Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

Seeing the black smoke signal rising, Lynd remained calm. Like his predecessor hunting the mountain bear, he re-entered the forest where he had set traps. Meticulously, he checked each one, adjusting and repairing those that might malfunction, before returning to the ambush point. There, he focused his gaze on the narrow mountain road leading to the smuggling channel ahead.

As time passed, the morning's light rain not only persisted but grew heavier. The dense rain obscured the view, making it impossible to see far, and its rhythmic drumming drowned out any unusual sounds. Even Lynd's extraordinary hearing, sharper than that of ordinary humans, was reduced to catching only the endless patter of raindrops.

This situation was both an advantage and a hindrance. On one hand, the heavy rain helped conceal the traps in the forest, making them more effective against the unwary. On the other hand, it dulled Lynd's enhanced senses, preventing him from fully assessing his enemies' movements.

The smoke signal in the distance eventually vanished—perhaps smothered by the rain or because the battle it marked had concluded. Unperturbed, Lynd shifted his posture slightly to ease his stiffened body. He remained at his ambush point, still and patient, despite the rain seeping through his clothes.

After another half hour, Lynd thought he detected a faint sound amid the downpour. Tilting his head, he focused intently in the direction of the forest where his traps lay. Concentrating, he honed his hearing, isolating the myriad sounds that reached him.

For a fleeting moment, his heightened senses seemed to transcend their usual limits. The chaotic cacophony of rain was separated into distinct layers, each sound categorized as though he were skimming a vast library. Every detail stood out with clarity.

This extraordinary state of perception lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough. Lynd discerned the situation in the forest with precision.

"There are 23 people. Thirteen are injured, seven seriously, and six are caught in traps and likely beyond saving." Drawing his weapon, Lynd murmured, "Two are in plate armor—probably knights. They'll be harder to deal with."

Soon, indistinct figures emerged from the rain at the far end of the mountain path. As they approached, Lynd could make out their numbers and equipment more clearly, though the rain blurred the finer details.

As he'd surmised, two warriors in plate armor were at the center of the group, flanked by others. The remaining individuals were a mix—some in leather armor, most in ordinary clothing, wielding spears, with only a few carrying swords. His earlier assessment of their numbers proved slightly off; a few were missing, likely casualties of his traps.

The group emerged from the forest, scanning their surroundings briefly before finding the concealed mountain path leading to the smuggling channel. Without hesitation, they trudged forward. Exhaustion was evident in their movements. Their desperate flight, the fighting, and the relentless rain had drained their strength and dulled their awareness. They neither suspected traps ahead nor anticipated an ambush.

Reaching the foot of the small hill where Lynd lay in wait, the group remained oblivious to his presence, obscured as he was by the rain and foliage. Lynd, however, had no intention of letting them pass or striking from behind. Observing their weary state, he decided to confront them head-on.

As the two plate-armored warriors reached his position, Lynd, having bided his time, sprang into action. Like an arrow loosed from a bow, he surged forward with astonishing speed. In an instant, he was upon the two warriors.

The rain and Lynd's swiftness left the armored men unaware of the impending danger. By the time they sensed something amiss, they glimpsed only the glint of two blades. A sharp coldness cut across their throats where their helmets met their armor, followed by a spreading numbness. Already fatigued, they crumpled to the ground, their bodies twitching weakly as life ebbed away.

After successfully dispatching the two plate-armored warriors, the surrounding bandits remained momentarily frozen in shock, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. Lynd, however, wasted no time. He spun his body in a dramatic motion, channeling the force of his momentum into a sweeping strike. His blade slashed through the air, targeting a cluster of bandits wielding long swords.

The blade struck with precision, finding the vulnerable gaps in their leather armor. It cut through flesh effortlessly, delivering fatal wounds to critical areas. Before the first gush of blood could even spill, Lynd's weapon had already moved to the next target, repeating the brutal efficiency of his strikes.

With each encounter, Lynd further internalized the combat style of the Peacekeepers—a philosophy distilled into four simple words: attack the weak points.

Peacekeepers were not brute-force warriors; in direct confrontation, their strength was only marginally above that of ordinary fighters. Their true power lay in their extraordinary agility, speed, and lethal precision. This mastery allowed Lynd to reap lives with the efficiency of a grim reaper. Within the span of ten seconds, five heavily armed fighters had fallen to his sword.

"Enemy attack!" a panicked shout erupted from the rear ranks. The surviving bandits finally registered the carnage before them. The lifeless bodies of their leaders sprawled on the ground, and in their place stood an unfamiliar figure—a lone, unrelenting killer. Their cry was both a warning to their comrades and a desperate attempt to rally their own courage.

Lynd, unmoved by their cries, pressed forward like a relentless force of nature. His sword swept into the group of spear-wielding bandits. Each swing was calculated, striking at the necks and other unprotected weak points with unerring accuracy. Every strike felled another bandit, their lives snuffed out as easily as weeds cut by a scythe.

The bandits, though aware of the attack, were unable to mount any meaningful defense. The absence of leadership—Lynd had eliminated their commanders in his initial assault—left them in chaos. Moreover, their spears were ill-suited for close combat. They couldn't land a strike on Lynd or protect themselves from his deadly blows. Exhausted, disorganized, and terrified, they stood no chance against his blindingly fast attacks. To them, his weapon was not a sword but a series of fleeting, gleaming arcs of metal.

The group's screams and the sound of collapsing bodies alerted the five bandits who had been scouting ahead. Hearing the commotion, they tightened their grips on their weapons and turned back, only to be met with a horrifying sight. Amidst the pouring rain, their ten or so comrades lay lifeless on the ground, their blood mingling with the rainwater to dye the mountain path a deep red.

At the center of this macabre scene stood Lynd, twin swords in hand, his silhouette blurred by the rain. His cold, piercing gaze cut through the storm, freezing the five in their tracks. It was a gaze that carried the aura of a mythical predator, evoking the dread of an encounter with a legendary White Walker.

Terror surged through them, obliterating any thoughts of resistance. In a blind panic, they turned and fled up the mountain path, shoving each other in their desperation to escape. Each man sought only to save himself, pushing others back in the hope of delaying the pursuer.

This disarray sealed their doom. If they had coordinated and used their spears effectively, they might have forced Lynd into a stalemate near the narrow smuggling tunnel. But their selfish scramble left them defenseless, their backs exposed to the relentless killer.

Lynd capitalized on their vulnerability. Within seconds, the five fell one after another, their attempts to flee cut short by his merciless strikes. They barely managed ten paces before succumbing to his blades.

When the last of the bandits fell, Lynd methodically checked their bodies to confirm they were dead. Only then did he allow himself a brief moment to rest. He left the battlefield as it was, choosing not to clean up or reset the traps immediately. Instead, he entered the forest to inspect the status of the traps he had laid earlier.

His inspection revealed that most of the traps had been triggered—and all with lethal results. No one who had fallen victim to them had survived. A quick tally showed that fourteen bandits had been killed by the traps alone.

Satisfied, Lynd did not bother to collect the bodies or restore the traps. Instead, he positioned himself near the outermost trap and settled into concealment. Patiently, he waited for the next prey to arrive.

About half an hour later, two more groups of escapees—one with seven members and the other with thirteen—emerged from the chaos of the battlefield. It seemed the heavy rain had disrupted the Allied Forces' encirclement of the bandits. Under normal circumstances, given Joel's meticulous planning in the council hall at Standfast, it was unlikely that so many would have slipped through.

These fugitives had been fortunate. The rain provided cover, shielding them from the battlefield's brutality and enabling their escape to what they believed was safety. With no pursuers in sight, they aimed to traverse a relatively small forest to reach the smuggling tunnel and leave the danger behind.

But their hopes were short-lived. The moment they entered the forest, it became their graveyard. Lynd, concealed among the trees, struck from unexpected angles like a phantom. He systematically hunted them, slaying some outright and driving others into lethal traps. The forest, already deadly, became an even more sinister place.

The sheer number of corpses littering the ground left a heavy, metallic stench of blood in the air. This, in turn, attracted carnivores, adding yet another layer of peril to the forest.

Among those now pursuing the remnants of the bandits was Roman Webber, son of Lord Linden Webber and cousin to Emmon Webber, Lord of Coldmoat Castle.

Roman, with his long face and unassuming demeanor, had earned the nickname Gopher in The Reach. It reflected his tendency to remain in his manor, emerging only when he sensed an opportunity for profit—like the current siege against the Red Lake Forest bandits.

While the nickname was derisive, those familiar with Roman knew better than to underestimate him. His cunning had undone many who had made that mistake.

This time, Roman's task was to lead a patrol of 100 men around the battlefield, hunting down stragglers. His primary objective, however, was more sensitive: ensuring that no remnants of the Targaryens—former allies of the Webbers—escaped the siege. Their capture or elimination was paramount.

The operation had initially gone well. By now, Roman and his men should have been celebrating the siege's success. But the unexpected downpour had created chaos. Muddy terrain slowed movement, causing gaps in the encirclement. Seizing on these flaws, the bandit leaders had ordered their men to scatter and exploit the breaches.

While most escapees had been cut down in the attempt, some managed to slip through. Roman, tasked with eliminating these survivors, had his efforts hampered by the same rain that slowed the Allied Forces. Despite killing several escapees, a few had eluded him and fled into the mountainous forest near Standfast.

What caught Roman's attention most, however, were two fugitives in plate armor. Such gear was a rare luxury among common bandits. Its wearers were either individuals of importance or those privy to secrets worth protecting. Determined to capture or kill them, Roman led his men, without pause, into the forest to continue the chase.

The forest was ominous, its canopy dripping with rain and its shadows deeper than ever. Roman's soldiers followed the traces left by the fleeing bandits, pressing forward into the thickets. But their progress was abruptly halted.

They stopped in their tracks, their breaths caught at the sight before them: a corpse suspended from a tree, its feet dangling above the ground. A sharpened stump of wood had impaled the body through the chest. From a distance, the grisly scene gave the chilling impression that the forest itself had struck the fatal blow.