"Are you sure you want this horse?"
The stablemaster asked with a doubtful glance. He was the owner of the largest horse farm outside the Gate of the Gods in King's Landing, just off the Rosby road, where rich nobles, knights, and even Crownlanders came to select mounts.
The tourney hosted in honor of Lord Eddard Stark, the new Hand of the King, would begin in just three days, which meant it was already late to be choosing a new steed.
As a result, business had slowed down, allowing him time to personally guide the few last-minute buyers—like the tall Riverlands noble now standing before him.
Arthur Bracken studied the immense red stallion, which resembled the Shire horses of his past life—massive, broad-shouldered, with legs like tree trunks and a chest as wide as a feast table. He nodded decisively. "That's the one."
After leaving his enormous sledgehammer at the inn, Arthur had taken Desmond, Patrick, and a pair of sworn swords to the outskirts of the city.
Arthur was no small man—easily taller than most soldiers in King's Landing—but even he barely reached the horse's shoulder. Its bulk was comparable to a Westerlands aurochs. Even a Braavosi camel would look thin beside it.
"But the horse's shoulders are far too broad," Desmond, former master-at-arms of Riverrun, cautioned. "It'd be uncomfortable to ride and impossible to maneuver quickly."
The stablemaster nodded in agreement. "Aye. It can walk and maybe trot, but it won't canter or gallop like a proper destrier. She's built for load, not speed."
In Westeros, trained warhorses like destriers were prized for their agility in combat—able to shift gaits from walk to trot, canter, and full gallop. Famed cavalry horses from the Reach and Dorne were trained to move with precise rhythm and responsiveness.
Special breeds that could execute lateral steps or controlled pacing were rare and mostly bred in places like Volantis or Lys—more for parades than battlefield use.
This beast, by contrast, lumbered like a Braavosi bronze statue.
Arthur didn't mind. What mattered was its strength.
The massive stallion was the only animal capable of carrying Arthur when fully armored, along with a longsword, a kite shield, a golden guandao, and the monstrous sledgehammer forged by Tobho Mott.
"Don't worry about the speed," Arthur said calmly. "I'll buy a separate courser or sand steed for travel. This one is for the battlefield. With my full armor and weapons, a thinner horse won't cut it."
Seeing that the noble wouldn't be swayed, the stablemaster relented. "As long as you can get on her and ride without trouble, I'll sell her to you at a fair price."
Patrick circled the giant beast with curiosity. "Why insist on that? Surely you've had this horse for a while."
"I have," the man admitted. "But I've never sold her because no knight has ever been able to mount and ride her properly. Wouldn't feel right cheating a buyer, even now."
Giant horses like this weren't useful to most Westerosi. They couldn't fight, couldn't run, and required too much feed. Lords and merchants found them too costly to keep.
Some were kept by eccentric nobles in the Reach or Westerlands as curiosities, or gifted to the Crown by Essosi traders.
The stablemaster had hoped to sell it during the tourney to an overconfident hedge knight or a vain noble, but most competitors had come well-prepared.
And no sellsword would spend that much silver on a lumbering beast that couldn't even run.
In the meantime, the horse's appetite had drained his profits. Between the bales of Riverlands hay and the barrels of feed imported from Crackclaw Point, the stablemaster had lost more silver deer than he cared to count.
Still, he had a reputation in the city and didn't want to be known as a swindler.
Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "Fair enough. That's honest business." Then he added with a smile, "If I form my own cavalry someday, I'll come to you first."
The stablemaster, surprised, bowed his head slightly. "You do that, ser. I'd be honored to sell to a man like you."
Okay, my lord, my name is Sandra. All the horse dealers from Duskendale to Gulltown know me. If you ever have a large order—dozens or even hundreds of horses—I'm the one to speak to," she said with a practiced smile.
Though Sandra didn't recognize the sigil of the antlers entwined with snakes embroidered subtly on this tall, broad-shouldered lord's doublet—a custom crest, no doubt—she knew wealth when she saw it. His high-collared silk coat, dyed a rich Riverrun red with gold trim, was cut in the style favored by highborn men from the Riverlands or Stormlands. The sword at his side, the calm authority in his voice—everything about him screamed nobility.
Maybe a Great House's legitimized bastard, she thought. Or a younger son sent to prove himself.
After ordering her men to lead out the enormous red stallion from its pen, Sandra stroked its neck and murmured softly in its ear, calming the beast before offering the reins to Arthur Bracken.
"Not bad," Arthur said, running a hand along the glossy red coat. Its hide was smooth as polished leather, and the muscles beneath were dense and hard, like a Valyrian-forged plate.
With a smooth leap, he swung up into the saddleless back.
The great stallion snorted and thrashed in protest, stomping its hooves and tossing its head. But it was too heavy and lumbering to buck properly, and Arthur's seat—anchored by sheer weight and practiced balance—barely shifted.
It twisted left and right once, then accepted its fate with a resentful snort.
Arthur's legs were spread uncomfortably wide, but he remained upright and calm as ever.
Sandra clapped her hands in delight. "Seven bless you! I swear, you and this horse were meant for each other. Not a single buyer's managed to sit him before, but you—Seven hells, you tamed him on your first try! It's like he was waiting for you."
She babbled on, praising Arthur's control, the horse's hidden potential, and the fateful match as if spinning a small legend of her own.
Once Arthur was confident the animal wouldn't throw a tantrum, he dismounted smoothly and passed the reins to one of his guards.
The beast stood quietly once unmounted, ears flicking but docile.
Arthur then selected a second mount—a tall, lean red courser with the long legs and narrow chest of a Reach steed, ideal for quick travel and messaging.
He paid for both and gave each horse a name.
The monstrous red warhorse, now standing proudly under his command, was named Red Rabbit, after the legendary mount of Lü Bu—a figure Arthur remembered from his past life's stories.
The leaner, swifter courser he named De Lu, to be his daily riding horse when not in armor.
But just as the problem of mounts was solved, a new issue arose.
De Lu came with a saddle—Sandra had thrown one in for free—but Red Rabbit had none. His immense frame made existing saddles useless. If Arthur intended to ride him in the Hand's tourney, particularly in the joust, this posed a serious disadvantage.
The beast also needed a custom vest or barding for protection. A warhorse, especially one carrying a noble in a major event, had to be armored.
"If anyone can solve this quickly, it's Tobho Mott," Desmond suggested. "Expensive, aye, but it'll be done right."
Arthur agreed. He instructed a servant to lead Red Rabbit through the Gate of the Gods, up the hill to Steel Street, where the Qohorik blacksmith's forge sat glowing day and night.
Inside the smithy, Tobho Mott—already sweating from working bronze—listened to their request with a skeptical frown.
"A vest for a horse this size? We're no stable. And a saddle? We make swords and plate, not tack and leather gear. Besides, the tourney's in three days."
Arthur placed three gold dragons on the anvil with a metallic clink.
Tob didn't budge.
"This isn't about coin. Even if we start now, there's hardly time to—"
Three more gold dragons joined the first.
"I'll need the vest in three days," Arthur said evenly. "Same color as the golden blade you made me. The saddle, too."
Two more gold dragons followed, clinking down with deliberate finality.
This time, Tobho's eyes stayed locked on the gold.
A vest wasn't difficult—his apprentices could hammer out lamellar plates and link them quickly. And he knew a master leatherworker near the Dragonpit who could handle the saddle in a single night if paid well enough.
"Done," Tob said, already snapping orders to his apprentices. "You'll have both by tomorrow night. Won't delay your tilt, ser."
He glanced at the hulking Red Rabbit again and grinned.
"I can already picture it—you, armored in black and gold, riding that beast into the joust like some god from Old Valyria. You'll crush the other knights and make your name before half of King's Landing."
Arthur gave a rare smirk, meeting the smith's gaze without a hint of false modesty.
"You're absolutely right," he said. "And I couldn't agree more."
With horses chosen, weapons forged, and custom gear underway, all preparations were now in place.
All that remained was the tourney—and the moment Arthur Bracken would make his name known to the realm.
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