The ruins of Old Tumbleton appeared deceptively tranquil from afar. Only by standing amidst the crumbled stones could one truly grasp why the Green Party and the Black Party had once waged war over this place, driven by the chaos unleashed by the Dance of the Dragons’ fury.
Lynd’s warhorse, a fine steed from Highgarden, refused to venture further than the outskirts of the town. Its instincts clearly sensed sothing sinister lingering in the ruins. Glory, however, reacted in stark contrast, growing restless and leaping about with uncontainable energy.
With no other choice, Lynd tethered the reluctant warhorse to a tree near the town’s edge and began the climb toward the ruined castle atop the hill.
As soon as they entered the deserted streets, Glory eagerly began absorbing the residual energy of the vengeful spirits that wandered aimlessly through the area. Whatever Glory couldn’t consu flowed directly into Lynd. Having endured this process once before, he managed to handle it better this ti, though it still left his complexion unnervingly pale.
Quickening his pace, Lynd soon arrived at the castle ruins. A faint flicker of light emanated from within, visible now only because the broken walls no longer obscured it.
“Who’s there?” a voice called from within. The speaker, startled by Lynd’s approach, had obviously heard his footsteps.
A woman? Lynd froze, montarily taken aback. A female voice in such a desolate and eerie place in the dead of night was entirely unexpected. Pulling the hood of his cloak further down to conceal his pallor, he replied, “Just a traveler, here to admire the ruins of the Dance of the Dragons.”
There was a mont of silence before the woman responded, her tone authoritative and commanding, as though she owned the place. “Co in! It’s just a ruin—nothing worth seeing.”
Lynd hesitated briefly, then gestured for Glory to remain outside before stepping through the crumbled archway alone.
Inside, his attention was imdiately drawn—not to the ruins—but to the figure of the woman standing amid them.
“So tall... so strong,” Lynd muttered, unable to suppress his astonishnt.
She towered above him, standing well over two ters tall, perhaps closer to two and a half. Even with his own considerable height, Lynd felt dwarfed. Her build and stature hinted at the blood of giants, an ancient race that, in the world of ice and fire, was far more than re legend.
By the dim firelight, Lynd took in her features. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but there was an undeniable presence about her. Golden hair frad a face with bright, intelligent eyes. Her nose, slightly crooked from an old injury, added a rugged charm. Freckles dusted her cheeks, softening the otherwise hard contours of her face that exuded a masculine boldness.
Sothing about her struck a chord of familiarity in Lynd. After a mont of reflection, he realized why. Her appearance and build bore a striking resemblance to the female Nord warrior featured in the promotional animation for The Elder Scrolls Online, a ga he had played in a previous life. The only difference was her attire—simple peasant clothes, rather than the warrior’s armor and battle axe.
Yet even without the trappings of a fighter, the woman exuded an aura of unshakable confidence. It was no surprise that she could stride unflinchingly into these haunted ruins, undeterred by restless spirits or the sudden arrival of a stranger.
As Lynd observed the imposing woman before him, she, too, was scrutinizing him. To her, Lynd appeared just as peculiar. It wasn’t his cloak and hood, though odd for such a dark and deserted place, nor his finely crafted leather armor and battle boots—ill-suited for a re traveler—that drew her attention. What truly struck her as strange were the four swords he carried. Along with the two at his waist, he bore another pair strapped to his back.
A seasoned warrior herself, she imdiately identified the weapons. The swords on his back were half-swords, while those at his waist were full-sized knightly swords. The latter intrigued her most. While she could wield such swords with her formidable strength, using them with precision was an entirely different matter. Yet, judging by their placent, it was clear Lynd wielded them as a dual wielder. The thought of soone fighting effectively with a knight’s sword in each hand struck her as absurd.
“Crazy!” was her first thought upon seeing him.
“Or stupid!” followed shortly after.
“You are no traveler,” she declared, reaching for a nearby axe and fixing her sharp gaze on Lynd.
“And you are no farr,” Lynd replied calmly, his tone respectful yet confident. He had a strong suspicion of who this woman was. Bowing slightly, he addressed her formally, “My Lady, Nyria Footly.”
The woman, unshaken by his recognition, regarded him steadily. Her towering stature and unmistakable presence made her impossible to mistake for anyone else by those familiar with her reputation.
“Who are you?” Nyria asked, her voice low and steady.
Lynd did not hesitate. “Lynd of White Holdfast,” he replied, before adding, “though now I go by the na Lynd Tarran.”
Nyria’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she paused, seemingly recalling sothing. “Lynd of White Holdfast?” she murmured. “The Bear Hunter?”
Clearly, the tale of the Bear Hunter had reached even these parts.
“That is I,” Lynd confird, bowing again.
Nyria’s grip on her axe tightened, her tone wary. “Have you co to kill ?”
The question took Lynd by surprise. He blinked, genuinely puzzled. “Why would the Lady think I’ve co to kill you?”
Nyria studied him carefully, then slightly eased her stance. With a faint smirk, she said, “Perhaps because I am rumored to be the bastard daughter of Prince Lewyn, a Targaryen loyalist and martyr. Or perhaps it’s because I’ve taken a coveted position and stirred envy.”
Lynd chuckled softly. “The rumors about being Prince Lewyn’s bastard daughter are just that—rumors. Even if they were true, King Robert wouldn’t hold it against you for soone who’s long dead. He accepted Barristan the Bold into his service; why would he shun you? As for occupying a desirable position and invoking jealousy… well, that’s more plausible.”
Nyria’s eyes sharpened. “You seem to know more than you let on,” she said, catching the subtle implication in his words.
“Just a little,” Lynd admitted with a slight nod.
Nyria studied him for a mont longer. “I’ve heard the Bear Hunter’s Song,” she said. “You don’t match the figure described in the ballad.”
“People change,” Lynd replied simply. “I suspect the version of the Bear Hunter’s Song you’ve heard is an older one. Much has happened since the events it recounts—such as the fact that I am now a knight.”
“A knight?” Nyria raised an eyebrow, visibly surprised. Though she had been destined for lordship from birth, she understood well how challenging it was for soone of ordinary birth to achieve knighthood. Her curiosity was piqued. “How did that happen?”
Lynd motioned to a nearby stone and sat down, clearly preferring not to remain standing for the story. “Of course,” he began, launching into his tale.
He recounted how Joel Flowers had recomnded him to Vortir Crane, leading to his appointnt as Knight’s Companion. He described his journey with the Tyrell contingent to King’s Landing, his participation in the Tournant, and the series of events that followed. As he spoke, Nyria listened intently, her keen gaze unwavering, absorbing every detail of his account.
“You beat up the King, and then he knighted you and invited you to join the Kingsguard?” Nyria’s expression was one of sheer disbelief as she processed Lynd’s account of King Robert’s actions.
Lynd chuckled. “His Grace Robert is not what one might call a qualified king or noble, but he’s certainly a great fighter.”
Nyria’s face betrayed a flicker of disagreent, but she chose not to voice it. Instead, she pressed on with her questioning. “So, what brings you to my poor, backwater village? And don’t tell you’re here just to admire these ruins.”
Lynd decided there was no point in subterfuge. “I’m here on the orders of the Lord of House Tyrell to suppress the bandits in this area. Tumbleton, being in such a strategically advantageous position, is ideal to serve as a central stronghold.”
“Suppress the bandits? You brought an army?” Nyria asked, her brow furrowing in hesitation.
“My cavalry patrols are stationed in the dense forest nearby,” Lynd admitted candidly. “Two hundred combat-ready cavalry, along with a logistics team of a few dozen.”
Nyria’s frown deepened. “So, you want your n stationed here—with ?”
“That is the idea, but only if you, my lady, are willing,” Lynd replied. Noticing her pensive expression, he added, “But before that, I believe there’s another matter to address.”
“What do you an?” Nyria’s grip tightened on her axe again, her voice sharpening.
Lynd remained calm. “On the way here, I eliminated a bandit group called the Bloodshoe Brotherhood. I believe you’re familiar with them?”
Nyria blinked in surprise. “The Bloodshoe Brotherhood? Weren’t they operating along The Goldroad?”
“They were,” Lynd confird with a nod. “But Lord Tywin recently sent troops to drive them out. The remnants fled east of the Mander River—territory that falls under your domain.”
Nyria’s expression shifted slightly, though she remained guarded. “In that case, I should thank you.”
Her tone was asured, but there was little warmth in her words. While Nyria held control over the village of Tumbleton, her nominal domain extended far beyond it, encompassing both sides of the Mander River and vast swathes of land stretching toward The Roseroad and The Goldroad.
However, since the chaos of the Dance of the Dragons, House Footly had effectively lost control of these territories. Nyria now saw them as little more than abandoned burdens and felt no deep gratitude toward Lynd for his actions there.
“That’s not the main issue,” Lynd interjected, raising his voice slightly. “I’ve obtained additional intelligence. It seems that a dozen or so bandit groups have recently ford an alliance under the leadership of a group called the Scorpion Brotherhood. Their target is Tumbleton.”
“Loot Tumbleton?” Nyria’s surprise was evident as she raised an eyebrow. “Are they insane? There’s nothing here to loot except a few pounds of grain.”
Her initial shock gave way to suspicion. Nyria was well aware of Tumbleton’s impoverished state—so were the local bandits. No one in their right mind would waste resources raiding a place with so little to offer. The Scorpion Brotherhood, having operated in the area, should have known this as well. Their decision made no sense.
Lynd continued, “The dozen or so bandit groups gathered by the Scorpion Brotherhood are all remnants of the robber gangs from The Goldroad, and they were among the primary targets of Lord Tywin’s purge.”
Nyria, perceptive as ever, quickly pieced together Lynd’s implication. “You an Lord Tywin wants to use these robber gangs…” she trailed off, stopping short of finishing the thought. So truths were better left unspoken, especially ones that touched on the calculated ruthlessness of n like Tywin Lannister.
After a mont of reflective silence, she hefted her axe, gesturing for Lynd to follow her. “Co with ,” she said simply.
Lynd rose without objection and trailed behind her as they left the ruins of the castle. The two moved in silence for a ti, the chill of the night settling around them, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps on the rough ground.
Nyria abruptly stopped, raising her axe defensively as her sharp eyes fixed on a shadow shifting near a ruined wall. “Be careful. Over there…” she warned.
“Don’t worry, my lady. That’s my partner,” Lynd reassured her, stepping forward to prevent any misunderstanding. From the shadows erged Glory, the sleek Shadowcat, padding silently to Lynd’s side. It rubbed affectionately against him, then turned its curious gaze to Nyria.
Lynd was mildly surprised. This was the first ti Glory had not displayed aggression toward soone other than him. Even Raul, who fed Glory daily, wasn’t spared the Shadowcat’s usual display of fangs and hostility. Yet here it was, calmly examining Nyria.
“Is this a Shadowcat?” Nyria asked, a flicker of astonishnt breaking her composed deanor.
“Yes,” Lynd confird with a nod.
“Are you a Skinchanger?” she inquired, her curiosity unmistakable.
“No,” Lynd replied, shaking his head. Recognizing that her questioning might be delving into personal territory, Nyria refrained from probing further. She cast one more glance at Glory before continuing down the mountain, and Lynd followed.
The pair soon reached the heart of Tumbleton, a humble settlent despite its designation as a town. Yet, even in this modest place, there was a tavern, and the sounds of voices spilling out made it clear that it was bustling with activity.
Nyria led the way to the tavern’s entrance, gesturing for Lynd to tie his horse to the gate. Without a word, she entered, with Lynd following close behind.
The interior was indeed lively, but not in the way Lynd had expected. The patrons were not the local farrs of Tumbleton but a group of Dornish warriors clad in armor and ard to the teeth. The sight of their sun-etched sigils and weapons instantly brought a flicker of recognition to Lynd’s mind. He had seen so of these faces before—at the tournant. They were Martell warriors, sent by Dorne to represent their house.
One figure among the Dornishn stood out starkly: a man with short black hair, sharply defined features, and a deanor that exuded both laziness and nace. His cold eyes glinted with the lethality of a coiled viper, hidden but ready to strike. There was an uncanny resemblance between him and Nyria, but his aura was far more dangerous, almost venomous.
“Red Viper.” The na sprang to Lynd’s mind unbidden.
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