"What are your plans now?"
When the tavern had quieted and most of the drinkers had gone, Father Baine at last found time to rest. He sat across from Linden, his eyes full of concern.
Linden thought for a moment before asking, "Father… do you still have ties with the guard in Red Lake?"
"You mean to go to Red Lake and serve as a guard?" Baine frowned, lowering his gaze to the ruined hand and peg‑leg that bore witness to his past. His voice grew solemn. "Guarding is no easy life."
Once, Father Baine had been captain of the guard in Red Lake. He had even ridden to Highgarden in the company of Lord Crane, meeting many of the Reach's great lords. He had seen the world beyond White Village.
But fortune had turned against him. Years ago, when House Crane led a sortie to drive bandits from the Red Lake Forest, Baine had been ambushed and maimed. Had Linden's father not found him and borne him to safety, he would have died in the mud with the outlaws' blades in him. For that debt, Baine treated Linden as a son.
Though long retired, Baine still had friends in Red Lake. To place a man in the guard would not be difficult.
He fell silent for a time, remembering, then asked, "Why do you wish to join the guard? Did you not once dream of being a hunter, like your father before you?"
"I want to see the world," Linden answered, offering the excuse he had prepared. "I do not wish to live and die knowing only White Village and the Red Lake Forest. I want to walk the streets of Highgarden, to see King's Landing with my own eyes. I want to look upon the Wall in the far North. If I remain here, I fear I will see nothing but these woods until the Stranger comes for me."
Baine studied him, his expression grave. "This wound has changed you. You are not the same as before."
At that, Linden felt a flicker of panic, though he kept his face calm.
"Death changes a man," Baine said at last, sighing. "It changed me as well." He leaned forward, his voice heavy with seriousness. "But tell me, lad—do you truly believe you can reach those places, see those wonders, as a mere guard of Red Lake?"
"At least there is a better chance than now," Linden replied.
He knew well enough that he could leave White Village on his own and wander anywhere in Westeros. But in doing so, he would cast aside his place as a villager and become nothing more than a nameless refugee. And once a man became a refugee, it was near impossible to rise again.
Such men rotted in the gutters of some city, or else turned outlaw in the woods. Worse still, they might be seized by lords and sent to toil in the mines—or sold in secret across the Narrow Sea as slaves.
It was already hard enough to climb upward as a commoner. As a refugee, the climb would be tenfold harder. Even with talent, even with whatever strange gift fate had given him, Linden could not be certain of gaining the power and station he desired if he took that path.
Thus, to become a guard of Red Lake, to place himself near the nobility of this world and wait for opportunity—that was the best road he could see.
Father Baine studied him for a long while before speaking. "The man who now commands the guard at Red Lake is called Smiling Will. He once served beneath me, and we parted on good terms. If I put your name to him, he will grant you a trial. That much I can promise."
At this, Linden felt a surge of relief and quiet joy, though he kept his face composed.
His restraint did not go unnoticed. In the past, though Linden had worn a cold mask, his moods had always been plain to read. Now, however, he seemed a different man—his emotions buried deep, his face unreadable. Baine could not help but marvel again at how death and survival had changed him.
"Still," Baine went on, "though I can recommend you, and Will may test you for my sake, whether you win a place among the guards of Red Lake will depend on your own skill."
"The skill you speak of is…?"
"Follow me."
Baine rose, gestured for Linden to come, and gave a word to the tavern‑keeper before leading the way into the yard behind the tavern.
Linden rose with his crutches and followed close behind.
In the yard, Baine bade him wait. Then he went into his house, rummaged beneath his bed, and returned carrying a broad, time‑worn sword, a finer inlaid blade, and an iron buckler.
"Here. Let's try it."
Father Baine stepped forward, placing the sword and shield into Linden's hands.
Linden set aside his crutch, took up the weapons, and gave the blade a few casual swings. Yet when he tried to move as memory urged him, a wave of discomfort swept through him. What should have been a simple cut felt clumsy, rough, and unnatural.
Baine was not surprised. To his eyes, Linden looked exactly as a man should who had never before held a longsword.
But Linden himself was dissatisfied. After two awkward swings, he lowered the blade and said, "Father, may I try another sword?"
Baine blinked at the request. He assumed Linden blamed the weapon for his poor showing and wished to test another. Without a word, he returned to his house and came back with a knight's sword.
Like the broadsword, it had been well kept, free of rust. The emblem on its hilt had long since been polished away, but Baine knew it for a trophy taken by his own father. Judging by its make, it had once belonged not to some famed champion, but to a hedge knight or a knight's attendant.
Linden did not set down the broadsword. Instead, he laid aside the shield, took the knight's sword in his other hand, and shifted into a stance of dual blades.
Baine stared, taken aback. There were knights in Westeros who fought with two swords, but they were rare, and their names were spoken with awe. Such men were legends, each said to be worth ten ordinary fighters.
Those famed knights who fought with two blades were said to double their strength in battle. Yet for ordinary men, to attempt such a style was folly, a quick road to death.
Father Baine had been about to correct Linden, to tell him that more steel in hand did not mean greater skill. But before he could speak, Linden bent low, and the body that needed crutches to walk suddenly moved with startling speed. His feet drove him side to side, and as he shifted, the two swords of unequal length in his hands cut and thrust in flawless rhythm.
Baine had once captained the guard at Red Lake, and his own mastery of sword and shield was not inconsiderable. He had seen many a duel, many a tourney, and his eye was keen. Yet what Linden displayed before him was no clumsy flailing. It was swordplay worthy of the great names of Westeros.
It was no exaggeration to say that even had Baine stood before him in full mail, he would have struggled to withstand such an assault. Every thrust Linden made sought the weak points of armor—gaps at the joints, the throat, the armpit—strikes near impossible to defend against.
Is this some knightly swordcraft? the thought leapt unbidden into Baine's mind.
At last Linden stopped. Not because his skill was spent, but because his body had reached its limit. To press further would risk tearing open his half‑healed wounds.
"Father… do you think… my skill… is enough… to serve… as a guard?" Linden gasped, leaning on his blades for support, his chest heaving.
"More than enough," Baine said, steadying his own racing heart. Then, with a furrowed brow, he asked, "But tell me—when did you learn such swordsmanship? I have never seen you fight this way before."
Linden had already prepared for this question. He pressed a hand to his chest in a gesture of prayer, his face solemn, and said with pious gravity:
"When I lay broken and near death, I dreamed of a warrior's master. He was moved by my courage in hunting the mountain bear, and he blessed me. He granted me the skills of many warriors, so that I might wield them as my own."
Then he lowered his gaze, feigning regret. "But my body is still too weak. For now, I can only call upon this style of twin blades. The rest of the skills remain sealed within me, waiting until I am stronger, until I have grown enough to claim them once more."
Father Baine was utterly stunned. He had never expected Linden to give him such an answer—so incredible, so far from anything he had imagined.
The Faith of the Seven was the official creed of the Seven Kingdoms, and in the Reach its hold was strongest of all. Yet Baine was no true believer. He had seen too much. He had watched corrupt septons commit wickedness in the name of the gods. He had seen lords curry favor with the Faith, and the Faith in turn conjure false miracles to serve their patrons. He had even seen merchants peddle trinkets as holy relics, stripping the last copper from the purses of the poor. For Baine, belief in the Seven was a mask he wore, nothing more.
And now, someone he had known since boyhood was telling him he had been blessed by the Warrior himself. At first, Baine thought it laughable, a lie born of desperation.
But then he looked at Linden—panting, sweat‑soaked, yet with blades still steady in his hands—and doubt gnawed at him. He had watched the boy grow these past fifteen years. Linden had never shown the least gift for swordplay. He was a hunter, nothing more. Yet the swordsmanship he had displayed just now… even seasoned knights might not match it. Such skill could only be forged through years of relentless training, and Linden had never had that chance.
Baine's mind turned over the truth again and again, seeking another answer, but none came. If Linden had not learned this craft by mortal means, then perhaps—just perhaps—his tale was true. Perhaps the Warrior, one of the Seven, had indeed laid his hand upon him, turning a common hunter into a swordsman of rare and deadly grace.
And the reason for the Warrior's blessing seemed not without sense. In countless songs and tales, there had never been a boy of fifteen who slew a mountain bear alone—a beast as large as a hill. Linden's vengeance for his father was the stuff of bard's verse, worthy to be sung in halls and inns alike.
Indeed, a few wandering singers who had passed through White Village had already set his tale to rhyme, intending to weave it into their lays.
"Are you telling me the truth?" Father Baine asked gravely.
"I can swear to the Seven that every word I speak is true." Linden pressed a hand to his chest, swearing like the most devout of believers.
In his heart, Linden felt no fear of the oath. Whether the Seven existed or not, his "golden finger" was, in its way, a blessing of the Warrior.
"Who else have you told of this?" Baine pressed.
"No one but you," Linden answered earnestly. "I know how unbelievable it sounds. If I spoke of it, it might bring me harm. But you, Father—you are the one I trust most in this world. That is why I can tell you."
At that, Baine's thick beard split in a smile. "And this notion of leaving White Village—does it come from this blessing as well?"
"In part," Linden admitted.
"I see." Baine nodded slowly. "When your wounds are mended, I will take you to Red Lake and put your name forward. But before that, you must have proper weapons."
Linden glanced at the knight's sword and the broadsword in his hands. "Will these not serve?"
"You must keep the knight's sword hidden," Baine said firmly. "That blade will bring you trouble if others see it. As for my broadsword, it is enough for a common guard. But if you mean to rise higher, you will need weapons made for you. The right steel can keep you alive on the battlefield—and win you renown."
Linden nodded. Though he had wielded the two blades with skill, he had felt the mismatch in his hands. With swords forged to his measure, his strength would surely grow.
"Can the village smith make them?" he asked.
"He can barely shape a sickle or a horseshoe." Baine snorted. Then he waved Linden's concern aside. "Leave it to me. Your five golden dragons are still in my keeping. That will be enough to see two good blades forged."