"There are already people sitting here." Linden swallowed the mouthful of bread with difficulty and spoke to the two strangers before him.
The tall, middle‑aged man frowned at his words, ready to reply, but was stayed by the shorter boy at his side. The boy smiled at Linden and said, "We only mean to sit for a while, until our companions return. Then we shall leave, is that all right?"
The youth was perhaps ten, with a somewhat plump figure. Though his face still bore the softness of childhood, his manner was oddly mature—too deliberate, as if he were imitating another.
His voice was pleasant, clear and bright, like the song of an oriole. There was a strange power in it, lending his words an easy charm and persuasiveness.
Curious, Linden glanced at the boy but said nothing. He guessed well enough: a young noble and his sworn shield, slipped from their residence for a night's adventure. There was no need to quarrel over a seat.
The tall man, however, did not ease his guard. He sat to the boy's right, placing himself between his charge and the tavern aisle, with the wall at the boy's back. Should danger come, he could shield the youth at once. His hooded eyes never strayed far from Linden, glancing at him again and again.
Linden, of course, noticed the scrutiny. He was curious about the knight's origins, for even seated and silent, the man radiated a pressure he had only felt before from Ser Joel Flowers. Yet though he sensed the weight of it, Linden betrayed no unease. He ate steadily, bit by bit, as if the two at his table and the rest of the tavern scarcely existed.
His composure piqued the young noble's interest. It was the first time he had seen anyone remain so calm beneath the gaze of his swordmaster.
Studying Linden more closely, the boy's eyes fell on the two half‑swords at his waist. A playful smile touched his lips. "You must like the bear‑hunter's tale," he said. "So much so that you wear two blades, just as my little brother does, to imitate him."
Linden glanced down at his swords. "Do you not like the bear‑hunter?" he asked.
"Not much," the boy admitted. "His story is too wild, too exaggerated. It sounds more like a lie spun by some bard to please a crowd. I prefer true tales—like Dorne's rising against Aegon the Conqueror, and the story of Princess Rhaenys slain."
At that moment, the song of the Bear‑Hunter rose again in the tavern. Someone had called upon the bard to sing it once more, and the whole hall joined in the refrain.
The first version of the Bear‑Hunter's Song had not been the one now so often heard. It was but an adaptation of a country tune from the Reach, altered by a few wandering singers who had passed through White Village. They had merely changed the words, setting the tale of the bear‑hunter to the same minor key.
For that reason, the original song had never spread widely. Those who heard it cared only for the story it told, not the tune itself.
The version sung now, however, was Linden's own. He had reshaped the words, turning them into the ballad that was now carried from tavern to tavern. Its epic cadence made it beloved of the smallfolk, and the bards themselves were eager to sing it, which only hastened the spread of Linden's renown.
Though the young noble disdained the tale of the bear‑hunter, he could not deny his fondness for the song. When the bard struck up the tune, he found himself humming along, his head swaying slightly, his mood unguardedly bright.
Only when the song ended did he return to himself. Catching Linden's playful look, he flushed with embarrassment and stammered, "I only—I only like the song."
"There is no need to explain," Linden said calmly.
The young noble curled his lips childishly, displeased with Linden's manner. That expression seemed his true self, and his earlier pretense of adulthood nothing but a disguise.
Quickly, he mastered his childishness and said, "Though I do not care for the tale of the bear‑hunter, I greatly admire his talent. To write such a beautiful ballad—so I have heard he was once only a hunter. I wonder where he learned such knowledge?"
Linden was taken aback at this, for only he and Ser Roman Webber knew he had written the Bear‑Hunter's Song, and it was Roman who had passed it on. Yet this young noble before him somehow knew the truth. That alone made Linden curious about the family behind him.
Then his brow furrowed, and his eyes grew sharp. The change was not caused by anything the boy had done, but by the sudden realization that Joel had been gone too long. Something was amiss.
The shift in Linden's expression, however, was misunderstood. The knight‑guard turned slightly, facing Linden fully. The eyes beneath his hood fixed on him, and one hand slid to the hilt of the longsword at his waist, ready to draw at the first sign of threat.
If the pressure Linden had felt from him before was but a ripple upon a river, now it was a storm‑driven wave, threatening to break and drown him.
Linden did not understand why the knight had grown so hostile, but he was not one to sit idle and await death. As the man's hand touched his hilt, Linden's own hand went to his sword. Their eyes locked, each measuring the other, the air between them taut with challenge.
Although the young noble was not the target of either man, he could still feel the dangerous aura radiating between them. He did not understand why the mood had shifted so suddenly from easy talk to tension, but trusting his teacher, he edged back, keeping himself away from Linden and slipping behind the knight for cover.
Just as the air in that corner of the tavern grew heavy, the door was shoved open from without. A tall figure stumbled in, rubbing the back of his head and cursing as he walked. It was none other than Joel Flowers, who had just been set upon and robbed of his valuables.
Linden saw him at once. His expression eased, though his hand did not leave the hilt of his sword, and he still held the knight's gaze.
Joel lurched to their table, ignoring the young noble and his sworn shield. He rounded on Linden instead, shouting angrily, "Didn't you realize I'd been gone too long?"
"I noticed," Linden said evenly, "but I thought perhaps you needed to shit after pissing, so I paid it no mind."
Unmoved by Joel's anger, he looked him up and down and added, "Were you robbed?"
"Isn't it plain?" Joel spread his hands, still fuming.
Linden was silent a moment, then said, "And you call yourself a famed swordsman of the Reach?"
Joel flushed, then snapped back, "Can't a swordmaster be robbed if he's drunk?"
Linden did not argue further. "What should we do now?" he asked.
"What should I do?" Joel shot back.
"Every valuable you had has been taken, hasn't it?" Linden gestured at the empty cups and plates on the table. "So what will we use to pay the bill?"
Joel froze, then jabbed a finger at Linden. "And you? Can you pay it? You took plenty of reward from this battle. Isn't that enough to cover the cost?"
Linden said expressionlessly, "All my coin was sent to my father. I've not a single copper on me."
Joel stared at him in shock. "You're going south with me without any money?"
Linden met his gaze. "Isn't that because of you? I thought that with you beside me, there would be no lack of coin. And in Goldengrove, did you not say you would pay for all the expenses on the road?"
"I…" Joel remembered he had indeed said as much, and for a moment he had no answer.
Just then Linden wrinkled his nose, as if catching a strange scent. He looked at Joel with a curious expression. "Did you piss just now?"
Joel flushed with embarrassment. For an instant he longed to draw his sword and cut Linden down—him, and any others who had overheard. But his sword had been stolen along with his purse and cloak. In the end he could only point at Linden, trembling with anger, unable to find words.
"Hah! How amusing, how very amusing!" A laugh broke the tense air. The young noble at their table was doubled over, laughing without restraint. Looking at Joel as if at an old friend, he said, "I never thought the famed swordmaster Joel Flowers of the Mander would show such a side. Even if I told it, no one would believe me."
At his words, Joel realized there were two more at the table. In the dim light he made out their faces, and surprise crossed his own. "Ser Garlan, Ser Feremond—why are you here?"
At once Linden understood. The young noble and his sworn shield were none other than Garlan Tyrell and Ser Feremond Crane, the very men he and Joel had come south to find.
Joel knew Garlan well enough. After Ser Barristan's approval, Lord Tyrell had once invited Joel to serve for a short time as Willas Tyrell's swordmaster. Though it had lasted but a month, Garlan had often been at his brother's side, and so he was no stranger to Joel.
As for Ser Feremond Crane, Joel knew him better still. The two had crossed blades many times as masters of their respective houses. Though they served different lords, their rivalry had bred a certain respect.
Joel's presence was enough for Ser Feremond to ease Linden's disarmament. Tilting his head, he looked at Joel with casual familiarity. "Shouldn't you be in Red Lake, celebrating your victory? Why come to New Barrel to sell trophies? Such work hardly needs a knight of your stature."
"No," Joel explained, "I came to New Barrel to find you."
"To find me?" Feremond frowned, then glanced at Linden. "Ah, I see. You watched my squire at the last tourney and thought him fine, so you've brought your own to show him off to me?" He gave a frank nod. "I'll say this—your squire is a good one. I cannot yet speak to his swordplay, but in courage and bearing, he is already a true knight."
Joel turned to Linden in surprise. He knew Feremond's nature well, and how hard it was to win his praise. He had been gone but a short while, and already Linden had earned it. Joel could not help but wonder what had passed in his absence.
However, he soon broke from his wandering thoughts and said, "You are mistaken. He is not my squire, but the one I mean to recommend to you."
"Recommend him as my squire?" Ser Feremond was taken aback, his face showing doubt.
"Allow me to introduce him." Joel pointed at Linden. "Linden—the bear‑hunter."
"Hah?" At the name, Ser Garlan Tyrell exclaimed aloud. Remembering what he had just said, he could not help but look embarrassed.
Ser Feremond too regarded Linden with surprise. He had heard many tales of the bear‑hunter of late. Like Garlan, he had thought them exaggerated, scarcely believable. Yet now his mind was changed, for the presence Linden had shown a moment before was equal to his own. If the youth's swordplay matched that same force of spirit, then perhaps the wild tales were not so wild after all.
As Ser Feremond studied him, Garlan Tyrell mastered his embarrassment and asked with open curiosity, "Ser Linden, they say you wield the most splendid style of dual blades in all the Reach. Is it true?"
"No," Linden said, shaking his head. Garlan looked disappointed, until Linden added with great confidence, "It is the most splendid dual‑wielding swordplay in all of Westeros."