The travelers' horses were led to the stables, where the grooms tended them with care.
Arthur and his party accepted House Caswell's bread and salt, officially becoming honored guests of Lord Jon Caswell.
They first entered Bitterbridge's modest castle to rest and shake off the weariness of the road.
The castle itself was nothing special—standard views of the Mander, wheat fields, and open plains.
It guarded the bridge, though, which made it strategically important.
"The keep is rather small," Lord Jon Caswell suggested politely. "Wouldn't you rather enjoy supper by the river? Much more pleasant."
Bitterbridge's castle truly was tiny. During the War of the Five Kings, even when Renly Baratheon camped his entire army here, only Renly himself stayed inside the keep; the other great lords all slept in tents on the fields.
"I'll follow your arrangements, Lord Jon," Arthur replied with a courteous smile. When in someone else's house, one followed the host's lead.
Lord Jon Caswell then led the group down to the banks of the Mander.
"See that our honored guests lack nothing," he instructed his servants, his hospitality meticulous.
Caswell retainers quickly set out several long tables, covered them with white cloths, and laid out knives, plates, and wine cups.
Another lavish riverside feast was about to begin.
"You are too generous, Lord Jon," Arthur said, accepting the kindness without protest.
"It is only right. It is rare for us to host a warrior of your caliber," Lord Jon replied warmly.
Arthur wore a fine tunic of gold silk striped with black, embroidered with nine bats—handsome and striking.
Lord Jon and his son both wore white silk robes bearing the yellow centaur of House Caswell, colors that faintly echoed House Rowan.
But in terms of real power, House Caswell was a blade of grass next to the towering tree that was House Rowan.
Both father and son were slender and lacked any noticeable muscle.
They looked like the kind of family that had inherited knighthoods the easy way.
"Where's the big fellow?" Arthur noticed that the burly Rolly seemed to have slipped away.
The lad was clearly nursing a belly full of rage and planning something big for young Lorent Caswell.
Sixteen-year-old boys rarely held back when they struck.
Lorent had brought this on himself.
The Caswell bards and jugglers were brought out to perform—colorful, lively entertainment to keep the mood high.
The singer performed Reach folk tunes and ballads praising legendary knights: Leo Longthorn, the Dragonknight, the Mirror Shield, and so on.
"Please," old Lord Jon said graciously.
He and Arthur sat at the head table.
Arthur thanked him for the hospitality.
"It is only proper," Lord Jon laughed.
Knighthood had come to Westeros with the Andals. Legend said "Oakenshield" John was the first knight in history and the founder of the tradition.
The Reach, birthplace of knighthood in Westeros, valued martial honor and glory above all. Knights enjoyed supreme respect here.
The newly risen dark horse who had single-handedly washed away the Riverlands' reputation for martial weakness—"the Bat Knight" Arthur—was now a walking banner of prestige.
Wine and food began to flow. The Reach truly deserved its reputation for abundance.
Even a lord of Bitterbridge's modest station ate extremely well.
First came pears poached in strongwine, followed by crisp fried smelt sprinkled with salt and a plump rooster stuffed with onions and mushrooms.
Next arrived great loaves of brown bread, platters of turnips, sweet corn, and peas.
Then came the main courses: thick slices of ham, roast goose, beer, barley stew, and venison.
For dessert, Caswell servants brought out trays of delicacies from the castle kitchens—cream swans, sugar unicorns, rose-shaped lemon cakes, spiced honey biscuits, blackberry pies, apple crisps, butter cheeses, and more.
"To King Robert!"
"To Hand Jon Arryn!"
"To Lord Mace! To Lord Hoster!"
"To the friendship between House Whent and House Caswell!"
"May fortune smile upon us forever!"
"May fortune smile upon us forever!"
Goblets clinked together with bright, clear rings.
"An eternal summer may yet come," Lord Jon laughed cheerfully. "We are knights of summer; for us, winter will never arrive."
"I hope for an eternal summer as well," Arthur replied, raising his cup to meet Lord Jon's.
An eternal summer was, of course, only a pleasant lie.
If anyone spoke of "winter is coming" and the Others right now, they would simply be laughed at as a fool.
Everyone ate, drank, talked, and laughed.
They feasted by the river until the moon climbed high overhead.
Arthur hadn't drunk much; he simply conversed politely with Lord Jon and his son.
"A toast to you, young master Arthur—you are the light of knighthood!" Ser Lorent was already tipsy. He was thin, had poor tolerance for wine, and even worse stamina.
Now, flushed with drink, he was at his most relaxed.
Lord Jon, Lorent, and the Caswell guards had all drunk heavily.
Ser Lucas, who had quietly slipped away earlier under the excuse of relieving himself, had already returned to his seat.
"Someone is lying in wait," Ser Lucas murmured to Arthur. "He hasn't noticed me yet."
Arthur remained calm and continued waiting for the scene to unfold.
The lords of the Reach lived too comfortably; their vigilance was weak. The Riverlands lords seemed much the same.
Besides, Bitterbridge's castle was small, and Lord Jon had few truly capable men under him.
The only one with any real talent had just been turned into an enemy by his own young lord.
"I need to clear my head," Lorent Caswell said, rising unsteadily and heading away from the tables. "You all keep eating. No need to follow."
He was the little tyrant of Bitterbridge and never imagined anyone would dare ambush him.
Most of the guests were already drunk and didn't follow.
"I'll join you…" Arthur said, watching Lorent leave. He rose casually and followed at an unhurried pace.
Ser Lucas fell in behind him.
"You'll pay for this, Lorent!"
Lorent, who had been about to sing a little tune under the beautiful moonlight, heard the furious shout and nearly jumped out of his skin.
From behind a large tree, a shadowy figure suddenly became solid.
A big man swung an iron hammer and charged straight at Lorent.
Rolly was a member of House Caswell's garrison; he knew the castle and its surroundings like the back of his hand, and he knew Lorent very well.
If Arthur hadn't been here tonight, Lorent Caswell would have been beaten into a pulp.
"Clang!"
A longsword flashed out like a striking viper, fast and vicious.
Rolly's powerful hammer swing was forced to pull back in defense.
Rolly froze for a moment. His ambush had relied on pure rage and momentum; he never expected someone to intercept him.
"What are you doing?" Lorent screamed, dropping into a crouch, face deathly pale, body shaking.
"Murder! Rolly is trying to kill me!" the terrified Lorent shrieked at the top of his lungs, then turned and ran, screaming as loudly as his lungs would allow.
"It's you? The foreign young lord." The big man Rolly didn't know Arthur's exact identity.
But from the way young Lorent had treated him and from Arthur's fine clothes, he knew this was someone important.
"Why?" Rolly asked, clearly unwilling.
If Arthur hadn't appeared, he might have broken both of Lorent's arms and half his ribs.
"Don't be stupid—think of your father!" Arthur said in a low voice.
If Rolly smashed Lorent half to death with that hammer, the boy might flee in his youthful fury, but he would leave his father and family behind to face the consequences.
"Ah…" Rolly's face darkened. He dropped the hammer.
Now that Arthur had pierced through his rage, the anger had turned to confusion.
With Arthur here, his ambush had already failed.
"Wait," Arthur said, looking at the big man. "I'll protect you."
Rolly paused, stunned. He hadn't expected the situation to twist again.
Arthur wasn't helping for nothing. He wanted to keep Rolly, but he also didn't want to humiliate House Caswell too badly.