Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

"What happened next? What happened next?" Lynd asked, his curiosity piqued.

Joel paused, pondering the question before replying, "I heard that after the war, he received a reward from the house and retired from the guard unit."

"Retired?" Lynd's brow furrowed, the word landing like the abrupt closing of a book at a pivotal moment.

"What purpose would staying on serve after his retirement?" Joel sighed lightly, his tone tinged with regret. "He was already very old by then, and he had sustained serious injuries. Even if he'd recovered, it's doubtful he could have wielded a spear or a sword effectively. His accomplishments might have earned him a knighthood, but his humble origins barred that path. With no prospect for advancement, remaining in the guard was meaningless."

Lynd frowned deeper. "Can't a commoner become a noble?"

"Of course, they can," Joel replied, shaking his head slightly. "But it's a hundred times harder for a commoner than for a noble's descendant. It takes a rare combination of luck, skill, and political savvy. Old Baine lacked the luck, and he certainly didn't know how to curry favor."

As Joel spoke, two figures surfaced in Lynd's thoughts—examples of commoners who had defied the odds.

One was Janos Slynt, the butcher's son, who clawed his way to become Commander of the King's Landing garrison and even Lord of Harrenhal. Determination had propelled him.

The other was Bronn, a sellsword whose alliance with Tyrion Lannister elevated him to Warden of the South and Lord of Highgarden. A final victor in the chaos of power struggles, Bronn embodied fortune's favor.

At the time, Lynd hadn't questioned these storylines while watching the series, but now, immersed in the realpolitik of Westeros, he found Bronn's rise absurd.

Harrenhal, a place steeped in decay, held a reputation so cursed that even Janos had avoided taking up residence. And The Reach—rich, populous, and steeped in noble tradition—would never accept a lowborn mercenary as their overlord. Such an appointment would have incited rebellion and possibly another war. Clearly, the series' portrayal was a lapse in logic by the writers.

Still, Bronn remained an inspiring figure, one from whom Lynd could draw lessons.

Lost in thought about these improbable success stories, Lynd barely noticed Joel's penetrating gaze as the man continued speaking. "Old Baine may not have been as capable, but he trained you well. You might not have his luck, but you're stronger and craftier."

"Thank you for your praise," Lynd said, sensing that Joel had pieced together his ambitions. Joel, however, seemed neither repulsed nor hostile toward his aspirations.

Joel, noting Lynd's frankness, smiled with a touch of admiration. "The tales of the Bearhunter and the Dual Swordsmanship Master are spreading across the Red Lake area. Even bards are singing the Bearhunter Ballad in Highgarden. I've heard that Lord Willas Tyrell himself inquired about you."

Lynd's curiosity flared. "Is that why you're considering recommending me to Lord Vortimer?"

Joel nodded. "Yes, but the recommendation hinges on your performance in the upcoming battle."

"Why are you helping me so much?" Lynd asked, his puzzlement evident.

Joel was quiet for a moment before replying in a drawl, "Because it's dull here. From the top down, this place is stagnant. I want to stir things up. Don't disappoint me."

With that, Joel waved a hand, dismissing him.

As Lynd left the hall, heading toward the logistics team stationed by the castle, he turned Joel's words over in his mind. Joel's discontent with The Reach's rigid system was evident, yet he had no intention of challenging it directly. Instead, he seemed to view Lynd as a potential trailblazer.

Regardless of Joel's motives, he was an ally for now. Lynd's task was clear: prove his worth.

With resolve, Lynd reached the logistics station housed in the broken corner tower. There, he sought out the leatherworker. Stripping off the ill-fitting leather armor he wore, he handed it over with instructions for adjustment.

The armor, originally Old Baine's, was too loose and cumbersome for Lynd's frame, impairing his movement. Though the leatherworkers lacked the skill to craft new armor, they could modify it sufficiently to ensure it didn't become a liability in battle.

"Two silver stags," the leatherworker said, examining the leather armor Lynd handed over. After hearing Lynd's request, he named his price without hesitation.

Lynd frowned. "Isn't it free for team members to have their weapons and equipment repaired?"

A voice from behind answered before the leatherworker could respond. "It's free for team members, yes—but you aren't one of them."

Lynd turned to see the speaker. It was the knightly squire who had berated him outside Old Baine's Tavern just two days prior, loudly proclaiming Lynd's unworthiness to challenge Joel Flowers. Though Joel had chastised him at the time, it was clear the squire still harbored a grudge and had been waiting for a chance to stir trouble. For the past two days, he had kept up the appearance of civility, but now his true intent surfaced.

Despite the provocation, Lynd remained composed. He stared at the squire briefly before turning back to the leatherworker. Taking out two silver stags, he placed the coins deliberately on the table.

"These are two silver stags," Lynd said coldly. "I need you to repair my leather armor by tonight. If the work does not meet my standards, I won't just take back the two silver stags—I'll also cut off one of your hands as punishment."

The leatherworker froze in shock, stunned by Lynd's threat. It wasn't just the words but the way Lynd spoke them—with a calm authority that made it clear he wasn't bluffing. The leatherworker realized that Lynd wasn't someone to cross, not when he had been seen around Joel so often. Fear crept into his eyes as he glanced at the squire, silently pleading for support.

The squire, however, had not anticipated this reaction. He stepped forward to block Lynd's path, shouting, "What do you think you're doing? Do you intend to carry out a lynching in the army?"

Lynd didn't even spare him a glance. His focus remained on the leatherworker. "If I were you," he said in a low, deliberate tone, "I'd start working on the modifications immediately. You don't have much time. Or do you think he," Lynd gestured toward the squire, "will protect you? Sure, he's here now. But will he always be? Will he stand guard while you sleep tonight? When he leaves your side, I will strike. Do you still feel safe?"

The leatherworker's face drained of color. His panicked gaze darted back to the squire, but the squire's silence offered no reassurance. The man quickly grabbed the leather armor, summoning his apprentices to begin the modifications without further argument.

Lynd turned to the squire, whose face had turned crimson with fury. "You made a mistake involving an innocent bystander," Lynd said, his voice cutting. "Especially when you can't protect them. Are you still a child? This sort of petty trick disgusts people and makes you look foolish."

"Bastard!" The squire spat, his voice trembling with indignation. His anger overwhelmed his ability to form a coherent response.

Lynd tilted his head as if suddenly curious. "What's your name?" he asked, but before the squire could reply, Lynd waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind. I don't need to know. You're irrelevant to me."

Without waiting for a reply, Lynd turned and walked toward the castle gate. He had more pressing matters to attend to, such as familiarizing himself with the surrounding terrain. If an unfamiliar battleground could spell disaster during the upcoming fight, he intended to ensure he was prepared.

"Stop right there! I, Earl Morison of Longboat, challenge you to a duel!" The Knight's squire, his face flushed with anger, dramatically removed a glove and threw it at Lynd.

Lynd didn't bother to catch the glove. He let it strike him and fall to the ground. Slowly, he stopped, turned around, and glanced at the glove lying in the dirt before locking eyes with Earl Morison.

While Morison awaited Lynd's response, Lynd suddenly stepped forward, closing the distance between them in an instant. Before Morison could react, Lynd's fist connected with his chin. A sickening crack echoed as the blow landed, sending a wave of pain through Morison's body. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

The entire scene unfolded so quickly that the onlookers—Knight's squires and a few bystanders—barely had time to register what had happened. To them, Lynd's movement was a blur, a shadow that struck with terrifying precision, leaving Morison sprawled out in the dirt.

Lynd turned to the stunned squires and spoke in a low, commanding voice. "Take this fool and carry him back. Next time, I won't promise to use only my fists."

Without waiting for a reply, Lynd resumed his path toward the castle.

"Wait! Stop right there!" one of the Knight's attendants shouted after him.

Lynd halted and turned to face the attendants, his hands resting lightly on the twin swords at his waist. His voice was calm but carried a menacing edge. "What? Do you want to throw a glove at me too?"

The attendants froze. None of them answered, not even the one who had called out. At that moment, Lynd no longer seemed like the country hunter they had dismissed so easily before. With his hand poised over his swords, he radiated an aura of quiet authority, a pressure that pinned them in place. It was a presence they had only ever felt from Joel Flowers himself. Instinctively, their bodies stiffened, fear tightening their muscles.

Seeing no response, Lynd released the hilts of his swords and turned back toward the castle. This time, no one dared to call after him. He continued his stride, passing through the castle's crumbling gate, leaving behind the stunned squires. It wasn't until his figure disappeared beyond the gate that they exhaled collectively, their breaths ragged and shaken.

The squires exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale, before ordering their subordinates to carry Morison's limp body to his chambers. Though they swore each other to secrecy, insisting that word of this incident must not reach Joel Flowers, they failed to realize that the story had already reached him.

When Joel was informed, he merely chuckled and said nothing.

As night approached, Lynd returned to Standfast, his exploration of the forest and smuggling tunnels complete. His memories, though fragmented, had granted him a hunter's instincts, guiding him to discover the hidden paths and ambush points in the wilderness. Armed with this knowledge, he had carefully chosen locations for an ambush before making his way back to the castle.

However, Standfast was a different place from when he had left it earlier that day. At the foot of the hill, a sprawling temporary camp had sprung up. Torches illuminated rows of tents, and the air buzzed with activity. By a rough count, the camp held 600 to 700 men, all well-armed. Spears with iron tips gleamed in the firelight, while axes and daggers hung at the warriors' sides. Among them, a dozen Knights moved purposefully through the camp.

Flying high above the camp was a banner bearing the black spider crest of House Webber. Even in the dim light of the forest, the spider's intricate design stood out, exuding an unsettling aura.

Lynd's earlier prediction to Joel had been spot on. House Webber, clearly nervous, had sent a formidable force to aid in the elimination of the bandits in Red Lake Forest—or possibly to hunt down Targaryen loyalists. The sheer size and preparation of the force spoke volumes about their intent. House Webber was determined to crush the threat completely and deny House Rowan, or any other opportunists, a chance to exploit the situation.