After parting from Father Baine, who had drunk himself into a stupor, Linden returned straight to his hut. The display of swordsmanship in the tavern had left him utterly spent, and all he wished for was to collapse onto his bed and rest.
Yet the sharp pain burning across his back reminded him that it was not time to sleep. First, he needed to readjust the bandages, lest the wound worsen. The dual‑wielding swordplay had strained his half‑healed body, tearing at his back and leaving the injury raw again. Still, he judged it worth the cost. Everything had unfolded as he had planned, and now he need only wait for the next steps to come to him.
From the moment he had awakened in this new body and realized he had been reborn into a world akin to the Middle Ages, Linden had thought constantly of his future.
Remaining a commoner was the first path he cast aside. Rebirth itself was proof enough that he was not meant to rot at the bottom of society—especially not with a golden finger in his grasp.
The life of a merchant he dismissed just as quickly. In both East and West, traders were seldom respected. Unless one dwelt in a city‑state built upon commerce, a merchant was little more than a walking purse, ripe for plunder by lords and kings.
Thus, only one road remained: to become a noble. In the long weeks he had lain bedridden, unable to move, he had turned this thought over endlessly, devising countless schemes and contingencies. If fate threw obstacles in his way, he would be ready.
And though this was not the medieval world he had once imagined, but the world of ice and fire, its laws and customs were not so different. Bloodlines ruled, power was hoarded, and the ladder of ascent was steep. Yet the strategies he had forged in his sickbed could still serve him here.
Still, Linden knew he would need to make certain adjustments to his plans if he wished to gain rank and standing more swiftly. One such path lay in the tourney.
At first, he had dismissed the idea. In the world he remembered, only nobles could compete in such contests. The tales of common men donning armor in secret, entering the lists, and winning both glory and fortune were nothing more than the inventions of storytellers. In truth, every noble who rode in a tourney was subject to strict scrutiny of birth and station. For a peasant, there was no chance.
But the tourneys of the Seven Kingdoms were different. Beyond the jousts of knights, they also held melees and archery contests—events in which common men were permitted to take part. Victors in these lesser competitions might not win the same renown as a jousting champion, yet they could still earn coin and honor. And honor, even in small measure, could be a ladder.
Fame drew the eyes of great lords. A man who proved himself in the lists might be taken into noble service, and with valor in battle, could one day be knighted. Even those who did not rise so high might yet become squires or sworn men to knights of repute, and from there, earn their spurs.
Knighthood stood at the lowest rung of the noble order, yet it was a rung nonetheless—a stepping stone to greater things.
Nor was the tourney the only path Linden considered. He thought, too, of winning the favor of some lord through knowledge and counsel, serving as a retainer, steward, or advisor. With trust and loyalty, such service might also be rewarded with knighthood, and from there, the chance to climb higher still.
Yet Linden knew that such a knighthood, once gained, was fragile. It offered little room for advancement, and almost no chance of ever becoming a true lord.
Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger—was the very image of such precarious nobility. He had schemed and clawed his way upward, but in the end he never became the lord he dreamed of being. Even when he held the title of Lord Protector of the Vale, the great houses of the Vale never truly accepted him as one of their own. And when his end came, not a single noble voice rose in his defense. That was how brittle such "palace nobility" could be.
For now, Linden had no fear of becoming a guard of Red Lake. With Father Baine's help, the matter would be simple enough. Even without the dual‑wielding swordplay gifted by his golden finger, he could still win a place among the city's watch.
The true difficulty lay in what came after. To rise from guard to knight's attendant, and from attendant to knight, was a transformation as great as rebirth. For a commoner, it was the hardest step of all. Strength alone would never suffice.
Bronn was the best example. For years he had been nothing more than a sellsword, skilled but overlooked. Only by chance—through Tyrion Lannister—did he win knighthood. That was the truth of it: for a common man, strength was not the key. The key was finding a patron, someone with the power to raise you up. And in Linden's eyes, House Crane of Red Lake could not provide such a ladder.
He remembered, from his former life, reading an analysis of the Reach's lords. The Cranes were mentioned, but only in passing. The word most often used to describe them was dependence. For generations, they had leaned upon the Florents, their stronger kin. So long as that remained true, the Cranes would never rise high, and those who served them would never rise with them.
But that did not mean the Cranes were without value. There was one branch of the family that Linden could use: Fertimo Crane. Though he did not know the man's present station, he knew one thing for certain—Fertimo would one day become master‑at‑arms of Highgarden itself. If Linden could forge a connection there, it would open a path to House Tyrell, and with it, far greater chances of knighthood.
As he turned these thoughts over, his hands did not rest. He picked up two wooden sticks, each about the length and thickness of a half‑sword, and tossed a ball of cloth into the air. With quick movements of wrist and arm, he struck at it again and again, the twin sticks flashing as he practiced his dual‑wielding craft. The cloth ball bounced and spun, never once touching the ground.
Since Linden had first been able to sit up and move his arms, half a month past, he had trained daily with makeshift sticks, striving to master the dual‑wielding swordplay granted to him by his golden finger. Though the gift had poured combat knowledge and instinct into his mind, mastery did not come so easily. Skill without practice was hollow; only through repetition could he truly make the art his own.
This golden finger, bestowed upon him at rebirth, was the source of his confidence. It was not as overwhelming as the cheats of fanciful tales, but it was enough. In truth, he possessed two gifts: one was the golden finger itself, the other a talent born of rebirth.
Perhaps it was the fusion of two souls that had altered him, but his body and mind were no longer wholly human. His self‑healing alone was proof. A spine nearly shattered had mended in little more than a month. Lesser wounds closed in a day or two. Such resilience would be a shield in the wars to come.
Yet this gift bore its flaws. Healing demanded fuel. Food, meat, and costly tonics vanished into the furnace of his body, consumed to knit flesh and bone. Most of the coin spent on his recovery had gone to feed this hunger. It was, in its way, no more than the law of nature: nothing gained without cost.
Beyond healing, his senses had sharpened to uncanny levels. He could hear the faint buzz of insects outside his hut, see the drift of dust motes in the air. At first, this had been torment. Bed‑bound, he had nearly gone mad trying to master the flood of sound and sight. Only with time had he learned to rein it in.
By contrast, his strength and agility remained within the bounds of ordinary men. They still required training to grow. The difference lay in how his body responded. Each exercise yielded results he could feel at once. More than that—he could see them. When he pushed himself, it was as if a bar of energy within him crept upward, marking his progress. The increments were small, but they gave him a clear measure, a guide to refine his training and make every effort count.
This energy bar was part of the golden finger he had gained upon rebirth—a gift loosely modeled on the game For Honor, though altered beyond recognition.
In truth, the resemblance was faint. Only the images of the heroes and their combat styles remained, and even then, only nine of the knightly heroes were available. The ability itself was simple: by selecting the illusion of a hero in his mind, he could instantly acquire that hero's combat skills. But only one could be chosen at a time. To change again, he needed to train, to fill the energy bar through effort.
When he had first awakened in this body, half‑conscious and wracked with pain, he had not thought carefully. He had grasped at the golden finger like a drowning man clutching driftwood, believing that choosing a hero would restore his body at once, as if he were refilling health in a game.
But the reality was harsher. His body did not heal. Instead, a torrent of knowledge had been forced into his mind, leaving him dazed and feverish for days, as though drugged.
When at last he recovered enough to sort through the flood of memories, he realized he had chosen poorly.
Under normal circumstances, he would have selected the Watcher or the Warmonger—heroes whose styles most resembled Westerosi knights, their skills rooted in the sword and shield. But in his confusion, he had chosen the Peacekeeper, a fighter whose art was that of a dual‑wielding assassin.
He had even tried to resist the style, wielding a single blade while attempting to use the Peacekeeper's techniques. The result was disastrous. Every movement felt wrong, every strike clumsy, as if he had never held a sword before. The skills were bound to the dual‑wielding form; to deny it was to fight against himself.
This also made Linden realize that while his golden finger was powerful, it carried clear limitations.
Though he was not fully satisfied with the Peacekeeper's dual‑wielding style, it was enough for now.
What he needed most was to rebuild his body—strengthen his stamina and endurance—so that he could wield the style for more than a fleeting minute before collapsing in exhaustion.
Over the next half‑month, Linden devoted himself to practice. Each day he trained with the Peacekeeper's twin‑blade techniques, and when his body could bear no more, he walked the village paths to stretch his legs. Often he would slip into Father Baine's tavern, choosing a quiet corner where he could listen to the talk of travelers and merchants.
White Village was no great town, but its position was unique. It lay at the crossroads of Old Oak, Red Lake, and Goldengrove. Caravans and wanderers from all three cities passed through, bringing with them tidings and rumor. The tavern was never empty of news.
Lately, the most distant talk concerned King Robert. Word spread that he planned a grand tourney in King's Landing to celebrate the birth of his first son, Joffrey. It would be the first great tourney of the Baratheon dynasty, and its scale was said to be beyond imagining. Knights from all the Seven Kingdoms would ride to the capital.
Yet for the villagers, such distant matters were less pressing than the troubles close at hand—bandits.
Though the Usurper's War had ended nearly a year ago, its scars remained. Loyalists to House Targaryen had not all been rooted out. Many had fled into the wilds, mingling with outlaws and hill tribes, raiding when they could.
The Reach, second only to the Riverlands in fertile rivers and fields, was also thick with forests—perfect havens for brigands. The Red Lake Forest was one such refuge.
Half a month past, a band of outlaws claiming to be Targaryen loyalists had made camp there, preying on caravans that dared take the forest roads. Already four or five caravans had been struck, with scores killed or maimed. Among the dead was a scion of House Rowan of Goldengrove, slain by the raiders.
For this outrage, the Rowans had begun to press their neighbors. They were sending envoys to House Crane of Red Lake and House Oakheart of Old Oak, urging them to join forces and scour the bandits from the Red Lake Forest.