Chương 23

The great hall of Ten Towers had been transformed for the victory feast. Torches blazed in iron sconces along the walls, their light dancing across the high ceiling where ancient kraken banners had been torn down and replaced with the golden rose of House Tyrell and a dozen other sigils besides. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, packed with men still wearing the dust and grime of campaign despite their attempts to clean up.

The smell of roasted meat and spilled wine filled the air, mixing with the salt wind that pushed through the open windows. From his seat at the high table, Galad watched as Lord Mace Tyrell rose to his feet with a goblet raised high. The hall quieted, hundreds of voices falling to silence as men turned their attention to their commander.

"My lords, my knights, my brave men of the Reach!" Mace's voice carried across the stone chamber.

"We have achieved a great victory here in the Iron Islands. The kraken has been brought low, and the Greyjoy rebellion is at an end!" Cheers erupted from the tables below. Cups were raised, fists pounded on wood, men roared their approval. Mace waited for the noise to subside before continuing.

"But no victory is won by one man alone. It is the courage and skill of our finest lords and commanders that brought us this triumph." Turning to gesture at the men seated along the high table, Mace began calling out names.

"Lord Randyll Tarly, whose steel never wavers and whose men never break!" More cheers. At the far end of the table, Lord Tarly gave a curt nod, his stern face unchanged.

"Lord Mathis Rowan, stalwart and true! Lord Alester Florent, whose banners were first over the walls at Blacktyde! Ser Balon Hightower, who held the line when lesser men would have fled!" Each name brought fresh cheers from the tables below. The lords and knights mentioned acknowledged the recognition with varying degrees of pleasure—some beaming, others nodding with martial dignity. A Caswell cousin flushed red with pride. A Fossoway knight raised his cup high.

Settling back in his chair, Galad let the names wash over him. He had dressed in the fine clothes Mace's steward had provided, a doublet of deep green with gold thread at the collar and cuffs, well-fitted and clearly expensive. Nightfall hung at his side, the moonstone pommel visible above the table's edge. Despite his preference for simpler fare, he had to admit the roasted venison and honeyed carrots were excellent.

When it came time to honor the men in Mace's own forces that had taken Harlaw and all its castles, the lord mentioned plenty of his household knights. Names Galad recognized from the campaign, men who had fought well, who had led their companies with competence if not brilliance. And when Grey Garden was mentioned, it was not Ser Owen Inchfield who received the credit.

"And of course, I could never forget the hero of the Flower Hearth himself, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury." Mace turned toward him, eyes bright with wine and satisfaction.

"Stand for a moment, good ser. Stand." He had no wish for fame, and no particular hunger for the attention of lords. Given the choice, he would have spent the evening down at the campfires with Neral and the others, eating whatever the cook fires had produced and listening to the men argue about nothing in particular. But he was by no means uncomfortable here.

He had stood in far greater courts and councils than this, had been examined and measured and watched by queens and generals and men who held the fates of nations in their hands, and through all of it the same composure had come to him as naturally as breathing. It came to him now. Every face in the room turned toward him. He looked back, his expression open and still, and waited.

"This week, Ser Galad was hero once again here in Harlaw," Mace continued.

"Leading the men onto the beach, holding strong against fierce Ironborn charges time and again, turning ambushes back on the Ironborn as they fought their reavers' wars. And finally, his finest moment, the taking of Grey Garden, being the first man atop its walls!" The lord paused for effect, letting the anticipation build.

"And the man who now wields the famed Valyrian Steel sword Nightfall, having fought and bested Ser Harras Harlaw in the finest single combat Westeros has seen since Ser Gwayne Corbray crossed blades with Daemon Blackfyre himself upon the Redgrass Field!" Gasps and murmurs rippled through the hall. Many had heard the rumors, but hearing it confirmed by Lord Mace himself made it real.

"The sword, ser! Let us see the sword!" Stepping out from behind the table, Galad moved to the open space before the Harlaw throne, where two enormous scythes of beaten silver hung on the wall above the carved seat like the arms of some vast, patient creature. Standing beneath them, framed by silver, he reached to his left side, took Nightfall's hilt, and drew the blade in a single clean motion. The sound of dragonsteel leaving its scabbard was like a whisper of wind through leaves.

Galad held it aloft, letting the torchlight play across its surface. The rippling pattern along the dark blade caught the flickering flames like waves under the sun, silver and shadow dancing together. The moonstone in the pommel threw back reflections that scattered across the ceiling. Cheers erupted from the Reachmen below. Men stood from their benches, raising cups and weapons in salute. The noise washed over Galad like a wave, but in his mind he stood in the stillness, separate from it all. The moment passed.

Lowering the blade, he sheathed it with the same smooth motion and returned to his seat. Mace moved on to announcing the coming tournament in Lannisport, the king's victory celebration, where all the great houses would gather to display their prowess and celebrate the end of the rebellion. Sitting back down, Galad reached for his wine.

He had barely taken a sip when the first lord approached, a florid man with a Meadows sigil on his doublet, full of questions about the duel and eager to introduce his two sons who stood behind him looking awed. After him came a Graceford knight wanting to know if Galad had truly held an entire flank alone against cavalry. Then a Redwyne cousin asking about the ambush in the valley. Such a clear sign of favor by Lord Mace was sure to spark the curiosity of even the most dour of lords.

They came in a steady stream, making conversation, paying compliments, fishing for information or alliance or simply the chance to say they had spoken with the man who wielded Nightfall. Galad answered their questions with courtesy, shared wine with those who offered it, and maintained a lordly mask throughout. This was the price of the display, he understood. Mace had elevated him publicly, and now the lords of the Reach wanted to know where he stood, what he wanted, whether he could be useful to them.

As the feast started to slow down, men growing drunk or tired, the servants clearing away the remains of the meal, a different sort of figure approached. Lord Randyll Tarly walked with purpose from his seat at the table, his bearing as martial and controlled as if he were on a parade ground. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Behind him came his son Samwell, a soft boy who looked profoundly uncomfortable in the martial atmosphere.

Stopping before Galad's seat, Tarly got straight to the point.

"Many will covet such a blade, ser."

"Many will," Galad agreed, meeting the lord's hard gaze.

"I should like to test this swordarm of yours." Tarly's voice carried no warmth, but neither was it hostile. Simply direct.

"I have never wielded Heartsbane against another Valyrian steel sword.

""I plan to join the melee, my lord," Galad told him.

"I would welcome the challenge." A small smile appeared on Randyll Tarly's face, barely visible but unmistakably present.

"I shall see you in the field, then." After Tarly departed, with his son trailing behind with a backwards glance at Galad that might have been fear or fascination, more lords came. A Fossoway asking about serving wenches around the room. A Cuy knight sharing news from the other islands. The conversations blurred together, mostly polite and meaningless, until finally Galad found himself speaking with Ser Arys Oakheart. The young knight had cleaned up well, his hair combed back and his doublet fresh.

But excitement still shone in his eyes when he looked at Galad, the same eager energy he had shown on the battlefield.

"The way you moved during the duel, ser," Arys was saying, leaning in close enough that others would not overhear.

"I have never seen anything like it. When you stepped inside Ser Harras' guard at the end…" He shook his head in wonder.

"How does one train for that? What exercises build that kind of speed?"

"Footwork," Galad said, keeping his voice low.

"Most men neglect it in favor of strength training. But a swordsman who cannot move cannot win, no matter how strong his arm." He paused, considering how to explain concepts he had learned in another world.

"Practice the forms slowly at first. Focus on balance, on knowing exactly where your feet are at all times. Speed comes later, after the body knows the movements without thought." Arys nodded eagerly, clearly committing every word to memory.

"And when facing a superior weapon like Valyrian steel—""Ser Galad!" The shout cut through the hall's ambient noise like a knife. Conversations died around them as heads turned toward the source. Galad looked up to see Ser Owen Inchfield stumbling through the far entrance, clearly drunk, his face flushed red and his movements uncoordinated. He had heard the man had not been invited to the feast, but it seemed he had found his way inside after all.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury!" Owen's voice slurred as he pushed past a servant who tried to intercept him.

"Where is that bastard son of a whore? Some no-name woodsman playing at being a knight!" Moving unsteadily across the hall, Owen grabbed the edge of a table for support and pointed an accusing finger.

"You think you're better than me? Think you can steal my glory? I should've—I should've killed you when I had the chance!" The hall had gone completely silent. Every eye was on the drunk knight as he lurched forward another few steps.

"Common-born trash! Upjumped peasant with a stolen sword!" Before Owen could continue his tirade, three large men-at-arms appeared from the shadows and grabbed him by the arms. He struggled against them, still shouting obscenities as they dragged him backward toward the entrance.

"Unhand me! I am Ser Owen Inchfield! My house is old, you hear me!" Looking toward the high table, Galad saw that same pitying expression on Mace Tyrell's face he had seen earlier. With a small gesture, the lord dismissed his former friend. The men-at-arms hauled Owen through the door and out of sight, his voice fading into the distance. Murmurs filled the hall immediately.

Whispers passed from table to table, speculation about what had transpired between Ser Galad and Owen Inchfield, theories about why the latter had been excluded from the high table, reminders of Owen's family connections and how this disgrace would reflect on them. Rising from his seat, Galad decided the feast was well over for him. He gave Arys a nod.

"Continue what we discussed. Practice the footwork, slowly at first."

"Yes, ser. Thank you, ser." Arys seemed uncertain whether to acknowledge the scene they had just witnessed, settling finally on pretending it had not happened. Making his way toward the exit, Galad ignored the stares and whispered conversations that followed his passage. Outside in the courtyard, the night air was cool and clean, washing away the heat and smell of the crowded hall. Stars glittered overhead between scattered clouds, and the sound of the sea was a constant whisper against the rocks below.

He walked through the gates and headed toward the sprawling encampment where the common soldiers had made their beds. Cooking fires dotted the darkness like fallen stars, circles of warmth and light where men gathered to share food and drink and stories. He found his men exactly where he expected them. They sat around a fire near the edge of the camp, using logs and upturned crates as seats and passing a wineskin between them. Neral saw him first, his weathered face breaking into a grin.

"Ser! Done with the fancy lords already?"

"More than done," Galad said, lowering himself onto a log across from the grizzled veteran. Someone passed him the wineskin and he took a long drink. The wine was sour and cheap, nothing like what they had served in the hall, but it tasted better somehow.

"How was it?" Mors asked from his left.

"Loud. Full of talk." Galad passed the skin to Mors.

"A lot of talk." Neral chuckled.

"Aye, lords do like to hear themselves speak. Though we hear you put on quite a show with that sword of yours. All the men are talkin' 'bout it."

"Lord Mace's idea, not mine."

"Still." One of the other men-at-arms, a stocky fellow named Pate, gestured with his cup.

"Must've been something, holding up a Valyrian steel blade in front of all those highborn cunts." They drank in comfortable silence for a while, watching the fire crackle and spit. Around them, other campfires hosted similar scenes, men unwinding after weeks of campaign, sharing the quiet satisfaction of survival.

"To victory," someone said, raising his cup.

"To victory," the others echoed. Taking the wineskin when it came around again, Galad held it up.

"To those who did not live to see it." The mood sobered immediately. Neral nodded slowly.

"Aye. To Lorne and Mycah." Mors closed his eyes when he heard his brother's name.

"Ser Willam Wythers," another man added.

"And Ser Manfryd," said Pate. They went through the names, every man they could remember who had fallen during the campaign. From the beach landing to the final assault on Grey Garden, they spoke the names aloud and drank to each one. Some Galad knew well, others he had barely spoken to. But each had fought beside them, had bled on Harlaw's soil, and each deserved to be remembered. When the wineskin was empty and the names had all been spoken, Galad stared into the fire and made a decision.

Should he win the purse at the melee or the joust, he would see that Lorne's widow received a share. He needed some gold to fund his travels, just not all of it. It was the least that could be done for the first friend he had lost in this world.

"You're thinking loud, ser," Neral said from across the fire, voice rough with drink and exhaustion. Looking up, Galad met the veteran's eyes.

"Just planning ahead."

"Planning to knock some fancy lords on their arses at Lannisport?" A small smile touched Galad's lips.

"Something like that."

"I'd pay good coin to see you face the Kingslayer," Mors said.

"They say he's never been unhorsed in the melee." Everyone can be unhorsed, he thought, though he did not voice it. Winning was one thing, making too many powerful enemies was another. They drank for a while after that, until the fire breathed low between them, and no one moved to add wood to it.