"Seven above, what happened here?" one of the men whispered, staring in horror at the corpse swaying from the tree.
No one answered. The soldiers shifted uneasily, eyes darting to the branches overhead as if the forest itself might strike them down.
"Go and see," Ser Roman ordered, pointing to one of the men.
The soldier balked, but obedience left him no choice. He crept forward, inspected the body quickly, then called back, voice tight with fear. "A trap, ser. He was slain by some manner of trap."
"A trap?" Roman strode closer, emboldened now that no danger seemed immediate. He studied the grisly sight, frowning. "What sort of trap can drive a stake clean through a man's chest and leave him hanging in the branches?"
None of his men had an answer. The snares they knew were for rabbits and deer, not men in mail. This was something else entirely.
Roman let the silence linger only a moment before snapping, "Enough gawping. Whoever set these snares meant them for the bandits, but that does not make us safe. Shields up. Forward."
At once, his men raised their shields, closing ranks around him. The rest spread out along the flanks, probing the path ahead.
The deeper they pressed into the wood, the more corpses they found. Some were impaled in traps like the first, others cut down by blades. The veterans among them noted grimly that every man struck by steel had been killed with a single blow, clean and precise. None had even raised a defense.
A chill settled over the company. The younger men muttered of spirits, of the ghost‑stories told to frighten children. Even the seasoned soldiers gripped their weapons tighter, hands trembling despite themselves.
The pace quickened. Fear drove them on, each man eager to be free of the cursed trees. And soon, through the dripping branches, they glimpsed the pale light of open ground beyond.
Just as the foremost soldier quickened his pace, eager to be free of the cursed wood, a short sword whistled from the trees. It struck the trunk beside him with a solid thunk, quivering in the bark.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!" the man shrieked, stumbling back into the ranks, spear clutched tight. "Someone tried to kill me!"
"Silence!" Ser Roman barked, his voice cutting through the panic. The soldier's cries had already set the column to murmuring, shields shifting, spears wavering. Roman's face darkened. "I saw it. Enough of your bleating. Hold steady! Spears out, shields high. We are more men than they, and better armed. Do not shame yourselves with fear."
The men steadied, though unease still rippled through them. They waited for the next strike.
But no volley came. Instead, a lone figure stepped from the dripping undergrowth. He wore plain leather armor, twin blades in hand. Calmly, he walked to the dagger lodged in the tree, drew it free, and slid it into the sheath at his hip.
Then he turned, his gaze sweeping over the hundred men bristling with spears. His eyes lingered on the banner with its black spider, before settling on Ser Roman at the center of the shield wall.
"You are late, Ser Webber," the man said evenly. "I have already dealt with these outlaws. I have not yet had time to strip the corpses. If it please you, lend me your men to see it done. There is more plunder than I can carry alone. I will share it with you, half and half."
Only then did Roman see him clearly. Recognition struck. The long face, the twin blades, the calm in the midst of slaughter.
"The bear‑hunter," Roman breathed. "You are Linden, the bear‑hunter of White Village."
At that, Linden inclined his head with a faint smile. "I am honored, ser, that my name has reached your ears."
After receiving Linden's answer, Ser Roman Webber recalled what he had learned of the youth before. Joel's decision to station him alone the night prior, and his strange, out‑of‑place presence in the war council, had already drawn the Webbers' attention. After the meeting, they had sent Roman himself to inquire further.
It was then they discovered that the leather‑clad youth with twin blades was none other than the "bear‑hunter" sung of by tavern bards. At the time, the Webbers had thought little of it. In their eyes, Linden was but a boy of fifteen. His tale of avenging his father and slaying a mountain bear alone was admired, yes, but dismissed as bard's embellishment. Most assumed he had survived only because the hunters of White Village had aided him, and that the beast had been brought down by their hands, not his.
Roman had shared that view. He had seen a mountain bear himself, seen one mad beast tear through a hunting party of a hundred men. To imagine a boy felling such a creature alone seemed folly.
But now, after what he had witnessed in the forest—the corpses impaled in snares, the men cut down with single, unseen blows—Roman began to believe the songs. A warrior who could slaughter bandits so swiftly might well have slain a bear.
He thought, too, of Joel Flowers. Perhaps Joel had granted Linden's outrageous request to guard Sheephorn Cliff alone because he knew the boy's true strength.
Roman raised his hand, signaling his men to lower their weapons. Then, with a note of urgency, he asked, "Two of the bandit leaders wore plate. They led their men this way. Tell me—where are they now?"
"They have been dealt with," Linden replied calmly, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. He turned and pointed toward the edge of the wood. "Their bodies lie outside. You may see to them yourself."
Roman had already guessed as much from the corpses he had passed, but hearing it confirmed eased him nonetheless. He gave the order for his men to help Linden strip the dead and gather the spoils. These would be tallied as military merit in due course.
Had it been another man, Roman might have been tempted to claim the credit for himself. But not this time. Not after what he had seen. It was not only the uncertain bond between Joel Flowers and this strange bear‑hunter that stayed his hand, but the memory of the corpses in the rain, and the cold fear they had stirred in him.
Though Ser Roman now held the advantage of numbers, some instinct gnawed at him. If he quarreled with the bear‑hunter, he felt certain he would end as the corpses strewn through the wood—silent, broken, and forgotten beneath the rain.
Linden, for his part, could not guess at Roman's unease. His own thoughts turned instead to the danger of having his hard‑won merit stolen. Father Baine had warned him more than once that great lords often claimed the deeds of lesser men.
If it came to that, what could he do? He might kill Ser Roman and use the forest's snares and shadows to butcher the Webber men as well. Yet such a course would damn him. He would never again find safety in the Reach, nor anywhere in Westeros. He would be driven across the narrow sea to Essos, a fate he did not desire.
But then he reasoned otherwise. Even if Ser Roman seized the credit, it mattered little. What Linden needed was not the tally of military honors, but Joel Flowers' word. If Joel bore witness to his deeds, if Joel spoke for him, then the truth would stand. That was the only recognition he sought.
With that thought, his unease ebbed. While the Webber men gathered the corpses, Linden moved through the dripping wood, dismantling the snares that had not yet been sprung. The task of holding this ground now belonged to Ser Roman and his hundred men. Linden's part was done; there was no longer need for hidden, fatal traps.
With so many hands at work, the grim labor was finished swiftly. The bodies were dragged from the trees, the slain laid out in ordered rows at the forest's edge, rain washing the blood into the sodden earth.
The sight of the corpses left even Ser Roman Webber shaken. Dozens of dead men lay strewn across the sodden ground, and not one bore a wound that spoke of struggle. All eyes turned toward Linden, seated a short distance away, calmly wiping his blades as though he had merely returned from a hunt. Awe, and something close to fear, settled over the company.
The Seven Kingdoms had no shortage of tales of knights who had stood against a hundred foes. Songs told of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who at the siege of the Kingswood Brotherhood was said to have cut down hundreds with Dawn in his hands. Yet those who knew the truth of battle understood such legends rarely bore scrutiny. A knight's attendants, squires, and sworn swords did much of the killing, while the glory was heaped upon the knight alone.
But here, before their very eyes, was no bard's tale. One man had slain dozens. Even if snares and traps had aided him, the ease of it was plain—Linden bore not a single wound.
Roman studied the youth, calm and unshaken amidst the carnage, and a strange certainty stirred within him. This lowborn son of a hunter would not remain obscure. He would rise, and rise high. Best, then, to place his wager early.
Resolved, Roman strode forward. His gaze fell upon the broad‑bladed half‑sword in Linden's hand. "I have never seen a blade of this shape before," he said. "Will you let me look at it?"
Linden offered it without hesitation.
Roman turned the weapon in his hands, weighing it. "Broader than most bastard swords," he observed. "Good for cutting, and stout enough to turn aside a blow. The flaw is its reach—it is short, and demands you close with your foe to make it bite."
Linden listened to Roman's analysis with some surprise. The strengths and flaws of the broad‑bladed half‑sword were not difficult to see, yet for Roman to judge them so quickly at a glance spoke of a man with some knowledge of the forge.
"Did you design this blade yourself, Lord Linden?" Ser Roman asked as he returned the weapon, giving the youth a title he had not earned.
"Yes," Linden admitted without hesitation. "It was made for my swordplay. But you are mistaken, Ser Roman. I am no lord. I am a commoner, and cannot be called such."
Roman only smiled. "No, no. With the strength you have shown, Lord Linden, you will not remain a commoner for long. I am merely preparing myself for the day."
In that moment, he seemed less a knight of the Reach and more a shrewd merchant, making plain his intent to befriend the boy.
Linden could not fathom why a landed knight of House Webber, with his own manor and men, would seek his friendship. Yet he sensed no malice in Roman's words. Quickly, he weighed the worth of such an alliance.
The Webbers had played their part in the Red Lake Forest campaign, though not without stain. Their conduct had been questionable, but they had contrived to erase the worst of it. Lord Rowan, their liege, had not pressed the matter. Instead, he had allowed them to join the suppression, thereby cleansing their name with service.
House Webber was no great power, but neither were they insignificant. Like most Reach houses, their line stretched back centuries, and their blood ran in many noble veins. Even the mighty Lannisters of Casterly Rock bore Webber blood—Tywin Lannister's grandmother had been a Webber. With such ties, the family's footing was secure.
It was for this reason that Lord Rowan had turned a blind eye to their missteps, trusting them to mend their own reputation in this campaign.
So, whatever Ser Roman's true purpose in seeking his friendship, Linden judged it no ill thing. To be counted as an ally of House Webber could only serve him well.