"Use all your strength, and let me see this 'most splendid dual‑wielding swordplay in Westeros' you boast of!"
In a small manor by the east gate of New Barrel, Ser Feremond Crane drew the longsword from his belt and faced Linden across the yard.
Though his voice was calm and his face impassive, those who knew him well could tell he was less than pleased with the bear‑hunter.
This was in keeping with Feremond's nature. He favored men of gravity and discipline, like Lord Randyll Tarly. Linden, by contrast, was too flamboyant—whether in the spreading of the Bear‑Hunter's Song, or in his bold claim of the finest swordplay in all Westeros. Feremond disliked such vanity.
Yet he was a man who kept duty apart from preference. The moment his friend had recommended Linden as a squire, he had resolved to accept him. What he sought now was only to humble the youth, to teach him that before a true knight, the tricks of a common hunter were nothing.
Linden knew he had spoken rashly before Ser Feremond, but he did not regret it. He would have said the same again, for his words had not been meant for Feremond at all, but for Garlan Tyrell.
Though Garlan had seemed calm and composed in the tavern, far beyond his tender years, that composure was more mimicry than truth. Beneath it, he was still a boy, with a boy's fancies. He believed that legends ought to be bold and flamboyant, and Linden's pride in his swordplay suited him well.
This had been plain enough on the road back to the Tyrell encampment. There, Garlan had shed his mask of calm and become a curious child again, peppering Linden with questions—especially about the battles sung of in the Bear‑Hunter's Song. Linden's answers were not the bard's embellishments, but the truth: the true number of foes slain, the snares and traps he had used, the plain details of the fight.
Far from disappointing him, Garlan valued the honesty, and it softened even Ser Feremond's judgment. Proud the youth might be, but he was no liar.
Still, Garlan had been raised in Highgarden, under the eye of the Queen of Thorns. He had learned early how to guide men. To press down a proud spirit, to keep it in check, was to master it—like breaking a spirited horse. So, once they had returned to their quarters, he had wasted no time in demanding to see for himself this "most splendid dual‑wielding swordplay in Westeros."
Yet Garlan was still but a boy newly entered into his teens. No matter how fine his education, it was hard for him to remain composed. When he made his request, his thoughts and intentions were plain upon his face, and Linden and the others could see through him easily.
Linden paid no mind to Garlan's little schemes. Even had the boy not spoken, he would have found another way to cross blades with Ser Feremond Crane. If Feremond wished to teach him a lesson, so be it. Linden's own purpose was not arrogance, but to measure his true strength through such a duel.
Though he had slain many foes before, they had been weak men, and he had relied on snares and other aids to bring them down. Such victories could not serve as a true measure of his skill. He had once thought of challenging Joel to a formal contest, but Joel had refused, saying there was no honor in winning and only shame in losing. Now another swordsman, as famed as Joel, had offered to face him. This was what Linden desired most. Even had Ser Feremond not spoken, he would have fought with all his strength.
Linden stepped forward, drawing the two broad‑bladed half‑swords from his belt. He sank into the Peacemaker's stance, knees bent, body lowered, eyes fixed on Feremond. He looked like some great beast, poised to spring.
In that moment, Linden gave himself wholly to the memory of the Peacemaker's battles. It was as if he became the man himself. His very bearing changed, steeped in the blood and terror of the battlefield, until a palpable aura of slaughter seemed to pour from him.
The force of it was so strong that even young Garlan Tyrell, standing at the edge of the yard, felt it keenly. Frightened, he stepped back. Joel, beside him, grew grave as well. Instinctively he moved forward, placing himself before Garlan, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
Ser Feremond, standing opposite, bore the weight of it without flinching. What he felt was tenfold stronger than what the others sensed. He had meant only to test Linden's composure, but now it was as if he faced a true foe. His hand closed on his sword, and his own aura of battle rose to meet Linden's, the two forces colliding in the night air. He entered the fight in earnest.
Though Feremond had yet to see Linden's swordplay, the youth's presence alone surpassed most knights he had known. Only hardened veterans of the battlefield carried such weight—men like the fearless Ser Barristan. Among the younger generation, only Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, had ever shown more. Feremond could not help but wonder how a mere hunter, with so little war behind him, could possess such a warrior's aura.
The two men pressed against one another with their presence, each seeking to break the other's composure. Yet they were evenly matched, neither yielding, and so they stood locked in silent confrontation.
Though it was night, many of the Tyrell guards were still on watch. Their eyes were drawn to the clash in the courtyard, and those who had been abed rose at the sound. Soon men crowded the yard, and even the attic windows opened, with faces peering down to see what would come.
Yet what disappointed many of the onlookers was that they did not see a dazzling clash of steel. Instead, they saw only their instructor, Ser Feremond Crane, and a young man with two swords standing motionless, facing one another. To most, it seemed not tense at all, but almost comical.
Only a handful of guards close to the combatants could sense the truth—the two powerful auras that filled the courtyard. They did not know the source of this pressure, nor what it meant, only that their thoughts grew sluggish and their limbs heavy, as if their bodies were no longer their own.
Just as many were growing bored and ready to return to their beds, Linden and Ser Feremond moved—both at once.
Feremond lunged, his longsword slashing straight for Linden with such force it seemed nothing could stand before it.
But Linden had no thought of meeting that blow head‑on. He knew well his own strength was less, and that a single‑handed blade could never withstand the power of a knight's two‑handed sword. To block would be death.
So, even as Feremond struck, Linden had already chosen his course. His feet slid swiftly aside, his body gliding as if on ice, just in time to evade the blow. At the same instant, his broad‑bladed half‑swords moved with him, one forward, one back, aimed at Feremond's chest and waist.
Feremond seemed to have foreseen the failure of his first strike. As Linden slipped aside, his own steps shifted, his body twisting. With a deft turn of the wrist, his longsword swept in an arc, curving toward Linden's lower back, as if to trade wound for wound.
Linden, however, knew the truth. With Feremond's reach, the length of his blade, and the speed of his swing, he would be struck before his own attack could land.
He did not falter. Instead, he surged forward like a charging horse, closing the distance between them. Feremond, quick as ever, shifted back in turn.
So the two moved through the courtyard at a pace beyond ordinary men, blades flashing, feet darting. Each strike sought the other's vitals, yet each was turned aside by swift steps and sudden shifts. The attacks were fierce, but none found their mark.
The onlookers watched in silence now. Even the dullest among them could see how deadly the contest had become. A single misstep, a single heartbeat too slow, and one of the fighters would fall dead upon the stones. To those who did not know the cause of the quarrel, it seemed as though these two men were mortal enemies, locked in a struggle to the death. Even Garlan Tyrell and Joel Flowers, who knew the truth, felt the same illusion.
Although Linden's and Ser Feremond's steps were equally swift and agile, anyone with even a little knowledge of swordplay could see the difference between them. Every stride of Ser Feremond followed the steady, measured pace of a knight—simple, direct, and practical. Linden's footwork, by contrast, was like an intricate and graceful dance. With the sway of his body and the flashing of his twin blades, he looked more a skilled dancer than a warrior, pleasing to the eye.
Yet only a master such as Joel Flowers could see the truth behind the beauty. Linden's dual‑wielding style was full of deceit, his blades always finding impossible angles to threaten his foe's vitals, leaving Ser Feremond no choice but to evade.
The rhythm of the fight was Linden's from the start. He pressed the pace, while Ser Feremond was forced to answer. From that alone, it seemed Linden held the upper hand, and if nothing changed, Feremond would surely lose.
But just as Joel thought the knight was beaten, Linden's movements slowed for a heartbeat. Feremond seized the chance, lifting his longsword in a rising cut from hip to shoulder, forcing Linden to yield ground. At the same time, he crossed his blades downward, seeking to smother the youth's speed.
The power in Feremond's stroke was immense. It knocked Linden's swords aside, though the force of it slowed the knight's own attack enough for Linden to slip clear, the point of the longsword grazing past his chest.
In that instant, Feremond's overextension left a glaring opening. Linden could have struck and perhaps ended the contest, but instead he chose to fall back, widening the distance and raising his blades in guard. To the onlookers, it seemed a strange and unsatisfying choice.
"There is no need to continue. It is a draw," Ser Feremond said at last, breathing hard as he slid his longsword back into its scabbard. He looked at Linden with approval. "From tomorrow, you are my squire. I will teach you what it means to be a true knight."
With that, he turned, saluted Ser Garlan Tyrell, and dismissed the crowd before retiring to his chamber.
Feremond's word carried weight. At his command, the onlookers dispersed, though their hearts still raced from the brief but fierce contest. In hushed voices, they spoke of the boy. That one so young—no more than fifteen or sixteen—could match blades with Ser Feremond Crane was enough to stir wonder.
Most guessed Linden must be the bastard son of some great lord, for only the highborn could afford true swordmasters to train their get. The trueborn heirs of such houses were seldom pressed to master the blade, their time given instead to the lore and duties of nobility.
Some speculated that Linden might hail from Starfall, for Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was said to be skilled in the use of two blades, and so it was thought the Daynes must all be masters of such arts.
Yet this notion was swiftly refuted. The tale of Ser Arthur's dual‑wielding was but rumor. From first to last, the Sword of the Morning bore only Dawn, the ancestral greatsword of House Dayne—a blade so large it required both hands to wield. From that truth, the false tale had grown that Arthur Dayne was a master of fighting with two swords.
Among the many mistaken guesses, some claimed Linden must be the very bear‑hunter sung of by the bards. For if there was any famed master of twin blades in the Reach now, it could only be him. In the Bear‑Hunter's Song, Linden was painted as a fierce captain, cutting down foes like wheat before the scythe.
Even so, those who guessed rightly were never wholly certain. To their eyes, Linden was too young, his frame too slight to match the mighty figure they imagined from the songs.