser. "No injuries. But your men were late."
The officer glanced over the scene—the Freys groaning, his own captain embarrassed, and the Queen's cousin bleeding on the floor—and understood everything.
Two noble parties had fought. His men had wisely stood aside.
He made his decision.
"Well," he said smoothly, "your men fight well. Defeated three-to-one odds, impressive. But this incident… it's beyond our paygrade."
He turned to Patrick with a forced smile. "Best we all head to the Red Keep. Let His Grace decide."
Despite the suggestion-like tone, he'd already signaled his men. The Frey thugs were dragged up, Cleos and his cousin helped groaning to their feet. The girl and her parents were gently taken aside.
Arthur, Desmond, and Patrick found themselves surrounded.
Clearly, refusal was not an option.
Patrick glanced to Arthur, who gave a slight nod. Patrick answered with a nobleman's cool, "Very well. We'll let the King judge."
And so they moved.
Out the door, through the winding city streets, toward the Red Keep.
By now, the tale had spread. Idle folk, hedge knights, and lowborn onlookers joined the procession. By the time they reached the Red Keep's gates, hundreds trailed behind.
They entered through the tall archways, passing the royal guards, who let them through without question.
They were led into the throne room of the Red Keep.
The hall of the Iron Throne.
And though its shadow stretched long across the stone floor, Arthur Bracken walked with the same ease he'd shown in the tavern—unbothered by kings, queens, or cousins.
JOIN MY PATREON TO READ ADVANCE 50+ CHAPTERS
Patreon.com/Kora_1