The stronghold lay on the eastern edge of Red Lake Forest. Once it had belonged to House Osgrey, but with that family's decline and the death of its last heir, the place passed into the hands of House Rowan.
Yet Golden Grove, the Rowans' seat, was far from this lonely outpost. In time, its care was entrusted to House Webber of Coldmoat. The Webbers, however, had little interest in tending a ruin so far from their own lands. They left it to wither, and soon only a handful of beggars and refugees clung to life within its crumbling walls.
But abandonment did not mean worthlessness. For smugglers, the stronghold was a prize. It stood at the end of the western mountains, where a hidden trail wound past the Reach's border patrols and led straight into Cornfield in the Westerlands. Only seasoned smugglers knew of this path, and to keep it secret, they planted their own men in the castle, disguised as harmless refugees.
Now those false refugees dangled from wooden stakes, their corpses a warning. The stronghold was no longer theirs. Its halls and yards were crammed with soldiers—three hundred in all.
From their arms and armor, it was plain enough: one hundred were trained men‑at‑arms, drilled and disciplined, while the other two hundred were little more than levies and camp‑followers, pressed into service. The small fortress, long neglected, now groaned under the weight of a host.
The regular soldiers were well‑equipped, clad in leather armor and bearing a variety of serviceable weapons. A small logistics train followed them, ensuring steady supplies of food and drink.
The levies, by contrast, were a ragged sight. Some had padded their tunics with scraps of cloth for protection, others had strapped wooden planks to their chests as makeshift armor. Their weapons were little better—most carried crude spears fashioned from poles, while a few clutched pitchforks or sickles. Apart from a handful of captains, scarcely any bore swords. It was plain they were farmers pressed unwillingly into service.
Though the banners had been furled, the badges upon the knights' armor betrayed their allegiance: all were sworn to House Crane of Red Lake.
From the stronghold's only intact hall emerged a knot of knights in gleaming plate. They strutted with heads held high, proud as fighting cocks.
Two among them drew every eye. The first was the tallest of the company, surrounded by guards as he strode at their center—clearly the leader. The second walked just behind, the only man unarmored, yet nearly as tall as the first. His height alone might have marked him, but it was his face that commanded attention. From brow to cheek ran three deep scars, the rake of some beast's claws. Once he might have been strikingly handsome; now the scars lent him a cruel, forbidding cast.
This host had been raised by House Crane to scour the Red Lake Forest of bandits. Its commander was none other than the famed Ser Joel Flowers.
By rights, the force should already have been deep in the forest, joining with the Rowans of Golden Grove and the Oakhearts of Old Oak to root out the outlaws. Instead, they had halted at Fort Steadfast, on the forest's edge, and made camp there. The decision baffled many.
Not only outsiders, but even Joel's own knightly attendants were unsettled. At first, their trust in him kept them silent. Yet after two days of idleness, one finally gave voice to the unease.
"My lord," the young knight asked, "how long are we to remain here? Should we not be striking at the remnants of the Dragon's brood in the forest?"
At that, Linden, walking among the men, cast the speaker a long, measuring look. The choice of words was telling. To call the bandits "remnants of the Dragon" was no slip of the tongue. It was ambition. For to claim victories over mere brigands was one thing—but to claim victories over Targaryen loyalists was another. Such deeds would draw the eye of King Robert Baratheon himself, and the rewards would be far greater.
Joel, of course, saw through the ploy at once. He had thought the same when first he heard the outlaws styling themselves as the last of the Dragon's men. It was too convenient. In truth, the Cranes and their allies needed to show the new king their loyalty, to prove themselves beyond suspicion, and to ensure Robert had no cause to trouble Red Lake.
"Our purpose here is to suppress bandits," Ser Joel said flatly, his gaze brushing over the attendant.
The words were simple, but they left his men no clearer. What had Fort Steadfast to do with bandit‑hunting? Why linger here, when the forest lay waiting? Confusion lingered in their eyes, though none dared press him further.
Seeing their confusion, Ser Joel sighed and spoke with patience.
"If you are surrounded by enemies, and suddenly spy a gap in their lines, what would you do?"
The attendants exchanged uncertain glances until one ventured, "I would send scouts to test the gap. If it proved safe, I would lead my men through it. Is that the right answer, ser?"
Joel gave only the faintest nod, then pressed on.
"And if every road were perilous save one—a single retreat, hidden and little known, yet certain to carry you clear of the foe's net—what then?"
Another attendant began to answer quickly, but faltered midway. His eyes widened as the truth struck him.
"You mean… the so‑called remnants of the Dragon will try to break out through Fort Steadfast?"
Joel inclined his head, no longer concealing his reasoning.
"There is a smuggler's path near this place, a secret road through the western mountains. It skirts Red Lake entirely and comes out in the highlands above Cornfield. The smugglers know it well, and among these outlaws there are surely many of their kind. When the noose tightens, they will not scatter blindly into the forest. They will take this road. They will try to flee this way."
Hearing Joel's reasoning, the knights grew eager again. This was their chance for glory. Yet one among them frowned.
"My lord, I recall there are hundreds of these bandits. Even if they lose men in flight, they will still outnumber us. And among them are veterans of the Dragon's cause—soldiers with hard experience. Can we truly hold them?"
At that, the excitement faded. The knights' faces grew grave. They longed for renown, but not at the cost of their lives.
After a pause, another spoke. "Coldmoat is not far. Why not send to House Webber for aid?"
The suggestion found quick favor. All eyes turned to Joel, awaiting his command.
But Joel gave none. He only gestured for them to follow and continued his inspection of the companies within the keep, as though he had not heard. The knights exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared press him further.
When the circuit was done, Joel began issuing orders. Before returning to the hall, he commanded his attendants to take men and scout the surrounding ground, seeking places well‑suited to intercept fugitives.
Yet as the knights prepared to depart, Joel raised a hand to halt Linden. When the two of them stood alone in the hall, Joel fixed him with a steady look.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Linden blinked, caught off guard. "What do I think?" He had not expected the question, nor understood at first what Joel meant.
"Ask the Webbers for aid," Joel said at last.
Linden hesitated. "Should you really be asking me about something so important?"
"I want your opinion," Joel pressed, his gaze fixed.
Linden did not soften his words. "I don't think we need to ask. The Webbers will come to us of their own accord—likely before the day is out."
Joel, who had been lounging in his chair, straightened with interest. "And why would House Webber take the initiative?"
"It's simple—because they must wash away suspicion." Linden's first answer was blunt, but then he laid it out in detail. "After the bandits struck the Rowan caravan, they passed straight through Webber lands. The Webbers made no move to stop them, but let them slip into Red Lake Forest. Anyone can see the stain that leaves. And notice—when the Rowans called their banners, not a single Webber knight rode with them. Golden Grove no longer trusts Coldmoat. If the Webbers wish to avoid a reckoning later, they'll have to prove their loyalty now. They'll throw men and coin into this campaign, even at heavy cost, to leave no excuse for others to call them complicit."
Joel's eyes narrowed, though his face betrayed little. He was surprised, but he masked it well. "Is that all?"
Linden paused, then added, "You chose Fort Steadfast not only because it is the bandits' likeliest escape, but also to give the Webbers the impression that you are here to watch them. If they believe the Rowans set you to keep an eye on Coldmoat, they'll fight all the harder to prove themselves."
For a long moment Joel studied him. Then, despite himself, his composure cracked. His eyes widened, and he regarded Linden not as a boy of fifteen, but as something uncanny—like a creature out of place in this world, cloaked in the skin of youth.
There was no denying it—Linden's words had far surpassed the measure of any common hunter. Even a learned maester or a grizzled knight might not have shown such clarity of thought. For one who had never left a backwater village, it was uncanny.
Joel drew a long breath, steadying the unease that stirred in him, and asked again, "Do you believe the Webbers are tied to these bandits?"
Linden shook his head. "It no longer matters whether they are or not. What matters is that the Webbers must prove they are not."
"But I want to know if it matters," Joel pressed.
Linden considered, then said, "I believe the bandits were indeed sheltered by the Webbers. But the Webbers never expected them to be so reckless as to strike a Rowan caravan, and worse, to slay a member of that house. Likely the bandits kept their true intent hidden when they passed through Webber lands, hoping to drag Coldmoat into the mire with them. By the time the Webbers learned the truth, it was already too late."
Joel's eyes narrowed. "Who taught you this? Such knowledge is not born of a village hunter."
"Thank my father for that," Linden replied smoothly. He would not speak of the world he had come from, nor of any blessing from the Seven. To men like Joel, such talk would only breed suspicion. He and Father Baine had agreed long ago that all such insight would be laid at Baine's feet.
Joel seemed to accept it. "So he truly does value you. Not only did he find you a master of the sword, but he even set a scholar to teach you letters and lore. It seems he has laid all his unfulfilled hopes upon you."
"His hopes?" Linden asked, curiosity pricking him. "Ser, will you tell me of Father Baine?"
Joel arched a brow. "Did he never tell you himself?"
Linden shook his head.
"Truthfully, I don't know much. Only rumors," he admitted.
Joel leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "Baine and I both fought in the Mad King's campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood. I rode with Lord Barristan, so I had no dealings with him then. But I saw him on the field. He led his spear‑line straight through the Brotherhood's defenses, driving them back and breaking their formation. That thrust forced their retreat, and with it the collapse of their whole front.
"To the singers and the smallfolk, it was the famous knights who won that day. They were the names remembered. But in truth, the man who turned the tide was not a knight in shining mail—it was old Baine and his spearmen."
"Father… had such a record?" Linden's eyes widened. He had known Baine was no common innkeep, but he had never imagined this. To have merely stood in the fight against the Kingswood Brotherhood was already the stuff of legend. To have won renown there, to have shaped the battle itself—that was something else entirely.
For the first time, Linden felt he had underestimated the man who had sheltered him.