Chương 32

"Are you ready, ser?" Testing his movements in the armor, Galad stood from the bench. The plate settled properly across his shoulders, weight distributed as it should be. Pauldrons moved freely. Vambraces allowed full range of motion in his arms. Everything felt solid. He turned to his squire, studying for a second.

"You sound tired." Garlan looked down, not meeting his eyes.

"Erh, only nerves, ser. For the jousting." Beneath his open-faced helmet, Galad raised an eyebrow. Reaching over, he plucked a piece of straw from the boy's brown hair and held it up between thumb and forefinger.

"Is that so? And does Lord Tywin host House Tyrell amidst his cattle now?" He lowered his hand, kept his voice level.

"Tell me the truth, Garlan." The boy's face flushed red before he sighed.

"Couldn't sleep, ser. I kept thinking the Lannisters would do something to the mare, and I had to come check on her." He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"I suppose I ended up falling asleep in her stall." The corner of his lips twitched up.

"That explains the smell." Eyes going wide, Garlan turned away quickly to smell his tunic, his expression mortified. Galad gave his squire a pat on the back before he strode past him toward the tent's entrance. Outside, he paused beside the mare. The tent for the competitors stood tucked to the side of the great stands erected for the tourney, hidden from the main spectacle by canvas walls and wooden supports.

He could not see the crowds from here, but he could hear them, the murmur of a thousand voices rising and falling like waves, punctuated by occasional cheers and calls as other knights rode in the tiltlane. Especially loud were the smallfolk on the hillock opposite the stands, their excitement unrestrained by noble dignity. The mare stomped her foot, agitated by the noise and energy around her. Shushing her softly, Galad stepped closer and patted her neck, careful with his gauntleted hand.

The horse whinnied, pushing her muzzle toward him, seeking comfort.

"Easy, girl. Easy." She was a fine animal. Lord Mace had offered him whatever supplies he wanted for his journey—horses, provisions, coin. Perhaps he should ask for her. The mare had proven herself steady and responsive, qualities worth more than gold when the road stretched long before you. Placing his boot in the stirrup, Galad mounted smoothly despite the weight of armor. The saddle settled familiar beneath him. As he gathered the reins, Garlan appeared from the tent, still looking embarrassed.

He mumbled an apology under his breath, promising not to break the routine Galad had set up for him—which included plenty of sleep for a growing boy, before rushing open the fence that would lead them to the tilt lanes. His hands working quickly at the latch. Watching him, Galad allowed himself a small smile. He was a good squire. He took a deep breath, then slid on his helmet. The world narrowed to the slit of his visor.

Closing his eyes behind the steel, he sought the image of the small flame in the void of his mind. It appeared immediately, burning brightly and steadily like no true fire ever could. At this point in his life, Galad's control was absolute. There was no wavering in him. In an instant, he fed all his emotions into that flame. Any fear of loss or injury. Any doubt over his skill.

Any concern about the politics of jousting Jaime Lannister, about the eyes of the realm watching him, about what Tywin Lannister might do if his son fell. All of it became fuel. All of it gone as if it had never existed. And in that emptiness, in that perfect void, the world opened before him. He was no longer himself only. Colors sharpened until he could distinguish individual threads in the pennants flying above the stands.

Sounds clarified into their component parts—he could hear Garlan's heartbeat from ten feet away, quick with nerves and excitement. Could pick out individual voices from the crowd filtering through the distance, merchants calling their wares, ladies exclaiming over the knights' armor, children begging their fathers for a better view. Beneath him, the mare seemed to settle from her earlier uneasiness, responding to the calm that now radiated from him like heat from a forge.

Drawing his gauntlet over her mane one more time, he felt every individual hair beneath the metal. The horse snuffed contentedly. Garlan need not have worried about someone crippling the mare. In such a state of awareness, Galad could tell every small discomfort that bothered his mount, the slight itch where the saddle girth rested, the way her left rear hoof favored its outside edge ever so slightly, the tension in her neck muscles from being held still too long. A runner appeared, breathless and flushed.

"Ser Galad, it's time!" The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. With only a slight tilt of his knee against her flank, the mare started forward as if he'd been training with her for their entire lives. They entered the tilt lane through the opening Garlan held wide. The crowd roared as he appeared. A wall of sound that would have been deafening without the void to filter it into something distant and manageable. Some cheers.

Some boos, likely from Westermen loyal to their golden lord. But mostly just noise, the formless enthusiasm of thousands gathered to watch men try to knock each other from horses. On one side, the noble stands rose in tiers of wooden benches, bright with banners and fine clothes. The crowned stag of Baratheon flew highest, black on gold. Below it, the golden lion of Lannister roared on crimson. The golden rose of Tyrell bloomed on green.

Dozens of other houses displayed their colors, fish and giants, ravens and unicorns, towers and trees. Opposite, the hillocks were packed with smallfolk sitting and standing wherever they could find space. They waved crude banners, shouted encouragement to their favorites, passed wineskins and bread among themselves. Children perched on fathers' shoulders for a better view. Garlan raced ahead toward the lance rack, studying each weapon with the careful attention Galad had taught him.

Selecting one, he tested its weight before bringing it back and offering it up. He took the lance and tested its balance beneath his arm. Solid softwood, tipped with blunted metal so it would shatter on impact rather than pierce. Well-made. Properly weighted. There would be no tricks today. He didn't have to wait for long until Ser Jaime Lannister rode in across the lane, and the world erupted with noise that made Galad's entrance seem like polite applause.

The kingsguard's armor was a magnificent gilded plate that caught the morning sun and threw it back in blinding flashes. His helmet had been crafted in the shape of a roaring lion's head, jaws open in eternal defiance. The white cloak of the Kingsguard flowed over his shoulders, pristine and bright. When a loud trumpet broke through the crowd's noise, Galad urged his mare forward at an easy trot toward the center of the lane. Jaime did the same from his end.

Their horses came together before the royal box, standing side by side. Jaime's mount wore gilded ringmail that must have cost more than some men earned in a lifetime. The master of games began a long-winded speech about honor and chivalry and the glory of the tourney. Galad did not pay attention to the words, only noted the rhythm of them, the way the crowd quieted to hear. Above, he saw the form of Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, seated on a throne-like chair in the center of the royal box.

The king stared down at them, his expression not exactly disinterested but carrying an air of going through expected motions. Galad had heard Robert was a great enthusiast of games and tourneys in his youth, but something seemed to have dimmed that fire. Beside him stood a beautiful woman in Lannister crimson and gold, closer to the railing than her husband. Cersei Lannister, the queen. She said nothing, only nodding once at her brother. Her face was a perfect mask of noble composure.

Also in the royal box sat Lord Tywin, positioned in a chair beside his daughter's seat. His eyes were fixed on Galad, green and cold as winter ice. The animosity radiating from him was almost a physical thing, a pressure that might have made lesser men flinch. Deep in the oneness, it bothered Galad not at all.

"Ready to lose, woodsman?" Jaime's voice carried through his helmet, the smirk audible in his tone.

"At least survive a few passes, eh? Give the people a show. What say you?" Galad said nothing. Shifting his knees, he turned his mare away and rode back to his end of the lane, hooves striking sand in a steady rhythm. Behind him, he thought he heard a growl of frustration. Hear me roar indeed. At his end of the tilt lane, Galad brought the mare around to face his opponent. His heartbeat was a soft, steady thing in his chest, no faster now than when he had been sitting in the tent.

The horizontal slit of his visor formed a perfect window through which he could see Ser Jaime across the distance, the trumpeter raising his instrument, the press of faces in the stands. The trumpet blared. His mare answered the call without prompting, launching into a gallop, and for a moment Galad could feel the crunch of coarse sand beneath her hooves, each grain distinct as they scattered. His lance, couched tight beneath his arm, pointed at his charging opponent's center mass.

Wind battered the narrow opening of his helmet. The crowd's roar became a single sustained note. His heartbeat did not accelerate. They came closer. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty. He could see details now, a flash of green behind Ser Jaime's lion helmet, the eyes within watching him. Could see the smallest movement of the man's shoulder as his lance shifted, angling down to strike closer to Galad's thigh than his chest. Clever. Aiming low would make it harder to defend, would catch him where the shield sat higher.

On instinct, his senses sharper than they had ever been, Galad's shield dipped even as he kept his lance steady, pointed at Jaime's chest. The adjustment took a fraction of a heartbeat. It happened so quickly that none but the two of them would know of the exchange. Then they crashed together in a burst of noise as wood shattered against steel. The impact traveled up through the lance and into his shoulder like a hammer blow.

Galad absorbed it through his core, weight shifting back slightly but his seat never leaving the saddle. His thighs gripped tight. His balance held. Ser Jaime's lance, aimed so low, skittered across Galad's shield where it had dipped to meet it. The blunted tip found no purchase, sliding harmlessly past. His own lance struck dead center on Jaime's shield where the kingsguard held it tight against his body. Riding past, Galad did not need to look back to know Jaime had kept his seat despite the solid hit.

A lesser man would have fallen at such an impact, the force enough to break ribs even through armor. But the golden-haired knight remained mounted, and Galad felt a flicker of satisfaction rise within him, even as that emotion washed over the void and failed to find purchase, burning away before it could take root. At the end of the lane, he turned his mare and rode back to where Garlan waited with another lance. Taking it, testing its weight, Galad prepared to ride again.

However many passes it took to unhorse Ser Jaime Lannister, he would ride them. In the void, patience was infinite. The crowd roared for the second pass. The trumpet sounded. And Galad urged his mare forward once more, lance steady, heart calm, mind empty of everything but the moment.