Chương 29

Galad His exhale was quiet, barely a whisper. Lips kissing the bowstring softly, he drew the bow back until the flax string was as taut as the muscles across his back. No shaking disturbed the perfect stillness. No hesitation clouded the moment. The void was absolute, and the yew stave felt as much his limb as either of his arms. When Galad released the arrow, he did not need to look to know its accuracy. Inhaling once more, he reached for a new arrow at his side and repeated the process.

The second arrow nocked, drawn, released in a single fluid motion. Before it left the string, his hand was already moving to the third. The rhythm was meditation made physical. Breath, draw, loose, reach, nock, draw, loose. The third arrow was already in flight before the first struck the target eighty paces away, dead center. A heartbeat later, the second split the first with a sharp crack that carried across the field. The third struck just off center, perhaps two inches from the bullseye. Galad frowned.

Frustration washed over the void and failed to grab hold of him, burning away like morning mist. He had felt the wind shift at the last instant but had not adjusted in time. A mistake he would not repeat. In the distance, flag-boys waved their arms in the air, signaling the results. Squinting past his own target, Galad could see the others in his heat. One showed two hits, neither near the center. The other counted one bullseye and two off-center strikes.

To his side, a gruff northman man-at-arms cursed under his breath and lowered his bow.

"Bloody southron magic," the man muttered, though without real heat. On Galad's other side, a Marcher lord from the Stormlands let out an incredulous laugh.

"Unbelievable shooting, ser. Would call foul had I not seen it with mine own eyes. Truly remarkable." Lowering his own bow, Galad let the void slip away and turned to nod at the man.

"You have my thanks."

"What's the name of my victor today, then?" The lord was older, perhaps forty, with sun-weathered skin and laugh lines around his eyes. His tabard bore black swans on a white field.

"I am Galad. Galad of Dunstonbury." The man's eyes lit up with recognition.

"Ah, the famed Woodsman Knight of the Reach! And here I thought your deeds went only as far as your swordarm could reach. How wrong was I!" Smiling, he extended a hand.

"I am Gulian Swan, Ser Galad. Lord of Stonehelm. A great pleasure to meet you here." Taking the offered hand, Galad bowed slightly.

"An honor to make your acquaintance, my lord." Gulian Swan looked back toward the stands. They were mostly empty at this hour—the archery competition drew smaller crowds than the spectacle of the joust. A few commoners dotted the grassy slopes beyond the field, sitting on blankets or standing to watch. In the wooden bleachers built for minor nobility, perhaps two dozen souls had bothered to attend. Among them, one group stood out for wearing the black and white of House Swan.

A woman with two boys, one perhaps ten and the other closer to seven, along with a pair of servants hovering nearby. The younger boy was waving enthusiastically.

"I had promised my youngest I'd win today and take the finals tomorrow as well." Guilan Swan shrugged, though his smile remained warm.

"I suppose every boy must learn his father is not as great as the image they create of him."

"You are not giving yourself enough credit, my lord." Galad pointed to Swan's target being brought closer by one of the flag-boys. Usually this was done so contestants could examine the results, but in this case it was more formality than anything else. The outcome had been clear from eighty paces.

"That's fine shooting if I've ever seen it."

"Aye, I know I'm a good shot. Have always been." Swan watched as his target arrived, studying the arrow placements with a practiced eye.

"But my boy there, Balon—" He gestured toward the younger child in the stands.

"He's better than me by half when I was his age. Perhaps he'll be the one to revenge me if he meets you in another tourney in a few years."

"It is the hope of every generation to be surpassed by the next one," Galad said.

"Wise words." Swan nodded approvingly.

"Until tomorrow, then, Ser Galad. I hope you go on to win it all. At least I'll get to tell the boys it was the famous knight who won the tourney that bested me." Laughing again, the Swan lord clapped him on the shoulder and turned toward his family. Galad waved as the man walked away. He had not lied when he said Swan was a good shot. The lord had natural talent and years of practice behind him. Were Gulian Swan able to delve into the Oneness as Galad could, he doubted the man would be his inferior with a bow.

Galad himself had not been an expert in his previous life. Archery had been a gentleman's skill, something practiced for sport but not relied upon. It was only the years of living as a woodsman, hunting his own food in the forests near the Mander, that had made him the marksman he was today. And even now, he would not compare his skills with those of the Two Rivers folk. Those people were born with bows in their hands, could shoot a sparrow from the sky at a hundred paces.

As he gathered his things—quiver, bow case, the small bag Garlan had packed with water and dried fruit—the steward who organized the archery competition approached. A harried-looking man with ink-stained fingers and a ledger tucked under one arm.

"Ser Galad, congratulations on qualifying for tomorrow's finals. The competition will begin at the second bell after dawn, same location." He consulted his ledger.

"Would you care to stay and watch the next heat? Some fine archers yet to shoot."

"My thanks, but I cannot stay for long." Galad glanced across the field to where Garlan was waving enthusiastically, his brown hair catching the afternoon sun.

"I have another engagement." The jousting would be starting soon, and he still needed to don his armor and warm up his mount before taking to the lists. Thanking the steward again, Galad made his way quickly across the archery lanes toward where his young squire waited. His arms and back felt warm from the exercise, muscles loose and ready. But there was no rest for those who needed to make a name for themselves in a single tourney.

xxx The horse thundered beneath him, each impact of hooves against packed earth reverberating through his body. Breath came even despite the motion, despite the weight of armor, despite the lance couched beneath his arm. The man opposite was broad and powerful, shoulders like an ox beneath his plate. Ser Hosteen Frey wore a tabard quartered with blue towers and a brindled boar, the Frey sigil mixed with another, though Galad could not place which house.

The man had struck him solidly on the shield during their first pass, and Galad had been surprised by his raw strength. But watching Hosteen's previous match, Galad thought the man would make a better footman than a rider. He did not seem wholly comfortable atop his mount, relying on power to overwhelm rather than skill to outmaneuver. The horses came closer, hooves churning up dust from the tilt lane.

Galad made only small adjustments from the first pass, angling his shield slightly sideways, aiming his lance point a bit higher to catch the gap between breastplate and helm. Impact. The clash was tremendous, the shock traveling up through the lance and into his shoulder. Splinters flew as wood met steel and shattered. Galad rocked in the saddle, weight shifting back, but his legs held firm and he stayed seated. Behind him, he heard Ser Hosteen topple from his horse with a crash of metal on earth.

He ignored it as cheers rose up around him. The twin towers of Frey were not a well-liked sight in the Westerlands, it seemed. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. At the end of the lane, Galad pulled his mare to a halt and looked back. Garlan was jumping in celebration, waving both arms above his head. The crowd in the stands had grown since the archery competition—perhaps a few hundred souls now, with more arriving as the day wore on.

Letting out a slow exhale, Galad removed his helm and sucked in fresh air. Ser Hosteen had been his second opponent of the day, and neither had warranted his use of the void. He had noticed himself relying on the technique too often these past moons, and he did not wish for it to become a crutch. Better to save it for when he truly needed it. Without the void's emptiness, the sounds of the tourney washed over him fully. The roar of the crowd when lances struck home.

The calls of merchants selling wine and meat pies. The thunder of hooves and the crash of men falling. He had even spied King Robert himself up in the royal box earlier, though the man had disappeared after only a few matches. Galad shrugged inwardly. The business of kings and royals was not his to meddle in. Not in this life. Riding back to where Garlan waited, he accepted the waterskin his squire offered and drank deeply.

The boy was already rattling off information about his defeated opponent, consulting notes he had scribbled on a scrap of parchment.

"—from Crakehall, I think, though he might have married into—oh, here comes the organizer now, ser." The official approached, a portly man in Lannister livery.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury, your next opponent has been determined." He paused for effect.

"It will be Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard." Garlan's eyes went wide.

"A white cloak, ser," he said, voice caught between wariness and excitement.

"That will be..." Galad only shrugged.

"It will be as it shall be." And it was. An hour later when they rode against each other, Ser Boros Blount proved to be a weaker opponent than Galad had imagined. The stands were packed now with nobles from across the Seven Kingdoms, the wooden benches creaking under their weight. Bright banners flew from poles—the crowned stag of Baratheon, the golden lion of Lannister, the rose of Tyrell. Serving men moved through the crowds selling refreshments.

King Robert had returned to his seat in the royal box, his queen beside him in crimson and gold. Around them sat many of the great lords of the realm, come to witness the spectacle. Galad toppled the kingsguard knight on their third pass, and only because it took him three tilts to realize Ser Boros was solid as a mountain atop his horse but a poor lancer. The man sat his saddle well enough, did not lose his seat easily. But his lance work was predictable, his adjustments slow.

On the third pass, Galad put his full power behind his thrust. It left him more open to a solid strike in return, but he knew now that Boros would not capitalize on the opportunity. His lance point caught the kingsguard knight square in the chest, dead center on his breastplate. Ser Boros went backward out of his saddle as if pulled by invisible ropes. He hit the ground hard enough to raise a cloud of dust, arms and legs sprawling. The commons across from the noble stands erupted in jubilation at his victory.

Smallfolk loved nothing more than seeing a knight in white brought low, especially by someone they could claim as one of their own. The woodsman knight, risen from nothing. He did not bother taking a victory lap around the lanes, and soon enough Galad was seated back in the victor's tent, Garlan helping remove his armor piece by piece. Pauldrons first, then vambraces, the boy working efficiently despite his continuing amazement.

"You beat a kingsguard, ser," Garlan said for perhaps the fifth time, his voice filled with awe.

"An actual kingsguard." They were among the last to return, and the tent had emptied soon after they arrived. Only a few servants remained, tidying equipment and hauling away broken lances.

"The day is done, then?" Galad asked, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness.

"Not yet, ser. There are a few more riders to go, but many have already qualified for the second day." Garlan consulted his notes again, reading off names with reverence.

"Ser Barristan Selmy. Ser Ryman Frey. Lord Jon Umber. Ser Gerion Lannister. Ser Lyle Crakehall. Lord Jason Mallister. Lord Yohn Royce. Lord Jorah Mormont. Ser Baelor Hightower." Galad nodded, considering. The competition would turn fierce, then. All renowned knights and lords in their own right, men who had made their reputations through years of tourneys and battles. The second day of jousting would cull that number even further until only four remained for the final day.

"And do you know who I'll be facing before I can reach the finals?" he asked. A voice came from the tent's entrance, cutting through before Garlan could answer.

"You need not worry about that." Turning, Galad saw a man in resplendent golden plate, a roaring lion emblazoned on the breastplate. A white cloak flowed over his shoulders. Tall and slender as a sword, with curling gold hair and bottle-green eyes that held a predatory gleam. Galad had never met the man, but few in the realm were as infamous as Ser Jaime Lannister.

"The brackets have been decided already," Jaime continued, stepping into the tent with an easy swagger.

"It's me you'll be facing next." For once, Galad felt a sliver of excitement rush through him. Now that was a clash to get his blood pumping.

"It will be an honor to face you in the field, Ser Jaime." The man's smile turned predatory.

"See, I've been hoping to meet you on the lists, Ser Woodsman, I—""His name is Ser Galad, Kingslayer." Garlan's voice cracked slightly on the words, but he stood his ground. Jaime's attention snapped to the boy, eyes narrowing.

"Oh, what's this? You're a Tyrell, aren't you, boy?" Walking closer with that same swagger, he looked down at Garlan with amusement.

"Should you not be outside picking flowers with the other girls or something?" Garlan's face turned red with anger, his hands clenching into fists.

"Ser Jaime." Galad stood from the bench, drawing the kingsguard's attention back to him.

"I would appreciate it if you did not antagonize my squire." Without looking away from Jaime, he spoke to the boy.

"Garlan, apologize for calling him such a name."

"But—" Garlan started, only to balk when he saw Galad's expression. Sighing, he turned and bowed stiffly to the Lannister knight.

"My apologies, Ser Jaime." Jaime frowned at that, his cocky expression faltering. His eyes flicked from the boy back to Galad, reassessing.

"The sword. You denied all the gold and land my father offered, but you told him a man could duel you for it, didn't you?"

"Did Lord Tywin instruct you to approach me, ser?"

"I am a knight of the Kingsguard, not a child." Jaime's tone turned sharp.

"My lord father does not instruct me any more than you do. I want the sword, woodsman, and I'll gladly duel you for it. How about it? We put it all on the line in tomorrow's joust. Winner takes all—mount and armor and arms."

"I did not think swords were also relinquished in a jousting loss."

"They aren't, ser!" Garlan said, nearly snarling.

"Don't listen to him." Jaime nodded.

"Your flower squire is right. They aren't, usually. But we can make our own deal, can't we?"

"Why?" Galad asked.

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why would I accept? Do you have a similar sword to put up against mine?" Galad gestured toward the blade at Jaime's side.

"I've no doubt that's a fine blade, but it is not worth the prize I'd be risking."

"I'd give you gold, then." Galad shrugged.

"I already denied gold for Nightfall."

"You're a craven liar, then." Jaime's eyes narrowed.

"You said you'd give the sword if someone bested you."

"In a duel, yes. Ser Jaime, yesterday was the first time in my life I rode against a live opponent in the joust." Meeting the kingsguard's gaze directly, Galad kept his voice level.

"Forgive me if I will not put Nightfall on the line for a contest I've barely practiced."

"The first time?" Jaime's eyes went wide.

"You're jesting."

"That was your first real joust?" Garlan asked, his anger forgotten in shock. Galad nodded.

"Aye. The knight who raised me trained me at the quintain, but we never had two horses to try the real thing." Garlan sputtered, unable to form words. Ser Jaime looked at him as if seeing something entirely unexpected—like a talking horse or a tree that walked. Galad decided to take pity on the man.

"I'll be representing the Reach in the grand melee, ser," he said.

"And I'll carry Nightfall into battle then. Should any man defeat me fairly there, I'll gladly part with the sword."

"I see." The strange look on Jaime's face faded quickly, replaced by his earlier confidence. He nodded to himself and smirked.

"Until the battlefield, then, Ser Woodsman. We'll see if your skills match your daring." With that, he turned and walked from the tent, white cloak swirling behind him. Garlan whirled on Galad the moment Jaime was gone.

"You... you'll really put a Valyrian steel sword on the line, ser? Against the Kingslayer?" Walking over to his squire, Galad rapped him lightly on the head.

"Ouch!" Garlan rubbed the spot, glaring.

"Manners, Garlan." Galad's tone was gentle but firm.

"And why not? I've been looking forward to a good fight for years. Longer than you can imagine." He did not regret his years of solitude in the forest, but he was a swordsman at heart. A blademaster. He could not deny a certain thrill at finally meeting a challenge in this world.

"It will be good to face a competent opponent for once." Garlan mouthed the word "competent" to himself, as if unable to believe what he was hearing. But Galad had fought Blademasters and Forsaken, had crossed swords with Eamon Valda and Demandred himself and many a worthy opponent. Kingslayers did not scare him after a world of dragons and dreadlords. He smiled to himself. The grand melee could not come soon enough.