Lynd stood outside his tent, tossing chunks of at far into the distance for Glory, his albino Shadowcat cub, to fetch and bring back. This exercise was part of Glory’s obedience training. At first, Glory would eat the at outright, but after being disciplined by Lynd several tis, it gradually adjusted its behavior. Now, while there was still a 50% chance Glory might eat the at during training, this was a significant improvent compared to the day before. Lynd believed that with another month or two of training, Glory would fully obey his commands.
While obedience training was showing progress, Glory’s wildness training was stagnant. For now, Lynd could only ensure it didn’t attack indiscriminately.
However, if soone got too close, Glory would still strike without hesitation. Because of this, Lynd chose to train it only when no one else was around. When the camp was crowded, he kept Glory restrained, either in a cloth bag or chained with a specially designed hood covering its mouth.
As he waited for Glory to return with the at, Lynd glanced occasionally at his tent. Inside, the Faceless Man Bovo, disguised as a Tyrell soldier, was speaking with the girl whom Lynd had rescued—a girl whose spirit seed dead, even though her body remained alive.
The girl showed no emotions around others, but whenever she looked at Lynd, a flicker of feeling surfaced. It wasn’t gratitude for saving her life, though; it was more like a silent plea for him to end it. When Bovo first saw the girl, he imdiately confird she was the reason the Many-Faced God had intervened to bring him to Westeros.
However, the girl was unresponsive, barely acknowledging her surroundings. She didn’t speak or react, which made any attempt at conversation futile. After several failed efforts to draw her out, Bovo asked Lynd if he could be alone with the girl for a while. Lynd agreed on the condition that Bovo wouldn’t harm her.
Lynd left the tent but didn’t stray far, sitting a few steps away. While training Glory, he kept a watchful eye on the tent. Strangely, despite being so close, he couldn’t hear a sound—not even the faintest breath or movent. It was as if the tent were empty. This unnatural silence couldn’t have been achieved by ordinary ans, and Lynd suspected it might be the work of the Many-Faced God.
He also began to question Bovo’s standing within the House of Black and White. The ability to harness what seed like divine power hinted at a status similar to that of lisandre in the Church of the Lord of Light.
Just as Lynd was deep in thought, the tent’s curtain was drawn back. Bovo erged, looking slightly fatigued but wearing a satisfied smile. It was clear he had convinced the girl. However, before he could speak, his expression abruptly changed, and he sidestepped quickly. Almost simultaneously, a dark shadow darted past him.
Bovo turned to see what had attacked and realized it was Glory. The Shadowcat cub, who had lunged at him, now stood nearby, its body taut with feral energy.
Lynd, accustod to Glory’s gradual growth, hadn’t noticed the stark changes in it. He had only judged her progress by her increasing size and weight. Bovo, however, imdiately recognized the transformation.
The last ti he’d seen Glory was in the Kingswood, and now the difference was unmistakable. Glory had grown larger and far fiercer. Its newly ford black stripes had evolved into a ghostly pattern across its body, with the lines on its forehead creating an even more intimidating appearance.
“How has its wildness beco so strong?” Bovo asked, his tone full of curiosity.
Lynd didn’t answer—not because he didn’t want to, but because he also had no explanation for Glory’s intensified wildness.
Bovo seed intrigued but quickly shifted back to the matter at hand. “She’s too weak to move on her own,” he said. “Can you find so people to help carry her to the pier on a stretcher?”
Lynd didn’t respond imdiately. Instead, he entered the tent to check on the girl’s condition himself. Her face had changed since he last saw her. Though her body appeared revitalized, her expression carried a new vitality that contrasted sharply with the lifelessness from before. Yet beneath this newfound energy, Lynd could sense sothing else—an overwhelming hatred, simring just beneath the surface.
Lynd knelt beside the bed and gazed at the girl, his tone gentle but serious. “Have you truly decided to go with him to Braavos, across the Narrow Sea? If you don’t want to, I can take you in.”
The girl shook her head, her lips moving as if to speak, but no sound erged. Her throat seed too injured to form words. Even so, her expression left no doubt about her decision.
“I see. May the Seven bless you and keep you safe across the Narrow Sea.” Lynd reached out, brushing his hand lightly against her forehead as he murmured a blessing.
The girl’s eyes filled with gratitude, and tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. Lynd rose and stepped outside the tent. He called for Raul and instructed him to gather four people and a stretcher. Once the stretcher was ready, Lynd returned, gently lifted the girl onto it, covered her with a blanket, and carried her outside.
As they exited the tent, Lynd felt a weak tug on his arm. Looking down, he saw the girl straining to lift her injured hand, gripping his sleeve. In a voice hoarse and garbled, she uttered sothing unintelligible. Yet, Lynd understood it clearly: she was thanking him.
He patted her hand reassuringly, tucking it back under the blanket. Without a word, he placed a dagger—a gift from Garlan after the cavalry patrols had been ford—beside her under the blanket.
Turning to the Faceless Man, Lynd said, “Take good care of her.”
“She is my student,” Bovo replied with a small smile. “Of course I will take care of her.”
The group left the camp, the stretcher carried by the four Tyrell soldiers, and soon disappeared from Lynd’s sight. They made their way swiftly through the slums outside the city walls. The presence of Tyrell soldiers deterred any potential trouble, and they reached the docks without incident.
Under Bovo’s direction, the girl was carried aboard a rchant ship flying the flag of the Free Cities. She was taken to a small room adjacent to the captain’s cabin on the upper deck. Once the soldiers had disembarked, Bovo ordered the captain to set sail imdiately. Though so cargo had yet to be loaded, the captain dared not refuse a request from soone of Bovo’s stature. The ship’s crew hastily prepared to depart.
As the ship glided out of the port, passing through the towering gates and into the open waters of Blackwater Bay, Bovo returned to the girl’s room. He found her lying on the bed, her gaze fixed on the night outside the small window.
“No matter what your na was before,” Bovo said, sitting on a stool beside her bed, “you must leave it behind now, just as you leave your past behind.”
The girl turned to face him. Her expression was calm, and her eyes reflected relief rather than resistance.
“I will give you a new na to mark your new life,” Bovo continued, watching her reaction carefully. She nodded slightly in agreent.
“You will take my surna and be called H’ghar. As for your first na...” Bovo paused, considering. “Let it be Jaqna. Jaqna H’ghar.”
The girl nodded again, accepting the na without hesitation.
The next morning, Lynd was abruptly awakened by the tent flap being thrown open. His hand imdiately went to the axe lying beside him, ready to defend himself.
“It’s . Relax,” Vortir said curtly, noticing Lynd’s reaction. His expression quickly turned stern. “Get up, get dressed, and head to the main tent. We need to discuss sothing important.”
Lynd rubbed his face to shake off the last remnants of sleep, quickly pulled on so clothes, and strapped his sword to his waist. Glory, still half-asleep, was scooped up from the bed and tucked into Lynd’s breast pocket. Without wasting any more ti, he left his tent and headed toward the main camp tent.
Upon entering, he paused briefly to take in the scene. Aside from Garlan and Vortir, several Tyrell advisors were present, their faces unfamiliar but their ranks easy to infer. In the center of the tent sat Lord Mace Tyrell himself.
The atmosphere was heavy. Mace Tyrell’s expression was thunderous, his face so dark with anger that it seed on the verge of bursting. His deanor transford him from the jovial “Puff Fish” Queen of Thorns often mocked into a volatile force, brimming with suppressed fury.
The weight in the room intensified as all eyes turned to Lynd the mont he entered. For many, such scrutiny would have been overwhelming, leading to awkwardness or missteps. Yet Lynd remained composed, his calm deanor betraying none of the tension in the air. His psychological resilience far outshone that of anyone else in the room.
“I greet the Lord of the House and all the Lords,” said Lynd, bowing respectfully to Lord Mace Tyrell, who sat at the head of the room. The room’s attention was squarely on him as he made his entrance.
Lord Tyrell, however, dismissed the gesture entirely. Turning to Vortir, he asked brusquely, “Is this your knight’s squire, the Bear Hunter?”
Vortir nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Is he really as good as you claim?” Mace asked, his voice sharp with doubt.
“Yes,” Vortir replied confidently. “As long as he wields two swords, his strength is nearly on par with mine. Among the hundreds of n in the camp, he is the best candidate I can think of to succeed .”
“Then he’ll do,” Lord Tyrell said flatly. He didn’t so much as glance at Lynd as he made his decision. Nor did he bother asking for Lynd’s input or offering an explanation. Instead, he tersely instructed Lynd to leave the tent and wait in his own for further arrangents.
The dismissive tone, treating him more like a tool than a person, left Lynd feeling stifled, though he kept his composure. With a slight bow, he exited the tent and returned to his own, sitting quietly and waiting for soone to clarify the situation.
It wasn’t long before Garlan and Vortir arrived together. Garlan imdiately apologized for his father’s rude behavior, but before Lynd could even ask, he launched into an explanation.
The problem, as it turned out, was a sudden and severe illness that had swept through the Tyrell camp. Every knight and soldier slated to participate in the group competition had been struck down with vomiting and diarrhea, likely from spoiled food. They were too weak to fight, let alone carry weapons into a lee.
This left House Tyrell scrambling for a replacent. While they had deliberated for hours, the urgency of the situation allowed no perfect solution. There was one obvious choice, but it had been rejected outright: Vortir.
With his unparalleled swordsmanship, Vortir stood as the ideal candidate for the team competition. However, the lee was notoriously dangerous. An injury in the lee would risk his ability to compete in the prestigious knightly tournant, an event of unparalleled importance that might never occur again. Losing Vortir for that would be a disaster.
To avoid this risk, Garlan proposed Lynd as a substitute. Having witnessed Lynd’s exceptional skill firsthand, especially in handling multiple opponents, Garlan was confident in his choice. His proposal was t with enthusiastic support from the knights and nobles who had accompanied him from Highgarden. They had seen Lynd’s prowess and trusted his ability.
However, those who had remained in King’s Landing since the Usurper’s War were unfamiliar with Lynd’s talents. Hence, Lynd had been summoned to the main tent earlier for an inspection. Though he hadn’t displayed any swordsmanship, his imposing physique had been enough to persuade the doubters. Thus, Lynd was volunteered—whether he liked it or not—as House Tyrell’s participant in the group competition.
After Garlan’s explanation, Lynd raised a question. “Why is it so critical that we participate in the group competition? If I recall correctly, it’s not particularly prestigious. Even if House Tyrell doesn’t participate, it shouldn’t harm our reputation much, should it?”
At this, Garlan’s expression grew uneasy. He gave Vortir a look, signaling him to explain, and then quietly left the tent.
Vortir sighed and offered a blunt explanation. “After learning that the other Great Lords wouldn’t send their best to the group competition, Lord Tyrell beca overconfident. He was convinced we’d win and, well... he borrowed a substantial sum of money to bet on our victory. If we don’t compete—or if we lose—not only will he owe a fortune, but he’ll beco the laughingstock of King’s Landing. That’s why he’s been furious all morning.”
Lynd blinked, montarily at a loss for words. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, I’ll prepare for the battle.”
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