To use a giant warhammer against ordinary Westerland foot soldiers clad in nothing but a single layer of boiled leather or rough-spun iron mail is like using a butcher's cleaver to slay a chicken—effective, but inefficient.
The situation on the field was grim. Arthur Bracken's combined force—his own men and the surviving members of the King's Landing law enforcement team—numbered just over seventy, and twenty had already fallen. In contrast, the combined forces of Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch still numbered close to two hundred.
There was no time to swing around the massive hammer that had shattered the Mountain's helm. It was too heavy, too slow. So Arthur jammed the weapon into the muddy ground where the Mountain's corpse still steamed, then seized his golden guandao, spun it in his hands, and surged forward toward the Lannister men in their crimson cloaks.
He had once believed that a downward vertical slash was the most heroic and devastating—but it was the wide horizontal cuts that felled more men faster. The golden guandao was a heavy weapon, forged in Qohor, and ornamented by Tobho Mott, but in Arthur's grip it moved with the ease of a willow staff.
Within moments, the same terror that had overtaken the lawmen when facing the Mountain now took hold of the Lannister infantry. Arthur's strikes sent armored men flying, their bodies spinning from the sheer force. Two or three caught the sweep of the blade and collapsed in a heap, while others tumbled after them like chaff.
His momentum rallied his scattered allies. Soldiers who had been forced apart now reformed around him. He drove them forward, hacking a path like a farmer harvesting grain—gathering them with one arm and cutting them down with the other. It was not war. It was slaughter.
Arthur Bracken had become the reaper.
But Westerland soldiers were not fools. After several brutal minutes, they began pulling back from him. A wide ring formed around Arthur, empty save for corpses and blood-slicked earth. None dared to close. They circled at a distance, unwilling to die.
So Arthur pursued.
Across the battlefield, Thoros of Myr—clad in bloodstained red robes and still wielding his flaming sword—cut down an attacker and paused to scan the melee. His lungs burned. His limbs ached. The last time he had been this exhausted was during the Hand's tourney, when he'd wrestled with that surprisingly durable young lord from the Riverlands for what felt like an eternity.
He had cursed the boy then. And now, he was cursing himself again, fighting for that same boy.
But when he looked up, Thoros froze.
"Sweet R'hllor," he breathed. "Is that… still a man?"
Arthur, golden blade in hand, carved through three Westerlanders in a single arc. Blood sprayed across his armor like spilled wine. Around him, men screamed and fled. He gave chase, sword flashing like a burning comet.
Thoros couldn't look away.
The addition of Arthur turned the tide. The remaining lawmen from King's Landing—Riverlands and Stormlands knights, lesser lords, and seasoned guards—rallied around him. Beric Dondarrion emerged from the crush and fell in beside Thoros. Together, they watched Arthur butcher the enemy.
"It should be said," Thoros muttered, "that he chopped the whole audience."
Beric nodded slowly. He had seen Ser Gregor in combat, had even survived a duel with him—but this was different.
"I used to think the Mountain's opponent was the most cursed soul in Westeros," Beric said.
Thoros smirked and shook his head, his topknot bouncing. "Arthur's enemies aren't cursed. They just need to run faster than their friends. The slow ones are the doomed."
Arthur's rampage had shattered the enemy's morale. Though the Lannister force still outnumbered them, many of the remaining soldiers were low-born conscripts with no appetite for death. They broke, scattering from the field.
Ser Amory Lorch, still alive, saw the carnage and did not hesitate. With the Mountain dead and Arthur seemingly unstoppable, he bellowed for a retreat.
What remained of the enemy—hardened veterans all—fled south. Some discarded their armor to lighten the load, stripping steel and mail as they ran, their limbs pounding the earth in frantic desperation. The speed of their escape made one question whether they had even fought at all.
Arthur's forces—less than a hundred bloodied survivors—were in no condition to give chase. They stayed behind, panting, sitting amidst the dead.
Arthur alone remained standing, tireless. He walked the field methodically, stabbing the wounded Westerlanders to ensure they would not rise again. He collected his fallen men and laid their bodies with reverence.
When he approached the red-robed monk, he nearly thrust his blade into Thoros—until the priest opened his eyes and scowled.
"I'm not dead yet. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Arthur lowered the guandao. "Sorry. I thought you were one of theirs. The lawmen are all dressed in polished armor. You look like you crawled out of a gutter."
He recognized Thoros by the disheveled topknot. The man's face was so caked in blood and bruises it was barely recognizable.
Around him, other survivors began to rise—Raymond Darry, Mark Piper, Khalel Vance, and Beric himself.
"I knew Arthur could kill the Mountain," one said.
"Winning both melees wasn't for nothing."
"He's covered in blood—are you wounded?"
"Idiot, that's not his blood. Arthur wears two layers of steel. He's built like a fortress."
Their laughter was weary but genuine. They were alive. Thanks to him.
Lord Beric circled Arthur, eyeing his battered armor.
"Your plate's torn to shreds. No longer smooth or knightly," he said. "When we return to King's Landing, I'll commission a new set for you—gold-plated, to match your sword and breastplate."
Mark Piper clapped his hands. "And your hammer—black as soot! We'll get you a golden one to complete the look."
"If Arthur walks onto the battlefield in a full set of gold, he won't need to fight. The enemy'll drop dead from awe."
They chuckled again, warriors broken in body but lightened in spirit.
Arthur, however, was not distracted. What came next would change the fate of the Riverlands—and maybe the realm.
"How's King's Landing?" he asked.
Raymond Darry answered, "When we left, the king was still hunting in the royal forest. Rumor was, a white hart had been spotted."
Arthur exhaled slowly. So it had begun. The game was in motion. The white hart would escape, and Robert would not.
He turned to Khalel Vance and Mark Piper. "Are your men still near the Golden Tooth?"
They nodded. Arthur knew Tywin Lannister would not march until Robert's death. But Jaime's host—fifteen thousand strong—was already mobilizing from the west.
"They should still be in position," Khalel said.
"Good," Arthur replied. "Jaime Lannister is marching for Golden Tooth. We'll intercept him."
His plan was clear. Rally the remaining Riverlords, then persuade them to retreat before Jaime's full host arrived. Four thousand lives were worth more than a ruined pass.
The others agreed.
"We're the king's law," said Mark. "The Kingslayer raised arms against the Hand. He must be brought to justice."
"He's still Kingsguard," Thoros added. "Deserting his post and fleeing west—he broke his vows."
Arthur nodded, eyes hard.
"Then let's cross the river and ride."
Actor's Beach was a small riverside village nestled northeast of Hongpin, a minor holdfast between the upper reaches of the Red Fork and the western marches of the Riverlands. The ford nearby was shallow—one of the few shoals navigable on horseback without ferry or raft. The current here was mild, the waters no more than thigh-deep, winding sluggishly through gravel and silt.
From the riverbank, it was a day and a half's ride west to Golden Tooth, a castle guarding the pass between the Westerlands and the Riverlands. The Golden Road ran through it, one of the few direct routes to Lannisport.
The battle at Actor's Beach had ended with the Mountain's death, and now, with the danger passed, everyone moved to gather supplies and tend to the wounded. Smoke still rose from half the village—charred timbers, collapsed roofs, splintered beams. The other half had been spared, though barely.
Of the five hundred or so smallfolk who once lived in Actor's Beach, two to three hundred remained. Their lives had been upended by Ser Gregor Clegane, who had trampled through the settlement like a thunderstorm. Now, Mark Piper, heir to Pinkmaiden, organized the survivors into work parties. They were tasked with cleaning the battlefield, feeding the wounded, and burying the dead.
Arthur Bracken surveyed them, still bloodied and battle-worn. He turned to the gathered villagers. "After we leave, cross the Red Fork and ride south to Riverrun. It's not safe here—Lord Tywin's army will be passing through within days."
The villagers looked from Arthur to Mark Piper and back again. Recognizing that Arthur rode beside a lord's son, and likely with Riverrun's blessing, they obeyed.
With that settled, Arthur assembled the remaining sixty-two soldiers who could still stand and fight. Then, they returned to find the body of the Mountain.
He still lay where he had fallen, his ruined helm embedded in the dirt. Some of the men spat on the corpse. Others kicked it. One of the braver lads unslung his breeches and pissed on the infamous knight. Someone even let out a fart, theatrically lifting his leg while the rest laughed grimly.
The Mountain, once feared across Westeros for his monstrous strength and unquenchable bloodlust, felt none of it.
The survivors had all lost something to Gregor Clegane. Now, they vented their fury in the only way left to them.
"Cut off his head!" someone shouted. "I'll use it as a chamber pot!"
"Arthur smashed it flat!" another cackled. "Might not hold much piss now."
Lord Beric Dondarrion, older by only a few moons than Arthur but steadier in temperament, stepped forward. "The Mountain's head belongs to Arthur. It's his prize and proof. Let his body stay here, headless, propped on a pike—let it serve as a warning to any Westerlander or brigand who crosses this beach."
None argued. The head, or what was left of it, was retrieved. Fortunately, Arthur had struck the back of the skull—while the face was bruised and caved in slightly, the features were still recognizable. It was unmistakably Ser Gregor Clegane.
After loading their supplies—including bread, dried meat, and bandages donated by the grateful villagers—they mounted up. One by one, the riders of the Red Fork crossed the shallows and galloped west toward Golden Tooth.
…
Two days later. Golden Tooth.
"By the Lord of Light," Thoros of Myr muttered, "are they bloody fighting again?"
They had ridden leagues to get here, and now smoke rose from the plain ahead. Two banners flew—one bearing the red trout of House Piper, the other the black-and-white quarters of House Vance. Both surrounded by an encircling sea of red and gold—Lannister men.
The castle of Golden Tooth stood impassive behind the chaos, its stone ramparts watching the slaughter below without interference.
"My father's still inside!" cried Mark Piper, face red with panic. "Our men are trapped—he's trapped—we have to get in there!"
He reached for his sword, ready to charge, but Arthur raised a hand.
"Wait. Look—Jaime Lannister is over there."
He pointed across the battlefield. Jaime, still in his gilded armor and white cloak, was directing troops near the center.
"There's barely a few hundred around him," Arthur said, scanning quickly. "We ride for him, cut off the head, and the body will fall. You kill the horse, the rider drops. You take the king, the kingdom trembles. That's the plan—strike at the Kingslayer."
A knight beside them squinted. "Few hundred? There's more than that."
Arthur waved dismissively. "That's what I meant. Still doesn't matter. If we kill or capture Jaime, the Lannister army loses its center."
Thoros paled slightly as he studied the gathering Lannister knights.
"There's sixty-two of us," he said. "Even if we kill three for every one of ours, that's barely a dent."
He turned to Lord Beric. "It's a noble idea, but perhaps we should try rescuing the Piper and Vance men first. If we can break through their lines and free those two camps, we'll have numbers on our side."
The ground here was narrow—where the foothills of the Westerlands met the Riverlands plains—and the Lannister army couldn't fully spread out. Clashes broke into isolated pockets, and that allowed the Piper and Vance banners to hold their ground.
"Agreed," Beric said. "The camps are more achievable. Once we strengthen our numbers, we can rethink how to deal with Jaime."
Arthur mulled it over. "Fine. Beric, take Anguy and Varg, and lead the charge toward the camps. I'll ride alone for Jaime. Two layers of armor will hold. I'm not easy to stop."
Raymond Darry frowned. "Don't kill Jaime. We need him alive. Tywin Lannister might cease hostilities if both his sons aren't dead."
"Kill the men, not the Kingslayer," Khalel Vance echoed. "Otherwise, the West will never stop burning us."
Arthur smirked. "Understood. I'll knock him out, not knock him apart."
He nudged his horse—Red Hare, massive and clad in light barding—and broke away toward the Lannister center, golden guandao gleaming in the late afternoon sun. He left them with a glance over his shoulder, standing tall in the saddle, a figure carved from war and legend.
The others—sixty-one now—spurred their horses in the opposite direction, charging toward the embattled Piper and Vance camps.
…
"Stop that rider!" a Lannister captain barked. "Who does he think he is, the bloody Mountain?!"
A dozen elite soldiers in half-lion helms and crimson cloaks rode forward to meet Arthur. They had trained in Casterly Rock, fought in raids across the Riverlands, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Jaime Lannister himself. But they had never seen Arthur Bracken.
From a distance, Jaime spotted the figure riding straight toward him.
"That rider—stop him! He's coming for me?"
The Lannister captain had no choice but to obey, though his face soured with uncertainty. "He charges alone and scares our whole flank?"
Moments later, he was dead—cleaved down the middle by Arthur's golden guandao. He hadn't even cursed Jaime before he died. Half of his men were scattered. The other half fled outright.
Jaime and the Lannister nobles nearby looked on in astonishment.
"Seven hells, did you see that?"
"One man…"
"Forming an army!"
"I daresay he's stronger than the Mountain."
"Not stronger," one knight muttered. "Just faster."
They stared at Arthur's gleaming armor, at his burning golden blade, at his implacable advance. What they didn't know was that Ser Gregor Clegane, the Beast of the West, was already dead—and Arthur had killed him.
More men were sent to stall the advance, to pin Arthur down before he reached Jaime.
But the Kingslayer—prideful, gallant, and golden—was not one to stand idly by.
"Get me my sword," he snarled. "Let's see who's braver."
JOIN MY PATREON TO READ ADVANCE 50+ CHAPTERS
Patreon.com/Kora_1