Game of Thrones: Knight’s Honor

Lynd rode into the makeshift camp constructed by the fleeing members of the Bloodshoe Brotherhood. Inside, the men of the First Cavalry Patrol were cleaning up the aftermath, their efforts evident in the grim task of removing bodies. Including the wounded, they had killed a total of 117 enemies.

Despite this decisive outcome, Lynd was far from satisfied with the First Cavalry Patrol's performance. Their task had been straightforward: after Glory had infiltrated the camp and eliminated all the sentries and guards, the cavalry needed only to slip in and dispatch the sleeping bandits. Instead, they had blundered, alerting some of the bandits, who managed to arm themselves and mount a resistance.

Though the poorly prepared bandits ultimately stood no chance against the heavily armed cavalry and were swiftly defeated, the cost had been unacceptable. Several cavalrymen were injured, and one had even lost a hand—an unnecessary and wasteful loss of combat power.

Lynd's assessment of the First Cavalry Patrol was harsh but fair: they were competent but far from exceptional. They required extensive training to refine their combat habits and elevate their performance to an excellent standard.

As the saying goes, one cannot see the whole forest through a bamboo tube. The First Cavalry Patrol's shortcomings hinted at the broader challenge ahead—training the Second Cavalry Patrol and the Guard Unit would likely demand just as much time and effort.

Originally, Lynd had planned to lead his men into battles against smaller bands of outlaws after crossing into the region east of the Mander River. However, this lackluster display forced him to reconsider. Until the cavalry patrols adapted to the new fighting style, training would need to take precedence, with combat becoming a secondary priority.

Lost in thought, Lynd approached the camp's main building. Unlike the other crooked and hastily built structures, this one was sturdier, hinting at its original purpose—likely a sentry post or similar installation.

Inside, the first thing that caught his eye was a pile of coins, their surface marred with indentations and bloodstains, evidence of recent fighting. Bryn Rivers, who was sorting through the money, quickly noticed Lynd's arrival and hurried over to report.

Bryn explained that the leader of the Bloodshoe Brotherhood had been sleeping atop the pile of coins when the cavalry approached. Their clumsy movements had disturbed the heap, collapsing part of it and rousing the leader. This mishap meant that the assassination attempt wasn't entirely successful.

Lynd glanced at the pile. Its glittering surface created a striking visual impression, but the hoard's actual value was less impressive. The top layer contained fewer than a hundred golden dragons, while the middle consisted mostly of silver stags—many of which were tarnished, with blackened surfaces and significant wear. The bottom was littered with halfpennies. A rough estimate placed the total value at just over a hundred golden dragons.

Still, Lynd recognized that his perspective might be skewed. The enormous prize of 20,000 golden dragons from the champion's fund had dulled his sense of money's worth, making this pile seem insignificant. Yet, in truth, 100 golden dragons was a substantial sum—enough to support hundreds of people comfortably for several years, even for a band of bandits or the regular army under a great lord.

"This time, all those who participated in the battle will be rewarded with five silver stags. Those who killed enemies and those who were injured will receive five more, and the one who lost his hand will be given twenty silver stags," Lynd commanded. "Also, ask the one who lost his hand if he is willing to continue fighting for me. If he agrees, after his injury heals, have the smith craft a prosthetic hand for him and assign him as my personal guard."

"Yes, my lord," Bryn Rivers replied.

Lynd then asked, "During the battle just now, did anyone steal anything?"

Bryn Rivers hesitated momentarily before nodding and replying, "Yes, almost everyone did."

Lynd fell silent for a moment, then said, "When everyone has gathered, have those who stole items hand over everything they took. Then give them ten lashes, to be carried out in the center of the camp so everyone can witness. Assign the Second Cavalry Patrol to carry out the punishment."

"My lord, this..." Bryn Rivers hesitated, as though about to plead with Lynd.

Lynd turned to him with a sharp gaze. "This is an order."

"I will obey your commands, my lord," Bryn Rivers responded, bowing his head.

Bryn Rivers was the first to announce Lynd's rewards, and the camp erupted in cheers. For these low-ranking soldiers, no amount of honor compared to the thrill of monetary rewards. Yet, they were unaware of the punishment that would soon follow, and it was uncertain if their joy would last.

After about half an hour, the Guard's Unit, the Second Cavalry Brigade, and the logistics team arrived at the camp. Despite the camp's simplicity and the leaking buildings, it offered much better shelter than enduring the rain in the open. Their arrival brought another wave of cheers.

With the influx of people, the cleanup of the camp gained momentum. Trash was cleared, and corpses were stripped and piled outside, left for the beasts of the land to deal with. The logistics team patched up leaking shelters, sorted the spoils of war, and prepared hot food, while the Guard's Unit took over camp defense.

At Lynd's order, everyone gathered in the central clearing of the camp. Some noticed that most members of the First Cavalry Patrol, except for a few like Bryn Rivers, were standing unarmed in the middle of the field. Their heads hung low, panic etched across their faces. The arrogance they had displayed after their victory and rewards was nowhere to be seen.

Lynd emerged from the main building, raised a hand for silence, and addressed the crowd. "I know you are accustomed to fighting and looting, believing that whatever you seize in battle is yours. This has long been a tradition of war, and no one disputes it. But I must make this clear—I do not like this tradition. In my eyes, when you fight, you should focus on killing the enemy. Rewards will come after the battle, based on your merits. Do not take what does not belong to you. This is my rule, and I expect my men to abide by it."

He paused, scanning the crowd to gauge their reactions, then turned to the First Cavalry Patrol. "Have you handed over everything you looted?"

The men of the First Cavalry Patrol exchanged nervous glances, unsure how to respond. Bryn Rivers stepped forward and answered for them. "My lord, we have handed over everything."

At that moment, a voice from the First Cavalry Patrol shouted in defiance, "Since we captured these things in battle, why aren't they ours?"

The shout came from someone hidden in the crowd. But to his dismay, the other men of the patrol immediately shifted away, leaving him conspicuously alone.

The majority of the First Cavalry Patrol had accompanied Lynd from King's Landing as part of the Highgarden delegation. They had worked with him during his assignment with the scouts and understood his character and principles. Thus, when Lynd imposed punishment, they resigned themselves to it without resistance.

However, a few members of the First Cavalry Patrol were mercenaries hired in King's Landing. Unlike the others, they knew little about Lynd and were accustomed to operating with complete freedom. Their tempers were unchecked, and dissatisfaction led them to speak out impulsively. The man who had shouted was one of them.

Confronting Lynd in such a manner was akin to poking a hornet's nest. Fear flickered briefly across the mercenary's face, but he steeled himself, took a few firm steps forward, and stood before Lynd.

"You say you fought for the item, so it should be yours," Lynd said calmly, his gaze fixed on the man. "So, by your logic, if someone stronger than you takes something from you, then it belongs to them. Is that correct?"

The mercenary hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to respond.

"Scar-Eyed!" Lynd called out.

Scar-Eyed Mitt emerged from the crowd, bowing slightly. "My lord."

Lynd pointed at the mercenary. "He's yours. Take what you can."

"Yes, my lord," Scar-Eyed replied with a sneer, stepping forward.

The mercenary's defiance faltered. He lowered his head, unable to meet Scar-Eyed's gaze. But as Scar-Eyed closed in, the mercenary suddenly drew a hidden dagger from his sleeve and lunged at Scar-Eyed's chest.

Scar-Eyed had anticipated the move. With practiced ease, he sidestepped the attack and swung his spiked iron gauntlet, striking the mercenary's neck. The spikes pierced deep, leaving a gaping wound. Blood gushed from the man's throat as he collapsed, his body trembling briefly before becoming still.

The crowd watched in silence, no one daring to challenge the outcome.

Scar-Eyed knelt and searched the body, retrieving the silver stag given as a reward, along with a few other coins. "My lord, these things should be mine, correct?" he asked, glancing at Lynd as he pocketed the items.

"I said he was yours. Whatever you can take is up to you," Lynd replied. He then addressed the crowd. "Let this be a lesson. Fight earnestly during battle, and your rewards will remain yours. I won't tolerate this behavior again."

No one dared to speak. Lynd looked around, ensuring his words sank in, before nodding toward Scar-Eyed. "Let's get started."

At his signal, the punished members of the First Cavalry Patrol exchanged uneasy glances. Resigned, they removed their shirts and stepped forward. The Second Cavalry Patrol, standing behind them with whips in hand, carried out the punishment under Scar-Eyed's direction. Each man received ten lashes.

Once the punishment ended, the punished men turned to glare at their executioners before being taken to a shelter for rudimentary treatment.

The brewing animosity between the First and Second Cavalry Patrols was evident—precisely what Lynd intended. Creating this tension served his purpose of keeping the groups divided, ensuring they wouldn't unite against him.

The weather over the following days remained rainy, just as Bryn had predicted, leaving the army confined to the camp. However, Lynd's foresight in prioritizing food and fodder ensured that the hundreds under his command had no shortage of provisions.

Even while trapped, Lynd's soldiers were kept busy. Each day, they adhered to a strict training regimen, rain or shine. The men grumbled, but Lynd's insistence on discipline left them no choice.

Fortunately, the dreary weather didn't last. By the fifth day, the rain began to ease, transitioning to intermittent showers. That evening, the skies finally cleared, revealing a brilliant expanse of stars twinkling above the camp.

Looks like it'll be a sunny day tomorrow. I hope it doesn't get too hot," Bryn Rivers said, glancing at the clear night sky. He wasn't pleased that the rain had stopped. His years of experience living in the wilderness had taught him that after rain, sunny days often brought oppressive humidity.

"Tell the logistics department to prepare extra water and ensure everyone's water bottles are filled," Lynd ordered, then turned to Jon Bulwer. "Have you packed everything?"

"It's all packed. We can set off at first light tomorrow," Jon replied, then hesitated before asking, "My lord, are you sure we don't need to burn the camp?"

Lynd shook his head. "No, this is a good camp. It should be kept for future use."

"Do you think we'll be back?" Raul asked, puzzled.

"I think the lord is talking about someone else," Bryn interjected, his tone thoughtful as he elaborated. "This camp is located in a mountain valley, surrounded by hills. It's ideal for concealment. Any bandits roaming the area will likely take it over as their stronghold. When that happens, all we need to do is return here periodically and 'harvest' them, instead of wasting time searching for them elsewhere."

"So it's bait," Raul said, suddenly grasping the idea.

At that moment, Scar-Eyed Mitt entered the camp, dragging a ragged-looking prisoner. Forcing the man to the ground, Scar-Eyed reported, "My lord, we caught this man sneaking around the camp. When we tried to stop him, he attempted to flee, but we caught him."

The prisoner, visibly panicked, stammered, "My lord, I'm not a bad person. I'm just a farmer from the area who got lost in the rain and ended up here."

"Farmer?" Scar-Eyed scoffed, striking the prisoner hard on the head. He grabbed the man's arm and untied the cloth wrapped around his wrist, revealing a scorpion tattoo. "I've never seen a farmer with the mark of the Scorpion Brotherhood on his arm."

The Scorpion Brotherhood was a notorious bandit group that had been active for over a decade. Initially based around the Kingswood, they specialized in ambushing travelers and caravans. However, the rise of the Kingswood Brotherhood forced them to retreat north of Bitterbridge, where they settled in the hilly terrain, targeting merchants along the Roseroad.

Unlike the Bloodshoe Brotherhood, which had greater numbers and infamy, the Scorpion Brotherhood was relatively small, with just over a hundred members. According to information provided by Varys, they were considered a medium-sized bandit group.

Realizing his cover was blown, the prisoner stopped protesting and bowed his head, his expression obscured.

"Scar-Eyed," Lynd said, his voice firm, "I'm entrusting him to you. Before dawn tomorrow, I want to know why the Scorpion Brotherhood sent him here and where their base is. Extract whatever information you can."

"Yes, my lord." Scar-Eyed's lips curled into a menacing grin, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.