"I wish to apologize for my doubts." Garlan Tyrell stepped forward, saluted Linden with care, and said, "Ser Linden, your swordplay is indeed as exquisite and splendid as the tales claim. I hope your skill may serve the Tyrells well in days to come."
When he had spoken, Garlan ordered his attendants to find chambers for Linden and Joel, and to prepare fresh clothing and other necessities for Linden.
Linden was taken aback by Garlan's words, for it was plain that the young Tyrell meant to claim him as a direct retainer of Highgarden.
Joel had recommended him to Ser Feremond. By rights, his place should have been with House Crane, for Joel, Feremond, and even Whitegrove—the village of his birth—were sworn to Red Lake and the Cranes. Though as a hunter he was a free man and not bound to Red Lake's lands, once he became Ser Feremond's squire, his name would by custom be tied to House Crane.
Yet Garlan's words now implied otherwise—that he would take Linden from the Cranes and make him a man of House Tyrell. For Linden, this was no small fortune.
Ser Feremond Crane was a renowned swordsman of the Reach, captain of the Highgarden guard, and tutor in arms to the Tyrell heirs. But House Crane itself was riven by strife. The defeated branch of the family now dwelt in Highgarden, their only holdings a manor granted by the Tyrells and a few properties in the city. Once lords in their own right, they had become courtiers, dependent upon their liege. The most Ser Feremond could offer Linden was the chance of knighthood.
House Tyrell, however, was another matter. Though they had chosen the losing side in Robert's Rebellion, they had done the Baratheons little true harm. When Robert Baratheon took the Iron Throne, he did not punish them harshly, as shown by the fact that the Tyrells remained Wardens of the South.
Moreover, Robert's own bold and martial nature made him respect the Reachmen who had given him such hard battle—most of all Lord Randyll Tarly. For that reason, he bore no ill will toward House Tyrell.
What is more, the Tyrells had continued throughout the year to seek favor with the Iron Throne by every means at their disposal. The results were modest, yet not without effect. From Lord Mace Tyrell's first attendance at the birth feast of Joffrey Baratheon, to Highgarden's invitation to the tourney held in honor of the Baratheon heir, it was plain that relations between the Tyrells and the crown were slowly improving.
With no great pressure from without, the Tyrells also turned their strength inward, moving to bring the Reach more firmly under their hand. Houses Fossoway of New Barrel, Florent of Brightwater, and Rowan of Goldengrove—all proud of their ancient blood—were reminded that there was no lack of chances to prove their loyalty to Highgarden.
Though Linden's mind was full of thoughts stirred by Ser Garlan's words, his face betrayed nothing. Sheathing his blades, he followed the attendant with Joel to the quarters prepared for them. As they walked, he kneaded the muscles of his arms, sore from the strain of the duel.
The fight had lasted little more than a minute, yet it had taxed him sorely. His sudden slowing at the end had been from sheer exhaustion. Though Ser Feremond had declared the match a draw, Linden knew in his heart he had lost.
He had long been aware of his weakness in endurance. Back in Whitegrove, he had begun a regimen to strengthen his body, and the results had been swift and real. Yet even so, his stamina was not enough to sustain him through a contest of such intensity. Strength of body could not be built in a day, and he knew this flaw would remain with him for some time.
As he pondered how best to overcome it, they came to a small outbuilding within the manor grounds. There the attendants lodged Linden and Joel in separate chambers on the second floor. After asking what they required, the servants withdrew. Soon after, several maids returned to lead them down to the baths below, where they were washed and refreshed.
Joel did not know if it was embarrassment at bathing beside Linden, or fear that some misstep might mar his standing with the Tyrells, but though the maids attended him, he did nothing untoward.
As for Linden, he asked for no service at all, but bathed himself, as was his habit.
When they were dressed in fresh clothes, Joel looked at Linden and said with a teasing grin, "You must still be a maiden, eh? You ought to try it when you have the chance. Fine wine and fair women are the only true pleasures in this world."
"Wine and women?" Linden rolled his eyes. "You drink two cups of mead and are laid low by a common footpad. Would you have those women leave you as helpless as well?"
"You wretch!" Joel cursed, but said no more.
When he returned to his chamber, he found the attendants had already set out food and wine. The fare was fine indeed—Arbor gold among it—and Joel could not resist carrying it into Linden's room. Eating and drinking, after all, was best shared.
"Did they not bring you food and wine?" Joel asked, surprised to see Linden's table bare.
"You forget, I do not drink," Linden replied. "As for food, I ate already at the tavern. There is no need for more."
Joel did not press him. He poured himself a cup, drained it in one swallow, and poured another. Yet even as he drank, he seemed troubled.
After his second cup, Linden asked, "Did you come only to have me watch you drink?"
Joel was silent a moment, then said in a low, uncertain voice, "It's truly astonishing."
Linden blinked, thinking at first Joel spoke of him. But soon he realized he was mistaken. The man Joel called powerful was someone else.
"The Tyrells' power as Wardens of the South is not to be compared with that of lesser houses," Joel sighed. "For even a boy of ten can employ quiet stratagems. Such things are unseen in other families. It is no wonder the Tyrells have held the Reach in check for so many years."
"Are you worried for the future of House Crane?" Linden asked.
Joel rolled his eyes. "The future of House Crane is no concern of mine. That is for the elders of the house to fret over. And even if misfortune should befall the Cranes who now hold Red Lake, there is still another branch to endure. The house will not vanish."
"In that case, why so melancholy?" Linden asked, puzzled.
Joel only glanced at him and said nothing. After two more swallows of wine, he seemed a little drunk, and spoke more freely. Like an elder, he counseled Linden on what to mind if he entered the service of House Tyrell. Then he bade him rest, rose, and returned to his chamber. Soon the sound of his snoring could be heard through the wall.
Joel's behavior left Linden unsettled. He could not fathom why the man had grown so sentimental, so unlike the companion who had traveled with him from Goldengrove.
Then a voice came from the doorway: "He sees in you the shadow of his former squire. Your age and temper are much alike, though your swordplay differs. He once sent that boy to Ser Barristan, but the lad erred before the Mad King, and Aerys had him tortured to death."
Linden's expression hardened. He raised his head toward the door. An ordinary‑looking old man in servant's garb stood there, though Linden had not noticed when he arrived.
From his words, it was plain he had lingered there for some time, overhearing Joel's counsel. Yet neither Joel nor Linden had marked his presence. That alone made Linden wary.
It was one thing for Joel to miss him, but Linden's senses had been sharpened since his rebirth. He could hear every sound within twenty or thirty paces—footsteps, voices, even the rhythm of breathing.
But now, though he saw the man clearly, he heard nothing. No breath, no sound at all. As if the old man were no more than an apparition.
Linden was still reeling from the old man's sudden appearance when the figure in the doorway spoke.
"Do not be alarmed. I am but a man who has lost both name and station. I only wished to glimpse an old friend of mine. I should have left in silence, but your swordplay stirred my curiosity, and so I stand before you."
"Your friend—Joel?" Linden asked warily. Though the man's tone held no malice, Linden's hand remained on the hilt of his sword.
"He was but an accident. As are you." The old man paid no heed to Linden's guarded stance. He only shook his head, unwilling to linger on the matter. Instead, he asked, "Tell me—was your master in swordplay a water dancer?"
"No," Linden said flatly.
"Is that so?" The old man's brow furrowed. "Strange. Your style differs from the water dancers, yet your footwork is near the same. It seems to me you have taken their steps and refined them, shaping them to suit the use of two blades. There are but a handful in Essos who could manage such a thing—and only one in all Westeros." His voice grew grave as he fixed Linden with a searching look. "Are you certain your teacher was not a water dancer?"
"I am certain," Linden replied, his expression firm. Then, with deliberate weight, he added, "All men are mortal, and all men must serve. Tell me—was the master of the water dancers your quarry? Or rather, the master of the Faceless Men of Braavos?"
At that, the old man's eyes widened. He neither confirmed nor denied the charge, but regarded Linden with open surprise. "If memory serves, you are but a common hunter. You have never left the Reach, much less set foot in Essos. How then do you know of the Faceless Men of Braavos?"
Linden gave no answer. Instead, he drew his twin blades, the steel whispering in the quiet chamber, and leveled them at the old man.
"I would see the fabled swordplay of the Faceless Men with my own eyes," he said. "Cross blades with me, and I will tell you whence my knowledge comes."
The old man shook his head. "If you know the Faceless Men, then you know this: they kill only those marked by the Many‑Faced God. You are not one of them."
Even as he spoke, footsteps and voices sounded below in the hall. Servants, no doubt, come to clean the baths.
At the noise, the old man lost interest. He inclined his head to Linden in a brief salute, then slipped back into the shadows.
Linden did not stand idle. He gave chase, but the man was gone from the doorway. With his keen sight he glimpsed a figure leaping to a tree beyond the attic, then vaulting to the wall and vanishing into the night.
Seeing he was gone, Linden returned to his chamber, barred the door, and lay upon the bed. He did not sheathe his swords, but kept them close at hand.
Though no harm had come to him, the encounter had been a lesson. The pride he had felt after crossing blades with Ser Feremond Crane was gone. He understood now the gulf between fire and ice. The world held many hidden powers and nameless foes who could end him in an instant. One careless step, and he might die without warning.
So he lay half‑asleep, half‑awake, never loosening his guard until dawn.
When he heard Joel stirring in the next room, Linden went to him at once and told him all that had passed.
Joel was stunned at first, then his face darkened, as if some old memory had returned to him. "Think no more of the Faceless Men," he said curtly, and would speak no further.
Yet before he departed, Joel sought out Ser Feremond Crane and spoke long with him in private. Afterward, the guards about young Garlan Tyrell were doubled, and Ser Feremond scarcely left the boy's side, as though they feared an assassin's blade.