Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

Lynd seemed to possess eyes in the back of his head, effortlessly dodging the attack from behind. He spun around smoothly, swinging his sword in a precise arc and striking the sneak attacker squarely in the chest. If it had been a real blade, the strike would have left the assailant gravely injured and incapable of continuing. However, with the wooden sword, the attacker was still able to fight, and two others joined in, coordinating their efforts to overwhelm Lynd.

Most people would panic under such a coordinated assault, but Lynd remained composed. His steps were as light as a deer bounding through the forest, his movements as graceful as a butterfly flitting among flowers. He not only evaded the incoming strikes with ease but also seized opportunities to counterattack, delivering blows with pinpoint accuracy to his opponents' vital areas.

Had Lynd been wielding real swords instead of wooden ones, and if his attackers weren't wearing leather armor, the three would have fallen dozens of times by now. Even so, some of his strikes found the gaps in the armor, hitting unprotected spots and causing significant discomfort.

"Stop, stop!" one attacker finally cried out after a particularly painful stab from Lynd's wooden blade. He staggered back, waving his hand in surrender. Pulling off his leather armor, he lifted his shirt to reveal a body mottled with bruises. Gasping for breath, he groaned, "No more sparring. At this rate, my father's savings for sparring fees won't be enough to cover my medical expenses."

The other two attackers, also nearing their limits, quickly set down their weapons and shields, signaling their retreat as well.

Lynd, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, planted his wooden sword on the ground for support and cast an apologetic glance at the three sparring partners that Old Baine had so meticulously selected.

Although Lynd had recovered fully from his previous injuries half a month ago, he still hadn't heard any concrete news from Old Baine. Even when he sought out Will, the Smiler, the man offered no clarity—merely advising Old Baine to wait until the Red Lake guards expanded their ranks.

Despite this, Lynd wasn't worried. From the murmurs in the taverns, it was evident that Red Lake, Old Oak, and Goldengrove City were all preparing for significant developments. When the time came, Red Lake City would surely call on its citizens to defend the city. Lynd was confident that with his skills, he would distinguish himself on the battlefield. Paired with his reputation as a bear hunter, House Crane would undoubtedly recognize his value. With luck, he might even bypass the rank of a common guard and step directly into a more prominent role.

With these ambitions in mind, Lynd turned his focus to rigorous training. Physical fitness and overall conditioning were his priorities, but he didn't neglect his swordsmanship. However, without proper sparring partners, his combat practice felt lacking.

After observing Lynd's solitary training, Old Baine concluded it wasn't effective for honing his skills further. To address this, he began hiring sparring partners from passing merchant caravans to provide Lynd with real combat experience.

Initially, the sessions were one-on-one, but it quickly became clear that Lynd dominated such encounters. The disparity in skill rendered these matches nearly useless as training.

Lynd himself realized that his mastery of Dual Swordsmanship was far beyond what ordinary mercenaries could challenge. Only a seasoned knight, with years of dedicated training, could push him to his limits. Against regular mercenaries, even two-handed combat seemed too easy.

At Lynd's suggestion, the number of opponents was increased. After less than ten days of group combat training, he was already adept at fending off the coordinated attacks of three mercenaries. Judging by his current progress, it seemed he would need to face at least five opponents at once to truly feel pressured.

Although Lynd's displayed Swordsmanship during his recent training sessions was astonishing, it also highlighted some physical weaknesses. In high-intensity battles like the ones he had just faced, his endurance waned after two to three minutes, causing a noticeable drop in his combat effectiveness. This limitation was not something that could be resolved quickly; it would require long-term physical conditioning to overcome.

Old Baine handed the hired mercenaries the ointment he had prepared to stop bleeding, then turned to Lynd, analyzing the situation. "Ordinary mercenaries can no longer challenge you, even in groups. Adding more opponents won't change that. What you need are real battles—preferably against experienced warriors—to truly improve."

He paused, watching Lynd as he caught his breath, then continued, "For now, you shouldn't engage in further sparring. Focus on physical training instead."

After a brief moment, Old Baine approached Lynd, grabbed his arm, and gave it a firm squeeze. "You're too skinny. You need to bulk up. I'll prepare some rotten meat puree for you. It's not appetizing, but it'll help you gain weight."

Lynd hesitated, knowing the suggestion clashed with his personal training plan. However, he didn't reject Old Baine's advice. His regimen required significant calorie intake, and while the thought of rotten meat puree wasn't appealing, it could provide the energy his training demanded. Moreover, Old Baine's reasoning was sound. Because Lynd had absorbed the combat techniques of the Peacekeepers, his training focused heavily on agility, stealth, and speed—leaving him lean, with minimal body fat.

In combat, however, fat could serve as a natural layer of armor. A well-padded body could absorb damage, limiting injuries to superficial layers and preserving muscle and bone. Without such protection, Lynd's current frame would make him highly vulnerable to severe injury in a direct hit.

"I understand," Lynd nodded. "I'll adjust my training methods."

Old Baine raised his eyebrows in surprise. Lynd agreeing so easily was unusual. In the past, his stubbornness was infamous—he'd argue and resist even Old Baine's advice, standing firm in his decisions, just as he had with his risky bear hunt.

"What's wrong? Something on your mind?" Lynd noticed Old Baine's puzzled expression and asked casually.

"No, nothing," Old Baine replied with a smile. Though Lynd's attitude had changed, it struck him as a positive development.

Another half month passed. During this time, Lynd focused on both weight training and consuming the high-calorie meals Old Baine provided. Whether due to his rigorous training or the mysterious effects of his cheat ability, the results were astonishing. His height and weight increased significantly.

From an average height of about 1.7 meters—typical for hunters in White Holdfast—he grew to an imposing 1.9 meters. His expanded frame made him stand out, and he now had to duck to enter Old Baine's tavern. Coupled with his increased weight, his physique became so large and robust that from a distance, he resembled an upright walking bear.

These changes didn't go unnoticed. Rumors spread rapidly among the residents of White Holdfast and the passing caravans. Most claimed that Lynd's transformation was due to his battle with the mountain bear. The stories alleged that by slaying the beast, Lynd had absorbed its essence, which had bestowed him with the bear's strength and formidable physique.

The rumors bred a mixture of awe and fear. Those in White Holdfast who had once antagonized Lynd now avoided him altogether. Even passing him from a distance, they would shrink away, unwilling to meet his gaze.

For Lynd, the people's behavior only deepened his discomfort with life in White Holdfast. Despite everything, he bore no resentment toward them for their actions when he had been on the verge of death. On one hand, he wasn't truly Lynd and lacked emotional ties to the people or the place. On the other, he understood their motivations. In such harsh conditions, survival necessitated seizing every opportunity. Had he been in their position, he likely would have done the same.

For this reason, even during the period shortly after his recovery, Lynd had begun considering ways to improve his relations with the people of White Holdfast. He recognized that their demographic potential could be a significant advantage in the future. In a world as undeveloped as this, smallfolk would be an essential resource for building power. Most of the White Holdfast people already possessed basic skills in archery and swordsmanship, making them ideal candidates for training into capable fighters.

Lynd envisioned that if he managed to secure a position within the army of a noble in the future, recruiting from White Holdfast would allow him to quickly establish a personal force. However, the fear and unease the villagers now felt toward him had undermined these plans before they could even begin. He realized that no amount of goodwill or assurances would convince the White Holdfast people that he bore them no grudge. Their mistrust ran too deep.

This realization led him to a calculated decision. When rumors spread about him having absorbed the essence of the mountain bear to gain its strength, he did nothing to dispel them. Instead, he actively reinforced the stories by demonstrating abilities he hadn't shown before, further cementing the credibility of the tale. By doing so, he turned the White Holdfast people into unwitting propagators of his growing legend. Soon, their rumors began to bear fruit.

One day, after completing his daily training, Lynd prepared to head to Old Baine's Tavern for another meal of specially prepared weight-gain food. However, as he approached the entrance, he was stopped.

"You are the bear hunter. Taller than I expected—impressive, very impressive!" The speaker was a young nobleman, dressed in finery, his tone patronizing as he looked Lynd over with the air of someone appraising merchandise.

Lynd's eyes flicked over the man, noting the golden crane emblem branded onto the saddle of the fine horse outside the tavern. He also took in the six soldiers standing nearby, their disciplined posture hinting at their training. From these clues, Lynd quickly deduced the nobleman's likely identity.

While Lynd had a general idea of who this was, the man's purpose for approaching him was unclear. What was obvious, however, was the faint hostility in the nobleman's gaze.

Despite sensing this, Lynd remained composed, masking his thoughts with a cautious demeanor. He stepped back slightly, mimicking the reaction of an ordinary person facing unexpected aggression. Simultaneously, his hand moved subtly to rest on the small hand axe at his waist.

"Who are you? I don't know you," Lynd asked warily, his tone neutral but edged with the defensive wariness of someone ready to protect himself.

The nobleman's expression shifted into a slight frown at Lynd's audaciously blunt response, but he quickly recovered, his arrogance returning. Ignoring Lynd's implied challenge, he raised his hand, signaling one of the soldiers at his side to announce his identity.

"Rascal, what are you doing!" Old Baine suddenly burst out of the tavern, clearly intending to discipline Lynd. He swung a hand toward Lynd's head, but due to Lynd's imposing height, he ended up delivering a firm slap to Lynd's back instead. As his hand lingered momentarily, he subtly squeezed Lynd's arm, signaling something unspoken, before bowing deeply toward the young nobleman.

"Lord Clov, please don't hold it against him," Old Baine said, his tone deferential but steady. "Ever since he recovered from his injury, he's been unusually jumpy, like a frightened little rabbit. He means no disrespect—you can ask anyone in the village!"

"A little rabbit? This 'rabbit' is far from small, Old Baine," Ser Clov Crane replied, his sharp glare silencing Baine's plea. "I know exactly who he is—a brave bear hunter, no less!" His tone dripped with mockery. Turning his gaze back to Lynd, he added, "I am Ser Clov Crane of Red Lake. I've heard tales of your exploits in the taverns and was curious to see the so-called bear hunter with my own eyes. You're not quite what I imagined, but... you're not bad."

Lynd said nothing, maintaining a steady, unflinching gaze.

Ser Clov's expression darkened at the lack of response, his pride stung. After a moment, a sneer curled his lips, and his condescending tone returned. "However, I'm not entirely convinced by the rumors. So…"

He turned slightly, giving an unspoken signal to one of his soldiers. Then, stepping back a few paces, he continued, "If you can kill a mountain bear, surely defeating one of my entourage barehanded shouldn't be too difficult for you."

"My lord…" Old Baine's face paled as he immediately stepped forward, his tone now urgent and pleading. He knew all too well the dangers of pitting an unarmed man against an armored soldier with a weapon. Despite Lynd's extraordinary skills with dual swords, this was a situation tilted far out of his favor.

"Old Baine," Ser Clov interrupted coldly, silencing him with a raised hand, "I know you've been to see Will, trying to get the bear hunter into the guard. Consider this a test to see if he's worthy."

The nobleman's smug smile widened as he continued, "Oh, and one more thing—I forgot to mention. Will has been relieved of his duties as captain of the Red Lake City Guard. Corruption charges, you see. He's been locked away in the dungeon and will be executed with the other prisoners in a few days. I am the new captain of the Red Lake City Guard—Ser Clov Crane."

Old Baine froze, the weight of the revelation hitting him hard. It was clear now: Ser Clov had come not just to test Lynd but to deliver a calculated blow. Baine's attempt to help Lynd had unintentionally dragged them both into the internal power struggles of House Crane.

Realizing there was no way to dissuade Ser Clov, Baine's expression hardened. Turning to Lynd, he placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to whisper, "Use your full strength. Don't hold back."