Chương 13

Galad The beach had become a vast encampment, thousands of men and supplies crowding the sand and the rocky ground beyond it. Tents stretched in crooked rows up toward the cliffs. Cook fires sent thin columns of smoke into the gray sky. Horses stamped and whinnied in makeshift corrals. Somewhere, a smith's hammer rang against an anvil in steady rhythm. Most of the men who had fallen in the initial taking of the beach were buried in a long ditch dug beneath the cliffs.

A septon had spoken over them earlier, his voice carrying across the beach as the wind tugged at his robes. He spoke of the mercy of the Mother, the judgment of the Father, the love of the Maiden, the wisdom of the Crone, the pride of the Warrior. The men had stood with heads bowed. Some prayed. Others simply stared at the ground. Now, after the final boats approached the beach carrying the high lords and men of stature, Galad stood on a hillside near where they had held against the Ironborn charge.

Two graves lay side by side there, the recently dug earth darker than the fields of rock and grass around them. As a knight, Lorne would have likely warranted a separate grave either way. And as a friend, it was the least Galad could do. He had dug it himself, along with Neral and a few other men-at-arms from Highgarden who had known Lorne. The work had been hard, the ground rocky and stubborn. His hands were raw by the time they finished, blisters forming across his palms. He had not minded.

Before they began, Mors had asked for his brother to be buried beside Lorne. Galad had seen no reason to deny it.

"It had shamed me that Mycah and I did not share a father between us," Mors said. The men turned to him. The boy had not spoken much as they dug the graves, just worked in silence, his face pale and drawn. Now, as they threw the last shovel-fulls of earth atop them, he raised his voice. Mors shook his head.

"Proper fool I was. We had one 'sides us all along. Taught us how to hold a sword and how to swing it, how to ride a horse and how to get up when you fell from it." His voice cracked slightly.

"What else could a boy ask of a father?" Galad tilted his head slightly, the words stirring old, calcified hurts he usually kept buried deep within the Oneness. He had been fourteen when Taringail Damodred died, but the man had been a stranger to him, a cold figure of ambition who had never truly been a father to Galad or his siblings. He found he had grieved less for the man who sired him than he had for Gareth Bryne.

"Here, lad," Neral said. Reaching for his side, he pulled out a waterskin, unstoppered it, and took a swig. He winced slightly.

"To Lorne." He passed the skin to Mors. The boy took a deep pull and almost choked, his eyes watering. Neral chuckled.

"Strongwine. Burns the grief out, if you let it." The others laughed, the sound cutting through the somber air. The skin was passed around, each man taking a swig in turn. When it reached Galad, he drank and recited a short prayer in his mind. For all the men who fell here. For young Mycah. For Lorne. And for his fathers, both by blood and by deed, who had died in battles long ago in half-forgotten worlds. The crunch of boots on gravel sounded behind him.

When he turned, it was to find the young knight who had stood beside them against the horses. Ser Arys Oakheart, Neral had called him, a highborn son of a powerful house, though one Galad had heard did not send any levies to be a part of the Reach's host. Ser Arys looked at the graves solemnly. He had helped them carry Lorne's broken body up the slope before the heralds had summoned him away.

"Ser Galad," the young man said, inclining his head.

"Ser Arys."

"Lord Mace has summoned the lords and knights for a war council." Ser Arys paused, his expression uncertain.

"I thought you would wish to join." Galad felt a familiar instinct rise, an excuse to abstain already forming on his tongue. He had no hunger for the company of high lords, nor any desire to dictate the grand movements of maps and pins. He had wanted a simple war. A soldier's war. He wanted to march, to eat, and to strike against men who behaved as darkfriends. But the memory of the morning's chaos sat heavy in his mind.

The lack of coordination, the absence of scouts, the sheer, arrogant negligence that had cost Mycah and Lorne and dozens of other men. It staggered him. He could not take the responsibility of those lives upon his soul, nor did he want the burden of command he had carried for a lifetime in another world. Yet, how many more would die if he remained silent? I do not need to lead, he told himself, but perhaps he could nudge. He could highlight the deficiencies and hint at the tactics they so clearly lacked.

He nodded, more to himself than to the young Oakheart.

"Lead the way, ser." xxx The command tent was a monstrosity of bright green and gold silk, a cavernous space that smelled of expensive wax and sweat. Inside, more than a dozen knights crowded around a massive oak table where heavy vellum maps were pinned down by silver paperweights shaped like roses. Galad stood at the rear, his height allowing him to look over a few pauldrons. He remained silent, observing the figurines on the map.

Lord Mace had brought no great bannermen to Harlaw, only the knightly houses sworn to Highgarden and his own household knights and men-at-arms. It was a transparent display of strength, a way to prove that House Tyrell was a power in its own right, independent of the overmighty lords who served them. Though Galad understood the reasoning behind it, it felt like a dangerous vanity to indulge in the middle of a campaign.

"Enough, sers!" Mace Tyrell's booming voice cut through the bickering.

"Enough. I will have my stalwart knights act not as unruly children, but as the flower of chivalry I know you to be." The murmurs died down. The men stood taller, preening. Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! All around the tent, beside his own scuffed armor and Ser Arys's, the other knights' plate gleamed, polished to a shine. Not a scuff or dent to be seen among them. None had fought in the taking of the beach.

Even Ser Willam, who commanded the landings, had not a mark against his plate. Galad did not let personal feelings rankle him. Leading from the rear was a sound choice for maintaining an army's command chain and coherence, if not morale. Mace Tyrell gathered a few flower figurines in hand.

"As the Reach has done to the islands we were tasked to quell, House Tyrell will further divide our forces here." He smiled broadly.

"Speed, sers. That shall be our key to success." Nods of agreement followed. Excited cheers. Galad frowned. He did not like where this was going.

"We will march out of here in five different armies, one for each keep House Harlaw controls on this isle." Mace pointed to spots on the map.

"Their bannermen rule four other seats, but these tend to be smaller wooden keeps, likely to be abandoned for more fortified strongholds. Unless they threaten our supply lines, bypass them and head to the main castles. We shall take them all in a fortnight!" Cries of "Aye!" and "Tyrell!" filled the air. One knight called out, "Who shall lead the columns, my lord?" A ripple of excitement spread through the knights.

Men jostled for position, as if being in front of the lord would give them better claim for such an office.

"Yes, yes," Lord Mace said, smiling. He seemed to enjoy the attention.

"You need not fight amongst yourselves. My decision has been made." A hush settled over the group. Mace put down the first flower figurine over a spot on the map.

"Ser Igon Vywel shall take Harridan Hill." A burly man banged his gauntlet against his chestpiece. The captain of Highgarden's guard. More figurines were placed as he named the commanders, each followed by a small cheer from the named commander and his followers.

"Ser Owen Inchfield will go to Harlaw Hall. Ser Vortimer Crane will fall upon the Tower of Glimmering. Ser Willam Wythers will command the host attacking Grey Garden." Mace paused, then placed the final figurine.

"And I will personally lead the main thrust against Ten Towers and Rodrik Harlaw himself." Another round of whooping followed. Galad's frown had only deepened. Dividing an army for speed was sound strategy if speed was needed, but this could not be further from the situation they were in. He was walking forward before he knew he was doing it, bumping past several knights who grumbled at the intrusion of a mud-stained woodsman. He did not stop until he stood directly across the table from the Lord of Highgarden.

"A word, if I may, my lord," Galad said, loud enough to be heard over the cheering. Lord Mace's eyes settled on him for a long moment before they lit up with recognition.

"Ah, the hero of Dustonbury!" He spread his arms wide as if to embrace him. The men closest turned to look.

"Come, Ser Galad, come. I have not seen you since the battle and the inn. Where have you been hiding, my good man?" Galad bowed with practiced formality.

"I was helping with the reconstruction in the village before joining your host, my lord."

"Of course you were." Mace's smile broadened.

"If what my daughter says is true, you are as good a woodsman as you are a knight. Noble work, helping those poor folks, and let it not be said House Tyrell did not contribute, eh?" Galad nodded. It was true. None in the village had spent a penny on reconstruction.

"Right, tell me then. What is it, Ser Galad?"

"It is about the division of our forces," Galad said, his voice level.

"I do not question the boldness of the strategy, my lord. Only its necessity." The joviality in the tent curdled. Mace's smile didn't vanish, but it became a fixed, brittle thing. He gestured for Galad to continue. Approaching the table, Galad carried on.

"The Royal and Redwyne fleets control the seas and the flow of supplies all across the Iron Islands." He ran his hand across the sea lanes on a secondary map.

"The Harlaws have nowhere to run to. No reinforcements coming to save them. No more food beyond what they have in their stores."

"And so we strike while they are weak," Mace said, his tone still genial but edged with impatience.

"Speed, Ser Galad. We take their keeps before they can hole up and force long sieges."

"We already outnumber the forces on this island, my lord," Galad said carefully.

"But House Harlaw knows the terrain better than we do. They know the passes, the bogs, where to ambush us, just as they did in the battle to take the beach." He gestured to the map.

"Dividing our army will only weaken us unnecessarily. Five supply lines instead of one. Five columns vulnerable to raids and ambushes instead of a single, concentrated force."

"The Ironborn are broken," Ser Owen Inchfield said, eyes narrowed at him.

"They scattered like rats when we landed. You would have us crawl across this island like old women afraid of shadows?" A few knights chuckled. Galad kept his voice level.

"Their infantry fled with few losses, ser, though I understand you were not there to see it. Even if they scattered, that does not mean they will not regroup. That they will not strike at our flanks when we are spread thin."

"Then we crush them when they do," Ser Vortimer Crane said. He was younger, eager.

"Better to force them into battle than let them hide behind walls."

"It is also likely," Galad continued, "that once Pyke and House Greyjoy dip their banners, House Harlaw will do the same. Rodrik Harlaw is said to be a sensible, clever man. He will not fight to the bitter end once his liege lord has capitulated. There is no need to bleed our men in five separate bogs for a victory that is already inevitable." Mace Tyrell's smile thinned.

"You would have us sit idle, then? Wait for word from Pyke while the other kingdoms take their islands and we accomplish nothing?"

"I would have us take this island methodically, my lord," Galad said.

"One keep at a time, with our full strength. Minimize our losses and ensure victory."

"Minimize our losses," Ser Willam Wythers repeated. He was older, gray-haired, his face weathered.

"Tell me, ser, how many battles have you commanded?" Galad hesitated. Too many, he wanted to say, but the knight seemed to take his silence for fear. Wythers stepped closer, his expression hard.

"You speak like a boy too afraid to leave his mother's skirts. War is not won by caution. It is won by bold action."

"Bold action without thought is recklessness," Galad said. His jaw tightened.

"And recklessness costs lives."

"Or perhaps," Ser Owen Inchfield said, his voice dripping with disdain, "you simply lack the stomach for it. You are a woodsman, after all. It is not in your nature to think as a knight." A ripple of laughter spread through the tent. Galad felt heat rise in his chest.

"I only seek to counsel—""And we have heard your counsel, Ser Galad," Mace Tyrell said, his tone final.

"But I will not have it said that House Tyrell lagged behind while the other kingdoms won glory. The plan stands." He looked around the tent, his voice rising.

"We march at first light in the morrow. Five armies. Five victories. The Reach will show the realm what true strength looks like." The knights cheered. Swords were raised. Galad stood still, his hands clenched at his sides. Mace turned back to him, his expression softening slightly.

"You are a good man, Ser Galad. A brave one. But leave strategy to those who have studied it their whole lives, yes?" It was a clear and firm dismissal. Galad bowed his head.

"As you say, my lord." He stepped back from the table, moving through the crowd until he reached the edge of the tent. Outside, the air was cool and damp. The clouds had thickened overhead, promising rain. Galad stood for a moment, breathing slowly, forcing the into the flame until he floated in the cold of the void. He could not follow such men for long, he thought, and the decision came easily to him. He could not serve a lord who treated the lives of his soldiers like coins to be spent on his own reputation.

Once this war was over, he would leave. He would renounce his position as a Tyrell knight, even if it meant breaking the promise he had made to young Garlan. He would not be a part of this folly a second time.