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Chapter 169: A Tough Man’s Tender Heart
🕑 Added 2025-02-24 12:26:49 +0000 UTCAfter returning from King’s Landing on business, Lynd gathered the knights waiting outside the camp who intended to follow him. He selected the most reputable among them—Jason Lefford, a member of a side branch of House Lefford of Golden Tooth and a frequent competitor in the Westerlands Tournament. Although he had never won a championship, those who had fought him acknowledged his strength, considering him an exceptionally difficult opponent.
Lynd handed Jason Lefford a letter he had written to Nymeria, instructing him to take the knights to Tumbleton to meet her. In the letter, he informed Nymeria of his expected return and asked her to wait for him at Summerhall. He also mentioned enlisting the knights under Summerhall’s banner, requesting that Malora assess their abilities and assign them appropriate positions.
Additionally, he entrusted Jason with the items he had brought back from The Wall, including a White Walker sacrifice stone and texts from the First Men's library at Castle Black, instructing him to deliver them to Malora.
The following evening, Lynd accompanied Robert on a hunting trip in the nearby countryside. During the hunt, he pointed out to Robert that drinking while hunting was foolish and attempted to curb his habit by challenging him with game that far outmatched Robert’s own kills. However, his efforts proved fruitless.
That night, Robert dragged Lynd to a dinner party hosted by a certain Ser Rick of House Massey from Stonedance in the Crownlands. Ser Rick had served as Robert’s attendant and had been knighted by him during the Usurper’s War. Since then, he had lived in King’s Landing, serving as the captain of the Red Keep’s men-at-arms.
“Lord Lynd, welcome.” At the banquet, Ser Rick, smiling, approached Lynd and greeted him warmly while allowing his beautiful wife to entertain Robert.
“Hello, Ser Rick.” Lynd regarded him with calm indifference, showing no contempt for his actions.
Having understood Robert’s character, many courtiers in King’s Landing had adopted tactics similar to Ser Rick’s—some going even further by allowing Robert to sleep with their wives and daughters in exchange for favor. Robert, however, was not entirely oblivious; he often feigned ignorance once his indulgences were satisfied. Only a select few truly earned his favor, and Rick Massey was one of them. On the way to the banquet, Robert had casually mentioned to Lynd his hope of finding an opportunity for Rick Massey to inherit Stonedance.
“I wonder if the food here meets your satisfaction, my lord?” Ser Rick, standing before Lynd, spoke with an exaggerated humility that resembled a servant’s more than a knight’s.
Lynd eyed him and said bluntly, “Ser Rick, just get to the point. I don’t care for roundabout talk.”
Ser Rick chuckled. “In that case, I will be direct. Someone wishes to meet with you, Lord Lynd.”
Lynd frowned at this. He and Robert had decided to attend this banquet on a whim while returning from the hunt. Logically, no one should have been waiting for him here in advance. The only possibility was that this person had already been at the banquet and had only decided at the last minute to seek him out.
“Lead the way,” Lynd said, curiosity piqued.
Seeing that Lynd had agreed, Ser Rick led him toward a smaller building adjacent to the villa. Entering, they passed through the back door, crossed another threshold, and arrived at the neighboring house.
Upon stepping inside, Lynd was momentarily taken aback at the sight of the person waiting within. His eyes narrowed in surprise as he asked, “Lord Stannis? It was you who wanted to see me?”
To be honest, Lynd had speculated about several possibilities on the way here. He had even considered Cersei and Jon Arryn, but never Stannis.
His relationship with Stannis had never been good. Stannis had always resented him for taking Summerhall, which he believed should have been his. Even in Small Council meetings, Stannis barely spoke to him, his dissatisfaction evident on his face, undisguised and unrelenting.
That was precisely why Lynd had ruled Stannis out as someone who would ever seek a private meeting with him. Yet here he was—Stannis Baratheon, waiting for him in secret.
Stannis maintained his usual cold expression. With a wave of his hand, he gestured for Ser Rick to wait outside, then turned his gaze to Lynd. After a brief hesitation, he finally spoke.
“Lord Lynd, the Faith of the Seven claims that your pet is a sacred beast of the Seven, blessed with the healing powers of the Mother. May I ask if its healing abilities can cure grayscale?”
Lynd quickly understood why Stannis, despite his own preferences and reservations, had sought a private meeting with him. It was solely for the sake of his daughter.
It was clear that Stannis deeply loved Shireen. He was even willing to go against his own nature and meet with someone he disliked if it meant finding a cure for her illness.
“No,” Lynd answered.
At his response, a flicker of disappointment crossed Stannis’s face, though he did not press further. He had no desire for small talk, nor any reason to remain. Without another word, he rose to leave.
As Stannis passed by, Lynd spoke. “If the Lord trusts me, he can send Lady Shireen to Summerhall. My steward, Malora Hightower, has experience treating strange illnesses. She may be able to help Lady Shireen.”
Stannis stopped in his tracks, hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “The Mad Maid of House Hightower?” His expression hardened. “Never mind. I don’t trust her.”
With that, he strode out of the room.
Lynd made no effort to stop him. Though he genuinely liked Shireen Baratheon—that strong-willed little girl—he had no particular inclination to interfere in other people’s affairs.
Ser Rick, who had been waiting outside, seemed surprised that the meeting had ended so quickly. However, he was astute enough not to ask what had been discussed. He simply led Lynd back to the banquet at his villa.
Just as Ser Rick was about to take his leave, Lynd suddenly asked, “Ser Rick, aren’t you one of His Grace’s men? Why are you dealing with Lord Stannis?”
Ser Rick, who had clearly anticipated this question, responded without hesitation. “My lord, perhaps there is a misunderstanding. My loyalty is to House Baratheon.” He paused briefly before adding, “To me, there is no difference between pure steel and black iron; they are both part of the stag.”
After saying this, he excused himself and went to serve Robert, who was already drinking heavily.
Lynd did not linger at the banquet for long. When Robert retreated to the villa’s backyard, it was clear he would not be leaving that night. Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard remained stationed at the villa, except for Jaime, who was otherwise occupied—clearly indulging himself while Robert lay beside someone else’s wife.
On his way back to camp, a low sedan chair stopped him. When the curtain was drawn back, Varys’s large, bald head appeared.
“My lord, if you are not in a hurry to return, we can visit Tobho Mott’s smithy now. He has finished repairing your gauntlets,” Varys suggested.
Lynd considered the proposal for a moment before nodding in agreement.
Since he had attended the banquet, Lynd had not worn his own armor, and his mount, Ebon, had been left at camp. Though his two greatswords made him somewhat distinct, the streets of King’s Landing were filled with knights—both official and wandering—who sought to imitate his style.
Without the contrast of Glory and Ebon and without wearing the distinctive armor of a Banished Knight, Lynd blended into the crowd. From the noble residences near the Red Keep, he made his way to the Street of Steel, passing unnoticed. No one along the way recognized him as the Chosen One.
Even late into the night, the smithies on the Street of Steel were alive with activity. The glow of forges illuminated the streets, and the relentless hammering of metal echoed through the district. Those unaccustomed to the noise would find it impossible to sleep in such an environment.
The smithies operated deep into the night primarily due to the overwhelming demand for weapons.
Fear and unease had spread with the appearance of wights, and many sought to arm themselves for protection. Even noblewomen had begun carrying daggers or other small weapons, causing orders for arms to surge more than tenfold in a short period. With many of these orders coming from powerful nobles, the smiths had no choice but to work tirelessly.
Yet, unlike the other bustling forges, Tobho Mott’s smithy was eerily silent. A few Gold Cloaks stood guard at the entrance—a clear sign that its owner had drawn the ire of someone influential within the Red Keep.
“Halt! This smithy has been—” One of the Gold Cloaks stepped forward to block their path but abruptly fell silent as he recognized Lynd, who had already dismounted.
“Is something going on here?” Lynd asked, feigning ignorance, though he strongly suspected Cersei was behind this.
“Well... someone reported that the owner of this smithy was selling contraband, so we are here to supervise,” one of the Gold Cloaks hastily explained.
Lynd met his gaze and said calmly, “The owner of this smithy, Tobho Mott, has already accepted my invitation to serve as the Master Artisan of Summerhall. If you accuse him of selling contraband, you are effectively accusing me of the same. Does that mean I, too, need to be investigated and placed under your supervision?”
“Of course not, my lord! Of course not!” The Gold Cloaks immediately shook their heads.
Lynd was now the most influential figure in the Seven Kingdoms—not just among the lords, but also among the common folk. His sway far exceeded that of any other man. If the Gold Cloaks dared to place him under arrest, they wouldn’t live long enough to regret it; the fanatical followers of the Faith of the Seven would tear them apart before the king even issued a decree.
“We believe this was a misunderstanding. Now that you are here, my lord, it’s clear that there is nothing wrong with this smithy, and our presence is no longer required,” one of the more quick-witted Gold Cloaks said hurriedly before leading his men away.
Only after they had left did Varys step out of his sedan.
Tobho Mott, having heard the commotion, emerged from his smithy. Upon seeing Varys and Lynd, his tense expression softened, and he greeted them with evident relief before ushering them inside.
“Gendry, you little brat, bring me the gauntlets I finished this afternoon!” Tobho Mott shouted at a young apprentice, who looked no older than six or seven.
The boy quickly ran to the storage room at the back and returned, clutching a steel gauntlet. As he neared Lynd, he tripped over something and tumbled forward.
Before he could hit the ground, Lynd caught him with one hand and snatched the falling gauntlet with the other.
“You clumsy brat! That’s how you do things? I shouldn’t have taken you in for that measly sum of money!” Tobho Mott scolded, fearing the boy’s mistake might have angered Lynd.
But Lynd paid no mind to the smith’s words. Instead, he helped the nervous young apprentice to his feet. One glance was enough—he immediately recognized the boy’s features.
This was Robert’s bastard son, Gendry the Bull.
He glanced at Varys, who also knew the boy’s true identity—his expression made that clear.
“Since you’ve been paid, you must teach him well so that he can become a true smith, understand, Master Tobho?” Lynd said, making no show of favor or special treatment for Robert’s son. It was merely a reminder.
“Yes, my lord, I understand! I will teach him well!” Tobho Mott answered swiftly, then motioned for Gendry to return inside.
Lynd inspected the restored steel gauntlets, slipping them on and flexing his fingers. Satisfied, he nodded.
The design of the Banished Knight gauntlets allowed for easy replacement; if the outer steel armor was damaged while the inner components remained intact, only the outer shell needed repair. They had been restored quickly and looked as good as new.
“Who have you offended? Why are the Gold Cloaks targeting you?” Lynd asked as he flexed his fingers.
“My lord, I have no idea! I was targeted without reason. Not only did I lose my outstanding orders, but I’ve also been restricted in obtaining raw materials,” Tobho Mott said, bewildered.
“The order sent to Commander Slynt came from the Hand of the King’s residence,” Varys interjected.
Tobho Mott looked puzzled. “By the Seven, I’ve never offended Lord Arryn…”
Varys offered a knowing look. “Though the order came from the Hand’s residence, that does not mean it came from Lord Arryn himself. Someone is displeased with your recent actions.”
Tobho Mott furrowed his brows in confusion, struggling to recall who he might have angered.
“Gulltown,” Varys hinted.
“Ser Petyr Baelish?” Tobho Mott immediately understood. His eyes widened.
