Chapter 49: Marching in the Rain

Raindrops the size of beans pattered against Lynd's cloak, pooling together before cascading down its leather exterior, finally dripping onto the grass below. He wiped the rain from his face, tilted his head to glance at the darkened sky, then turned his gaze toward the weary procession around him and let out a sigh.

Ever since escorting the Tyrells to Bitterbridge, Lynd had noticed his luck had taken a downturn. For nearly half a month, the rain hadn't let up. The unrelenting downpour had transformed the hills and mountains north of Bitterbridge into a fractured landscape. Paths easily navigable in fair weather now resembled winding streams, forcing lengthy detours that doubled the journey time.

To make matters worse, the local guide they had recruited was lost during a river crossing. The waters had surged unexpectedly, and the guide, unable to control his horse, was swept away. By the time the group realized he was missing and retraced their steps, they found only his lifeless body washed ashore. Without a guide, Lynd had been forced to send scouts to chart the road ahead while the rest of the party waited, drenched and miserable.

Thankfully, Lynd had followed the ancestral wisdom of prioritizing provisions over speed. Before leaving King's Landing, he had secured ample supplies for both men and horses, ensuring that hunger wasn't an immediate concern. However, illness now loomed as the greater threat. Constant exposure to rain had already caused over a dozen members of the group to fall ill. One man had succumbed just the previous night, dying in his saddle.

Though they hadn't encountered bandits yet, the losses were already taking a toll on morale. Only Lynd's established reputation—built on strength and reliability—kept the group from fracturing entirely. His presence provided the cohesion they needed, even as their spirits waned.

"Jon, can your good luck make the rain stop?" Lynd asked his adjutant, glancing over at him.

"Sorry, my lord," Jon replied, pulling back the hood of his cloak and wiping the rain from his face. "My luck can only manage to make belts snap, cause upset stomachs, or give someone a toothache. The weather is the gods' domain—it's beyond me."

If anyone from the King's Landing Tournament were present, they would surely recognize Jon the Lucky, Lynd's steward. Formerly Lord Roger Redwyne's steward, Jon had forfeited the comfort of returning to Highgarden to join Lynd's entourage at Bitterbridge, offering his services instead.

Lynd chuckled. "Do you regret it now?"

"I do!" Jon declared loudly. "I regret finishing the last bottle of wine last night and being left with horse piss for tonight."

Raul, captain of the guard, rode up beside them. "My lord Jon, I'm afraid you won't even have horse piss tonight," Raul said with a wry grin. "The last pot was secretly drunk by that boy with the scarred eye."

Jon let out a string of curses. "Damn it! I knew letting a rat manage food was a mistake." Turning to Lynd, he asked, "My lord, are you going to do something about that scarred-eye thief?"

Lynd turned his head and looked at Jon, then called out loudly to Raul, "Raul, has my second cavalry captain been stealing provisions from the logistics team?"

Raul responded in a booming voice, "No, my lord. He's as tight-lipped as ever and has sewn his men's mouths shut—there's no chance they'd steal food."

"No, they did!" someone shouted from the patrol not far away. "I saw him sneak food last night!"

Scar-Eyed Mitt roared in anger, "Shut up, Horseshoe! Next time you spy on me, I'll gouge your eyes out!"

The nearby troops burst into laughter, their somber mood momentarily lifted. Though the rain continued to pour, the lighthearted exchange restored some measure of morale.

After leaving King's Landing, Lynd organized the cavalry patrols into an orderly structure. The First Cavalry Patrol, comprised of fifty hunters and scouts, was placed under the command of Bryn Rivers. The Second Cavalry Patrol, consisting of twenty recruited mercenary knights and ten others, including Scar-Eyed Mitt, was led by Mitt himself. The remaining forces were assigned to the Guard's Unit, under Lynd's personal command, with Raul acting as his adjutant. This formed the foundational officer structure for the patrols.

To enhance their capabilities, Lynd ensured continuous training. The First Cavalry Patrol, predominantly made up of archers, scouts, and hunters, as well as the Guard's Unit, practiced their archery daily. To improve their effectiveness, Lynd replaced the longbows traditionally used by archers with shortbows, allowing for faster firing and easier use while mounted.

In the world of ice and fire, few armies relied heavily on archery. Both the armies of the Seven Kingdoms and the Dothraki of the Great Grass Sea favored cavalry charges and close combat. However, Lynd saw the advantages of archery, despite its drawbacks. Archers could inflict significant casualties from a relatively safe distance, disrupt enemy formations, and pave the way for a decisive charge. Even in less favorable conditions, they could harass and exhaust the enemy, retreating to conserve their strength if needed.

For Lynd, preserving his troops was paramount. Unlike larger forces, he couldn't easily replenish his numbers, making every soldier's survival critical.

As the patrols moved forward, a standard-bearer from the First Cavalry approached the vanguard, Lynd's banner rippling in the rain. The front guard stopped him, but Raul quickly noticed and called out, "My lord, a scout from the First Cavalry has returned."

"Let him through," Lynd ordered.

As the order was given, the front guard cavalry halted, and the flag bearer rode up to Lynd. He moved as if to dismount and salute, but Lynd waved him off.

"Forget the formalities," Lynd said. "What did the scouts find?"

The flag bearer quickly reported, "We found a bandit camp ahead. Lord Bryn suspects it's the camp of the Bloodshoe Brotherhood."

"The Bloodshoe Brotherhood?" Lynd repeated, freezing in surprise. "What are they doing near the Blackwater Rush?"

According to the intelligence from Varys, the Bloodshoe Brotherhood was one of the largest bandit groups north of Bitterbridge. However, they weren't Lynd's primary concern this time, as they typically preyed on caravans along the Goldroad, the main trade route of the Westerlands, rather than merchants on the Roseroad. Their camps were known to be situated along the upper and middle reaches of the Blackwater Rush, far to the northwest. This location made their presence here both unexpected and concerning.

If this truly was the Bloodshoe Brotherhood, they must have crossed the Mander River—a bold and unusual move.

"Are you certain it's the Bloodshoe Brotherhood?" Jon asked, glancing at the map provided by Varys. His brow furrowed as he turned to the standard-bearer of the First Cavalry Patrols.

"Yes, my lord," the flag bearer confirmed solemnly. "We saw the Bloodshoe banner flying in the camp. Lord Rivers suspects it might be the remnants of the Brotherhood."

"Remnants?" Lynd asked sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry, my lord, I don't know," the flag bearer replied, shaking his head.

Lynd considered this, his expression hardening. Finally, he gave orders to Jon Bulwer and Raul. "Hold the army in place. Assign Scar-Eyed to guard the logistics team. I'm going ahead to assess the situation personally."

"My lord, that's far too dangerous," Jon protested. "As commander, you shouldn't—"

"Dangerous?" Lynd interrupted with a smile. "You give those bloody shoes too much credit." He turned to the flag bearer. "Lead the way!"

The flag bearer immediately complied, pulling the reins to turn his horse before trotting forward to guide them. Lynd followed closely, his warhorse moving with steady purpose.

Beside him, a dark shadow flitted silently, keeping pace with the galloping horses.

This shadow was Glory. One of the abilities Glory had gained after absorbing the vengeful spirits in the Dragonpit was the power to transform into a shadow. Though seemingly trivial—limited to altering its appearance between black and white—Lynd saw its potential for reconnaissance and stealth.

The two men and the beast pressed onward swiftly. After crossing several small hills and skirting a shallow lake formed by collected water, they approached a low-lying area. There, the First Cavalry Patrols lay hidden, and as they arrived, the cavalry spotted them.

Bryn Rivers saw Lynd approaching with the flag bearer and froze momentarily before stepping forward to meet them. "Lord, why have you come here?" he asked.

Lynd shook the rain off his cloak and said bluntly, "No nonsense. Show me the camp of the Bloodshoe Brotherhood."

Taking the lead from the rider, Bryn Rivers guided Lynd around the lowland where the First Cavalry Patrols were stationed. They stopped at the base of another hill. Dismounting, the two climbed the slope, keeping low as they neared the top.

Two scouts lay prone near the summit, their eyes fixed on the camp below. They turned as Lynd and Bryn Rivers approached, preparing to salute, but Lynd motioned for them to remain still.

Reaching a cracked rock that offered concealment, Lynd crouched and peered down. The position gave a clear view of the camp below while keeping them hidden from sight.

At the foot of the hill, a crude encampment constructed from stones and wood sprawled across the clearing. Bonfires burned within, their flickering light illuminating the camp. Even in the heavy rain, Lynd could make out enough details to understand the situation.

"The rain's too heavy," Bryn Rivers whispered as he slid next to Lynd. "All I can see is the Bloodshoe banner. We may need to get closer for a better look."

"No need," Lynd replied. His sharp eyes had already taken in the scene. As Bryn suspected, the camp was filled with what appeared to be routed soldiers. The injured were scattered throughout, but there were no signs of civilians—no old men, women, or children. These were clearly fighting men.

"If you can't see clearly, how are you so sure they're remnants of the Bloodshoe Brotherhood?" Lynd asked, his voice quiet but firm.

"Before coming to King's Landing for the Tournament of Champions, I heard Lord Tywin was planning a campaign against the bandits on the Goldroad," Bryn explained. "The Bloodshoe Brotherhood was a primary target. Judging by the timing, they should have been crushed by now."

Lynd frowned. "Lord Tywin? The Bloodshoe Brotherhood was defeated so easily? The intelligence put their numbers at over 900, including heavily armored infantry."

Bryn shrugged. "The Brotherhood was strong, but Lord Tywin is wealthy. Golden dragons can achieve remarkable things." He glanced down at the camp. "What's our next move?"

Lynd tilted his head back, letting raindrops fall on his face. "How long do you think this rain will last?"

Bryn looked at the sky. "A few more days, most likely. It's the rainy season."

"We'll need shelter," Lynd said, pointing at the camp. "And there it is."

As night fell, the rain intensified. The heavy downpour muffled all sound, cloaking the movements around the camp.

Bigfoot, the leader of the Bloodshoe Brotherhood, stood at the camp entrance, leaning against a wooden post. Just over a fortnight ago, he commanded a hundred men. They had enjoyed warm houses, soft beds, and luxurious pleasures. Now, all of it was gone.

Driven like a dog by the Westerlands' army, he had fled from south of the Blackwater Rush to east of the Mander River. His men had been slaughtered along the way. Only a handful of captains and their forces had survived, but even they had splintered, some betraying the rest to secure their own survival.

He seethed with hatred for one such traitor, a man who had abandoned them, taking all their wealth while leaving their lives as a mockery of mercy. Bigfoot dared not show his anger—one wrong move, and he might end up hanging from the camp gate like the other two captains.

Still, he wasn't worried. The traitor was cracking under the weight of his own fear, teetering on the edge of madness. Bigfoot could already envision reclaiming everything—his men, his wealth, his power. The thought brought a grin to his face as he stood in the rain, lost in his daydreams.

A sudden shadow broke through his thoughts. Pain erupted in his throat, and warmth spilled down his chest. He staggered back, clutching at the wound, blood gushing from his neck. His legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

Through blurry eyes, he saw the creature that had ended him—a monster with pale, glowing eyes and a body as dark as the shadows themselves. The other gatekeeper barely had time to react before the beast struck again, silencing him just as swiftly.

Behind the creature, shadowy figures armed with weapons moved silently into the camp. Bigfoot's dimming mind understood the truth: the Bloodshoe Brotherhood was finished.