"What happened next? What happened next?" Linden pressed, eager for more.
Joel thought for a moment before answering. "I heard that after the war, he retired from the Guard with a modest reward from his kin."
"Retired?" Linden echoed, baffled. It felt as though a tale had ended mid‑page, the story cut short just as it reached its heart.
"What else could he do?" Joel sighed, a trace of regret in his tone. "He was already an old man, and he bore a grievous wound. Even if he healed, he would never again wield spear or sword as before. His service was worthy of knighthood, but his birth was too low. Every path upward was barred. To remain in the Guard would have been useless."
Linden frowned. "Can commoners not become nobles?"
"Of course they can," Joel replied, shaking his head. "But it is a hundred times harder for a commoner to rise than for a noble's son to advance. It takes strength, yes, and luck besides—and the wit to play the game of power. Old Baine had strength, but no fortune, and no taste for maneuvering. So he was left behind."
Linden fell silent, Joel's words stirring thoughts of his own. Two figures rose in his mind—men who had begun as lowborn, yet through a rare blend of fortune, brilliance, and ruthless cunning, had climbed to the very pinnacle of power. They were exceptions, rare as comets, but they proved the path was not wholly closed.
One example was Janos Slynt, the butcher's son who clawed his way upward until he commanded the City Watch of King's Landing, and was later raised to Lord of Harrenhal. However sordid his methods, his rise could still be called an inspiration.
The other was Bronn, a sellsword of no name. In the songs, he rose by clinging to Tyrion Lannister's favor, climbing step by step until he was made Warden of the South and Lord of Highgarden itself. Fortune's chosen, some would say.
When Linden had first watched the tale, he had thought little of it. But now, living in this world of ice and fire, and knowing its power and bloodlines, he could see how absurd it was. Harrenhal was a ruin, aye, but still a great seat in name. Even Janos Slynt, though raised to lordship, never dared set foot there. And the Reach was another matter entirely. Its lords were ancient and proud, with armies of their own. To think they would ever bend the knee to a lowborn sellsword was madness. Such an appointment, if ever truly made, would have sparked rebellion and war.
By the common sense of Westeros, Bronn's rise to Highgarden was nothing but a fever‑dream of the storytellers. Yet even so, his tale remained instructive. However unlikely, it showed that wit, boldness, and luck could raise a man higher than birth alone would ever allow. For Linden, it was a case worth studying—and perhaps, in some measure, worth imitating.
As Linden's thoughts drifted to the rare men who had risen from nothing to nobility, Joel did not notice his distraction. Instead, he studied him and said, "Old Baine may fall short in many ways, but he trained you well. I cannot say how much of it is luck, but in strength and discipline, you already surpass him."
"Thank you for the compliment," Linden replied. He sensed that Joel had glimpsed his true ambition, yet the knight showed no disgust, no ill will. So Linden did not bother to deny it—he admitted it plainly.
Joel's eyes glimmered with approval. "Bear‑Hunter. Master of the Twin Blades. Those names are already sung around Red Lake. The ballad of the Bear‑Slayer has even reached Highgarden. I hear Lord Willas Tyrell himself once asked Lord Fertimo about you."
"Is that why you thought to recommend me to Lord Fertimo?" Linden asked.
Joel inclined his head, confirming the guess. "But remember—the recommendation depends on how you acquit yourself in this battle."
"Why help me at all?" Linden pressed, suspicion in his voice.
Joel was silent for a moment, then leaned back with a lazy smile. "Because this land is stagnant, a pool gone foul from stillness. I want to stir the waters, to see what rises. You may be the stone I cast. Do not disappoint me."
With that, he flicked his hand in dismissal, signaling Linden to go.
Linden left the hall and made his way toward the logistics quarter, housed in a crumbling turret at the edge of the castle. Joel's words still echoed in his mind. From every phrase, Linden had sensed a man dissatisfied with the order of the Reach—not one who would overturn it himself, but one who sought a pathfinder to stir the stagnant waters. Whatever Joel's true purpose, for now he was an ally. Linden's task was simple: prove his worth beyond doubt.
Lost in thought, he reached the leatherworkers. Stripping off the ill‑fitting armor that had once belonged to Father Baine, he handed it over and made his request. The size was wrong, the fit poor; in battle it would hinder more than it helped. A few alterations might mean the difference between life and death.
The leatherworker examined the piece, then named his price without hesitation. "Two silver stags."
Linden frowned. "Isn't repair of arms and armor free for those in the host?"
A voice answered from behind him. "For those in the host, yes. But you are not."
Linden turned. The speaker was the knight's squire who had insulted him outside Father Baine's tavern two days past, calling him lowborn and unworthy to challenge Ser Joel. Joel had silenced him then, but the sting of that rebuke had clearly festered. The boy had bided his time, waiting for the chance to strike at Linden again.
Now, it seemed, he had found it.
Faced with the provocation, Linden showed no anger. He only regarded the man coolly, then drew out two silver stags and set them upon the cobbler's table.
"Here are two stags," he said evenly. "You will alter this armor tonight. If it is not done to my satisfaction, I will take back the coin—and one of your hands besides."
The cobbler froze, stunned. He had only meant to follow the knight's squire in making things difficult for Linden, but now he found himself the target of a far more dangerous man. And he could tell at once that Linden was not speaking idly. The youth's calm tone carried the weight of certainty. He would do as he said.
Even without knowing Linden's true station, the cobbler guessed enough. Any man who walked so freely at Ser Joel Flowers' side was no common sellsword.
Panic seized him. He turned wide eyes toward the squire, silently begging for rescue.
The squire, caught off guard, stepped forward at once, planting himself between them. "You damned cur! What are you about? Do you mean to practice lynch‑law in the host?" he shouted.
But Linden did not so much as glance at him. His gaze never left the cobbler.
"If I were you," he said softly, "I would set to work at once. You have little time. Or do you think he"—Linden flicked his eyes toward the squire—"can protect you? True, I will do nothing while he stands here. But will he stand guard forever? Will he sit by your side when you sleep? When he leaves you, even for a moment, I will act. Tell me then—do you still feel safe?"
The cobbler's face went pale. He no longer dared look to the squire for aid. Snatching up the armor, he hurried to his apprentices and began at once to cut and stitch, working feverishly to meet Linden's demand.
Linden turned to face the knight's attendant, whose cheeks burned red with fury.
"You should not drag others into your petty spite," Linden said coldly. "You cannot protect them, and you shame yourself with such childish tricks. Are you still a babe at the breast? It is not only disgusting—it makes you look a fool."
"Bastard!" the squire spat, but his anger left him tongue‑tied.
Linden tilted his head, as if struck by a thought. "By the way, I don't even know your name." He paused, then waved dismissively. "No matter. You are nothing to me."
With that, he turned and strode toward the gate, intending to use the time to learn the ground beyond the walls. Better to know the terrain before battle than stumble blind into danger.
"Stop!" the squire suddenly roared. "I, Al Morrison of Longship Town, challenge you to a duel!" He tore a glove from his hand and hurled it at Linden.
The glove struck Linden's chest and fell to the dirt. He did not stoop to pick it up. Instead, he turned, his eyes flicking from the glove to Al Morrison.
Before the squire could even register his intent, Linden closed the distance in a blur. His fist crashed upward into Morrison's jaw. The young man's head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground, senseless.
The onlookers gasped. It had happened too swiftly for their eyes to follow—one moment Morrison was standing, the next he lay sprawled in the dust.
Linden turned to the others, his voice hard as iron. "Carry this fool away. Next time, I will not promise to use only my fists."
He resumed his stride toward the gate.
"Wait—stop!" another voice called after him.
Linden halted, his hands settling on the hilts of his twin swords. His gaze swept over the gathered squires and knights. His voice dropped low, edged with steel.
"What is it? Do you mean to throw your gloves as well?"
At that moment, none of the knight‑attendants spoke—not even Zhu Linde. For in their eyes, Linden was no longer the fortunate country hunter. When his hands had settled on the hilts of his swords, they had all felt it: an invisible pressure, heavy as a mailed fist upon their chests. It was the same suffocating weight they had only ever known in the presence of Ser Joel Flowers. Their bodies had tensed instinctively, unable to relax.
When no answer came, Linden released the hilts and turned away, striding toward the gate. This time, no one dared call after him.
Only when his figure vanished beyond the broken arch of the castle gate did the squires exhale, their taut bodies loosening at last. They exchanged uneasy smiles, then quickly ordered their men to carry the unconscious Al Morrison back to his quarters.
They swore one another to silence, vowing that word of the quarrel must never reach Ser Joel's ears. Yet even as they whispered, a detailed account of the incident was already on its way to Joel. When he heard it, he merely smiled faintly and said nothing.
Meanwhile, Linden pressed into the forest. Though his past life had not given him the skills of a woodsman, the memories of his predecessor—an experienced hunter—guided his steps. He moved with ease beneath the canopy, reading the land as if it were a map. Fortune favored him as well: before long, he uncovered the smugglers' hidden trail through the mountains. He studied the ground carefully, marking ambush sites where fugitives might be trapped, then turned back toward Fort Steadfast before nightfall.
But the fortress was no longer as he had left it. At the foot of the hill, a sprawling camp had sprung up. Six or seven hundred men filled the clearing, their ranks bristling with iron‑tipped spears. Many bore hand‑axes or short swords, and a dozen mounted knights paced among them, their armor gleaming in the fading light.
Above the camp, a banner snapped in the wind: black silk embroidered with a great spider, the sigil of House Webber. Against the dark of the forest, the emblem seemed to crawl and shimmer, its many legs spreading wide. Even from a distance, it stirred unease, as though the spider's gaze had fallen upon every man who looked at it.
It was plain that Linden's earlier speculation before Ser Joel had proven true. The Webbers, burdened by secrets of their own, had moved with uncharacteristic haste. They had sent forth the largest force they could muster to aid in the destruction of the bandits—or the so‑called remnants of the Dragon—in the Red Lake Forest.
From their numbers alone, and from the quality of their arms, their intent was clear. This was no token gesture. The Webbers meant to see the outlaws utterly destroyed, leaving no trace behind that might be used against them. They could not allow the Rowans—or any other house of the Reach—to seize upon their earlier negligence as cause for suspicion.
The black spider of Coldmoat hung over the camp like a shadow, its many legs spread wide, as if to ensnare not only the bandits but the doubts of their liege lords as well.