After hearing the tale, Linden frowned in confusion.
"Why did those who sided with the Tyrells fall so easily? You said they had been in stalemate for decades. Shouldn't their strength have been about the same?"
"It was the Usurper's War," Father Baine sighed. "House Tyrell backed the Targaryens and sent their banners to fight. The Cranes of Red Lake sent men as well, all from the Tyrell faction. Many of them perished at Ashford. Only a handful survived—Fertimo Crane among them. Fearing reprisals from the rival branch of their own kin, they lingered in Highgarden after the war and never returned to Red Lake."
"What about Smiling Will?" Linden asked, his brow furrowed.
"He's a fool," Baine spat. "The quarrels of House Crane had nothing to do with him. He need only have kept his post as captain of the guard. But some whisper turned his head, and he betrayed his duty—seizing Lady Liana and young Mistress Menedith, and delivering them to the Florent faction. The Cranes' feud was fierce, aye, but it was still a struggle for power, not a blood feud. Will's treachery broke that unspoken line. It was a taboo, and for that he was rightly seized."
Linden's voice grew more cautious. "And you? Were you dragged into this because of him?"
Baine shook his head. "Do not fret for me. I am no one of consequence. If they truly thought me a threat, it would not be Crowe's arrogant whelp sent here."
"But it's different now," Linden said, unease in his tone. "I killed six of Red Lake's guards. They might—"
"No," Baine cut him off with a laugh. "This is no curse, boy. It is a blessing. To the Cranes as they stand now, a swordsman like you is worth far more than six common guards."
"Why?" Linden asked, still uncertain.
"Because," Baine explained, "Red Lake has pledged to march with the Rowans and the Oakhearts to scour the bandits from the Red Lake Forest. But after the Usurper's War, the Cranes bled too heavily. They can muster no more than two hundred men, and most of those are farmers who only just took up arms. They are green, untested, and weak. What they need are strong men—men like you. That is why I urged you to fight with all your strength. I did not expect you to be so fearsome, but better so. By now, word of you will have reached Joel Flowers."
"Joel Flowers? I think I've heard that name in the tavern," Linden murmured, searching his memory. "Is he the one they call Cold Joel?"
"Yes, that's him." Father Baine nodded. "Ser Joel Flowers is the natural son of Ser Belan Crane, and one of the few Cranes who openly favor the Florents. He once fought in a tourney at King's Landing. Though Lord Barristan Selmy unhorsed him, Barristan himself praised the man's skill and even invited him to join the Mad King's Kingsguard. Joel refused. Within House Crane, his name is spoken alongside Lord Fertimo's—he is counted one of their finest swordsmen. And he has a fondness for men of rare skill. Now that you've shown your strength, he will surely send for you."
"Among those watching today," Linden asked, "was there anyone of his?"
"There was," Baine admitted. "Your reputation as the Bear‑Hunter, and as a dual‑bladesman, must have reached his ears. He sent someone to see if the tales were true. Truth be told, had that fool Crowe not appeared, I would have arranged a bout myself to let you display your swordsmanship. But this way… the effect is far greater."
"Wouldn't he fear offending the other faction of the Cranes?" Linden pressed.
Baine shook his head. "No. Joel is known as a neutral man. His loyalty is not to one branch or another, but to Red Lake itself. Whoever holds the lordship, Joel will serve faithfully. That is why neither side dares provoke him. And now, with the Cranes pledged to march against the bandits in Red Lake Forest, they need him more than ever to lead their two hundred recruits. He will not be crossed over a trifle."
Baine sighed, his expression weary. "It was because of him, in truth, that I went to Will in the first place. I knew Joel would be named commander of the bandit‑hunt, but I had no ties to him, no way to approach him directly. Will owed his captaincy to Joel's recommendation, so I thought he might put in a word for you. Now it seems all of that was wasted effort."
"What do I do now?" Linden asked.
"Nothing," Father Baine advised. "Stay here for the next few days. Lord Joel will surely send for you."
Linden nodded at the counsel, then asked, "Father, has my sword been forged?"
"It has," Baine replied. "I meant to give it to you when you came, but with all that's happened, it slipped my mind. Fortunately, your bare hands seem as deadly as any blade."
He beckoned Linden to follow him into the rear house. Entering a small hut alone, Baine soon returned carrying two long swords. He handed them over with care.
"The half‑hand swords you asked for," Baine said. "I widened the blades, thickened the steel. They look more like shortened broadswords now—true hybrids, as you wanted."
Linden drew them from their scabbards. The weight was heavier than expected, but not beyond his strength. He tested their balance with a few swings, then tried their edge and flex. They proved sharper and sturdier than the guard's longswords he had wielded days before, though still far inferior to the weapons of the Peacekeeper in his memories. For five gold dragons, however, they were more than worth the price—and Baine had surely called in a few favors to see them forged.
For the next two days, Linden remained in the tavern's yard, drilling with his new blades. The Peacekeeper's style he carried in memory favored one long weapon and one short, but that was a luxury of games and duels. On a battlefield, a dagger was a death sentence. He began to adapt the style, reshaping it into something practical for war.
He lacked no partners. The caravan mercenaries who lodged at the tavern were eager to spar with him, for Linden never failed to correct their flaws. He taught them how to cover one another, how to move as a unit, and even shared sword forms usually reserved for noble houses. Each bout honed his own mastery while earning him the respect of hardened men.
Linden's manner had quietly won him the respect of the mercenaries. When their caravans departed, they carried with them tales of the Bear‑Hunter, and so his legend began to spread across the Reach.
Crowe Crane's revenge never came. Instead, on the third day, a party of twelve men rode from Red Lake to White Village to reclaim the bodies of the six fallen guards and their arms. No quarrel arose. On the contrary, their captain sparred with Linden in a friendly test of skill. The man had clearly received formal training, enough to best common soldiers, yet against Linden he lasted but two exchanges before his sword was struck from his hand. Had Linden used real steel, the captain's arm would have been shorn away.
Yet the captain bore no anger. He praised Linden openly, and as he departed, hinted that Red Lake would not seek vengeance for the six dead guards. Still, he warned, Linden would have to pay some price—though he left unsaid what that price might be.
On the sixth day, the peace of White Village was broken.
A column of near a hundred men marched in, fully armed and armored. They wore leather cuirasses, carried spears and swords, and some bore bows upon their backs. It was no mere patrol, but a small army.
At their head rode seven knights. Six wore plate of differing make, each bearing the sigil of a noble house sworn to Red Lake. But the seventh was set apart. He was taller and broader than the rest, and his great destrier made him loom all the more. Even seated loosely in the saddle, he towered above his fellows, radiating a pressure none of the others could match.
His armor, too, was unlike theirs. The steel bore the faded device of the Green Hand, the ancient sigil of House Gardener, long dead kings of the Reach. It marked the harness as an heirloom of great antiquity. Yet his helm was of modern fashion, wrought in the likeness of the wild turkey‑cock of Red Lake Forest—an aggressive beast that would fight even wolves to defend its brood. Perhaps the knight wore it to proclaim his own nature.
The column halted before Father Baine's tavern. By then, Baine and Linden had already come out to meet them, and a crowd of villagers pressed close, eager to see what would unfold.
When Father Baine saw the leading knight clearly, he stepped forward at once and bowed.
"Lord Joel."
Joel Flowers drew back his reins, steadying the great horse beneath him. He looked down at Baine and said, "Lance Baine—I still remember you, driving your men through the enemy's line. A man like you belongs on the battlefield, not wasting away in a country tavern."
"Not all men crave such glory, my lord," Baine replied with a wry smile. "Better to die drunk in my own bed than to rot unburied on some nameless field."
The knights behind Joel sneered openly at Baine's words, but Joel himself showed no change of expression. His gaze shifted instead to Linden. He studied him from head to toe, then asked, "You are the Bear‑Hunter?"
"Yes, ser." Linden inclined his head slightly.
From the moment Joel appeared, Linden had been measuring him. The guards and mercenaries he had cut down these past days were no true test—peasants with swords, a few with scraps of training, the lowest rung of the world's fighting men.
But Joel Flowers was different. A swordsman once praised by Barristan the Bold himself, even invited to don the white cloak of the Kingsguard—such a man stood among the true masters of the Reach. Few in the Mander valley could hope to best him in single combat.
The thought stirred something in Linden. He longed to test himself, to feel the measure of his strength against such a foe. Yet he knew the time was not right. So he swallowed the urge, burying it deep, and stood silent beneath Joel's steady gaze.
Yet though Linden held back his challenge, Joel still sensed the fighting spirit radiating from him. He asked bluntly, "Do you wish to test yourself against me?"
"Yes, ser," Linden answered with a steady nod.
Before Joel could reply, one of his attendants barked, "Insolence! What right has a baseborn wretch to challenge Lord Joel?"
"Baseborn?" Joel turned in the saddle, his gaze falling cold upon the man. "Lower than a bastard, you mean?"
The attendant froze, realizing too late that he had touched a raw wound. He stammered, "My lord, I did not mean you—"
Joel cut him off with a voice like iron. "Enough. I know you did not. But remember this: as my attendant, you must cast aside all thoughts of high and low. Blood and birth will not keep you alive, nor win you glory. Only the sword in your hand will."
"Yes, my lord," the attendant murmured, bowing his head.
Joel shook his own, faintly, as though doubting the man had understood. He offered no further lesson. Instead, he turned back to Linden.
"I have already seen to it that your troubles in Red Lake are ended. Now you will march with my host. Earn merit on the battlefield, and when the time is right, I will put your name forward to Lord Fertimo himself—as his knight's squire."
"At your command, ser," Linden replied at once, without hesitation.