New Barrel lay on the lower reaches of the Mander's tributary, the Golden Tree. It was a closed city, held by House Fossoway of Cider Hall, one of the great houses of the Reach. Its position, straddling both the Rose Road and the Golden Tree, made it a natural gathering place for merchants. Nearly all goods bound for Goldengrove, Red Lake, or Old Oak were collected and redistributed here, rather than sent through Highgarden.
The reason was plain enough: Highgarden's tolls were heavy. Any caravan that passed through the seat of House Tyrell was made to pay dearly, and merchants, ever mindful of profit, chose the cheaper road.
In time, House Tyrell sought to mend this. They reduced the levies on caravans and struck down certain unreasonable imposts, hoping to draw trade back from New Barrel. Yet habit is a stubborn thing. Merchants had grown accustomed to the markets of New Barrel, and the lords of Red Lake, Coldmoat, and Old Oak had each built their own rough roads to ease the flow of commerce. Crude though these ways were compared to the Rose Road, they sufficed. Highgarden won back a trickle of trade, but the great tide still flowed to New Barrel.
Of late, however, the city had grown more crowded than ever. Caravans that had already sold their wares lingered, and even merchants from Highgarden had come downriver. All seemed to be waiting.
Word soon spread of the cause. Goldengrove, Red Lake, and Old Oak had each profited richly from the recent campaign against the Red Lake outlaws. The rumors proved true: the so‑called bandits were no mere rabble, but remnants of House Long. The three houses had seized vast stores from them—grain and arms, aye, but also treasures enough to be turned into coin at need. Among the spoils were even certain lost provisions once meant for the Mad King himself.
Thus men whispered that Aerys, foreseeing the fall of House Long, had entrusted loyal retainers with his stores, and that the Red Lake outlaws had been among them.
Though the spoils seized in the campaign were vast, they were rich in goods rather than coin. The three great houses had no need of such stores; what they required were golden dragons and silver stags, wealth that could be spent at once. Worse, much of the plunder bore the sigil of House Long. To keep such marked supplies was perilous, for King Robert Baratheon might take it as proof of lingering loyalty to the Targaryens and seize upon it as cause to punish them.
The lords resolved to sell the hoard swiftly, turning it into coin before suspicion could take root. Only two markets nearby could absorb such a trove at speed: New Barrel and Highgarden.
Yet House Tyrell's attention was fixed upon mending ties with Robert, and they had little mind for trade. It was Lord Tytos Fossoway of New Barrel—the Green Apple line—who seized the chance. He reached out to the three houses himself, offering generous terms, even waiving taxes, if they would bring their spoils to his city.
Some wondered if Lord Tytos sought no profit in the bargain, but shrewder men saw his design. The tolls on that one transaction mattered little. What he coveted were the caravans themselves. Drawn to New Barrel by the promise of plunder, they would enrich the city for years to come, their custom far outweighing any levy on the goods.
For the smallfolk of New Barrel, and the caravan guards who trudged the muddy roads, such high designs were distant things. They cared little for noble schemes. What they carried home from the campaign were tales—legends already spreading through the taverns. Of Joel Flowers, who broke the bandit line and slew their captain alone. Of Ser Alex Oakheart, who with but thirteen riders scattered hundreds. These were the stories that mattered to them.
Among the many tales born of the campaign, one stood above all others. Not the deeds of knights in gilded mail, but the legend of Linden, the bear‑hunter.
To the smallfolk, his story rang truer than those of highborn lords and sworn knights. Linden was of their own kind, a commoner. When the bards sang of him in the taverns, men and women alike could imagine themselves beside him, sharing in his struggle, shaping a legend of their own.
Before the Red Lake Forest was purged, the tale of the bear‑hunter had already made its way through the inns and alehouses of the Reach. Then, he was spoken of as a lucky youth—admired for his loyalty and filial piety in avenging his father, and for his boldness in facing a mountain bear. Yet few thought him a true warrior.
Now, after the battle, all that had changed. The story told of how he refused the aid of ten soldiers, choosing instead to hold a key pass alone. There he slew near a hundred outlaws fleeing the field, among them two scions of House Long. Such a feat sounded like a bard's fancy, yet it was vouched for by Ser Roman Webber of Coldmoat and Ser Joel Flowers, whose honor was well‑known throughout the Reach. Their word gave the tale weight.
Soon the bards had seized upon it, weaving Linden's deeds into song. In Red Lake, Old Oak, and Goldengrove, men drank to the Bear‑Hunter's Song. The smallfolk loved it, and the singers grew fat on the coin it brought.
Other minstrels, seeing the profit, spread the ballad further, until Linden's name was on every tongue. New Barrel was no exception.
When night fell, the folk of the city drifted to the taverns by the docks. Caravaneers squandered their pay in wine and dice, while townsmen sought a moment's ease from their labors. The resident bard struck up the Bear‑Hunter's Song for the third time that day. His voice was rough, but none cared. Every ear strained to hear, and every cup was raised when the refrain came round again.
"Here's to our bear‑hunter!" someone cried, lifting his cup high. "Here's to our hero!"
"Here's to the bear‑hunter!" voices answered, first a few, then a score, until the whole tavern rang with the chant. The shouts spilled into the street, and soon another alehouse took up the cry. Before long, the name of the bear‑hunter echoed from tavern to tavern, and even around the caravan bonfires by the docks.
No one could say when it began, but Linden had become the smallfolk's champion. They saw in him the life they longed for but could never claim. Each new tale of his deeds felt to them like their own, as if by cheering him they too had a hand in shaping his legend.
"If this goes on," a cloaked man muttered from a shadowed corner, "we'll soon hear them shouting, 'Long live the bear‑hunter.'" He was tall, middle‑aged, and drank his mead with a mocking smile.
His companion, seated opposite and eating in silence, raised his head. "Best hope our new king does not take it amiss," he said dryly. "I'd not care to lose mine for such a reason."
The first man chuckled. "Nay, with Robert's temper, you'd more likely be praised. Perhaps even find a place in the Kingsguard."
"Forget it," the other replied. "I'd sooner keep my head—and my seed. The white cloak is no prize to me."
"You're an ambitious one," the older man said with a grin, and drank again.
Few in the tavern spared them a glance. None guessed that the two cloaked strangers were Ser Joel Flowers and Linden himself, the bear‑hunter whose name they shouted. The mercenaries and townsfolk roared their toasts, never knowing their hero sat but a few feet away.
Linden, listening, could not help but wonder. If he stood and named himself now, would they hoist him on their shoulders and parade him through the streets of New Barrel? Or laugh, call him a madman, and throw him out into the night? He thought the latter more likely.
The truth was simpler. Joel had brought him here to keep his word—to see Linden recommended to Ser Feremond Crane, that he might take his first step toward knighthood.
After attending the celebration banquet in Goldengrove, Joel did not stay to participate in the discussion of follow‑up matters, nor did he return to Red Lake with the Crane family's retinue. Instead, he took Linden directly south along the Golden Tree River.
Originally, Joel had planned to take a boat all the way south to Highgarden, but when the ship docked at New Barrel, he overheard dock workers chatting. They mentioned that Highgarden had sent a company to King's Landing to take part in the tourney held by the new king's heir in honor of Robert's victory. The party was led by Ser Garlan Tyrell, second son of the Lord of Highgarden, and Ser Feremond Crane, now captain of Highgarden's guard and Garlan Tyrell's master‑at‑arms. They had already arrived in New Barrel, and after resting one night would continue on the road the next day.
Since Ser Feremond was already in New Barrel, there was no need to go on to Highgarden, so the two disembarked.
It was late at night when they left the ship. It was not suitable to call upon the Tyrell party at such an hour, and every inn in the city was already filled with merchants and caravan men, with no rooms left. Joel therefore decided they would spend the night in a tavern and go to see Ser Feremond early the next morning.
"Will you not drink?" Joel asked, finishing the mead in his cup and pointing to the untouched one before Linden.
Linden shook his head. "I do not drink."
"What a dull fellow you are." Joel laughed, took Linden's cup, and drank from it. Watching Linden eat slowly, he felt the time pass too slowly.
In these days together—especially the two spent sailing south from Goldengrove—Joel had come to understand Linden better.
Self‑discipline. Extreme self‑discipline. That was his judgment of the youth. Linden arranged everything with care: when to act, how long to train, how long to eat and rest. Every task was allotted its time, as if he lived by some unseen ledger. To Joel it was stifling, joyless.
This rigid discipline reminded Joel of another man—Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.
Fortunately, the man before him could still jest and trade words, unlike Randyll Tarly, who was ever stern and unsmiling, like a bar of cold iron.
Even so, Joel was somewhat glad he had not taken Linden as his squire. When he had first seen Linden's feats a few days past, he had felt a sudden impulse to claim him as his own, rather than leave him to Ser Feremond.
A squire of such strength would be of great use. On the battlefield, at least, he would have a capable hand to aid him, unlike his current squires, who still needed his constant care and attention.
But the thought had passed quickly. Joel had neither the time nor the will to train a commoner, and more than that, he did not believe Linden's path would carry him far.
After draining his cup of mead, Joel felt a strong urge to relieve himself. Rising unsteadily, he staggered a little—never a strong drinker, and already half‑drunk after only two large cups. He lurched outside the tavern, glanced about, and found a secluded corner to make water.
He never saw the man who crept up behind him. A heavy stick struck the back of his head, and Joel fell hard to the ground. Rough hands searched him quickly, stripping away his purse, his sword, and every valuable he carried—even his bearskin cloak.
Within the tavern, Linden had no inkling of what had befallen his companion. He sat in silence, chewing his food with care.
The reason he ate so deliberately was only because the food before him was so poor. The bread, though baked with grapes within and glazed with honey without, was hard as stone. He had to bite off each piece and chew it for a long while before he could swallow.
Linden wanted to cast the bread aside, yet he reminded himself that he would face much of this fare in days to come. Better to accustom himself now than struggle later.
As he worked his way through the loaf, two men entered the tavern, one tall and the other short. They glanced about the room, saw that only one seat beside Linden was taken, and without a word to him sat themselves down in the other two places at his table.