Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

"He's the Bear Hunter you're looking for, Lynd." As the two men approached, Raul gestured toward the burly figure beside him and introduced him to Lynd.

"My name is Rolly, bear hunter, son of the Smith of Bitterbridge." The young man, sturdy and broad-shouldered, stepped forward awkwardly. His face was taut, and he drew a deep breath as though making a monumental decision. In an overly formal tone, he continued, "I can no longer find any opponents in Bitterbridge. The knights refuse to spar with someone like me. I've heard of your legend, and just now, someone from your camp mentioned that you once fought Lord Vortimer. So, I was thinking…"

He faltered midway, his expression tightening as if struggling to articulate his thoughts.

"Are you trying to challenge me?" Lynd asked, cutting through the hesitation with calm certainty.

Relieved, Rolly nodded. "Is that... okay?" he asked cautiously.

"Of course," Lynd replied with a nod. Then, turning to Raul, who stood nearby, he asked, "Has he already challenged you?"

Raul offered a wry smile. "He has. This guy's unbelievably strong—none of us can match him." He glanced at Rolly, adding, "We'd heard rumors back in Highgarden about a powerful young man under Lord Bitterbridge's command. Just a teenager, but already stronger than most grown warriors. Now I see those tales weren't exaggerated. It's like the legends about you, Lord Lynd."

Lynd regarded Rolly with mild curiosity. Drawing his dual swords from his waist, he gestured toward the young man. "In that case, let's get started."

"Wait," Rolly blurted, freezing at the sight of Lynd's drawn weapons. "With real swords?"

"Of course," Lynd said firmly. "Practice swords aren't dangerous, but they lack the realism of actual combat. Deep down, you know a hit from a practice sword won't kill you—just injure you slightly. That awareness leads to sloppy attack and defense moves. Such mistakes might be harmless during practice but can be fatal in battle."

Though Rolly didn't fully grasp Lynd's reasoning, he felt it had some merit. Without further argument, he turned and hurried back to the castle, presumably to retrieve his weapon.

After Rolly left, Raul, visibly puzzled, asked, "Lord Lynd, why are you teaching this kid? We've been asking you to help us improve our swordsmanship for a while, but you've always said you didn't have the time."

Detecting a trace of dissatisfaction in Raul's tone, Lynd replied, "I've told you before: it's not swordsmanship that needs improving for soldiers like you. It's the way you work together on the battlefield. Masterful swordsmanship won't save you in a melee of thousands, but a team of comrades with perfect coordination might."

Raul shrugged, dropping the subject. He knew Lynd was right, but he couldn't help wishing for exceptional sword skills that might catch the eye of a knight. Becoming a squire—and eventually a knight himself—seemed far more appealing than dying an anonymous soldier's death.

By the time Rolly returned with his sword, a small crowd had gathered on the flatlands. Guards from House Tyrell and Bitterbridge Castle mingled among the onlookers, eager to witness the spectacle. Their curiosity had been piqued, perhaps fueled by the noise Rolly made earlier and the chance to see Lynd train the famed Bitterbridge blacksmith's son.

Far from being intimidated by the gathering, Rolly seemed exhilarated. As he approached Lynd, he eagerly drew his sword, adopting a common offensive stance.

"Here we go," Lynd said simply, making no effort to adopt a preparatory position. He began to approach Rolly with a calm, measured stride, more like a casual stroll than the beginning of a duel.

Despite his preparation, Rolly felt an inexplicable pressure mounting. In his eyes, Lynd transformed into a predatory beast closing in on its prey. Instinctively, Rolly stepped back, trying to alleviate the oppressive sensation. Yet Lynd continued his advance, unrelenting and methodical, amplifying the weight of his presence.

Realizing he couldn't remain passive any longer, Rolly let out a yell, raising his sword in a powerful strike. His movements were fierce and energetic—but futile. Lynd sidestepped effortlessly, avoiding the descending blade. Almost simultaneously, his left-hand sword swung toward Rolly's neck while his right-hand sword tilted forward, the point pressing against Rolly's chest.

The surrounding crowd fell into stunned silence before erupting into murmurs of astonishment. For the guards from Bitterbridge Castle, it was a humbling sight. Rolly, once undefeatable among them, had been bested in a single exchange.

The soldiers of House Tyrell, having long grown accustomed to Lynd's exceptional prowess, remained unperturbed by the display, their reactions subdued. For Rolly, however, the defeat was a crushing blow. He stood frozen, his thoughts in disarray. While he had felt the overwhelming gap between himself and Lynd during their brief exchange, he had not imagined the disparity would be so vast. It hadn't even been a contest—Lynd had taken a single step and effortlessly subdued him. A wave of frustration unlike anything he had ever experienced surged through him.

"Again," Lynd said calmly, withdrawing his twin swords and stepping back. His voice carried neither arrogance nor ridicule—just the resolute tone of someone expecting improvement.

Rolly hesitated, his shaken confidence evident, but he eventually tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Taking a deep breath, he attacked once more, swinging his blade with all the precision and strength he could muster.

The outcome was identical to the first attempt. Lynd sidestepped fluidly, avoiding the strike with ease, and exploited the gaps in Rolly's defense to bring him to a halt. The blows never landed, but the implications were clear: Rolly was completely outmatched.

Another crack formed in Rolly's confidence. Doubts began to creep in—was his strength merely an illusion? Had the guards he previously bested allowed him to win out of pity for his youth? Should he abandon his dreams of knighthood and resign himself to inheriting his father's smithy? These thoughts gnawed at him, sapping the pride he had spent years building.

"Do you know what your weakness is?" Lynd asked, his tone steady but pointed. Seeing that Rolly's confidence was faltering, he opted to address the issue directly rather than press the attack further.

"Weakness?" Rolly echoed blankly, confusion etched across his face.

Lynd adopted the air of an instructor, his voice carrying a quiet authority. "You've never had proper swordsmanship training, have you? Your technique is a rough imitation of what you've observed from castle guards and the knights of House Caswell. It's unrefined and relies solely on your physical gifts. Against weaker opponents, that's enough. But when you face someone physically stronger or with advanced training, all your advantages vanish."

Rolly's face paled at the assessment. The weight of Lynd's words bore down on him, exacerbating the self-doubt already brewing within. The pride he once held in his abilities now felt baseless, like a fragile illusion crumbling under scrutiny.

"If you want to improve quickly," Lynd continued, "focus on dodging and defense. Perfecting those skills will help compensate for your lack of technique. Better still, if you can, hire a proper swordsmanship instructor."

Before Rolly could respond, a sharp, cutting voice pierced the air from the edge of the crowd. "The son of a lowly smith should know his place. Hands meant for wielding a hammer are unfit to hold a sword."

The crowd turned toward the speaker as Bitterbridge Castle's guards, along with Rolly, instinctively bowed their heads. Emerging from behind the onlookers was a pale, sickly youth flanked by well-armed guards and servants. His gaunt face, sunken cheeks, and lifeless eyes suggested poor health, while his ostentatious clothing signaled his high rank. His arrival left no doubt—this was the heir to Bitterbridge.

The young noble stopped beside Rolly, ignoring him entirely. His gaze fixed on Lynd, eyes burning with jealousy, resentment, and barely concealed hatred. The intensity of the boy's disdain caught Lynd off guard—he couldn't recall ever meeting him before.

The youth's scowl shifted to Rolly, his expression dripping with contempt. "You're nothing more than a smith's son," he sneered. "You belong by the forge, like that pathetic old man you call your father."

Rolly remained silent, his head bowed, but his clenched grip on the hilt of his sword betrayed his simmering fury. The guards accompanying the young noble noticed this, their hands drifting toward their weapons, prepared to intervene at the slightest provocation.

Meanwhile, the other guards from Bitterbridge Castle stood by, watching the exchange with evident amusement. They made no move to support Rolly. Instead, their smirks and glances of satisfaction revealed the animosity they bore toward him. It was clear that relations between Rolly and his fellow castle guards were far from cordial—perhaps even outright hostile.

"What? You intend to attack me with that sword?" the young noble sneered, clearly aware of Rolly's restrained fury. His confidence, rooted in privilege, made him fearless. Stepping closer to Rolly, he raised his hand and slapped him hard across the face.

The slap echoed sharply, drawing the attention of everyone present. Though the young man appeared frail, the force of the blow caused Rolly's head to jerk to the side. The noble winced slightly, shaking his hand as if stung by his own action, but his expression remained one of utter disdain.

Rolly, despite the public humiliation, made no move to retaliate. He kept his head lowered, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening visibly.

Sensing no resistance, the noble smirked. "What a pathetic coward. Go back to your filthy forge. Tonight, you've embarrassed Bitterbridge. Tomorrow, you'll face punishment at the castle."

At the command, Rolly turned to leave. He took a few slow steps before pausing. With a sudden resolve, he turned back, bowed stiffly to Lynd, then resumed his retreat. His pace quickened with each step until he broke into a trot, disappearing toward the castle in a blur of shame and frustration.

"A man should know his place," the young noble declared haughtily, now addressing Lynd. "Knighthood is not for those of low birth. I've heard of you, Lynd the Bear Hunter. As a forest savage. You belong out there, in the woods, not—"

Before the boy could finish, Lynd interrupted, his voice cold and sharp. "Do you think I wouldn't dare kill you?" His piercing gaze shifted to the guards surrounding the noble. "Or do you think these men could protect you?"

As Lynd spoke, a suffocating aura of menace radiated from him, his killing intent palpable. It washed over the noble, his guards, and even the gathered crowd, freezing them in place. The young man, frail as he was, crumpled under the pressure and fainted on the spot. The guards, visibly shaken, found themselves too paralyzed to draw their weapons, while the servants collapsed outright, trembling in fear.

Satisfied that his message had been delivered, Lynd withdrew the oppressive aura and resumed his usual composure. He looked down at the unconscious youth with disdain. "Take him and leave. And make sure to change his pants when you get back—wetting himself at his age is a disgrace to Lord Caswell."

The guards dared not reply. Scrambling to gather their master and rouse the fallen servants, they retreated hastily, the humiliation palpable in their hurried movements.

The remaining Bitterbridge Castle guards, who had come hoping for entertainment, found the scene sobering. They exchanged uneasy glances, well aware of the young noble's vindictive tendencies. If there was one certainty, it was that he would not forget this humiliation. Their earlier smirks faded, replaced by grim expressions as they considered the repercussions.

"You shouldn't have threatened him," Raul remarked as he approached Lynd. "That boy is probably Lord Caswell's only heir—the future Lord of Bitterbridge. You've just made things difficult for Lord Garlan."

Lynd smiled faintly, unconcerned by Raul's warning. His confidence remained unshaken, and he dismissed the matter with ease.