“This seat is taken,” Lynd said, struggling to swallow the food he had already begun to chew. He turned toward the two strangers standing in front of him.
The tall, middle-aged man among them frowned at Lynd's words, as though about to respond, but a shorter teenager interrupted with a smile. “We'll only sit here for a while. Once your companion returns, we'll leave. Is that okay?”
The boy appeared about ten years old, slightly chubby, with a face still retaining traces of childhood innocence. Yet his deanor and actions betrayed an oddly deliberate maturity, as if imitating an adult rather than naturally displaying his own behavior.
His voice, clear and resonant like a yellowbird's song, carried a peculiar charm, almost as if imbued with a spiritual power. This gave his words an innate persuasiveness, exuding a sense of warmth and affinity.
Lynd regarded the young noble with curiosity but remained silent. He surmised that the pair before him—a young lord and his knightly escort—had likely slipped away from their residence for a night of freedom. He saw little sense in clashing with them over a seat.
The tall man, however, remained vigilant. He positioned himself to the young noble's right, placing the boy against the wall and shielding him from the tavern’s aisle. His posture ensured he could protect the noble swiftly if trouble arose. At the sa ti, his eyes, partially hidden beneath his hood, never fully left Lynd, surveilling him with an air of suspicion.
Lynd noticed this obvious scrutiny and couldn't help but wonder about the knight’s identity. The intense aura of authority emanating from him was formidable—sothing Lynd had encountered only once before, from Joel Flowers. Yet, he showed no outward reaction, continuing to eat at his usual pace, as though oblivious to the tension nearby.
This composure piqued the young noble's interest. Rarely had he seen soone so unaffected by the presence of his swordsmanship teacher. His gaze lingered on Lynd, particularly on the two half-swords at his waist. A playful smile crossed the boy’s face as he remarked smugly, “Do you like the stories of the Bear Hunter too? Wearing two swords like him—just like my little brother does.”
Lynd glanced at his weapons and responded calmly, “Don’t you like the Bear Hunter?”
“Not really,” the noble replied with a shake of his head. “His story feels exaggerated, like sothing the bards made up for dramatic effect. I prefer real stories, like Dorne’s resistance against King Aegon Targaryen.”
As he spoke, the Song of the Bear Hunter began to fill the tavern again. Soone had requested the bard to perform it once more, and the crowd eagerly joined in.
The original version of the song had been a minor country tune from The Reach, its lyrics repurposed to celebrate the Bear Hunter’s tale. Over ti, it had evolved into the current epic ballad, which Lynd himself had written, adapting it from a lody of a ga he rembered from his past life. Its catchy tune and heroic the had made it imnsely popular, spreading Lynd's reputation far and wide.
Despite his dislike of the Bear Hunter’s story, the young noble evidently enjoyed the song. He humd along enthusiastically, nodding his head in ti with the music. Only as the song ca to an end did he seem to notice Lynd’s amused expression.
Caught off guard, the boy’s face reddened with embarrassnt. “I just like the ballad,” he explained hastily.
“No need to explain,” Lynd replied, his tone neutral.
The young noble gave a childish shrug, clearly irked by Lynd's indifference. His reaction betrayed a glimpse of his true, unguarded self—far from the pretense of maturity he had tried to project. Quickly regaining his composure, he remarked, “Even if I don’t like the Bear Hunter’s story, I can admire his talent. Imagine, a re hunter writing such a beautiful ballad! I heard he was just a hunter. Where could he have learned so much?”
Lynd froze. Only he and Roman Webber knew he was the song’s author, with Roman responsible for its spread. Yet this boy had uncovered the truth, sparking Lynd’s curiosity about his origins.
His expression darkened abruptly as another thought struck him—Joel had been gone far too long. An uneasy suspicion began to form.
The shift in Lynd’s deanor caught the knight’s attention. Misinterpreting it as hostility, the knight rotated slightly, angling himself toward Lynd. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword, and an oppressive aura radiated from him, far more intense than before.
If the knight’s earlier scrutiny had felt like the steady pressure of a river’s current, his focused aggression now resembled a storm-tossed sea. Sensing this, Lynd instinctively rested his hand on his own sword, eting the knight’s gaze without flinching.
The noble boy, sensing the rising tension but not understanding its cause, took a cautious step back, positioning himself behind the knight. Despite his youth, he trusted his teacher implicitly.
The standoff was interrupted when the tavern door burst open with a loud slam. A tall figure stumbled in, rubbing the back of his head and cursing under his breath—Joel Flowers, looking battered but alive.
Lynd’s tension eased slightly upon seeing his companion, though his hand remained on his sword as he maintained the silent standoff with the knight.
Joel strode over to the table, his face stormy with frustration. Without so much as acknowledging the young nobleman and his knightly escort, he bellowed at Lynd, “Don’t you realize I’ve been gone for a long ti?”
“I just noticed,” Lynd replied nonchalantly, unbothered by Joel's outburst. “But I didn’t care. I figured you went to pee and then decided to poop afterward.”
Joel’s eyes narrowed in irritation. Lynd, unaffected, scanned Joel’s rumpled and disheveled state. “Got robbed, didn’t you?” he asked bluntly.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Joel shot back, spreading his hands in frustration.
Lynd sighed, clearly unimpressed. “You’re supposed to be the famous Master of swordsmanship in The Reach, aren’t you?”
A flash of embarrassnt crossed Joel’s face before he stubbornly defended himself. “Can’t a Master of swordsmanship be robbed after getting drunk?”
Lynd chose not to prolong the argunt. Instead, he asked dryly, “What now?”
Joel blinked. “What do you an, what now?”
“I assu all your valuables are gone?” Lynd gestured to the empty plates and wine glasses on the table. “So, how are we paying the bill?”
Joel froze, realization dawning. He pointed an accusatory finger at Lynd. “What about you? Can’t you pay? You’ve been well rewarded for this latest battle. Isn’t that enough to cover the cost?”
Lynd’s expression didn’t waver. “All my money went to the old man back ho. I don’t have a single halfpenny on .”
Joel’s jaw dropped. “You followed south without bringing any money?”
Lynd t his incredulous gaze evenly. “Isn’t that what you’re here for? I assud that as long as you were around, I wouldn’t need to worry about expenses. Besides, back in Goldengrove, didn’t you say you’d cover everything on the road?”
Joel opened his mouth to argue but quickly shut it again, realizing Lynd was right. He had made that promise. For a mont, he could only splutter, searching for a retort but finding none.
Lynd sniffed suddenly, his expression shifting to sothing oddly curious. He leaned slightly toward Joel and asked with a raised brow, “You didn’t... wet yourself, did you?”
Joel’s face flushed a deep crimson, a mixture of sha and fury surging through him. His hand twitched instinctively toward his hip, only to rember with growing indignation that his sword had also been stolen. Left with nothing but his anger, he pointed a trembling finger at Lynd, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as he struggled to form a coherent response.
At that mont, a burst of hearty laughter erupted from across the table. The young nobleman was nearly doubled over, clutching his stomach as he howled with delight. “This is too good! So funny!” he exclaid between fits of laughter. Straightening slightly, he pointed at Joel and grinned. “I never thought I’d see Lord Joel Flowers, the Master of swordsmanship from The Reach, in such a hilarious predicant. No one would believe this if I told them!”
Joel finally noticed the two unfamiliar faces at their table. Under the dim glow of the tavern’s lanterns, he squinted at them. Recognition dawned, and his expression shifted to one of surprise. “Lord Garlan? Lord Vortir? What are you doing here?” he exclaid.
Lynd, who had been watching the exchange with growing interest, imdiately understood. The young nobleman and his knightly escort were none other than Garlan Tyrell and Vortir Crane—the very individuals he and Joel had been tasked to et.
Joel’s familiarity with Garlan Tyrell made sense. After gaining Barristan Selmy’s praise, Joel had been invited by Lord Tyrell to serve as Willas Tyrell’s swordsmanship instructor for a short ti. During that month-long period, Garlan had often accompanied his elder brother, becoming well-acquainted with Joel.
As for Vortir Crane, his relationship with Joel was equally clear. Both n were renowned swordsmanship masters within House Crane’s territory, and their paths had crossed frequently during sparring matches. Despite representing different factions, their camaraderie was apparent.
Joel’s identity seed to ease Vortir Crane’s earlier wariness of Lynd. Tilting his head slightly, Vortir studied Joel’s disheveled state, his tone casual due to their familiarity. “Shouldn’t you be at Red Lake celebrating your victory? Why have you co to New Barrel? Selling off spoils of war, perhaps? This doesn’t seem like the kind of task that requires the presence of a knight like yourself.”
“No, I ca to New Barrel specifically to find you,” Joel replied plainly.
“Looking for ?” Vortir asked, puzzled. His gaze shifted to Lynd, and an idea seed to dawn on him. Smirking, he said, “You’re not here just to show off your squire, are you? Let guess—you saw how impressive my squire was during our last fencing match and couldn’t resist flaunting yours?” His tone was teasing but good-natured. Without waiting for an answer, he added, “I must admit, though, your squire is impressive. I can’t speak for his swordsmanship, but his courage and presence are enough to mark him as a true knight.”
Joel raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. He knew Vortir well enough to understand that earning such praise from him was no small feat. The comnt left him curious about what might have transpired during his brief absence. However, he quickly brushed the thought aside, focusing on the matter at hand.
“You’re mistaken,” Joel said, shaking his head. “He’s not my squire but the squire I intend to recomnd to you.”
“My squire?” Vortir blinked, caught off guard. His puzzlent was clear.
Joel gestured toward Lynd. “Allow to introduce him: Lynd. Lynd the Bearhunter.”
“Huh?” Garlan Tyrell exclaid, his face betraying his shock. As he processed Joel’s words, embarrassnt crept over him, clearly rembering his earlier dismissive remarks about the Bearhunter.
Vortir, too, looked at Lynd with newfound interest. Though he had heard the many tales of the Bearhunter, he had always dismissed them as exaggerated bardic inventions. Now, standing before Lynd, his opinion wavered. The aura Lynd had displayed earlier was striking, almost equal to his own. If Lynd’s swordsmanship matched that imposing presence, then perhaps the stories were not so far-fetched after all.
While Vortir scrutinized him, Garlan Tyrell, having composed himself, leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “Lord Lynd,” he began, “is it true what they say—that you possess the most magnificent two-sword Swordsmanship in The Reach?”
“No,” Lynd replied simply, shaking his head.
Garlan’s expression fell slightly, tinged with disappointnt, until Lynd, his tone brimming with confidence, added, “It is the most magnificent two-sword swordsmanship in the entire continent of Westeros.”
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