Chương 22

Getting a meeting with Lord Mace Tyrell early that afternoon proved easier than Galad expected. Having sent word through one of his stewards, he was granted an audience within the hour, which surprised him until he considered that a lord with nothing left to besiege had more time on his hands than usual.

The steward led him not toward the lord's formal apartments that would typically house a conquering commander, but to the Book Tower instead, to the rooms by the library where Rodrik the Reader had apparently spent most of his days before his downfall. Lord Mace, it seemed, had made himself comfortable among the shelves. The smell of old parchment and leather bindings grew stronger as they climbed, mixing with something more immediate—roasted meat and fresh bread.

At the top of the stairs, the steward knocked twice on a heavy oak door, then pushed it open.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury, my lord."

"Ah, Ser Galad!" Lord Mace's voice boomed across the chamber.

"Come, come, do sit down." Galad stepped inside and took in the scene. Mace Tyrell sat at a table positioned near a tall window that overlooked the sea, surrounded by what could only be described as a kingly spread. Honeyed chicken glistened on a silver platter, the skin golden-brown and dripping. A bowl of creamy soup, white as fresh snow, sat steaming beside it. Hot bread, still giving off wisps of heat, had been torn into chunks and scattered across a wooden board.

Quail eggs gleamed in a dish, dipped in brown gravy that pooled at the bottom. Half a dozen other plates held foods Galad could not immediately name, pastries of some kind, roasted vegetables in butter, small fish arranged in a pattern, cheese cut into precise cubes. A jar of chilled wine sweated gently atop a thick leather-covered tome that had been pressed into service as a coaster. Still chewing on a piece of chicken, Mace wiped his hand on a linen napkin and waved Galad forward.

Honey glistened at the corner of his mouth.

"It was a long day yesterday, and I am just now breaking my fast. Will you join me for a simple fare?" Sketching an appropriate bow, Galad kept his expression neutral.

"Thank you, my lord, but I have already eaten." Hard bread and salted pork from the army's provisions, but it was food all the same.

"I can return later if your lordship prefers."

"Nonsense, you will at least sit with me." Mace pointed at the chair opposite him with the hand still holding a napkin.

"I know you requested this meeting yourself, but I have my own matters to ask you." Galad nodded and moved to take the indicated seat. The chair was well-cushioned, far finer than anything else he had sat on in weeks. Through the window beside them, the sea stretched grey and restless beneath gathering clouds. Popping a quail egg into his mouth whole, Mace chewed thoughtfully before continuing.

"You see, I have heard your name plenty these last few days. Plenty of differing accounts, mind you, so I would like to hear your own version of the rebellion." Another egg disappeared past his lips, but his eyes never left Galad's face.

"From the landings in the south, the fighting on the beach and along the coast, the fire in the farmhouse and how you came to lead the army. Then there's your pursuit of the Ironborn harrying the column, taking their camp, and finally the storming of Grey Garden and your duel with Ser Harras. I would hear it all, if you could. Spare me none of the details. And worry not." He gestured broadly with the hand holding his napkin, nearly knocking over his wine.

"Battle stories do not steal my appetite." Surprised, it took Galad a moment to reassess the situation. He had come here to deliver a decision, not to recount his actions. But Lord Mace Tyrell was his liege, at least nominally, and the request was reasonable enough. Settling back in his chair, Galad began. He told it straight through, from the moment the boats ground onto the sand at Harlaw to the duel in the courtyard.

No embellishment, no false modesty, no careful shaping of events toward a more flattering light or a more humble one. He named the men who died where their names were relevant, described his own decisions and their consequences without either pride or apology, and corrected himself once when he realized he had spoken out of sequence. In the end, as in all things, he told the only story he could be bothered to tell. The truth of it. Across the table, Mace ate his way through the meal with steady enthusiasm.

Chicken bones accumulated on a side plate. The soup bowl was scraped clean and pushed aside. Bread disappeared in large bites between questions. But despite his focus on the food, the Lord of Highgarden's attention never wavered. His brows rose at certain moments—when Galad described holding the flank against the cavalry charge, when he recounted holding the chain room at the gatehouse. Tiny reactions that showed he was listening through it all.

When he finished, Mace finally set down a chicken wing he had gnawed to the bone.

"I see." Reaching for the wine jar, he poured himself a cup, considered the level, and poured a little more.

"Very well told, Ser Galad. You would make a great minstrel if you so wished. It paints quite the picture." He settled back in his chair with the cup and seemed to look at something in the middle distance for a moment, the gregarious warmth of his face giving way briefly to something more considered.

"I pride myself as something of a patron of the arts, you see." Gesturing with the cup, the many rings on his fingers caught the light.

"I have brought all kinds to Highgarden, artists from as far away as Qarth and Qohor and even Ib. Just as well there are those closer to home that come from the humblest of origins. All of them are different, do you know? Some men paint with one color only. Others will slather the piece with the whole rainbow. Some do this clever trick where they paint only the shadows, using the bare white of the canvas to give form to an object."

He set the cup down and reached for a piece of bread, tearing it in half with the efficiency of long habit.

"But when I ask for a painting of Highgarden, I expect to be able to see my own castle in it, even if the palette or the style varies. Do you get me?" Picking up a chicken bone, he held it between two fingers like a pointer. Honey dripped from it onto the table.

"When I ask for an account, men will tell me what they've seen with their own eyes. No man sees the world the same way, so differences are to be expected. But when I step back and look at the canvas, I must see the castle. The general truth of things." He tossed the bone into an empty plate, letting out a long breath that seemed to deflate him slightly.

"It is a shame," he said, more quietly, "that some men, some friends, think to lie to their liege. Painting me a garden when I asked for a castle." Galad remained silent. Watching the lord's face, he saw something morose there, almost pitying, though he did not think it was directed at him. Others had told him different versions of the events, it seemed, some more different than others, and Mace Tyrell had proved to be more capable than his genial exterior would present.

Looking back up, Mace showed a broad smile, the momentary cloud gone as quickly as it had arrived. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it"Not you, lad, not you. I am quite pleased with you. Quite pleased." Reaching for more bread, he tore off a piece and gestured with it.

"And though you have the talent for it, I see not the future of a minstrel for you. Instead, after your exploits here, Ser Galad, I do not think even my mother would deem you unworthy of a lordship. Oh, she would grumble about it, but she would acquiesce in the end." His smile widened.

"Extraordinary service must be rewarded extraordinarily. Dunstonbury still lies empty for now. Those are good lands, fertile lands. You could become a great lord of the realm with one stroke of my pen." That offer again. A tempting one, Galad imagined. Tempting for most if not all living men in the kingdoms. The promise of land, of title, of a place in the great game of Westeros. Yet he was not one of them.

"I understand that, my lord. And it is a generous offer." Galad kept his voice level, his posture respectful.

"But I have no wish to be tied down to land and liege for now. I am young yet. My heart hungers to see the world." Seemingly unsurprised, Mace watched him for a moment, chewing thoughtfully.

"These opportunities do not come by so easily, you understand that?" Galad nodded. He had been a great lord before, in another life. Had commanded armies and countries by the end of it all. The First Prince of the Sword. Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light. It had been a noble task, a fulfilling task. But perhaps in this second life he could try something simpler. Just a man, a horse, and his sword on the road.

He had found his quiet years in the cabin to be to his liking, the simple rhythm of hunting and gardening and watching the seasons turn. He had lived in plenty of palaces before, and none had felt so much like home as his small cabin in the woods. If he misliked the life of a wandering knight, he could always build another to call home.

"I understand. But I remain resolute in my answer for now." Mace let out a short laugh, not unkind.

"A young man who hungers for neither glory nor titles. Truly, it will be a shame to see you leave the Reach, ser. You would make a fine lord, I am sure of it." Spreading his hands wide, he sighed.

"Alas, if I cannot convince you, I will not force the matter. I will see you well rewarded for all you have done, truly I will. All the coin and all the horses you may want for your travels. Anything at all."

"Then I would ask for passage on a ship headed to Oldtown," Galad said.

"I have made commitments to some back in Highgarden. The man-at-arms, Sergeant Ben, who fought with me to protect your children in my house. And with your son Lord Garlan, who I am sure has told you he wished to become my squire." Mace brightened at that, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

"Oh yes, he has told me plenty. Did not stop singing your praises the whole time you were training him. Him and the little ones." A slight softening passed over his face at the mention of the youngest Tyrells, there and gone quickly.

"They'll all be devastated to learn you will not be staying."

"I would speak with them in person to deliver the news," Galad said.

"I know some of the men will be leaving for the Reach already, so I would join them as they return." Waving a hand, Mace shook his head.

"If you wish to speak with my children, Highgarden is not the place you want to go. Along with Lord Tywin, the king has announced a victory tournament to be held at Lannisport, and House Tyrell will present itself in force for it. By the time you made land in Oldtown, they'll likely be at Casterly Rock already." He clapped his hands, the sound sharp in the quiet solar.

"How about this. I will send a raven at once asking for—" He clicked his fingers, searching for the name.

"Ben."

"Ben, yes. I will write to Highgarden ordering Sergeant Ben to join my family when they travel north. That way you need not travel up and down half the continent only to speak face to face with one man."

"That will make things considerably easier," Galad said.

"Thank you, my lord." But Mace Tyrell did not dismiss him at once. He gained a pensive look to his face, fingers drumming against the table. When he looked back up, his eyes glimmered in the dim light.

"Tell me, then, Ser Galad. Do you plan on joining the lists?" he asked.

"Or perhaps the melee? I am not sure that you were ever trained to joust, but none would doubt your skill with a blade by now." Ser Garin Sand had been adamant on the point of jousting, back in the years when the old man was still alive to be adamant about anything. A knight who could not joust was no knight at all, he had said more than once. Galad had never shared the enthusiasm for the sport. It seemed wasteful, two men charging at each other with blunted weapons to prove nothing of real import.

But he had never let personal preference stand in the way of practice, and after some years, he had become a firm enough hand at running at the ring to know the basics of it, though he could not boast much experience in the real thing against real opponents. He had been silent long enough that Mace spoke again, a smile playing at his lips.

"May I give you some advice, ser?" Before Galad could respond, he waved a hand.

"Well, I shall give it anyway. You should join the lists, even if you do not care for gold or the glory of it."

"Why so?"

"So people can see you with that new sword of yours." Mace nodded toward Nightfall where it hung at Galad's belt.

"So they know who its wielder is now, and know him by name and face and deed. And know that its wielder has friends, powerful friends. And should that wielder be met with some unfortunate accident during his travels, or should he be set upon by bandits and highwaymen on the road, those powerful friends would not be pleased." His expression grew more serious, the jovial mask slipping to reveal the calculating lord beneath.

"They would ask questions. They would have eyes on whose hands the sword ends up in. Do you get my meaning, ser?" Galad was taken aback for a moment. He had not considered that angle. Plenty of houses in Westeros held Valyrian steel blades, and it was rare for one to be taken by another house. They were seen as heirlooms tied to a family's honor and heritage, and should one find himself in possession of a house's sword, he was in turn honor-bound to return it to its rightful place.

That only worked because the rest of Westeros knew which house owned which sword. To have a stolen blade in your possession meant not only the enmity of a house, or even an entire kingdom depending on where that house was located, but the undesirable reputation of being ignoble and dishonorable. This was not truly about the Tyrells doing something should someone steal Nightfall.

It was about his name being tied to the sword and to a great house of the realm, the connection to them serving as a deterrent to action in the first place. After all, a wandering knight without name or land was easy prey. A wandering knight with a public friendship with the Lord of Highgarden was a different calculation entirely. It was, Galad had to admit, quite clever. Especially as it brought prestige to the name Tyrell without requiring any investment beyond public association.

"I understand completely, my lord."

"Good!" Mace slapped the table with his palm, making plates jump.

"Then you shall join me when I leave for Lannisport. And you shall join me tonight as well at the high table. The lords of the Reach have all arrived from the other islands for our own victory feast, and it is past time I give you your due honors."

"It will be an honor," he said, though the idea did not quite suit him.

"Excellent, excellent." Rising from his chair with a groan of satisfaction, Mace came around the table and clapped Galad on the shoulder with enough force to make him sway slightly.

"I shall see you tonight, then. Wear something fine. I will have my steward bring you proper attire if you lack it. A knight of your deeds should look the part." Galad stood as well, then bowed.

"My lord." As he made his way to the door, Mace called after him.

"Oh, and Ser Galad? That was a fine account you gave. The truth suits you." Turning back, Galad met the lord's eyes and saw approval there, mixed with something else. Respect, perhaps, or simply recognition.

"Thank you, my lord." Outside in the corridor, Galad paused to let out a slow breath. The feast tonight. The tournament at Lannisport. More spectacle, more eyes, more attention. Everything he had hoped to avoid by refusing the lordship. But Mace was right about the sword. Nightfall would make him a target without the right protections. And if presenting himself at a tournament and a feast was the price of being able to travel freely afterward, then he would pay it.

Descending the stairs of the Book Tower, Galad's hand rested on Nightfall's pommel. The moonstone was cool beneath his palm. Outside, the sun had just now begun its descent toward the western horizon, painting the land in shades of amber and grey. One feast. One tournament. Then he could go wherever the road called him. It seemed a fair bargain.