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Chapter 143: The Real Schemer
🕑 Added 2025-02-12 13:13:13 +0000 UTCThis was Lynd's first time officiating a marriage ceremony. The people had built a simple wedding altar in the camp, where most of the inhabitants had gathered to witness the event.
Lynd stood at the altar, flanked by temporary representations of the Father and Mother. Under the guidance of the Maester of Blackhaven, he performed the rituals of prayer, oath-taking, and song before having the couple kneel in front of him. There, they exchanged cloaks and recited their marital vows.
"In the presence of gods and mortals, I, Lynd Tarran, in the name of the Chosen of the Seven, solemnly declare Russell, knight of House Tarran, and Obella of House Wyl to be husband and wife. From this day forward, you are one—one body, one heart, and one soul for all eternity. Let it be known that any who dare to interfere with your union shall be mercilessly cursed."
As Lynd recited the marriage vows, Obella, who had been visibly tense, finally relaxed, while Russell appeared overwhelmed with excitement.
It wasn’t just the marriage itself that thrilled him. Lynd had granted him the surname Tarran, officially accepting him into the house. This gave him both status and the confidence to stand as an equal to his new wife in the years to come.
After concluding the marriage negotiations, Lynd did not attend the modest wedding feast set up in the camp. Instead, he made his way toward Lothor Brune, who had just finished discussing ambush plans with the Wildling King.
At that moment, Lothor watched his colleague, now the center of attention, surrounded by well-wishers. A flicker of envy crossed his face. The other man’s status had become something entirely different—perhaps, in the future, they would have to address him as Lord.
“Are you envious?” Lynd asked as he approached.
“A little,” Lothor admitted honestly, then added, “But even if I had been in his place and Obella Wyl had chosen me, I probably wouldn’t have accepted.”
“Why not?” Lynd asked, somewhat surprised.
“Because it’s not what I want,” Lothor said, shaking his head. “Even though Russell' status has suddenly risen, he can’t go any further. And if he and Obella have children, they’ll all carry the name Wyl. Russell will never be able to establish his own hereditary house.”
“It’s good that you understand that. Stay clear-headed and don’t let short-term gains cloud your judgment,” Lynd said, patting Lothor on the shoulder. “And don’t worry—there will be opportunities in the future.”
“Understood, my lord,” Lothor nodded.
“How are things progressing?” Lynd asked, shifting back to the matter at hand.
“It’s all arranged,” Lothor replied. “Tomorrow morning, he will send someone to take us across the river and secure the ambush site in advance, avoiding detection by the guards at Wyl Castle. When night falls, the exchange will take place there. At that point, we’ll strike the guards while waiting for his signal.”
Lynd nodded, then waved to Jon, signaling him to bring the bag that had been prepared in the tent. Once he had it, he tossed it to Lothor. “Come with me. It’s time to meet the soldiers you’ll be leading.”
Lothor weighed the bag in his hands, immediately recognizing the familiar heft of coins, though he didn’t open it. Instead, he followed after Lynd, asking curiously, “Aren’t I leading the cavalry patrols in the camp?”
“Of course not,” Lynd said firmly. “Apart from you, none of us will be directly involved in the ambush against the Lord of Wyl.”
Lothor didn’t press the matter further and silently followed behind. His outward demeanor remained composed, but the way he absently took out a knife and began slicing an apple suggested he was not as calm as he appeared.
The two soon left the camp, passing through the Boneway and entering a dense forest on its western side. After walking for a while, they finally reached a clearing at the foot of a cliff.
The open space was already crowded with people, all wearing the uniforms of Lynd’s soldiers. However, their garments looked slightly bulky, as though they had been layered over other clothing. Each one had their head wrapped in hoods and cloth, obscuring their faces.
As soon as Lynd and Lothor appeared, the group tensed, drawing their weapons warily.
But when they recognized Lynd, they immediately relaxed. Then, in unison, they all knelt, expressing their reverence for him in the language of the wildlings—a tongue Lothor did not understand.
At that moment, Glory, who had been missing for several days, suddenly appeared beside Lynd, emerging from nowhere, and rubbed its head against his arm.
Lynd reached out and stroked Glory’s head, fulfilling its silent request for attention.
Lothor, ever observant, quickly discerned that the individuals kneeling on the ground were, in fact, wildling warriors in simple disguises. A rough estimate suggested there were about a thousand of them, and from their builds alone, it was clear they were elite warriors from the wildling tribes.
The wildling warriors, still kneeling, gazed at Lynd with deep reverence, but their eyes held nothing but fear when they looked at Glory.
After patting Glory’s head a few more times, Lynd spoke. “Get up.”
The command was swiftly translated by the leading wildling warriors. At once, the assembled warriors rose to their feet. A few of their leaders stepped forward, bowed, and one of them spoke.
“Great Chosen One, Sens has selected the most elite warriors from each tribe to serve under your command.”
Lynd frowned slightly. “Did selecting these warriors have any impact on the battle?”
“Please rest assured,” one of the leaders, Sens, replied respectfully, speaking in fluent common tongue.
“With the sacred beast aiding us, the battle will be over swiftly, with minimal losses. Moreover, we will be integrating the warriors from those tribes, so our overall strength will not diminish—in fact, it will increase significantly.”
“The chiefs are personally leading their warriors now and are waiting at Deer Forest for your orders. They stand ready to launch an attack on the Stone Mountain Tribe in the valley at your command.”
Lynd nodded in acknowledgment, then turned his gaze toward Glory. He issued a silent command.
Glory, upon receiving it, headbutted Lynd with displeasure, let out a few low growls, then turned and disappeared into the shadows of the trees, vanishing from sight.
Lynd turned back to the assembled warriors. “He is the commander of this operation,” he said, gesturing toward Lothor. “Your actions must follow his orders precisely. No mistakes. Understood?”
The leaders immediately turned to Lothor, bowing deeply and swearing their absolute obedience to his command.
Afterward, Lynd carefully laid out his strategy to Lothor and the wildling leaders, emphasizing several critical points. Only after ensuring they fully understood did he turn and leave.
Once Lynd had gone, Lothor led the wildling warriors—who had taken a brief period to rest—out of the clearing and toward the agreed-upon location where they would meet the Wildling King.
Another day passed swiftly.
Lynd spent the entire time dealing with the selection of a port site, as though he had completely put aside any concern about the crucial ambush taking place on the other side of the Wyl River.
In stark contrast to Lynd’s composure, Obella, the bride, was visibly restless. She paced anxiously, unable to hide her unease. The success of the ambush would determine whether she could inherit Wyl Castle’s title and lands.
Despite the fact that the target of the ambush was her own father, Obella felt little emotion over it. She had met Wyland Wyl only a handful of times over the past decade, and he remained nothing more than a stranger to her. Worse still, the suffering she had endured for two years had been caused by that stranger’s bastard son. This only deepened her indifference—there was no father-daughter bond to speak of.
Unable to contain her impatience, she sought Lynd out again, this time accompanied by Russell. For the third time, she entered Lynd’s tent.
“My lord, have you received any news?”
Lynd did not respond to her inquiry. Instead, he continued reading the authorization document drafted by Jon, his head bowed, scanning the contents quickly. Once finished, he handed the document to the master mason waiting nearby.
“Jon,” Lynd instructed, “take a team with the master mason tomorrow and head to the fishing village. Discuss the relocation matters with the village chief.”
Finding a suitable location for the port was not difficult. At the mouth of the Wyl River, there was a natural harbor—an ideal site for the construction of a port. Conveniently, a quarry was located nearby. If they built the port city there, they could transport stone directly from the quarry, saving both effort and cost, as there would be no need to source materials from farther away.
The only issue was that the harbor was already occupied by a fishing village. Because of this, Lynd had only two options: relocate the villagers elsewhere or, as he had done in his previous life, hire them to help construct the port city. Once the port was built, they would be integrated into the new city’s population, assigned houses, and offered employment in various roles within the port.
Given such favorable conditions, even a fool would know what choice to make.
After wrapping up his business, Lynd turned his attention to Obella and Russell, who had been standing silently for quite some time.
“Lady Obella, there is no need to worry,” he said. “Regardless of how things unfold, you will return to Wyl Castle as its sole heir. With my support, you will become the Lady of Wyl without any trouble, so stay calm. If there is nothing else, I suggest you return to your tent and handle what needs to be done. It would be best if you got pregnant this year.”
Hearing Lynd’s reassurance, Obella visibly relaxed. She did not say anything further, simply turning around and leaving with Lothor.
Watching the departing pair, Nymeria remarked, “It’s only been a day, and Russell is already under her control. Looks like he’s in for a hard time.”
Lynd chuckled. “Under her control? Russell isn’t as simple as he seems. In the end, who’s controlling whom is still uncertain.”
Nymeria suddenly raised an eyebrow. “You just told them to go back to their tent and do what they should do. I think we should also do what we should do. I want to get pregnant this year too.”
Lynd couldn’t help but smile at that. He obliged, putting away the official documents on the table, standing up, and following Nymeria back to their tent.
Meanwhile, on the southern bank of the Wyl River, in a small valley about thirty leagues from Lynd’s camp, a brutal battle had just concluded. A group of wildlings, clad in animal skins, were pursuing the fleeing soldiers of the Wyl Castle garrison.
However, upon closer inspection, their method of pursuit seemed unusual—it resembled more of a deliberate effort to drive the soldiers away rather than a true chase.
Compared to those who had managed to escape, the number of fallen soldiers was staggering. In the valley, over six or seven hundred corpses lay scattered across the battlefield.
Near the valley’s entrance, several wagons laden with goods stood parked. Beside them, the Wildling King stood before the lifeless body of Wyland Wyl, surrounded by the corpses of knights and wildling warriors alike. The wounds on the bodies made it clear just how fierce the battle had been.
Wyland Wyl, now a corpse, had half of his head smashed in, but the remaining half still bore an expression of shock. Even in death, his face told the story—he had never expected that his own bastard son would be the one to strike the fatal blow.
The Wildling King stood beside the corpse, panting heavily. His special leather armor bore several deep gashes in areas that would have been fatal, but the thin layer of iron plates hidden beneath had absorbed the blows, leaving him unharmed.
Even though he had finally achieved the long-awaited revenge he had spent years seeking, there was no sense of satisfaction in him. Instead of being surrounded by the disciplined army of the Lord of Summerhall, as he had once envisioned, he found himself encircled by wildling warriors. The language they spoke left no doubt—they, too, were from the Red Watch tribe.
With the flickering light of the torches illuminating the scene, he finally made out the faces of the two wildling leaders standing before him. His expression darkened.
“Sens and Bardot, is that you?”
Bardot, the older of the two, his hair streaked with white, let out a scoff as he shifted his gaze between the Wildling King and the grisly trophy in his hands—the human-skin undergarment he had just peeled from Wyland Wyl. His eyes carried a deep sorrow as he spoke.
“Hamir, congratulations. You’ve finally avenged your foolish mother.” He exhaled sharply before adding, “She was a wildling, yet she deluded herself into believing she could become a noble beyond the mountains. And what was her reward? She was flayed, her skin used to make clothing. A pathetic woman.”
There was no doubt that this Bardot had once shared some connection with the Wildling King’s mother.
But before the weight of his words could settle, Sens stepped forward and shoved his companion aside. His voice was colder, more matter-of-fact.
“Now is not the time to mourn your old lover,” he said, turning his attention back to the Wildling King. “Hamir, you don’t need to return to the Red Mountains anymore. The tribes you abandoned—they’re already gone. We dealt with them. And the Stone Mountain Tribe you left behind in that valley? They should have disappeared by now too. There’s no place left for you in the Red Mountains.”
At Sens’ words, the Wildling King’s breathing grew heavier. His grip tightened around the mace in his hands, his entire body tensing as though preparing for a final, desperate fight.
Yet, none of the warriors surrounding him moved to strike.
Then, from within the crowd, Lothor stepped forward and came to stand directly before the Wildling King.
“Does the Chosen One also renounce his oath?” the Wildling King demanded, his voice edged with betrayal.
Lothor, bloodied from battle, met his gaze with cold indifference. “My lord does not renounce his oath. He has kept it. He helped you take your revenge.” His fingers twitched slightly, as though resisting the urge to strike the man down himself. He would have liked nothing more than to end him right then and there, but he did not dare defy Lynd’s orders.
Instead, he reached into the bag he had been given the day before, pulled it free, and tossed it onto the ground at the Wildling King’s feet.
“Inside are four hundred golden dragons,” Lothor said. “My lord’s resettlement fee for you. With this money, you can live a wealthy life in any castle you choose.”
Then, without another word, he raised his hand and made a sharp gesture. The wildlings standing around them immediately parted, opening a path.
The Wildling King stood motionless for a long moment.
Finally, he bent down, picked up the bag, then reached for the leather coat fashioned from his mother’s flayed skin. With both items in hand, he turned without another word and walked away, vanishing into the darkness of the valley.
