Chương 21

When Galad woke the morning after taking Grey Garden, he knew immediately that he could not ride. His body felt as if a giant had taken hold of him and squeezed until he nearly burst like a melon. Every muscle screamed protest at the smallest movement. Rolling onto his side sent sharp pains lancing through his ribs. Pushing himself upright required gritting his teeth against the agony that radiated from his shoulders down through his arms. This was the price of the void.

Of going so deep into it, of holding it for so long. The emptiness had protected him from feeling the toll his body paid during the fighting, but now, released from that state, every bruise and strain made itself known at once. Breathing carefully, he sat on the edge of the narrow bed and took stock. His hands trembled slightly when he held them before his face. The knuckles were swollen, purple with bruising. His left shoulder throbbed where he had taken a glancing blow from an axe against his pauldron.

His thighs burned from the hours of fighting, from holding his stance on the walls and in the gatehouse. Outside the small window, morning light filtered through grey clouds. Voices carried from the courtyard below, men moving about their duties, the clatter of cookpots, the whinny of horses. The war effort could not wait for him to recover at his own pace. Pushing himself to his feet took effort. Walking to the door required careful thought lest he fall.

But Galad made it, step by painful step, until he could open the door and call for Ser Arys Oakheart. The young knight arrived within minutes, his face brightening when he saw Galad upright. Then concern crossed his features as he took in Galad's careful movements.

"Ser Galad, you should be resting," Arys said.

"I know." Galad leaned against the doorframe.

"Which is why you will take the bulk of the army and march to Ten Towers to aid Lord Mace in its taking." Arys blinked.

"Ser?"

"The castle may have already fallen by now, but we must do our part all the same. Take everyone who can march. Leave a garrison to hold Grey Garden and horses for myself and a small company to follow when I am able." Understanding dawned on the younger man's face, followed by something that might have been pride at being given such responsibility.

"Of course, ser. I'll see it done within the hour." After Arys departed, Galad returned to the bed and allowed himself to collapse back onto it. The thin mattress felt like the finest featherbed in that moment. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him. He woke once that evening to take a light supper of bread and cheese and cold chicken that one of the men brought to his room. His body protested every movement required to eat, but he forced the food down anyway. Strength would not return without sustenance.

After, he slept again through the night, into the next day, and beyond Three days after taking Grey Garden, Galad rode out through its open gates with Neral, Mors, and four other men-at-arms from Highgarden at his back, and Nightfall belted at his left hip. He still hurt as he took the saddle, but pain was not a new acquaintance, and discomfort had never been sufficient reason to fall short of his duties.

The road to Ten Towers took them east through the foothills of a low mountain chain, the summits bare and brown in the early light, the sun rising slow behind the ridgeline and throwing long pale shadows down the slopes ahead of them. Three hours of riding across that rough ground, the horses picking their way carefully over the loose stone, before the coast came into view and Ten Towers appeared along it. It was an interesting castle from a distance.

A tangle of towers and stone bridges and covered walkways hiding behind high curtain walls that abutted the sea directly, waves breaking white against dark stone. Beside the castle, a small settlement sprawled, steep-roofed houses in the Ironborn style clustering around a decent-sized port. The water around the port showed signs of recent battle. Wrecks bobbed in the waves, the shattered remains of Ironborn longships and Redwyne war galleys alike, their masts broken and hulls listing.

Debris floated among them, splintered oars, torn sailcloth, things Galad could not identify from this distance. Yet the ships berthed there now, flying the grapes of the Arbor and the flower of Tyrell, told him the battle's result. The walls of Ten Towers itself, on the other hand, showed no siege damage. No scorching from burning pitch. No gaps where stones had been battered loose. No bodies strewn before the gates.

Settling the men at the edge of the army's encampment, Galad learned what had happened from the soldiers nearby. Rodrik Harlaw had put down his banners before the main assault had come, but only after his fleet sunk, his port was taken, and the land forces closed around him on all sides. But the yielding had come too late to satisfy the nobility of Westeros.

Orders from Pyke, from the king himself, had stripped the major lords of the Iron Islands of their lordships, passing the seats to lesser men or distant relations whose names were not important enough to be considered for purging. Rodrik Harlaw, the Reader, had not escaped that fate. xxx Inside, Ten Towers was quieter than he expected. Early morning stillness filled the courtyards and corridors, the castle mostly sleeping after what must have been festivities the night before celebrating the Reach's victory.

Empty wine cups sat on benches. A few men slept slumped against walls, snoring softly. Finding the dungeons was not difficult. A guard directed him to the First Tower, the oldest of the ten that gave the castle its name. More than one door one his way opened before he had to ask twice. His name, it seemed, had traveled ahead of him. The temporary gaoler outside Rodrik Harlaw's cell was a Highgarden man-at-arms who gave Galad a deep nod, turned the key, and withdrew down the corridor without being asked.

Stepping through the door, Galad took in the room. Better than most cells, a proper cot with blankets, a small table, a candle burned most of the way down. High in the wall, a narrow window let in a strip of grey morning light and the distant sound of the sea. Seated on the cot with a book open across his knees was a slight man of middle age, brown-haired and plain-faced, nothing about him that would have drawn a second glance in a market or a library. He wore simple clothes, no jewelry, no ornamentation.

His hands on the book were scholar's hands, fine-boned and careful. Nothing about him suggested the image of the common Ironborn warrior. The image of a lord who had led his people in rebellion. He looked like someone's maester. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Until he raised his head. Sharp brown eyes moved from Galad's face to the sword at his hip and stayed there a moment before returning.

"Oh," Rodrik Harlaw said.

"The new wielder of Nightfall appears." Closing the book with care, he turned in his chair to face him fully.

"Come to boast about taking my family's sword, Reachman?" Looking around the cell, Galad found a small wooden crate in the corner. He dragged it closer with one hand and lowered himself carefully to spare his still-aching muscles.

"Is that not the way of your people?" Galad asked.

"The iron price?" Rodrik gave a slow nod.

"Aye, so it is. And a prosperous land it has made us." His voice was dry, not quite sardonic. Reaching down, Galad unbuckled the sheathed sword from his belt and set it on the floor between them.

"My name is Ser Galad of Dustonbury," he said.

"I came to return this to you, Rodrik Harlaw. Harras named his uncle its true owner before he died. He asked me to see it delivered. I promised him I would." For a moment, the Reader said nothing. Then a genuine smile appeared on his face, small but warm.

"Sounds like something Harras would ask. His ideas of honor lay more within the mainland than the Islands." The smile faded as quickly as it had come, and he shook his head.

"But I am no longer Lord Harlaw. I am bound for the Wall with the other foolish lords and captains who followed Balon in his madness." Galad shrugged.

"It is still yours by right."

"I suppose so." Rodrik looked at the sword without touching it.

"And what should I do with it? Bring it to the Wall and go on a ranging, drop it in the snow when my fingers turn to frost? See it in the hands of a wildling if I fall beyond the Wall?" He shook his head.

"Nay. The sword deserves better than that."

"Another Harlaw, then," Galad said.

"I heard your sons fell outside Fair Isle. And Harras now. But is there no one else? No cousin, no distant relation?"

"Plenty of those." Rodrik leaned back slightly against the wall behind the cot, considering the ceiling for a moment.

"But men worthy of this sword? My father's sword?" Another slow shake of the head.

"Most will end up taking the black as well, though I'm sure some will escape it. Boremund is a crafty bastard, and the Silverhair will throw himself overboard before he truly swears the Watch's vows." He brought his eyes back to Galad.

"No. It is not a Harlaw that must wield the blade from now on."

"Who, then?" Galad asked.

"I swore to Harras I would deliver you the blade. But I care not for the precise wording of it. I will see Nightfall in the right hands." Leaning forward, Rodrik met his eyes.

"My nephew. My sister's son. Theon Greyjoy. His brothers are dead. He will be the Lord of the Iron Islands after Balon, and Harlaw blood runs through him as much as it ran through my own boys. Nightfall must go to him." Galad's lips formed a thin line.

"I see you have not been informed yet, then," he said.

"Balon Greyjoy is no longer Lord of the Iron Islands. He lives no more, and his line has been attainted. His son will not inherit Pyke." The widening of Rodrik's eyes lasted only a moment before a long breath left him, his head dropping forward. He sat that way for several seconds, the candle guttering slightly in a draft from the window.

"Damn you, Balon," he said quietly.

"Damn you to the deepest, darkest pits." Looking up, his eyes had gone tight at the corners.

"Who then?"

"Euron Greyjoy. Balon's oldest living brother." Closing his eyes as if resigned to some terrible fate, Rodrik sat very still. Long moments passed before he spoke again. When he did, his voice carried a weight that made Galad pay closer attention.

"Balon was rash and arrogant and he led us to our downfall, but let me warn you now, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury." Rodrik opened his eyes and fixed him with a hard stare.

"He is not even half as dangerous as Euron Greyjoy. Westeros will not know peace for long with that man ruling the Islands." Galad's brow tightened. He was no Aes Sedai to be able to read the faces of men and know their hearts with certainty. But he thought himself a decent judge of character. And so married to the truth he had become, he had developed an even better hand at spotting liars. Rodrik Harlaw did not seem like one.

The man spoke with genuine conviction, with something that looked almost like fear buried beneath his resignation. Still, Galad was not in any position to alter the board and depose lords, much less on the words of an already fallen Lord of Harlaw.

"I shall pass on your warning if I can," Galad said.

"And the sword?" Rodrik shook his head firmly.

"Nightfall must not go to Theon. Not yet. He is a boy still. Euron would see some terrible fate befall him and claim the sword for himself."

"I believe they will send the boy to ward away from his home," Galad offered.

"Though I know not where."

"They may send him as far as Asshai by the Shadow, it makes no matter." Rodrik's voice took on an edge.

"Once Theon claims the sword, it shall pass on to House Greyjoy if he were to die. And Euron would make sure the boy does. He has always been obsessed with Valyrian steel." Silence fell between them. The only sound was the distant drip of water somewhere in the dungeons and the muffled call of gulls from outside. Rodrik seemed deep in thought, his gaze distant, before he focused on Galad again.

"Are you an honorable man, Ser Galad?" The question came out carefully, and the Reader's eyes watched him the way an owl watches its prey. Galad kept to the truth.

"I try to be." A slow nod.

"You would not have brought me this sword if you were not. Do you know how much someone like Tywin Lannister would pay for its like?"

"A great deal of gold, I imagine."

"I imagine it would be more gold than you can imagine, ser. Most men do not have a fertile enough mind to conceive how much gold the lion has." Pausing, Rodrik let that hang in the air for a moment.

"Now that you know this, will you sell it?"

"I have no use for gold where I am going."

"And where is that?" Galad shrugged.

"Anywhere that calls to me. I feel a thirst to see these lands properly. They say the Hightower at Oldtown is taller than the Wall where you are going. I would like to see whether that is true."

"A wandering knight, are you?" Amusement touched Rodrik's voice.

"They came to brag about you yesterday. Told me how Harras fell to your hands. One of them said you are the best swordsman they had ever seen. Was he telling the truth?"

"Likely he was," Galad said simply.

"Most men have not seen much."

"Oh?" An eyebrow rose.

"And you have? They said you were a woodsman before you were a knight. How much could you have seen?"

"Enough to have seen better swordsmen than myself." A small smile passed across Rodrik Harlaw's face, there and gone like sunlight through clouds.

"You shall make a fine wielder of Nightfall, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury. Finer than many of my ancestors, I would wager. Many of them were right old cunts." Galad frowned.

"What about your nephew? Theon Greyjoy."

"Too young, as I said. Perhaps he will grow up to be worthy of it." Rodrik held his gaze.

"And perhaps you will be honorable enough to pass it on to him when the time is right." Sitting back on the crate, Galad did not answer immediately. His frown deepened as he thought the matter through. His understanding of Rodrik Harlaw shifted in his mind like pieces on a stones board being rearranged. Not a liar, no. But a shrewd man indeed.

"Your wish is not truly for me to wield it," Galad said at last.

"You wish only to see it safe until it can be passed on to someone of your blood. Safe from the likes of Euron Greyjoy and Tywin Lannister. To use my honor and my skill at arms as a shield for it." Surprise stamped itself clear on the Reader's face.

"How interesting. A clever woodsman too." His eyes narrowed as he seemed to reassess the man before him.

"Who are you truly, ser?" Rising from the crate, Galad picked it from the floor and buckled Nightfall back around his belt, the weight already feeling familiar there. He turned and walked toward the cell door, stopping at the threshold to shoot the man a final look over his shoulder.

"Fortunately for you, Rodrik Harlaw," he said, "I am a man who keeps his promises." Then he stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind him, leaving the Reader alone with his books.