“What are your plans next?” With the tavern mostly empty, Old Baine finally had a mont to rest. He seated himself across from Lynd, his expression tinged with concern.
Lynd pondered briefly before asking, “Old man, do you still have connections with the guard unit in Red Lake?”
“You’re thinking of becoming a guard in Red Lake?” Old Baine frowned. His gaze drifted to the stumps of his hands and legs as he replied solemnly, “Guard duty is no easy job.”
Once a guard himself—indeed, the captain of the Red Lake City Guard—Old Baine had a storied history.
He had accompanied the head of House Crane to Highgarden, eting many of The Reach’s nobles in the process. But misfortune had struck during a mission to clear bandits from the Red Lake Forest. Ambushed and gravely injured, Baine would have perished had it not been for Lynd’s father, who had saved his life. That debt was the reason for the old man’s fondness for Lynd.
Although he had retired long ago, Old Baine still had ties in Red Lake. Introducing soone to the guard unit wasn’t beyond his reach.
After a mont lost in thought, Baine asked, “Why do you want to join the guards? Weren’t you set on becoming an outstanding hunter like your father?”
“I want to see the world,” Lynd replied, masking his true intentions with a plausible excuse. “I don’t want to die having only known White Holdfast and the Red Lake Forest. I want to see Highgarden, King’s Landing, even the Wall in the North. If I stay here, I might never get the chance—not until the Stranger cos for .”
Baine studied him for a long mont before speaking. “This injury of yours—it’s changed you,” he said. “You’re not the sa as you were before.”
Lynd’s heart skipped a beat, but his face betrayed nothing.
“Death changes a person completely,” Baine went on, sighing heavily. “I know that better than anyone.” He paused before leaning forward, his tone turning serious. “Do you really think becoming a guard in Red Lake will help you see all those places?”
“At the very least, it gives better odds than I have now,” Lynd answered.
He could, of course, leave White Holdfast on his own and wander across Westeros. But doing so would strip him of his status as a civilian, reducing him to a naless wanderer. The life of a vagabond was rife with hardship. At best, he might waste away in so forgotten corner of a city; at worst, he could end up as a bandit or enslaved across the Narrow Sea. So unlucky souls were even sent to the mines, their lives forfeit to brutal labor.
Climbing the social ladder was hard enough for a commoner. As a wanderer, the odds were nearly impossible. For Lynd, joining the guard in Red Lake was a calculated step—a way to edge closer to the nobles and find opportunities that could elevate him in this world.
Old Baine regarded him intently for what felt like an eternity before speaking. “The current captain of the Red Lake City Guard is Will the Smiler. He used to serve under , and we got along well. I don’t think it’ll be an issue to recomnd you to him.”
A spark of joy lit up Lynd’s heart, but he maintained a calm, asured expression.
Baine nodded in approval, appreciating the restraint. In the past, Lynd had always worn his emotions plainly for all to see, his mood easy to read. Now, he seed like a man transford, keeping his feelings buried deep. Once again, Baine marveled at how profoundly a brush with death could change a person.
Old Baine continued, “Although I can recomnd you, and Will may give you a chance based on my word, whether or not you beco a guard in Red Lake will depend entirely on your own abilities.”
“What do you an by abilities?” Lynd asked, frowning slightly.
“Follow ,” Old Baine replied, rising from his seat. He gestured for Lynd to do the sa, then instructed the tavern’s waiter briefly before heading toward the courtyard behind the building.
Lynd stood, leaning on his crutch, and followed close behind.
Once they reached the backyard, Old Baine motioned for Lynd to wait while he disappeared into his house. After a few monts of rummaging under his bed, he erged holding a broadsword and a round shield reinforced with Steelskins.
“Take these and give them a try,” Old Baine said, approaching Lynd and handing over the weapons.
Lynd set his crutch aside and accepted the sword and shield. He tested their weight with a few casual swings, but as he tried to wield the broadsword using techniques he rembered from his training, a wave of discomfort overtook him. What should have been smooth and fluid felt awkward and clumsy, his movents betraying an obvious lack of practice.
Old Baine observed Lynd’s attempts without surprise. To him, this was what he expected from soone who hadn’t handled a broadsword in a long ti.
Lynd, however, was visibly dissatisfied with his performance. After only a couple of swings, he lowered the weapons and turned to Old Baine. “Can I try a different sword?” he asked.
Old Baine hesitated for a mont, assuming the issue was with the weapon’s fit. Without comnting, he returned inside and retrieved a knight’s sword.
This knight’s sword was well-maintained, its blade free of rust. Though the emblem on its hilt had been polished off, it was clear this sword was a relic of Old Baine’s war days. Judging by its craftsmanship, it likely belonged to a knight’s squire or a lesser knight, not soone of great renown.
Lynd didn’t discard the broadsword. Instead, he placed the shield aside and took the knight’s sword in his other hand, adopting a dual-wielding stance.
Old Baine froze, staring at Lynd in disbelief. While it was true that so knights in Westeros were known for dual-wielding weapons, they were legendary figures capable of extraordinary feats in battle. For ordinary fighters, attempting to dual-wield was more likely to end in disaster than victory.
Just as Old Baine opened his mouth to correct Lynd’s apparent misconception, sothing unexpected happened.
Lynd leaned slightly forward, his body low and poised. Using his crutch for montum, he moved with remarkable speed and agility—his apparent limp vanishing as his movents beca fluid and precise. As he advanced, the two blades in his hands worked in perfect harmony, slashing and thrusting in a srizing display of skill.
Old Baine’s breath caught. His ti as captain of the Red Lake City Guard had honed his own swordsmanship to a high level, and he’d witnessed countless knightly duels and tournants. Even so, Lynd’s performance left him montarily speechless.
The way Lynd wielded the weapons—a broadsword and knight’s sword of differing lengths—seed more fitting for a seasoned duelist than a man who had been reliant on a crutch just monts ago. His strikes and thrusts were precise, targeting the weak points in armor with an almost uncanny accuracy. Old Baine could tell: defending against such an attack, even fully ard, would be nearly impossible.
“Is this swordsmanship sothing specifically ant for knights?” Old Baine wondered aloud, the thought striking him as he observed Lynd.
At that mont, Lynd paused. It wasn’t that he had exhausted his knowledge of swordsmanship, but his body had reached its limit. Any further exertion risked aggravating his old injuries.
“Old Baine... do you think... my current... abilities... are enough... to qualify ... as a guard?” Lynd asked, his voice strained as he leaned heavily on the two swords, gasping for breath.
“You are qualified,” Old Baine replied, calming his chaotic thoughts as he gave Lynd his approval. His voice carried certainty, though his eyes held a glint of curiosity. “But tell —when did you learn this swordsmanship? I’ve never seen anything like it from you before.”
Lynd had anticipated this question and prepared an answer during his display of dual-wielding techniques. Now, hearing Old Baine’s inquiry, he delivered his response smoothly.
With a reverent expression, Lynd pressed his palms together in a gesture of prayer and said, “When I was injured and unconscious, I t the Warrior, my lord. He was moved by my heroic hunt to avenge my father against the mountain bear. As a blessing, He granted the combat skills of a great warrior, allowing to master these techniques as though I had trained for years.” His tone turned somber, and he added, “But my body remains weak. For now, I can only use this dual-wielding swordsmanship. The rest of the skills He bestowed are sealed within , inaccessible until my body fully recovers and grows stronger.”
Old Baine was stunned. This explanation was far from anything he had expected. He stared at Lynd, his thoughts racing.
The Faith of the Seven was the dominant religion in The Reach and the Seven Kingdoms as a whole, but Baine was not a devout believer. Over the years, he had seen how the corrupt clergy exploited the Faith for personal gain, how nobles staged miracles to win favor, and how rchants sold worthless trinkets as relics of the Seven, swindling the faithful. To him, the Seven were little more than a convenient tool for those in power. He pretended to follow the Faith but harbored deep skepticism.
Yet here was Lynd, soone Baine had known since boyhood, earnestly claiming to have received the blessing of the Warrior. At first, the idea struck Baine as absurd—a fabrication to justify what he’d just witnessed. But as he looked at the breathless, exhausted Lynd, doubts began to creep into his mind.
Lynd had grown up under Baine’s watchful eye, and in fifteen years, he had shown no remarkable skill in swordsmanship. He was an ordinary boy, a common hunter from White Holdfast. The techniques Lynd had just demonstrated, however, were extraordinary—beyond what even seasoned knights achieved after years of training. A transformation this profound in such a short ti defied explanation.
Baine considered the alternatives. If Lynd had not spent years secretly mastering these techniques—and it was clear he had not—then the only plausible explanation was the one Lynd offered. The Warrior’s blessing.
And as absurd as it seed, the reasoning fit. Legends and stories often spoke of divine intervention for acts of bravery and resolve. Lynd’s story—a boy avenging his father by single-handedly hunting a mountain bear as large as a hill—was already the stuff of song. In fact, a passing bard had heard of Lynd’s feat and planned to immortalize it in verse.
“Is what you say true?” Old Baine asked, his tone grave as he scrutinized Lynd’s face.
“I swear to the Seven Gods that everything I’ve said is true,” Lynd replied, placing his hand over his chest and mimicking the solemnity of a devout believer.
To Lynd, the oath was harmless. He believed the Seven Gods didn’t exist—and even if they did, his words weren’t a lie. His cheat truly was a blessing for a warrior, albeit not from divine origin.
“Who else have you told about this?” Old Baine pressed.
“Apart from you, I haven’t told anyone,” Lynd said, holding Old Baine’s gaze with a sincerity that would lt suspicion. “I feel this matter is almost too incredible. If others knew, it might lead to trouble, so I never intended to share it. But you’re different, Old Baine. You’re the person I trust most in the world. I know I can tell you without worry.”
Old Baine’s stern expression softened. A faint smile erged from beneath his thick beard, a sign of relief. He nodded slightly before asking, “Is your plan to see the world also tied to this?”
“In part, yes,” Lynd admitted.
“I see.” Old Baine nodded thoughtfully. “Once your injuries heal, I’ll go to Red Lake and make the recomndation. But before that, you’ll need to forge two proper weapons.”
Lynd glanced down at the knight’s sword and broadsword he held. “Aren’t these swords good enough?” he asked, puzzled.
“You mustn’t keep the knight’s sword,” Old Baine said, shaking his head. “That blade could bring you trouble. As for the broadsword—it’s fine if you just want to be an ordinary guard. But if you aim for sothing greater, you’ll need weapons tailored to you. The right equipnt will improve your chances of surviving on the battlefield and earning military rit.”
Lynd considered this and nodded. Despite handling the two swords well just now, he had felt a subtle discomfort. The weapons weren’t quite a perfect fit. If he could forge a pair of swords designed specifically for him, his combat effectiveness would undoubtedly increase.
After a mont of thought, he asked, “Can the smith in the village forge them?”
Old Baine snorted dismissively. “He’s good for sickles and horseshoes, not proper swords.” Noticing Lynd’s hesitation, he added reassuringly, “Don’t worry. I still have your five golden dragons saved. That’s enough to commission two decent swords.”
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