Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

The Banquet at the Red Keep was originally scheduled to take place after the Tournament concluded, but King Robert decided to hold it early. Some joked that the king had been beaten so thoroughly the previous day that he'd mistaken the team competition for the Tournament's final event.

Despite their disdain for the poorly timed gathering, the nobles attended dressed in their finest, unwilling to risk being outshone. This banquet was not merely a drinking party but a key opportunity for the court nobles of the Red Keep and the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms to forge connections and exchange information.

As a result, this event was far more subdued than the celebratory feast for the Prince's birth. There were no circus performances or extravagant entertainment; instead, guests mingled in quiet clusters, forming groups of three or five for hushed conversations. The overall atmosphere was reserved and restrained.

King Robert, the supposed host, was notably absent. Only Queen Cersei graced the royal throne, surrounded by a circle of noblewomen from various prominent families. Among them were a few court jesters, their chatter occasionally punctuated by the ladies' laughter, which echoed through the hall and drew curious glances from nearby attendees.

Lynd felt out of place in this setting. In his previous life, he had never been fond of social gatherings, and his now even more solitary nature made these banquets particularly uncomfortable. Adding to his unease was the way the nobles, both highborn and lesser, regarded him with peculiar gazes, as if assessing a piece of merchandise. The blatant rudeness of it stoked a quiet fury within him, making him feel like cutting them all down.

To avoid the aggravation, Lynd broke away from Lord Tyrell and the others after entering the hall. He grabbed a wooden plate, loaded it with food, and found a secluded corner where he could eat in peace. Or so he thought.

Even in his isolation, nobles approached him to talk. While it might have been a prime opportunity to build connections, Lynd knew his current status meant little to these people. Most who approached were driven by mere curiosity rather than genuine interest. Many asked intrusive personal questions, showing no concern for his comfort. To them, the act of initiating conversation was a magnanimous gesture, one they expected Lynd to receive with humility and deference.

But Lynd gave them nothing. He kept his head down, focused on his food, and ignored their attempts at conversation. His indifference left them awkwardly lingering until they eventually gave up. After a few such exchanges, the curious nobles stopped approaching altogether, unwilling to risk further embarrassment.

However, peace still eluded him. When the curious gave up, a new wave of nobles approached—those fueled not by curiosity, but by hatred.

"I am Ser Flint of Flint's Finger," a middle-aged man declared as he strode up to Lynd. His Northern heritage was evident in his rugged features and accent. His eyes burned with hatred as he continued, "My brother, Barmit Flint, died by your hand yesterday. He fell victim to your dishonorable sneak attack while fighting others. You came at him from behind—"

"Ser Flint," Lynd interrupted, his tone calm as he placed the roast he'd been eating back on the tray and wiped his hands. He lifted his gaze slightly to meet the man's glare. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish by saying this? Are you here to prove your brother died a heroic death? Or to brand me as dishonorable? If you're so eager for answers, why not do something practical instead—like challenging me to a duel here and now, killing me to avenge your brother?"

Lynd's eyes swept over the other nobles who had gathered, their expressions similarly hostile. "The rest of you can do the same," he said bluntly. "Challenge me here. I'll fight all of you at once. Surely, with so many of you against me, your chances of avenging your fallen relatives and friends must be quite high."

His stark, direct words left the Northern noble momentarily stunned, the hatred in his eyes giving way to a flicker of fear. The other knights and lords who had come with similar grievances exchanged uneasy glances. Lynd's offer of a duel was enticing on the surface, but his performance in the arena the day before was still fresh in their minds. They all knew that even in a group, the likely outcome of such a challenge would be their own deaths.

An awkward tension settled over the gathering. The nobles who had come seeking retribution now found themselves unable to advance or retreat, trapped by Lynd's audacious response. Around them, other guests had taken notice of the commotion. Yet no one stepped in to mediate; instead, they watched the scene unfold with thinly veiled interest, as if it were merely another spectacle for their entertainment.

"What are you doing? This is the king's banquet, not some random party in your backwater town!" A slightly lethargic voice broke through the tense atmosphere, and Jaime Lannister appeared, dressed in resplendent armor. He held a flagon in one hand, while his other rested casually on the hilt of his sword.

Under normal circumstances, Jaime's words might have irritated the nobles, but in this instance, they were a relief. His arrival diffused the tension, offering the lords an excuse to retreat without further embarrassment. They cast sharp glares at Lynd before turning on their heels, wearing expressions as though they had emerged victorious from a confrontation. Their haughty demeanor suggested Lynd had backed down out of fear, though nothing of the sort had occurred.

"A bunch of worms," Jaime muttered disdainfully, watching the nobles retreat. He then turned his attention to Lynd and, without preamble, said, "Lynd the Bear Hunter, you remind me of someone."

"Someone?" Lynd asked, sensing no hostility from Jaime. His tone was neutral, almost curious. "Who?"

"Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning," Jaime replied.

Lynd paused, processing the comparison, then asked, "Arthur Dayne? The one who died in the siege?"

Jaime's expression darkened at the remark. His voice turned stern as he retorted, "You're a hard man to like, you know that?"

Jaime's deep admiration for Arthur Dayne was well-known, and Lynd's blunt question, while factual, carried an implication that Jaime found offensive. It subtly suggested that Arthur Dayne had perished in the siege while he was still alive, casting an unintended shadow on the legendary knight's legacy.

Maintaining a calm demeanor, Lynd responded, "Arthur Dayne was a hero. I admired him, but he died for nothing. He gave his life for someone like the Mad King. It wasn't worth it."

Jaime's irritation softened, replaced by a flicker of understanding. Lynd's disdain for the Mad King resonated with him, creating a shared sense of disillusionment. Jaime's gaze grew warmer, almost companionable.

"Want a sip?" Jaime offered, extending the flagon toward Lynd.

Lynd shook his head. "I don't drink."

"Then you're missing out on a lot of fun," Jaime remarked with a smirk.

"I'd advise you to drink less," Lynd countered plainly. "Too much drinking, and your hands will start to tremble. A swordsman who can't control the hand that wields his sword is as good as dead."

Jaime froze, visibly struck by the comment. After a moment, he looked at Lynd and said, "Someone else told me the same thing."

"Arthur Dayne?" Lynd guessed.

Jaime nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Mm." Then, almost as if speaking to himself, he added, "It's ironic, isn't it? Arthur Dayne, who hardly drank, is dead, and Jaime Lannister, who loves to drink, is still here. What a joke."

"Choices determine fate," Lynd said, his tone carrying a hint of reflection. "He chose his own death."

"No," Jaime interjected, his tone sharpening. "He was killed in a sneak attack—a cowardly, dishonorable sneak attack!" He raised the flagon and drank deeply, then cast a bitter glance toward the Northerners scattered throughout the hall, his teeth clenched in anger.

Lynd didn't respond immediately, choosing neither to agree nor to argue. In his view, battles to the death were not governed by concepts like honor or dishonor; survival and victory were the only measures that mattered.

Jaime's words, however, revealed much about his character. Despite his cynicism, he still clung to certain ideals of chivalry—a code that would erode in the coming years. The Jaime standing here now would hesitate to commit a ruthless act like throwing Bran from the First Keep. At least he could no longer do it as decisively, and some hesitation was inevitable.

"Bear Hunter, you are a very special person," Jaime said, taking a long swig from his flagon before belching loudly and without shame.

Lynd paused, his expression shifting to one of mild confusion as he regarded Jaime. "Should I take that as a compliment, Lord Jaime?" he asked.

Jaime's face grew uncharacteristically serious. "No," he said, his voice low. "You can take it as a prophecy. Every extraordinary person faces their share of trials, and your trials have only just begun."

Lynd narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing there was more to Jaime's words. They seemed to carry an implicit warning or perhaps an unspoken truth, though Jaime didn't elaborate. Without further explanation, Jaime turned away, flagon in hand, and sauntered off.

Lynd didn't press for answers, knowing it would be futile. Whatever Jaime meant by "trials," it wasn't immediately clear, but Lynd didn't find the idea particularly troubling. He knew well enough that perspectives differed based on one's position. What Jaime, standing on his lofty perch, viewed as trials might be something entirely different for Lynd.

Jaime's brief appearance, however, had unintended consequences. Some attendees interpreted Lynd's indifferent attitude toward Jaime as a sign of familiarity between the two—a connection that sparked further rumors. A man like Jaime Lannister, infamous as the Kingslayer, was already a polarizing figure. Now, pairing him in gossip with Lynd—a warlord with a reputation for ruthless efficiency—only fueled disdain among the nobles, particularly those who already viewed Lynd's actions in the arena with contempt.

Though their gazes were heavy with judgment, Lynd remained unfazed. He focused on enjoying the banquet's rich spread, paying no heed to the whispers around him. The Tyrells, who had brought Lynd to the feast, were visibly uncomfortable with how he was being treated but seemed unsure of how to address the situation.

Attempting to ease the tension, Garlan, Vortimer, and Maester Mollos approached Lynd to engage him in polite conversation.

Yet, they soon realized he was utterly unconcerned by the nobles' disdain, absorbed instead in savoring the feast's fine dishes. Satisfied that he wasn't unsettled, they eventually drifted away, each intent on networking with the new Baratheon court's nobility.

As Lynd finished the last piece of roast meat on his plate and prepared to fetch another serving, a plate heaping with food was placed before him. He looked up and found himself face-to-face with a smiling, bald man dressed in a silk robe and soft leather boots that muffled his footsteps. The man's hands were tucked neatly into his sleeves, leaving no clue as to what he might be holding.

There was no mistaking this figure—only one man in the Red Keep matched such a description. It was Varys, the Master of Whisperers, whose presence at any gathering always seemed to herald intrigue. If Littlefinger was the Seven Kingdoms' master of manipulation, Varys was its master of secrets. Every whisper, every rumor seemed to flow into his grasp, and the true extent of his knowledge and intentions was known to no one.

For all his wariness of Varys, Lynd found him far less volatile than Littlefinger. Where Petyr Baelish was a man driven by personal ambition and impossible to trust, Varys was at least someone Lynd believed could be reasoned with—provided their goals didn't conflict.

Still, Varys approaching him so directly was unexpected and put Lynd on edge.

Hiding his surprise, Lynd took the wooden tray Varys had offered, digging into the food with an air of casual gratitude. "Thank you, Lord Varys," he said.

Varys, unsurprised that Lynd had recognized him, smiled as he lowered himself gracefully onto the floor beside Lynd. Despite the dusty floor, Varys adopted the same seated posture, cross-legged and casual. Plucking a piece of food from the plate, he began eating as well, his demeanor warm and conversational.

"Lord Lynd," Varys began, "you are a kind person. You don't belong in this hall. It is not a place for someone like you."

"Kind?" Lynd repeated, setting down the food he'd been eating to regard Varys more closely. A wry smile played on his lips. "Lord Varys, you must be mistaken. Nearly a hundred men died by my hand yesterday."

Varys shook his head, the smile on his face unwavering. "I am not mistaken," he said softly. "By kindness, I mean the poor little girl you rescued outside the Lion Gate."