Linden, who had grown accustomed to the pain in his back, stepped out of the longhouse where he had lain for more than a month, leaning on the crutches fashioned for him by Ser Baine two days earlier. Though it would take at least another fortnight for his wounds to fully mend, they no longer hindered his walking.
His first concern now was to grow familiar with the people and ways of Whitebear Village, lest he betray himself through some flaw and draw suspicion.
He had inherited few memories. Beyond knowing his name was Linden and that he had once been a hunter, the rest were broken fragments, offering little of worth. He did not even know how he had come by such grievous wounds.
As he walked through Whitebear Village, he quickly realized from the timbered hovels and sodden thatch that the place was poor and backward, likely some remote hamlet of the North.
He had guessed as much from Father Baine's roughspun garb and the meager furnishings of his hall, yet he still felt a measure of relief.
"Bear‑hunter?" After Linden had walked some distance along the muddy track that served as the village's only street, he finally encountered another villager. But when the man saw him, he muttered the nickname with a look of fear, then hurried past with his head bowed, as though Linden were some savage beast.
Though curious why the man had reacted so and why he had called him Bear‑hunter, Linden did not stop him. For now, he meant to speak little, do little, and instead listen and watch. Only thus could he avoid revealing that he and the man once known as Linden were not the same.
As he went further down the street, more villagers appeared. Some called him by name, others by Bear‑hunter, but all looked on him with awe or fear—the only difference was the strength of the emotion in their eyes.
Though the village was small, Linden, still weak, walked for some time before reaching the tavern by the gate.
In the past month and a half, he had learned that Father Baine kept the tavern. Though the village was strange to him, he found it easily enough—after all, it was the only tavern in Whitebear Village.
"The wound has not yet healed—why are you out of bed?"
As Linden reached the door of the tavern, Father Baine, who had already heard the noise outside, came forth and spoke with concern the moment he saw him.
Father Baine wore a thick brown beard and hair, his features broad and plain. He was heavyset, shaped like a wine cask. His left foot was gone, replaced by a wooden peg, and three fingers were missing from his right hand—clearly taken by some sharp blade long ago.
Linden smiled faintly and explained, "I have been lying abed for more than a month. Walking will help me mend faster."
To Linden, Father Baine could rightly be called his benefactor. During the long weeks when he had been broken and bedridden, unable to move, it was Baine—and Baine alone—who had tended him. For that reason, Linden had come to regard him almost as the father of this body.
Hearing his words, Father Baine said nothing more. He only patted Linden's arm and gestured for him to sit inside the tavern.
"Ho! Bear‑Hunter!"
The moment Linden stepped through the door, the men within raised their cups in unison and shouted his name. Their voices still carried a note of awe, yet they were warmer, more welcoming, than the fearful tones he had heard from the villagers outside.
Linden, knowing nothing of these men and uncertain how to respond without betraying himself, merely nodded.
No one seemed displeased by his silence. On the contrary, they took it as natural. From this, Linden realized that the man whose body he now inhabited must have been a withdrawn, taciturn sort.
He made his way to a table by the window and sat. Father Baine brought him a cup of wine, set it before him, and returned to his work.
Linden lifted the cup and drank. The sour, vinegary taste was unpleasant, but he forced it down without flinching, swallowing the bitterness without letting it show upon his face.
The atmosphere in the tavern did not change when Linden entered, but the talk within gradually shifted, more and more of it turning toward him.
Perhaps because the subject of their gossip was present, the men spoke in lower voices. In such a noisy hall, an ordinary man would have struggled to catch their words. But Linden was different. After more than a month of living in this body, though his strength had not grown, his other senses had sharpened beyond the common measure. It had taken him time to adjust, but now that keenness served him well.
By piecing together the fragments of their conversations, Linden quickly came to understand where he was and what had befallen him. Though he tried to school his features, a flicker of surprise still crossed his face.
During his long convalescence, he had wondered countless times where fate had cast him. He had imagined many ancient realms of the West, but never had he thought to awaken in the world of ice and fire.
The men's talk confirmed it. They spoke of the Usurper's War, which had ended only last year—the war that had placed Robert Baratheon upon the Iron Throne. From this, Linden realized the time he now lived in was before the events that would one day shake the Seven Kingdoms.
That knowledge was no comfort. For it meant that much of what might have been foreseen lay still unwritten, and the certainty of tales told elsewhere could no longer be relied upon.
According to Linden's understanding, the system of Westeros was rigid, and it was difficult for common men to rise above their station. Bloodline and inheritance were the cornerstones of power, and the body he now inhabited was that of an ordinary man. Worse still, he found himself in the Reach.
The lords of the Reach were famed for their antiquity. The lineage of any noble house here stretched back thousands of years. House Tyrell, Wardens of the South, were not even counted among the three oldest dynasties of the region—yet still their heritage was ancient. That alone spoke to the weight of bloodlines in the Reach.
Such deep‑rooted inheritance bred conservatism. Blood was the sole measure of a man's worth. A few rare exceptions existed, but they could not shake the towering edifice of tradition.
For a commoner to rise in the Reach, there were only two paths. One was to study at the Citadel in Oldtown and earn the chain of a maester. The other was to distinguish oneself at a tourney, to be taken into service as a knight's squire, or—by rare fortune—to be knighted outright, as Ser Duncan the Tall had once been.
Linden also learned that the village he now dwelt in was called White Village. It lay on the edge of the Red Lake Forest in the Riverbend, within the lands of House Crane, not far from their seat at Red Lake.
The village took its name from the white plaster used to coat its houses, giving the entire settlement a pale, gleaming aspect.
White Village was part of House Crane's demesne, sworn directly to Red Lake. Most of its folk were hunters, though not in the sense of free trappers or poachers. Rather, they served as guides for the Cranes and for other Reach lords who came to hunt in the forests.
The Red Lake Forest was not the largest wood in the Reach, but it was rich with game—deer, boar, and even bear. Each autumn, House Crane invited the nobility of the Reach to Red Lake for great hunts and feasts. White Village had been established for this very purpose: a hunting village to provide skilled trackers and guides for the Cranes' annual gatherings.
Linden also came to understand why he had been so grievously wounded, left abed for more than a month, and why the villagers called him Bear‑Hunter with such awe.
The matter traced back to the Usurper's War, which had ended only the year before. As Wardens of the South, House Tyrell had chosen the losing side. Though King Robert Baratheon had not punished them after seizing the Iron Throne, the Tyrells remained uneasy. To mend their standing, they sought to gather rare treasures from across the Reach to present as gifts to the new king.
House Crane of Red Lake, though of ancient lineage, had long been in decline. Their hold upon Red Lake was fragile, and they had even been forced into marriage ties with House Florent to preserve their fortunes. In such straits, the Cranes were eager to curry favor with their liege lords of Highgarden. When they learned of the Tyrells' desire for rare treasures, they too sought to contribute, hoping to strengthen their bond with the Wardens of the South.
Yet the Cranes had little left to offer. Much of their inheritance had been sold off in leaner years, and what remained bore the sigils and marks of their house—heirlooms that could not be parted with without becoming the laughingstock of the Reach. Thus, they turned their eyes elsewhere.
Their lands, however, were rich in game. The Red Lake Forest teemed with beasts, some of them rare and prized. So the Cranes set bounties, offering rich rewards for hunters who could bring down such creatures.
The man whose body Linden now inhabited had been the finest hunter of White Village. Tempted by the reward, and with the leave of the Crane steward, he had entered the Red Lake Forest to hunt the great mountain bears.
These mountain bears were no common beasts. They were twice the size of ordinary bears, many times stronger, and clad in a coat of brown‑red fur as tough as armor. In the Red Lake Forest, they were near‑invincible.
In the past, more than one band of knights had sought to prove their valor by hunting the great mountain bears, only to be slain by them. Knights did not ride alone, either—they brought squires, guards, and hired swords—yet even so, the beasts had left them dead in the forest.
So when Linden's father entered the Red Lake Forest, no one believed he could succeed where armored knights had failed.
And indeed, as all had expected, Linden's father perished. His body was torn apart by the mountain bears. When the hunters of White Village found him, only half his head and scattered fragments of his corpse remained.
After gathering what was left of his father, the man whose body Linden now inhabited did not abandon the hunt. Instead, he swore to fulfill his father's last wish and avenge him.
For the next year, he returned again and again to the forest, searching for signs of the mountain bears. He spent what coin he had on deadly traps, and at last, more than a month past, he carried them into the Red Lake Forest.
That hunt was both a triumph and a failure. A triumph, for he brought down a mountain bear alone. A failure, for it was not the same beast that had slain his father—and in the struggle, he was grievously wounded. The bear's counterattack had raked his back until scarcely a patch of skin was left unscarred, and its paw had nearly broken his spine.
Had Father Baine—his father's sworn friend—not braved the forest to find him, carry him home, and tend him for more than a month, he would surely have died. From that day, the villagers called him Bear‑Hunter.
Yet the victory brought him no reward. Instead, it brought trouble. For he had entered the Red Lake Forest without the leave of House Crane, its rightful lords. By law, his hunt was theft of their property, and the Cranes had every right to put him to death.
Whether it was because he had brought down a mountain bear, or because Linden had already been so near death that there seemed little point in executing him, the lord of House Crane declared that he would not pursue the matter of his unlawful hunt. Instead, he even left behind five golden dragons as a reward for the slaying of the beast.
Compared to the five hundred golden dragons once offered by House Crane a year past, these five were a paltry sum. Yet to common folk, five golden dragons was a fortune. And the man who held them was bedridden, grievously wounded, and thought likely to die at any time. Thus, the villagers began to covet the coins.
But their greed was checked by the stern hand of Father Baine, whose intervention forced them to abandon their designs. That was why the villagers Linden had seen earlier looked upon him with such wary expressions. They feared that now, with his wounds nearly healed, he might take vengeance for their earlier thoughts of betrayal.