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Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
King's Landing. Ravens burst from the Red Keep like black arrows, every last one dispatched by Grand Maester Pycelle's order.
"The Iron Throne calls its banners to crush Balon the Fool" and "Seagard's great victory—Jason Mallister and Arthur Whent of Harrenhal slew two of Balon's sons" flew together on dark wings to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms.
This was Robert's war cry and Balon's death knell.
The birds first reached the Vale and the Stormlands, then the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Reach, and finally Dorne and the North. Dorne would just sit on its hands anyway—no one expected spears from them.
The names "Dark Knight" Arthur Whent and "Old Eagle" Lord Jason Mallister would now ring from the Wall to the Summer Sea. This was the real prize: fame.
Jason Mallister had always been a respected old warrior. His tourney record was nothing special, but on the battlefield he had carved his name in blood—three of Rhaegar's bannermen at the Trident. That counted.
But the man stepping onto the real stage was the one they now called Black Arthur, Bloodthirsty Arthur, the Dark Knight.
Fourteen years old. At Seagard he had cut down Balon's heir Rodrik Greyjoy and Ser Haras Harlaw of Harlaw in single combat. A feat worthy of Barristan Selmy slaying Maelys the Monstrous.
Young. Fearless. Brutal. Battle-proven.
A prodigy like that was legend anywhere, but in the Riverlands—where real warriors had been thin on the ground for a generation—he was something else entirely.
The Dark Knight made men remember the old Riverlands firebrands: young Kermit Tully and his brother Oscar, the "Bloodraven" of Raventree Hall. Those boys had shone during the Dance. Now the new name was Arthur Whent of Harrenhal.
Bloodraven and Bittersteel didn't count—they still saw themselves as Targaryens first.
"My lords are strong, my knights are many, my fleets can choke the sea," Pycelle had written. This time it wasn't empty boasting. Against the full might of the Iron Throne, Balon's reavers were already dead men.
Robert's army was terrifying.
On land: King Robert himself in overall command, Eddard Stark as his right hand.
Barristan Selmy leading the Crownlands host.
Hoster Tully nominally commanding the Riverlands—but Arthur Whent named vanguard.
Jon Royce leading the Vale, Lyn Corbray his tip of the spear.
Eddard Stark again for the North, Rickard Karstark his vanguard.
Most of the Stormlands held in reserve.
At sea: Stannis Baratheon and Paxter Redwyne joining the royal fleet with the Redwyne fleet and Oldtown's ships in support.
And that didn't even count the Westerlands army already mustering at Lannisport, hungry for revenge.
An all-star roster. Even during Robert's own rebellion the realm had never fielded something this big.
Balon had truly stepped in it.
The war would be fought with professionals—knights and veterans, not half-trained peasants. And the ironborn had earned every bit of it. Dorne at least had friends. The Iron Islands had none. They had pissed off half the realm.
---
Riverrun.
Inside the triangular lord's solar, Hoster Tully gripped the raven scroll from King's Landing and stared out at the rushing waters of the Tumblestone.
His thoughts churned like the river.
The Whents had once been his kin by marriage and his allies. Now they were rivals in all but name.
Only Hoster and Lord Tytos Blackwood remained in the chamber.
Robert's call to arms had been expected. What Hoster had not expected was Robert personally naming Arthur Whent vanguard of the entire Riverlands host.
The king's word was law. Hoster's own chosen champions—Blackwood or Mallister—had been passed over for the boy who was stealing every scrap of glory.
"I'm sorry, Lord Tytos," Hoster said quietly. "I meant to give that honor to you or Jason."
Vanguard meant prestige, command of the best men, first blood, and the king's eye. Randyll Tarly had made his name that way in the Reach. Robert clearly believed Arthur Whent was the single finest warrior the Riverlands possessed.
"I'm not jealous of some boy," Tytos Blackwood answered carefully, stroking his short gray beard. "But my lord… you need to watch this. Jason Mallister was your most loyal man, yet now he sings Arthur's praises loud enough for the whole realm to hear. Lord Bracken hates me, yet he too lauds the boy—because Bracken has unmarried daughters and a hungry eye on Harrenhal's gold."
Tytos was tall and lean, sharp-nosed, his long hair threaded with gray. The black-feathered cloak he wore made him look like the raven sigil of his house.
"Because we were too slow," Hoster admitted, rubbing his temples. "We didn't reach Seagard in time. We can't fault Jason for asking for help when he needed it."
"Not slow," Tytos corrected. "Riverlands politics. The Freys and Mallisters have never loved each other. Bracken and I were still arguing whether to march. So the glory went to the one who actually showed up—Arthur Whent. He took the risk. He took the prize. And the prize is enormous."
Hoster sighed. "I know. Glory is as fleeting as battle itself."
"Walter Whent was thick as thieves with Rhaegar once," Tytos continued. "If the rebellion hadn't come, who knows what plots he might have hatched. We punished the eastern Riverlands lords after the war, but they're recovering. And now Arthur has doubled House Whent's fame overnight."
House Blackwood had once been tied to the Targaryens by blood, but Aerys had slighted them in a land dispute and given the ground to the Brackens instead. That had been enough to turn Tytos's father against the dragons.
"I understand everything you're saying," Hoster said. "But hear me clearly, Tytos. Robert and Jon Arryn love each other like father and son, yet they are not the same man. The king's commands… Arryn will not lightly override them."
Tytos's mouth tightened. He had forgotten that simple truth.
Robert Baratheon loved wine, war, and bold young warriors who reminded him of his own youth. Arthur Whent was exactly that kind of man—handsome, fearless, already proving himself in blood. The king would favor him over Hoster's cautious, half-crippled son every time.
"So be it," Tytos said at last. "War brings glory and risk in equal measure."
"Cruel war," Hoster muttered.
His mind flashed back to Stone Mill. Jon Connington—the Griffin—had come at him like a storm, red hair blazing, sword flashing faster than rain. Only luck and the fact that Connington's blade was not Valyrian steel had saved Hoster's life that day.
From that moment he had known he was no longer a young warrior. He was an old man who had grown to fear the very thing he once craved.
"Lord Hoster has grown old," Tytos thought, watching the weary man across the table.
The lord himself was still capable enough. But Edmure… Edmure had never shown the spark.
If Hoster could not rein in the rising power of Harrenhal, Arthur Whent would become a far greater threat than Walder Frey had ever been.
And neither of them had an answer for it.