Chương 34

After removing the last pieces of his armor, Galad sent Garlan away to be with his family. The boy protested, wanting to help carry equipment, to discuss the matches, to do anything a good squire should, but Galad insisted. The boy had been spending most of his days either in practice or in his service, and it would not be long before they left altogether. Garlan deserved some time with his family.

The jouster's tent had mostly emptied by now, the afternoon sun slanting through gaps in the canvas to paint stripes of gold across the trampled grass floor. Other knights had already departed for baths and wine and the admiration of highborn ladies. Broken lance fragments littered the corners, and the air still smelled of horse sweat and leather oil. Outside, the roar of the crowd had diminished to a steady murmur as people filtered out toward the city or settled in for the evening's entertainments at the grounds.

Galad changed into simple clothes, a linen shirt and wool breeches, comfortable after hours in plate, and gathered his things. He wanted to visit the tailor in Lannisport to collect the new garments Lynesse Hightower and Margaery had insisted he commission. Formal attire befitting a champion, they had said, for at the final feast, he was already guaranteed a sit at the high table as the archery winner.

He supposed he could have asked for a Tyrell servant to fetch the clothes, but since he had already decided to leave their service—even if he remained technically a knight under them until he departed—it seemed more prudent to handle his own affairs now. Better to begin establishing that independence. Stepping out of the tent, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the afternoon brightness. The tourney grounds spread before him in organized chaos.

Rows of competitor tents lined one side, their canvas walls painted with house colors and sigils. The tilt lane stretched across the center, its sand churned and pocked from hundreds of hooves. Beyond it, the noble stands rose in tiers of wood and bunting, still half-full with lords and ladies who lingered to gossip and wager on tomorrow's events.

Across from them, the hillocks where smallfolk had gathered were emptying faster, families trudging back toward the city gates with children on shoulders and empty wineskins in hand. Before Galad could start toward the main road leading to Lannisport, two men approached across the packed earth between tents. He recognized Ben immediately, wearing the surcoat of a sergeant in House Tyrell's service. The other took a moment to register now that he was not wearing his bronze, rune-etched armor.

Lord Yohn Royce, the man he had just unhorsed in the semifinals.

"Ah, here he is, m'lord." Ben gestured toward Galad as they drew near, weaving between groups of squires hauling equipment. Galad's own armor was already on the way to Casterly Rock with some pages. Up close, Yohn Royce was an older but formidable man, taller than Galad by half a head, with grey hair and broad shoulders that spoke of decades maintaining his strength. Large hands extended toward him, one offered in greeting.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury!" Yohn's voice boomed across the space between them, turning heads from nearby tents.

"Good, you're still here." Taking the offered hand, Galad shook firmly. Yohn's grip was strong, testing, and he seemed to approve when Galad matched it without flinching.

"Lord Royce. An honor making your acquaintance outside of the tilt lane." Yohn gave him a great big smile that transformed his stern features.

"Aye, lad, good showing, that. Haven't been knocked on my arse like that in years." He let out a booming laugh that startled a nearby page carrying wine cups.

"Ha! And the Kingslayer, too. Now that was a fine sight. Say what you will about the man, he knows his jousting."

"Thank you, my lord." Galad inclined his head.

"A man's victory is only as striking as the opponents he faces. You and Ser Jaime could have easily beaten me on another day."

"Modest too." Yohn nodded approvingly. For a second, the man's eyes flicked to Ben, who stood aside waiting, before they went back to Galad.

"Tell me, I heard you won't be serving under the Tyrells for long. Any truth to that?" Galad tried not to show his surprise. Of those here in Lannisport, he had told only Lord Mace and Garlan of his plans. It would not surprise him if Mace had made some grand announcement he simply had not heard, it certainly seemed like the man, or if Garlan had let it slip. Children were not known for their discretion. It was no secret, in truth, but for a stranger to come ask him about it had him wondering.

"It is true," he acknowledged.

"I feel a hunger to see more of the world, and intend to journey around the Seven Kingdoms until such hunger is sated."

"Journey, huh?" Yohn's expression turned thoughtful. Around them, servants were beginning to light torches along the paths between tents as shadows lengthened.

"I see. A shame. We could always use a man like you in the Vale. Plenty of work for knights when you live next to the scourge of the mountain clans." His face darkened at the topic, heavy brows drawing together. It seemed to take considerable effort to relax them again.

"I suppose I cannot blame a young man for such appetites, eh? Do stop at Runestone if your wandering ever takes you east. You won't see finer country than the Vale." Another offer to settle down somewhere, though not one with the gold and glamour Lord Tywin had promised. Galad could not blame the man for trying.

"I'll keep it in mind, my lord." Lord Royce gave him a firm nod and turned to leave. After a few steps through the dusty ground between tents, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

"Word of advice, ser?" His eyes flicked down to where Nightfall hung at Galad's waist.

"Watch that sword on your travels. Plenty of men out there who would kill, or worse, for a fine piece of dragonsteel." Then he turned and strode away, his broad back disappearing into the crowds still milling about the tourney grounds. Galad watched him for a moment. He did not think it was a threat—Lord Yohn did not seem the type. But it confirmed what Lord Mace had already told him. Without the protection of a great house, he would always be a target for his sword. The thought did not bother him overmuch.

It would certainly make traveling more interesting, though he worried about young Garlan, who would insist on accompanying him with or without danger. Ben approached then, his tanned face uncertain. They stood by one of the water troughs where horses were being led to drink, the animals snorting and stamping as stable boys worked brushes over their flanks.

"What was that about?"

"He wanted to offer his congratulations for my victory over him."

"Huh. Nice fella." Ben nodded, then seemed to fidget as silence stretched between them. His hand went to his sword belt, adjusting it unnecessarily. Galad raised an eyebrow. He did not remember leaving things awkward with Ben since seeing him when he first arrived at Casterly Rock. The man shifted his weight, not meeting Galad's eyes, watching instead as a group of Lannister men-at-arms marched past in formation.

"I heard you've been busy with guard duty," Galad offered. Ben seemed grateful for the prompting.

"Oh, aye. I've been selected to guard the Lady Olenna with the twins. She's surprisingly busy for a lady of her age. I think I've stood outside more meetings than I've had hot meals. Makes a man feel small standing beside such giants." He finished with a weak laugh. But he still looked jittery, as if someone were watching over his shoulder. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"Is everything well, Ben?" The man gave him an unconvincing nod, to which Galad only lifted an eyebrow. Ben sighed. Wetting his lips, he seemed to come to a decision as his eyes darted to either side of them, searching for eavesdroppers among the servants and squires moving between tents, before he nodded to himself and pulled Galad aside to a quieter area—a narrow space between two competitor tents where saddles and tack hung from wooden frames.

"It's..." Ben paused, swallowed.

"It's about that. About her, Lady Olenna." Galad waited patiently, listening to the distant sounds of the tourney grounds settling for evening, merchants calling last sales, horses whinnying, the creak of wagon wheels.

"She, well, she selected me for her guard for a reason. She asked me about you, you know. Asked a bunch of questions that had my head spinning. Could hardly answer half of them and she didn't like that, let me tell you." Ben fidgeted again, his fingers working at a loose thread on his sleeve.

"But, well, what she really wanted was for me to, erh, for me to spy on you!" He hissed out the words as if they were sacrilegious.

"Oh." Galad considered that.

"What did you manage to find out?" Ben's eyes widened. He waved his hands before him frantically.

"Nothing! I swear. I haven't started yet. Well, I was supposed to. It's why I'm here, you see. She knows Lord Garlan will be going with you when you leave, and she wants me to go with!" His voice was rising with agitation.

"To spy on you!" Galad noticed dark pits of sweat under Ben's arms despite the cooling afternoon air. The poor man was suffering. He shrugged.

"Well, do you want to?"

"No! Gods no, I don't want to spy on you. You're my friend, man." Ben ran a hand through his hair.

"A too-handsome, annoyingly-good at everything you do bastard, but a friend still. It ain't right."

"I meant, do you want to go with us?" Ben's eyebrows jumped.

"What?" Galad gave him a gentle smile.

"I asked if you wanted to go with us," he repeated.

"You would be away from Highgarden and your lady love, but I would be glad to have you. You can even spy on me if you like." Ben's mouth hung open for a moment.

"You... what? Why would you let me spy on you? You are not taking this seriously enough, ser."

"I am." Galad could understand the impetus behind Olenna Tyrell's actions. The idea made sense, if clumsily executed considering Ben was not the discreet type. Then again, Galad had decided to allow it anyway, so in the end she had achieved her goal. Could she have planned for all of it? Perhaps, though he did not care much one way or the other. It was better the spy you knew, and who told you he was asked to spy on you, than the one you could not see.

"I don't mind that House Tyrell wants to keep an eye on Garlan. And we could always use another sword on the road." With Lord Royce's warning still fresh in his mind, he decided it would be for the best.

"You should know, however, that they will use your affection for Lady Victaria for their own means in this. They might lie and promise you future rewards, future connections." Meeting Ben's eyes, Galad kept his voice soft but firm.

"And Victaria might be forced to validate these lies. Given her position, she will not be able to deny Lady Olenna, even if she dislikes it." More than most, Galad had grown up embroiled in the Daes Dae'mar of the noble houses of Cairhien and Andor. He knew well how the Great Game was played. And when caught in the middle, love was usually the first casualty. Ben needed to understand that.

"They would?" Ben almost choked on the words. He seemed dejected for a moment, Then his eyes bulged and he grabbed Galad's arm.

"How—How did you know it's the Lady Victaria that I love?" Victaria herself had all but told him back during the feast a few days prior. But since Ben would be spying on him, he could have his fun too, could he not?

"Well, you just confirmed it now, didn't you?" Ben's face went through several expressions—shock, embarrassment, resignation—before settling on rueful acceptance.

"Bloody hells. You're too clever by half, you know that?" Galad smiled.

"So I've been told." They parted ways as the sun began its descent toward the western sea, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Ben headed back toward the grounds beneath Casterly Rock where House Tyrell had housed their retainers, still shaking his head and muttering. Galad made for the road to Lannisport, joining the stream of people heading into the city for evening meals and entertainment.

The walk took him past merchant stalls being packed up for the night, past groups of knights still in their finery discussing the day's matches, past smallfolk families trudging home with tired children. Lannisport spread before him as he approached, its walls golden in the fading light, smoke rising from thousands of chimneys as cooking fires were lit. Inside the city gates, the streets were packed.

Galad navigated through crowds of sailors and merchants, past taverns already filling with patrons, past shops closing their shutters. The tailor's establishment sat in a better district, its sign painted with golden thread and needle.

"Ah, Ser Galad!" The man greeted him with a hasty bow, wringing his hands in front of his body.

"I'm afraid the garments are not quite ready yet, ser. Another day at least. No, two days. Yes, two. The embroidery on the doublet is quite intricate, and we want it perfect for the champion, yes?" Galad let out a sigh. He should've really sent a servant. xxx By the time he reached Casterly Rock, evening had fully settled. The castle corridors were quieter at this hour, most nobles already dressing for dinner or engaged in their evening entertainments.

Galad's boots echoed on polished stone floors as he made his way toward his chambers, past tapestries showing Lannister victories and tall windows that looked out over the darkening sea. He was approaching his chambers, a modest room in the same wing the Tyrells were installed, when a man intercepted him in the corridor. The man was huge, heavily muscled in a way that spoke of violence rather than labor.

His hair hung dark and stringy past his shoulders, but it was his face that drew the eye—half of it a mess of scar tissue, black flesh pocked with oozing craters, and a stump where his ear should have been. The torchlight from the wall sconces made the scarring look even more grotesque, shadows playing across the ruined flesh. He was young, though, Galad noticed, perhaps not even twenty beneath the scars. The man stared at him, seemed to expect him to look away in disgust or fear.

Galad only stared back into his dark eyes, meeting them calmly.

"Come," the man growled.

"On whose orders?" The man sneered.

"The queen's, reachman. Now are you coming or not?" Galad thought for a moment. Queen Cersei wanting to speak with him was... interesting. Potentially dangerous, but interesting. He decided to follow. If the man tried to lead him into a trap, which was doubtful, Galad would simply end him before the trap could be sprung. They walked through the castle's corridors in silence, moving deeper into the Rock.

The passages here were carved directly from the mountain itself, smooth stone walls interrupted by wooden doors and the occasional alcove holding a statue or suit of armor. Torches burned at regular intervals, casting their procession in alternating light and shadow. Servants pressed themselves against walls as the scarred man passed, eyes downcast. The man did not speak much, but eyed Galad sideways, always scowling. His massive hands flexed occasionally, as if imagining what violence they might commit.

They climbed a spiral staircase, ascending toward the better apartments. Here the corridors widened, the stone giving way to plastered walls hung with tapestries. Thick carpets from Myr muffled their steps. Candelabras of gold and silver replaced simple torch sconces, their light warmer and steadier. Before they arrived at what Galad assumed were the queen's quarters—the doors here were carved oak rather than plain wood, the guards better armed and armored—the man finally spoke.

"You're the knight with the new fancy sword, are you?" Galad looked down at Nightfall hanging at his side, the moonstone in its pommel catching the candlelight.

"Yes." The man was quiet for a long, stretching moment. Their footsteps continued down the corridor, past a window showing the last purple traces of sunset over the sea. Then: "Thought so." His voice was a gruff, gravelly thing.

"Watch yourself at the melee tomorrow, reachman. My brother will not be kind in getting what he wants." Galad did not know who the man was, nor who his brother might be, but he understood immediately. If the man was following the queen's orders and he was not dressed in a white cloak, then he had to be a Westerlander. It seemed Lord Tywin would make his move for the sword in the melee, then. Through this man's brother. He had expected it, but confirmation was good to have.

"Thank you," Galad said. The man answered with a grunt. They arrived at a door flanked by a kingsguard in white enamel plate that gleamed in the candlelight. Ser Meryn Trant, if Galad remembered correctly. The scarred man turned without another word and left, his heavy footsteps echoing back down the corridor until they faded into silence. Shrugging, Galad filed the advice away for later consideration and strode forward. If tomorrow was Tywin Lannister's move, what did his daughter intend for him today?