In the tales shown on the mummers' stage, the continent of Westeros seems small, its cities lying close together, no more than a few days' ride apart. In truth, the Seven Kingdoms are vast, and the distances between their great seats are measured not in days, but in long months of travel—sometimes years.
Linden, for instance, had gone from Goldengrove to New Barrel in but four or five days, borne swiftly downriver. Had he taken the roads, the journey would have lasted more than a month, and that only if the ways were sound. In poor weather or rough country, it might have taken twice as long.
When the Tyrell host departed New Barrel, they marched northeast along the Rose Road. With halts along the way, it was near a month before they reached Bitterbridge.
Lord Alester Caswell, forewarned of their coming, was waiting outside his castle to greet Ser Garlan Tyrell and his company. He declared that a feast had been prepared in their honor, and begged them to stay the night before continuing on the morrow, as courtesy demanded.
Eager to win favor with Highgarden, Lord Caswell humbled himself greatly, and Ser Garlan could find no cause to refuse. The host encamped outside Bitterbridge, while Garlan and the knights and lords of the company entered the castle to attend the feast.
Linden, though sworn as Ser Feremond Crane's squire, was not of rank to sit at such a table. He remained in camp with the other retainers, content with the food and drink provided by Lord Caswell's kitchens.
In more than a month's march, Linden had learned little of swordplay from Ser Feremond. The knight told him plainly that he had no more to teach him in the arts of war, and bade him continue his own training as before. What Feremond could teach him now was the service of a squire.
So Linden's days were filled with tending Feremond's warhorse, cleaning and oiling his armor and blades, and learning the courtesies expected of a knight's attendant. In the hours left to him, he pursued his own regimen of strength and endurance, and drilled himself in the tactics of fighting in company.
Yet what proved most useful to him was not the training of arms, but the lessons of the mind.
Each night, at Ser Feremond's request, Maester Holly instructed Linden in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, the lineages of the great houses, and the sigils and words of every noble family.
Linden's knowledge of the world of ice and fire had first come from the tales of his former life—dramas and forum debates—and from a book of lore about Westeros and Essos. Curiously, Maester Holly told him that such a book truly existed in the Citadel, though only a few maesters were permitted to read it. Beyond that, Linden knew little of the true Westeros.
Though such lessons did not sharpen his sword‑arm, the knowledge was of great worth, for it might one day help him rise to higher station.
Maester Holly hailed from a minor house sworn to the Tyrells, and was learned in history and letters. He marched now with the Tyrell host bound for King's Landing, though he was no blood of Highgarden himself.
At first, the maester had been reluctant to teach Linden—not from disdain for his birth, but because the task consumed too much of his time. Yet as the days passed, his manner softened. From reluctance he grew eager, even calling Linden to his carriage on the road to finish lessons left incomplete.
The change came because Holly, for the first time, felt the joy of teaching.
His own family lay on the marches between the Reach and Dorne, where strife with the Dornish was common. They prized arms above all else, and cared little for books. Their children were taught only the courtesies of nobility and a smattering of local history. To such a house, Holly's learning was of little use.
His journey to King's Landing had another cause. A friend in the city had written to him, saying that Grand Maester Pycelle meant to compile a history of House Targaryen, and sought a maester with a red copper link to aid him. Holly was well‑known for his knowledge of history, and fit the need exactly. His friend, knowing his discontent in service to his own lord, urged him to seize the chance.
The very day he received the letter, Holly resigned his post and set out alone. Fortune favored him: he fell in with several caravans bound for Highgarden and reached the city unharmed.
There he learned that House Tyrell was sending a company to King's Landing for the great tourney, and so he joined their train.
So when Ser Feremond came to Maester Holly and asked him to instruct Linden, the maester could not refuse. The swordplay Linden had shown at the New Barrel garrison had left a deep impression on him, and with the songs of the bear‑hunter still fresh in men's mouths, Holly had at first thought of Linden as no different from the highborn pupils he had once taught.
Yet after only a few days, he discovered how wrong he had been. Linden showed a rare eagerness for every scrap of knowledge. Beyond the lessons Holly had prepared, he pressed for more, asking questions outside the course, even debating points of lore with the maester. At times Holly himself could not answer the boy's questions.
What shocked him most was Linden's gift for learning. He mastered nearly all that was taught at a single hearing, and after reading a book but once, he could recall it entire. It gave Holly the queer feeling that a sphinx dwelt within the boy.
"You should go to the Citadel!" became the words he repeated daily.
Word of this soon reached Ser Garlan Tyrell. Once he confirmed Linden's extraordinary ability, he permitted him to borrow from the books he had brought on the journey—though only one at a time.
Linden's talent caused another stir within the company, though not so great as the uproar when he had first been named the bear‑hunter. After the duel with Ser Feremond, knights, soldiers, servants, and grooms alike had whispered guesses about his true identity. Some had even supposed him the bear‑hunter himself, for he fought with two blades. But the thought was quickly dismissed; he seemed far too young and slight to match the figure sung of in the ballads.
The very next day, however, Ser Garlan announced openly that the bear‑hunter Linden had entered the service of House Tyrell. Only then did the truth sink in.
After the first shock, the company welcomed him readily. The road to King's Landing was long and fraught with peril, and one more proven warrior was no small comfort.
In the month that followed, Linden met with no scorn or hardship as a newcomer. The duel with Ser Feremond had already shown all how formidable he was, and any with eyes could see how highly Ser Garlan valued him. Whether lord, knight, guard, or groom, all treated him with respect—and many sought his friendship besides.
Some of the friendships offered to Linden were genuine, while others had been urged by their betters. For that reason, both Ser Feremond and Ser Garlan watched him closely during this time, to see whether he would be led astray by flattery.
Linden's conduct pleased them greatly. When faced with deliberate courtesies, he bore himself with the ease of a true noble, neither puffed up by praise nor made arrogant by attention. Instead, he remained humble, eager to learn from all about him. From the grooms he learned how to tend horses, from the men‑at‑arms how to keep armor and blades in good repair, from the servants what courtesies were due to lords of differing rank.
What satisfied Ser Garlan and Ser Feremond most, however, was Linden's discipline. Each day was ordered with care, every task set to its proper time, his life ruled by a strict rhythm of his own making. In this, he reminded them of Lord Randyll Tarly. To the common men of the host, such discipline was not endearing, yet it won him respect. Still, it was his prowess in arms that drew their admiration most.
Since Ser Feremond's training was largely unstructured, Linden followed his own regimen, strengthening his body and honing his skill. The drills of strength he could do alone, but for the practice of battle he needed others. Thus his sparring became a daily entertainment for the camp. Unlike most, he did not fight one against one, but one against many.
At first he faced four men, then five or six, until he had mastered the rhythm of fighting several foes at once. When that no longer pressed him, he bade his sparring partners don armor, take up shields and spears, and form ranks against him. Only then did he feel true strain, and more than once he came near to defeat.
For the rest of the company, these contests were a welcome diversion from the tedium of the march. They gathered round the yard to watch, cheering Linden and his sparring partners alike. Even the maids would sometimes toss wildflowers at the fighters when the bout was done—and most often the blossoms fell at Linden's feet.
Through these daily trials, his strength and skill became plain to all. Respect for him grew with each passing day, until, though he was but a knight's squire, his voice carried more weight in the Tyrell company than that of many sworn knights.
This stirred no small envy among certain knights and lesser lords. Some sought to whisper against Linden in Ser Garlan's ear, but their words found no purchase. That Linden was not invited to the feast at Bitterbridge Castle owed something to such men. Otherwise, even a squire of low degree might have been given a place at the hall's far end.
Linden himself cared little for the slight, far less than his jealous detractors imagined. After supping in the camp, he went alone to a flat stretch of ground beyond the town, where he practiced his daily throwing drills.
Among the Peacemaker's teachings was the art of hurling weapons. Such skill could prove deadly in single combat, though less suited to the press of battle. Still, Linden judged that practice could do no harm.
In time, he came to see he had underestimated the art. With the right weapons, thrown blades could be as deadly in the melee as in the duel. The key was not to cast away the swords in his hands, but to carry smaller arms—throwing knives, hand‑axes, short spears—that could be loosed at need.
Yet no smith traveled with the Tyrell host, only cobblers and craftsmen. Thus Linden could not fashion the weapons he desired, and was forced to borrow daggers and axes from the men‑at‑arms for his practice.
Though night had fallen and no fire burned nearby, the sky was clear and the moon bright, so he could see well enough. Indeed, he welcomed the chance to hone his skill in darkness.
After striking his marks again and again upon the trees, Linden judged the exercise too simple. He needed moving targets to test himself further.
As he pondered the next step, he heard footsteps approaching.
Since his encounter with the Faceless Man, Linden had trained his senses with care, no longer relying only on the strange gifts his rebirth had given him. Though his practice had been short, it was already bearing fruit.
From the weight and rhythm of the steps, he guessed the size and shape of the newcomers. When he turned to look, his eyes confirmed what his ears had told him, and he smiled in quiet satisfaction.
Two men approached. One was Raul, a guardsman sworn to House Tyrell, who had lately taken to sparring with Linden and counted himself among his friends.
The other man wore the livery of a Bitterbridge guard. He stood half a head taller than Linden, broad of shoulder and thick of arm, his muscles straining the cloth of his tunic. Though near Linden's own age, he sought to appear older by growing a beard, yet the whiskers were thin and patchy, no more than a boy's downy fuzz.