Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

"They've already been so proactive. Why don't you agree to become the guardian of Lord Elwood? Wouldn't that make it easier to control Grassy Vale?" Nymeria asked impatiently after Lord Elwood and his entourage left, clearly content with the signed alliance.

"If I become the guardian of Lord Elwood, what difference will that make to my control of Grassy Vale compared to the defensive alliance we just signed?" Lynd didn't answer her question directly but instead posed one of his own, laced with deliberation.

Nymeria paused, considering the details of the covenant. "We don't have the right to interfere in the affairs of Grassy Vale," she began, "but we are allowed to build several military stations along the road connecting The Roseroad and Summerhall through Grassy Vale to ensure smooth traffic flow. Grassy Vale will also pay fees to maintain those stations. Additionally, when either side encounters military action, they are obligated to send troops…" Her voice trailed off as a realization struck her. She looked at Lynd in surprise. "Apart from not formally pledging allegiance, Grassy Vale's relationship with us seems no different from that of a vassal to a feudal lord."

Lynd nodded. "Yes, aside from the lack of official recognition, this alliance is effectively a pact between a feudal lord and a vassal."

Nymeria frowned slightly, her curiosity piqued. "Did Lord Elwood and the others not grasp the full implications of this alliance?"

After a brief moment of thought, Lynd replied, "Lord Elwood probably didn't realize it, but the Maester and the Steward likely did. They were the ones who proposed changes like the military depot and fees. It seems they were intentionally using these terms to strengthen their ties with us."

Nymeria interjected, her tone incredulous. "I recall that Grassy Vale's immediate overlord is the Lord of Highgarden. Why would they forsake someone of such high status to align with us—lords of the Marches—when our standing isn't much higher than theirs?"

Lynd's lips curved into a faint smile as he replied, "It's better to be an adviser in power than a county magistrate in authority."

Nymeria blinked, clearly confused. "What?" she asked, staring at him.

"It's a proverb from a faraway land," Lynd explained, "but in the common tongue of Westeros, it roughly means this: powerful feudal lords in lofty positions are too distant to be effective. The only ones who can truly influence them are the local feudal lords nearby." He elaborated, "Your Tumbleton and my Summerhall are both growing in strength. Grassy Vale, caught between us, simply cannot compete. Anyone with even a sliver of foresight can see that it's only a matter of time before we make a move on Grassy Vale. That land is strategically vital to us. Rather than waiting for us to act, it's better for them to align with us willingly. At least as allies, they retain more autonomy and enjoy greater benefits compared to vassals."

Nymeria mulled over his words before voicing a concern. "Won't this provoke resentment from Highgarden?"

Lynd shook his head. "We've only signed a defensive alliance pact. Highgarden remains Grassy Vale's direct overlord, and the taxes owed to Highgarden won't decrease. On the contrary, Highgarden's burden of securing Grassy Vale will lessen, which might actually please them. They'll see it as an opportunity rather than a slight."

Nymeria fell silent for a moment, processing his reasoning, before suddenly exclaiming, "I never thought we'd see the day when even a great noble would come to us of their own accord."

With quiet confidence, Lynd stepped closer and took her hand. "This is just the beginning. Soon, more great nobles will come to us willingly."

Lynd's group remained in Grassy Vale for two days. During their stay, Lynd tasked Jon with negotiating with the local officials regarding the construction site for the military depot, as well as planning and maintaining future trade routes and other logistics. Once these matters were settled, they resumed their journey to Summerhall.

The road from Grassy Vale to Summerhall, built during the Targaryen dynasty, was once a marvel of engineering. Carefully polished stone bricks paved a path wide enough for two wheeled carriages to ride side by side, with small fortresses dotting the route for maintenance and defense.

Now, however, these roads were in a state of severe neglect. Much of the stone had been looted by nearby villagers for building houses, and wild weeds had overrun the remaining path, obscuring its former grandeur.

As for the forts, many had become strongholds for bandits or Free Folk. Lynd showed no mercy to the bandits, ruthlessly rooting them out. The Free Folk, however, were spared—for now. He intended to return for them once Summerhall was rebuilt, planning to recruit them to fill the gaps in his own population.

As Lynd entered the Dornish Marches, the number of people secretly observing him increased steadily. Most of these observers belonged to bandit groups entrenched in the region.

Lynd, however, remained indifferent. These bandits would become future targets. Once he left an area, he planned to send Glory to secretly trail them, locate their hideouts, mark them on his map, and bide his time until he could deal with them properly.

Although Lynd ignored their presence, the spies and scouts of the bandit groups couldn't afford to ignore him. When the first bandit group's spies identified his distinctive red banner emblazoned with a long sword, the news spread like wildfire throughout the Marches. Panic rippled through the region, affecting all the bandit groups.

The reason for this panic was simple: many of these bandits had been driven into the northeastern area of the Red Mountains by none other than Lynd, who had pursued them relentlessly from the Mander River. They knew firsthand the strength and ruthlessness he possessed, and the very mention of his name struck fear deep in their hearts.

Word of Lynd's new title as Lord of Summerhall had not yet reached the Seven Kingdoms, and the bandits, isolated as they were, remained ignorant of the fact that the land they occupied now belonged to him. Had they known, they would have fled long before his arrival.

When the news broke that Lynd had come to the Dornish Marches, most bandits assumed he had expanded his anti-bandit operations into the region. This assumption was further cemented when reports surfaced of him annihilating bandit groups entrenched in roadside fortresses as he passed through.

"No, if that monster wanted to annihilate us, shouldn't he have brought more people?" one of the bandits argued as leaders from various groups gathered outside the ruins of Summerhall to discuss their options. The sight of Lynd with only a few hundred men seemed to contradict the notion that he had come to wipe them out. True, these were knights and elite cavalry, but their numbers were far from overwhelming.

"A few hundred people aren't enough? When he entered Tumbleton, he only had a few hundred as well!" another bandit countered.

"And do you still think of Lynd Tarran as just a single man? How could any normal person slaughter hundreds of warriors like they were defenseless chickens?"

"I heard he killed over 700 Ironborn in Oldtown all by himself. Are you insane to still consider him a mere man? He's a humanoid dragon—a humanoid dragon!" one bandit leader bellowed. His face twisted with a mix of rage and terror as he gestured wildly, trying to release the deep-seated fear he had carried since witnessing one of Lynd's massacres firsthand.

No one laughed at him. Nearly all the leaders present had, in one way or another, been forced into the Marches by Lynd. Some had even clashed with his cavalry patrols. Though not all of them had seen Lynd in action, they were well aware of the terrifying power his patrols wielded. Their fear was no less than that of the shouting bandit leader.

As for the local bandits, those who had not previously encountered Lynd's suppression efforts, they were still affected by the tension in the room. The sheer terror radiating from the migrating bandit leaders created an invisible but palpable pressure, and even those who had never laid eyes on Lynd began to dread the man who had inspired such fear.

"It's not a time to argue about how terrifying Lynd Tarran is, but to decide what we're going to do about him," shouted one bandit leader from the Marches who still retained a shred of reason. His voice silenced the crowd as he clearly asked, "Do we fight, or do we retreat?"

The group fell silent, looking at one another, hesitant to speak first.

For many, the thought of retreat was the first thing that came to mind. They were already aware of Lynd Tarran's power and knew exactly what a head-on confrontation would bring. Having already withdrawn once from the area south of The Roseroad, retreating again wouldn't seem like much of a disgrace.

However, the decision was not theirs to make. It rested with the four leaders of the Marches bandits sitting at the center of the assembly. These leaders had solidified their position in the Marches by uniting against local bandit factions to carve out a foothold. But that unity didn't guarantee they could stand against larger and more organized groups of raiders.

Even the smallest of these groups numbered around a thousand, with hundreds of skilled fighters among them. They far outmatched the scattered strength of the Marches bandits.

"There are more than three thousand of us warriors in total. Do we really need to fear a few hundred people?" asked one of the bandit leaders, his Dorne accent marking him as an outsider. He analyzed the situation calmly, adding, "And it doesn't even seem like they're here for us. I've seen their group myself—maids, servants, even children among them. They don't look like they're preparing for a fight."

A man seated beside him, his dark complexion and bearing marking him as someone from the Summer Isles, nodded in agreement. "I also don't think Lynd Tarran is after us. We need to figure out his intentions instead of panicking."

The other bandit leaders cast disdainful glances at the two speakers. Those familiar with them knew that, while they were nominally bandits, their ties to the Lords of Dorne ran deep. It was no exaggeration to call them spies. If things turned sour, they could retreat to Dorne and rebuild their strength with ease, unlike the other leaders, for whom fleeing would mean permanent ruin.

"Indeed, we should determine why Lynd Tarran is here," said the oldest of the four leaders, his grizzled beard lending him an air of authority. He paused as though expecting someone to ask for his plan, but when silence persisted, he awkwardly stroked his beard and continued, "We can gather everyone here. If he is coming for us, he'll certainly show up. Then, we'll figure out how to handle him."

The crowd murmured in agreement. It seemed like a sound plan to uncover Lynd's intentions before deciding their next move.

In the days that followed, the bandits assembled their fighters outside the ruins of Summerhall, spreading word of their gathering. Yet the results were disheartening. Lynd's forces didn't avoid their gathering but instead moved directly toward Summerhall.

At this revelation, the bandits were certain Lynd was targeting them. They convened again to discuss their options, but this time nearly half of the leaders were absent—having already decided to flee the area rather than waste time debating.

A full day of discussions yielded no resolution. By the next day, only two local groups remained; every other band had packed up and departed, including the leaders with Dorne connections. Seeing this, the remaining groups followed suit, hurriedly collecting their belongings and fleeing the Summerhall area.

This chaotic retreat did not escape the notice of the wildling tribes nearby. Their scouts investigated the sudden flight of the bandits and were astonished by the cause—one man.

Their surprise deepened when they learned the man's name: Lynd Tarran. The news spread unease among the wildling leaders. Though they lived in the mountains, the tribes were not isolated from the world. They traded minerals, herbs, and other goods with merchants and Free Folk villages in the Red Mountains, maintaining a fair knowledge of outside events.

Over the past year, the wildling tribes had noticed the steady influx of fleeing bandits. Their curiosity had led them to gather information about the source of the upheaval. The tales they heard painted Lynd Tarran as an unstoppable force who had eradicated bandit factions outside the mountains, sparing few and driving others into exile. His reputation had grown among the wildlings.

Now, Lynd Tarran had come to the Red Mountains in the Marches, and his very name had caused seasoned bandits to flee without a fight. The wildling leaders found themselves deeply unsettled. They recalled rumors of how Lynd had dealt with tribes near Tumbleton, and a storm of thoughts began brewing in their minds.