Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

It was already late at night when Lynd returned to the camp. The reason for his delay was that he had gotten lost in the forest.

Normally, with his abilities, such a thing was unthinkable, but this time, he truly had been lost. What made it even stranger was the peculiar way it happened. He had the distinct feeling that the forest itself was shifting around him, as if it were alive. The unsettling thought crossed his mind that perhaps the Child of the Forest, Spark, was playing tricks on him.

As for why Spark might do such a thing, Lynd suspected it was payback. He had coveted Spark's magical potion before, and somehow, Spark must have sensed it. This might have been Spark's way of teaching him a lesson.

Fortunately, despite the ordeal, Lynd wasn't seriously harmed. He had merely expended some energy and, on the way back, managed to hunt a few rabbits to feed the little one he carried in his arms.

The small creature nestled against him had been remarkably well-behaved, barely stirring, as if Lynd's clothes were the perfect sleeping bag. With nothing else to occupy his mind during the walk, Lynd decided to give it a name: Glory.

"You're finally back. I was about to send someone into the forest to look for you," the scout captain said as he rushed over, alerted by the night watchman to Lynd's return. His voice was sharp with concern, but his expression softened once he had given Lynd a thorough once-over and confirmed he wasn't hurt.

The scout captain, however, seemed skeptical. If Lynd had truly hunted the Shadowcat, he would surely bear some wounds and bring back its corpse as proof.

"It was too dark, and I got lost in the forest," Lynd explained curtly.

The scout captain didn't press further. Instead, he patted Lynd on the shoulder and said, "Lord Garlan and Lord Vortimer are waiting for you in the hall tent. You'd better go right away."

Lynd froze at the mention of their names. Without asking why they wanted to see him, he followed the captain to the inn's main hall.

The hall was warm and dry, thanks to several large bonfires that dispelled the dampness of the rainy weather. Nobles and knights were scattered about, some already asleep in clean corners, while retainers remained alert, ready to answer their lords' summons.

In the center of the hall stood a conspicuous tent, its flickering firelight casting shadows on the cloth. The figures inside were clearly still awake.

As soon as Lynd approached, a squire seated by the entrance rose and gestured for him to wait. The squire entered the tent and whispered to Garlan and Vortimer, gently rousing them from their light slumber.

"Lynd, come in!" Vortimer called out once he was awake enough to speak.

Lynd lifted the curtain and stepped inside, but the rainwater soaking his clothes dripped onto the carpeted floor. Not wanting to dirty it further, he stopped at the edge.

"Don't worry about the carpet," Garlan said, rubbing his eyes. "I didn't want it here in the first place. It was their idea, so it's fine if it gets a little wet." He glanced at Lynd and sighed. "From the looks of it, you didn't catch the Shadowcat."

"No, I caught it," Lynd replied calmly. "But I didn't kill it."

"Didn't kill it?" Garlan echoed, clearly taken aback.

Before Lynd could elaborate, Vortimer noticed movement in his arms. Something alive. Pointing to it, he asked, "Is that your reward for tracking the Shadowcat?"

"Yes," Lynd confirmed, carefully lifting the albino Shadowcat cub he had been carrying. "This little one was given to me by its mother—the Shadowcat I was tracking."

Both Garlan and Vortimer stared in stunned silence at the cub. Its rare, snowy-white coat gleamed in the firelight, leaving them speechless for a long moment.

By the following morning, the rain had ceased. Though the ground remained muddy, it was a marked improvement from the previous day. As usual, the scouts went ahead to survey the terrain.

This time, however, Lynd, the team's central figure, was accompanied by the albino Shadowcat cub—a creature so rare it drew astonished gazes wherever they went.

The story of Lynd's encounter had already begun to spread among the camp. Those who had joined him on the hunt shared tales of how he had tracked the Shadowcat, and rumors about the Ten Hunting Trials gained new life in the retelling.

Lynd's prolonged absence had sparked speculation and unease among the camp. After all, they were deep in the Kingswood, where even Lynd's renowned swordsmanship might be of limited use. The forest was a perfect hunting ground for the Shadowcat, a predator that could silently approach its prey, tear open its throat in one swift move, and kill with unparalleled precision. Even seasoned knights would struggle to fend off its stealthy attacks. As the night grew later, murmurs spread that the Bear Hunter might have met his end this time.

When Lynd finally returned, unharmed and without even a scratch to suggest a fight, the camp collectively assumed he had failed to track the Shadowcat. Yet shortly afterward, word spread from the post hall that Lynd had indeed found and subdued the creature—not by killing it, but by capturing it alive. According to the story, Lynd had discovered the Shadowcat was a female with cubs. Abiding by his personal code as a hunter, he had chosen to let her go.

As Lynd prepared to leave, the Shadowcat reportedly blocked his path and presented him with one of her cubs, an exceptionally rare albino. At first, the camp dismissed this tale as an absurd fabrication. The idea of a Shadowcat, a notoriously wild and untamable beast, displaying gratitude or even human-like reasoning seemed preposterous.

But when Lynd stepped out of the post hall holding the albino cub in his arms, the skepticism gave way to astonishment. The sight left the camp stunned, and the reverence in their gazes toward Lynd grew. Such an event belonged more to legend than reality, and to many, Lynd now seemed like a figure from those very stories.

This was precisely the impression Lynd had intended to create. He carefully omitted any mention of the involvement of the Child of the Forest or the Faceless Men and subtly altered the narrative. To him, slaying a Shadowcat would elevate him to the status of a skilled hunter, but having the beast willingly offer its cub made him appear as a legendary hero.

Moreover, Lynd didn't need to spread the story himself—others would do it for him. Stories passed on by others held far more weight than self-promotion.

By the next morning, the entire Tyrell entourage was buzzing with the tale of the Shadowcat. Curious onlookers flocked to the rangers' encampment, eager to see the albino cub for themselves. Any lingering doubts were dispelled when they witnessed the cub's fierce attachment to Lynd, growling and baring its teeth at anyone who came too close.

However, not everyone was impressed. Many of the Highgarden nobles and knights in the group felt resentment toward Lynd. To them, someone of his humble origins was unworthy of such extraordinary experiences. Their jealousy led them to question the story's authenticity, but when Garlan pressed them for concrete reasons for their doubts, they faltered. Lynd had become like a hedgehog—difficult to criticize without wounding oneself.

In their frustration, they seized upon the albino cub's unique appearance. Albino animals were often viewed with superstition in Westeros, regarded as harbingers of misfortune or even evil. Folktales spoke of albino beasts as soul-devourers, creatures whose victims would wander between life and death, unable to find rest, and eventually transform into White Walkers.

While Garlan dismissed such superstitions as nonsense and held no prejudice against deformities in animals or people, he recognized the need to address the opinions of those around him. Yet he had no intention of acting against Lynd simply to appease jealous nobles.

That night, while repairing the harnesses, Garlan instructed a servant to craft a collar for Lynd. The gesture was a subtle signal of his support.

Lynd had already been planning to make a collar for Glory. Despite its loyalty to him, the cub retained a wild nature around others, and an incident had recently driven the point home—Raul had inadvertently been bitten, losing a small piece of flesh to the cub's sharp teeth. Until Glory could be properly trained, Lynd resolved to keep it restrained with a collar and leash to prevent further harm.

Glory had no inkling of the impending challenges his new collar symbolized. On the contrary, he viewed it as a gift—a toy, even—and spent hours amusing himself with it, blissfully unaware of its true purpose.

The journey that followed proceeded without incident. The rain ceased entirely, and after three more days of travel, the group emerged from Kingswood. They arrived at the end of the Roseroad, where it intersected with the Copper Gate Road and the Kingsroad.

This intersection marked the exit from Kingswood and the approach to the Blackwater Bridge, a crucial passage connecting the Southlands and Crownlands.

Given its strategic importance, one might have expected a fortress or at least a garrison stationed there. Yet, there was only an abandoned barracks, a remnant of the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood. The barracks had been left to decay after the Brotherhood's defeat, and even under Robert Baratheon's reign, no effort had been made to fortify the location.

Perhaps Robert deemed the Copper Gate Road, leading to Storm's End, secure enough without additional defenses, trusting his house's domain.

However, as House Tyrell's procession reached the intersection, a group emerged from the decrepit barracks. Numbering around a hundred, these men wore black armor complemented by golden cloaks—a striking yet impractical choice. Their weapons were simple but functional: hammers at their waists and iron-headed spears in their hands.

"They must be the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing," Raul murmured to Lynd, leaning in to share the observation.

Lynd, following Raul's lead, carefully studied the Gold Cloaks before his gaze fixed on the man leading them.

This figure was tall and strikingly handsome, with flowing golden hair and piercing green eyes brimming with confidence. His lips, slightly upturned at the corners, gave him an air of sharp arrogance. He wore extravagant armor and a white cloak that flowed over his shoulders. Beneath it, a beautifully decorated sword, partially concealed, swung slightly with his movements.

"Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer." Lynd recognized him instantly. The man's distinct appearance, combined with the lion emblem on his armor, left no doubt about his identity.

It wasn't just Lynd who recognized him. Everyone in the Tyrell group knew who Jaime Lannister was, and their reactions were almost universal—expressions of disdain and disgust. Even Garlan, usually composed and reserved, failed to hide his contempt.

Jaime had earned his infamy during the War of the Usurper by breaking his sacred oath and slaying the Mad King Aerys, whom he was sworn to protect. This act had solidified his reputation as the most dishonorable knight in the Seven Kingdoms, a label that eclipsed all others.

Yet Jaime seemed unaffected by the scorn directed his way. He had grown used to such looks over the years. Once, he might have been provoked by them, but now he faced them with unshaken poise, knowing that any attempt to explain himself would fall on deaf ears. Instead, he kept his head high, as if to ensure the metaphorical crown he bore did not slip.

As Jaime's gaze swept over the Tyrell soldiers, he noticed one set of eyes that differed from the rest. Among the sea of contempt, one person looked at him with a calm, neutral expression, entirely devoid of disdain. Intrigued, Jaime's attention lingered momentarily on this individual before shifting to Garlan Tyrell, who had stepped forward with Vortimer at his side.

"I've heard of you, the Gallant Garlan," Jaime said, riding closer to the Tyrell knight. His tone was mocking as he gave Garlan an appraising look. "Judging by your appearance, you don't seem to have much in common with being gallant."

The flippant remark immediately stirred resentment among the Tyrell party. Knights and nobles bristled, while Vortimer's hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, though the motion went unnoticed by most.

Jaime, however, seemed impervious to their indignation. The smirk on his face deepened, and his disdainful confidence showed he cared little for their opinions—or any subtle threats Vortimer might offer.