"It was right here in Tumblestone that 'Bold Jon' Roxton cut his way through the enemy ranks with Orphan-Maker in one hand," Ser Lucas said, the Kingsroad already vanishing behind them.
"That black blade?" Arthur replied. "They say the great traitor Urswyck Peake snatched it after the battle. No one's seen it since."
Orphan-Maker had a fearsome reputation.
During the Dance of the Dragons it claimed the lives of Lord Corbray, Lord Footly, and "the Traitor" Hugh Hammer. Even its wielder, Bold Jon himself, eventually fell to it.
The man was no saint—he charged ahead like a fool and was beaten to death by Hammer's own men. After he died, his own comrade, Lord Urron Peake of Starfish Keep, simply walked off with the sword.
House Roxton had already declined by then, and no one dared demand it back from the Peakes.
"It could still be with House Peake, but the odds are it's lost," Ser Lucas mused. "The Peakes have backed the wrong side in every major war."
The notorious Peakes were famous for their cunning and even more famous for picking losers.
They had supported the Blackfyres multiple times, lost men to exile, seen their castles stormed, and paid heavy fines.
During the Peake Uprising, the Reynes marched with the Targaryens, stormed the castle, and executed the captives—yet even the "Red Lion" never found Orphan-Maker.
Later the Reynes themselves were wiped out by Tywin.
All in all, the murderous sword had probably vanished for good.
"A sword like that would be perfect," Ser Lucas continued. "I taught you two-handed greatsword technique using Dawn as the model."
Dawn was a true greatsword—broad, heavy, and demanding immense strength.
Valyrian steel blades went missing at an alarming rate.
Besides Lightbringer, which was lost on some fool's quest, and Brightroar, which the Lannisters threw away themselves, the others had vanished in war or chaos:
House Royce's Lament, House Rykker's Truth, the Peakes' stolen Orphan-Maker, Blackfyre itself, and Dark Sister's disappearance—all tied to bloodshed.
Even Vigilance of House Hightower had gone missing under mysterious circumstances.
"Whether it's a Valyrian steel arming sword, hand-and-a-half, or greatsword, finding any one of them is already winning the lottery," Arthur laughed. "You don't get to be picky."
Greatswords were rarer and more valuable because they required far more steel.
A single Ice could be reforged into two new blades.
"Lost blades like that are never easy to track down," Arthur added with a sigh.
The chance of success was tiny after so many years.
Even Tywin had tried buying and hunting for them with no luck—and lost a brother in the process.
Still, with his Greenhand talent, Arthur's odds were far better than most.
"Better to wait until the Ironborn come ashore," Arthur decided. "Taking a blade from them will feel much cleaner."
Chaos is a ladder.
Besides, he already had the secret backup of his Valyrian steel gauntlets.
The party stopped beside the road that night and rested inside their campaign tents.
The next afternoon they reached Bitterbridge.
Under the sun the Mander flowed wide and muddy, even broader here.
House Caswell's castle at Bitterbridge was modest—stone and timber, its towers not especially tall, but the flat, open fields around it made them look higher than they were.
The Caswell banner showed a yellow centaur drawing a bow on a white field, looking suitably martial.
From what Arthur knew, however, the family itself was thoroughly mediocre.
Like most minor lords in the Reach, House Caswell had produced almost no real talent.
A house needed either vast wealth, high court office, or tourney fame to matter. If it failed on all three fronts, its future was dim.
Bitterbridge's docks were larger than Tumblestone's. Longships could navigate here easily; even the Ironborn in ancient times had come this far upstream to raid.
"There it is—Bitterbridge, young master," Lothor said, pointing.
As hedge knights who had wandered the Seven Kingdoms for years, the three newcomers knew the roads and rivers well.
They rarely visited remote places like Dorne or the North, which suited Arthur perfectly.
"It looks ancient," Arthur observed.
An old stone arch bridge spanned the Mander—that was Bitterbridge itself.
Before the Faith Militant uprising it had simply been called Stonebridge.
The Battle of Stonebridge had been fought here: six noble-led armies ambushed and massacred nine thousand Poor Fellows led by "the Smith" Wat. The Mander was said to have run red with blood for twenty leagues, and the bridge had been renamed Bitterbridge ever since.
Arthur had no time to play tourist.
Just past the Caswell castle, on the training field, he witnessed the classic scene of a noble lordling bullying his own retainer.
A thin, frail young man in fine silks was berating a big, orange-haired, bearded youth wearing a Caswell guard's uniform.
The only thing they shared was the centaur badge on their clothes.
In every other way their stations were worlds apart.
If not for rank, the burly guard could have beaten three or four Caswell lordlings without breaking a sweat.
"Your hands were made for hammers, not swords. You still dream of knighthood? Keep dreaming, Rolly…" the Caswell heir sneered, hands on hips, jabbing a finger at the big man.
He was humiliating one of his own household guards—the blacksmith's son.
The lordling drew the elegant longsword at his waist; the blade gleamed with that faint blue sheen only Valyrian steel possessed.
"That sword was my father's gift to me—you should return it!" the big man, Rolly, protested, clearly furious.
"Get lost, Rolly. Don't make the young master angry," two other Caswell retainers mocked.
"Fine, I won't change my mind. Your wages this month will be doubled," the Caswell heir said with a dismissive wave.
He had already spotted the approaching Whent banners and knew more important guests had arrived.
The big man's chest heaved; he was clearly on the verge of exploding.
The Caswell heir turned, straightened his clothes, and hurried to greet Arthur's party.
Rolly stalked off in the opposite direction.
"Quickly, tell my father we have honored guests!" the Caswell heir shouted up at the battlements.
A brass horn sounded, and a messenger ran to inform old Lord Caswell.
"Good day, young master Arthur Whent. I am Ser Lorent Caswell, heir to Lord Jon Caswell," Lorent said with solemn courtesy.
Reading people and adjusting one's manner was basic noble etiquette.
"Good day, Ser Lorent. My party is traveling south and may need to rest in your father's lands tonight," Arthur replied with a faint smile, quietly sizing up the young man.
Lorent was indeed scrawny.
Yet he was a knight—barely, the sort who brought shame to the title.
In the Reach especially, failing to become a knight meant being mocked by your peers.
Arthur made no mention of the furious Rolly. He already sensed tonight would bring new developments.
While Arthur chatted with Lorent, old Lord Caswell emerged from the castle with his retainers to welcome them.
Arthur's party would enjoy a generous feast that night.
"Young master Arthur, it is a great honor to host such a renowned champion at Bitterbridge. Tonight we shall not rest until we are all drunk!" old Lord Caswell said warmly, all smiles and attentiveness.
"Indeed, indeed," young Lorent added, suddenly the picture of perfect manners—two completely different faces.
"This Caswell heir has a death wish," Arthur thought, watching the fool.
Never humiliate your own cook, guard, driver, or stable hand.
Those people knew your secrets, your routines, your weaknesses.
A man like Rolly, once pushed too far, would inevitably find a way to strike back.
Arthur had no intention of warning anyone. He would simply watch how events unfolded.