Chương 40

For a moment, Galad stayed rooted in the middle of the melee field, watching the king walking away with his massive warhammer by his side. The cheering crowds cried out his name, the sound washing over the churned earth in great waves. Smallfolk on the hillocks stomped their feet and waved makeshift banners. The noble stands rang with applause and the high voices of ladies calling encouragement. With the void gone, Galad felt weary now, though the fighting itself had not been enough to truly exhaust him.

The weight of armor pressed familiar against his shoulders, and his arms had that pleasant ache that came after good exertion rather than the deep fatigue of true battle. And he had killed a man. A shame, really, though he found the weight did not lay heavy in his heart. Lyn Corbray had made his own choices, had drawn his line in blood and treachery. Galad was not the one to have dishonored himself in that exchange. Still, he would have preferred the kill not to have happened.

Tourneys were meant to test skill, not end lives. From across the field, he spotted Garlan sprinting toward him. Well, half-sprinting, half jumping, the boy whooping with joy loud enough that Galad could hear it over the crowd's noise. That managed to put an easy smile on his face. He walked forward to meet his squire halfway.

"Ser! Ser Galad!" Garlan reached him and bounced on his toes, unable to contain himself.

"That was the most—I have never seen anything like that—when you fought the Mountain I thought—and then the king! The king himself!" Galad accepted the waterskin Garlan thrust into his hands, drinking deeply. The water was warm but welcome. He poured some over his head, the liquid running down his face and neck in cool rivulets. It had not been a sweltering day, but armor cooked a man even in mild weather.

Knowing the boy was bursting to share, Galad said, "Tell me your favorite parts, then," And that was all that was needed for Garlan to launch into an enthusiastic recounting as they began walking toward the tents. The Freys ganging up on him, which almost had Garlan jumping the fence to help when he saw it. The way Galad had cut down Ser Lyn after that dishonorable attack, and how the entirety of the Reach in the stands had been on their feet shouting.

Then the Mountain looming over him, so tall it had frightened Garlan even from a distance. And finally the fight with the king at the end, faster than anything Garlan had ever seen, like watching two waterdancers that used longswords and warhammers instead of their slender blades. Galad listened with a patient smile, sipping occasionally from the waterskin.

Garlan, with his boundless enthusiasm about anything related to swordfighting, reminded him of his brother Gawyn so much it actually hurt, and he could only regret not rewarding that eagerness then as he did now. The melee grounds were bustling when they came up to it. Many of the participants sat or stood by their tents, some being attended to by maesters whose robes were stained dark with blood. The ones with the worst injuries, Galad imagined, were inside going through more thorough treatment.

Servants moved between groups carrying water and wine and bandages. The smell of crushed grass and churned mud mingled with the metallic tang of blood and sweat. As they made their way through the encampment, he was greeted often. A group of Stormlanders stopped him first, their leader—a tall lord whose surcoat bore a moon and sun—offering profuse compliments on his victory over their king.

"Best fighting I've ever seen, ser. The Stormlands salute you." The man pressed a wineskin into Galad's hand and refused to take it back when Galad tried to return it. Further on, a giant Northman with blood-stained bandages wrapped around his head stepped into Galad's path. Lord Jon Umber stood at least a head taller than him, with shoulders like a barn door and arms that looked capable of crushing stone.

A horn of ale appeared in his massive hand, which he extended toward Galad with a grin showing several missing teeth.

"Drink, southron! Any man who can put the bloody Mountain on his arse deserves a proper Northern toast!" Galad accepted the horn and drank a polite swallow. The ale was thick and strong, the kind that men in the North favored. The giant slapped him on the back hard enough to make him stagger, then roared with laughter and moved on, joining a group of other Northmen who hailed Galad as he passed. Lord Yohn Royce stood outside the Vale's tent, his bronze armor removed and a goblet of wine in his hand.

He waved Galad over, his weathered face set in a frown.

"Ser Galad. A moment, if you would." Galad obliged, gesturing for Garlan to wait a few paces away.

"I want to apologize again for Ser Lyn's behavior," Royce said, his voice low.

"What he did was a stain on our kingdom's honor. The Vale prides itself on knightly conduct, and his actions…" He shook his head.

"There is no excuse. I am sorry you were forced to do what you did."

"It was not your doing, my lord. There is no need for apology."

"Still. I should not have allowed him on our team, knowing his nature." Royce hesitated.

"There is the matter of ransom." Galad shrugged.

"Consider it forgiven, then."

"That will not do, ser." Royce shook his head.

"Honor demands we repay you fairly."

"My lord, believe me when I say I have no interest in the arms or armor from any of the men I defeated today." He ran the numbers in his mind.

"The purse for the melee is more than generous. Eight thousand gold dragons will see me well on my travels, and that does not count the archery purse. I have no need of more coin from knights who fought honorably." Royce's heavy brows furrowed, clearly displeased.

"What of Lady Forlorn? Ser Lyn's sword?" That gave Galad pause. He had not thought of it. The Corbray sword was Valyrian steel, a treasure of his house. He had agreed to give away Nightfall to any who defeated him in fair combat, but he had done so without any expectation that other Valyrian steel wielders would do the same. He had no interest in carrying two of the famed blades. The complications they brought were already burden enough.

"As family sword of House Corbray, you would not be allowed to keep it regardless," Royce continued, pressing his point.

"But the lord of the house is honor-bound to pay a good ransom for its return. Lord Corbray is not in attendance today, but I will see word sent to him. He will pay what is owed." He sighed.

"Truly, there is no need."

"There is every need, ser. This is how things are done." Lord Royce's voice took on a firmer tone.

"Allow Lord Corbray to settle his brother's debts. It is the only way to preserve what honor remains to his house in this matter." Frowning, Galad took a moment to consider. The man was right, in his way. To refuse would be its own kind of insult, implying the Corbrays were not worth the ransom, that their dishonor was so complete no payment could redress it. And Galad had no interest in starting a feud with another house, particularly one in the Vale where he might travel.

"Very well, my lord. I will accept whatever Lord Corbray sees fit to send. Perhaps it can be settled when I pass through the Vale on my journey."

"That would be acceptable." Royce relaxed slightly.

"I will write to him myself. And ser—" He met Galad's eyes seriously.

"My offer to visit Runestone stands. There would be a place for you in the Vale."

"My thanks, my lord." Galad bowed and moved on, Garlan falling in beside him with a curious look which he waved away. A worry for another time. When they arrived at the Reachmen's tent, Galad found that something resembling a small celebration had been hastily assembled outside. More than a score of noblemen and noblewomen from the Reach had gathered around the entrance, mingling with his six teammates who had fought in the melee proper. Servants moved through the crowd with wine and small delicacies.

A musician with a lute played softly in the background, his tune cheerful and triumphant. A cheer went up as he stepped into view. The next while passed in a blur of congratulations. Pats on the back from men he barely knew. Toasts raised in his honor. Lords and ladies pressing forward to be introduced, their words flowing thick with praise and flattery that he accepted with what grace he could muster.

Ser Arys Oakheart was among the first to approach him properly, his arm in a sling and a bandage wrapped around his head.

"Apologies, ser. I should have lasted longer. To go down to Lord Royce so quickly…"

"You fought well, Arys. There is no shame in losing to a skilled opponent."

"Still. I wanted to make it further. To stand with you at the end."

"There will be other tourneys." Ser Baelor Hightower clasped his hand, his sister Lynesse at his side wearing a gown of pale gold that complimented her hair beautifully.

"Magnificent fighting, Ser Galad. Truly. I do not think I have ever seen its equal."

"You honor me, my lord."

"My brother does not exaggerate," Lynesse added, her eyes warm and wide as they met his.

"The whole crowd was on its feet. You should have heard the cheers from our box." Galad bowed politely. He could detect no false note in either of their voices, and their praise seemed genuine, not the calculated flattery he had grown wary of. That was something, at least. The Tyrell siblings descended on him next. Young Margaery and Loras were almost in tears as they described their emotions during the different fights, talking over each other in their excitement.

"And then when the Mountain came at you I thought—I really thought—""But you were so fast! Like the wind!"

"Father said no one but himself has ever beaten the king before!" Galad smiled through it all. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Willas, more sober than his younger siblings, congratulated him with quiet sincerity. Galad noticed the way he looked at him now, with more awe than ever before, but an awe edged with something that might have been calculation.

The boy was older than his siblings, more aware of what skill like this meant in the great game of the Seven Kingdoms. He did not blame the boy for it. If anything, such pragmatism would serve him well when he took on his father's lordship. Indeed, Galad had noticed the way people looked at him had shifted entirely. Especially among the other young knights in the group, the ones who truly knew how to spot a man's skill with a blade. Their gazes held a new measure of respect, even fear in some cases.

At least half a dozen men came up to him asking for tips or training advice, requests for sparring sessions, offers to introduce him to their fathers or liege lords. And at least double that number of young maidens approached to congratulate him with too-sweet smiles on their faces, their eyes lingering and their hands finding excuses to touch his arm. Galad accepted it all with patient courtesy. None of it interested him particularly.

He had spent his previous life navigating courts and political maneuvering, had been raised to it from birth. The flattery and the flirtations and the carefully positioned introductions were all familiar tools of a game he had played long before any of these people had been born. When Lord Mace finally stepped up on a stool to begin a victory speech, Galad saw his opportunity. He had grown thoroughly tired of all the adulation, and Mace Tyrell's speeches had a way of going on for great lengths.

Feigning weariness was not difficult. He let his shoulders slump, his expression soften into one of obvious fatigue, and quietly excused himself with murmured apologies. Most people understood. He had just fought through an entire grand melee, after all. Even the maidens reluctantly gave way before his obvious need for rest. He stepped into the Reach's pavilion and did not leave again until it was time to return to Casterly Rock for the night's feast.

A feast he would, unfortunately, not be able to escape from so easily. xxx Galad had enjoyed the feasts at Casterly Rock more when he had not been required to sit at the high table. The great hall of the Rock was magnificent as usual, he could not deny that. Hewn from the very stone of the mountain itself, the chamber soared high overhead with golden chandeliers hanging from chains thick as a man's arm.

Hundreds of candles flickered in their settings, their light reflecting off polished marble floors and gilded columns. Banners hung from the walls between great tapestries showing Lannister victories, the crimson and gold of the lions dominating the eye wherever it turned beside a single Baratheon banner behind them. The high table sat upon a raised dais at one end of the hall, while long trestle tables stretched out below for the lesser nobles, knights, and their ladies.

But for all its splendor, the high table felt stuffy. Galad did not think there were many friends among the people sitting there. Besides himself, the royal family, and Tywin Lannister, the table was populated by a smattering of great lords from each of the kingdoms—particularly those who had fought in the melee earlier that day. Lord Selwyn Tarth sat further down, his bandaged shoulder hidden beneath fine evening clothes. Lord Yohn Royce ate with quiet dignity beside Lord Mallister.

Several others, all wearing their finest, picked at the elaborate dishes that servants brought in endless procession. Sitting to his left, Lord Mace Tyrell certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. He had taken the spot meant for Lord Tarly, who had led their team into the field, but that did not stop Mace from talking as if he had fought all the same. He held forth to anyone within earshot about the courage of the Reach's contingent, the brilliance of their tactics, the natural superiority of his region's knights.

Lord Tarly himself, sitting at one of the lower tables and eating in his usual silent intensity, would no doubt be furious about this appropriation. The king sat to Galad's right. Though Robert seemed less cheerful than earlier in the day, when battle-fury had animated his every movement, he had been pleasant company through the meal so far. They had spent the last hour talking about war and fighting, trading stories.

Robert had wanted to hear about the campaign in the Iron Islands, particularly the taking of Grey Garden. Galad had given him the unvarnished truth: the difficulty of the assault, the fierceness of Ironborn resistance, the duel with Ser Harras Harlaw. In return, Robert had shared tales from his rebellion—the Battle of Summerhall where he had won three battles in one day, the Battle of the Bells, the Trident. It had been a good conversation.

Robert spoke of war with the easy familiarity of a man who genuinely loved it, and Galad found himself enjoying the king's company more than he had expected. It was only after some time, when Ser Barristan stepped closer behind the table and spoke into the king's ear, that the glint from earlier returned to Robert's eyes. Robert stood, raising his goblet, and his voice boomed across the hall.

"Hear me!" The conversations died at once, every face turning toward the high table.

"I have an announcement to make!" Stepping around the table, Robert beckoned.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury! Approach!" Galad rose, exchanging a brief glance with Lord Mace whose face showed surprise. He made his way around the table to stand before the king.

"This man!" Robert's voice carried to every corner of the great hall.

"This man, this newly-made knight from the Reach, has shown himself today to be perhaps the finest warrior in all the Seven Kingdoms!" Not one eye strayed from where they stood at the edge of the dais.

"I have spent the day speaking with men who fought beside Ser Galad in the Iron Islands. With those who saw him take the walls at Grey Garden. With those who watched him fight today on the tourney grounds." Robert turned to address Galad directly while still speaking loudly enough for all to hear.

"His reputation as a peerless warrior is spotless, and I can confirm the truth of it myself, having had my arse handed to me by him this very afternoon!" Laughter rippled through the hall. Robert had a way of making self-deprecation sound triumphant rather than diminishing. Galad watched it all with growing caution. He did not like where this was going. Robert's manner, the building speech, the public setting… It all spoke of something planned, something intended to be memorable.

"I have decided," Robert continued, raising his voice further, "to elevate my kingship to heights never before seen in the Seven Kingdoms. To restore the honor and glory that has been lost in recent years. And to do so, I must begin with those closest to me." He turned fully to Galad now.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury. Kneel." A collective intake of breath ran through the hall.

"It is my honor and privilege to induct you into the esteemed brotherhood of the Kingsguard." Gasps spread through the assembled nobles. Lord Mace looked stricken at his table, mouth falling open. Lynesse Hightower, sitting with her family, dropped her cup. Even Tywin Lannister's expression shifted, a momentary flash of something Galad could not quite read before the mask returned. Ser Barristan stepped forward, offering his sword to the king with practiced ceremony. Galad did not hesitate to kneel.

The marble was cold beneath his knee through the fine fabric of his borrowed evening clothes. But as Robert took Ser Barristan's sword and prepared to speak, Galad raised one hand to stop him.

"Your Grace, if I may speak before you continue?" Robert paused, frowning slightly.

"Speak, then." A realization had come to Galad in the moment between the king's words and his action. This was an opportunity. The original purpose of his joining the tournament had been to present himself before the realm as the rightful wielder of Nightfall, to make it known that the sword had a true and worthy owner.

But this—being offered the white cloak by the king himself, before the assembled lords of the realm, and publicly refusing it—would solidify that image far more powerfully than any victory in the lists. It would tell every potential threat that he had chosen freedom over the highest honor a knight could receive. That nothing they could offer or threaten would change his course.

"I am greatly honored by the offer, Your Grace," Galad said, his voice carrying clearly through the silent hall.

"Truly. To be considered worthy of the white cloak is more than any knight could ask. But I must respectfully decline." Low murmurs spread across the crowd. Whispers and exchanged glances. Robert's frown deepened.

"Why not, ser?" Galad spoke the truth, knowing every ear in the hall hung on his words.

"My heart sings for adventure, Your Grace. I wish to journey across the Seven Kingdoms as a simple knight, to see the wonders of this land with my own eyes. From the red deserts of Dorne to the white ice of the Wall, from the Iron Islands I have already known to the Vale I have not yet seen. There are mountains I would climb, rivers I would cross, peoples I would meet. Even an honor as great as the white cloak cannot move me from this wish, for it has burned in my heart since I was a boy." Silence held the hall.

Galad waited, knee still on the cold marble, sword still in Robert's hand. Then, instead of anger or insult, a slow smile spread across the king's face. Robert let out a chuckle that grew into a laugh.

"Seven hells, lad. If I was younger and didn't have a kingdom to run, I'd bloody well join you!" He grinned broadly, his teeth white behind his black beard.

"Just a knight on the road, is it? Not a bad life, that. Not a bad life at all."

"Like Ser Duncan the Tall," Ser Barristan said quietly from beside the king.

"Aye, like so." Robert nodded.

"I would need a king as a squire for that to be the case, Your Grace," Galad said.

"And I do not think you would agree to going bald." Eyes widening, Robert burst out in genuine laughter, the sound echoing across the hall. He grasped Galad's arm and pulled him to his feet with surprising strength.

"Ha! No, I would not. Cersei would have a fit if I shaved my head. Though sometimes I think it might be worth it just to see her face." The hall, taking its cue from the king's reaction, began to relax. Laughter and chatter resumed, though the conversations now buzzed with discussion of what had just occurred.

"So be it, then." Robert handed Ser Barristan's sword back to its owner.

"I will not begrudge you a dream I myself once had, ser." He stepped to the side of the dais, drawing Galad with him, away from the immediate earshot of the others at the high table. His voice dropped, becoming more serious.

"I do have a request of you, though. And since you already rejected me once, I will not take no for an answer this time."

"Anything within my power, Your Grace." Robert hesitated. Then, with what seemed like genuine difficulty:"I have been remiss in my duties as king, ser. To my deep regret. I have turned a blind eye to many wrongs in my kingdom while I wallowed in self-pity and wine and whores. No more." His voice hardened with new resolve.

"But getting the truth of things as a king is harder than you might imagine. Everyone tells me what they think I want to hear. The lords, the courtiers, even my own Small Council. The reports I get are filtered through a hundred mouths before they reach my ears."

"I see."

"I want you to serve as my eyes as you go on your merry journey." Galad frowned, uncertain.

"You wish for me to spy for you, Your Grace?"

"Piss on that." Robert waved a hand dismissively.

"I have spies aplenty already. Varys has more whisperers than the realm has whores, and that's saying something. No, I want a knight's eyes. A true knight. Someone who can look at the truth of things and bring that same truth back to me, undistorted." He gestured broadly.

"Tell me about the state of my kingdom. Which roads have bandits preying on travelers. Which lords abuse their smallfolk. Which villages suffer under plague or famine. Which holdfasts have fallen into disrepair. Anything you see that ought to be known. All I hear in my Small Council these days is copper-counting and word of the great lords. I want to know of the people." His eyebrows climbing, Galad found himself surprised. It was reasonable.

More than reasonable, it was a sign that Robert truly was trying to take his kingship seriously, a man asking honestly for help rather than demanding obedience.

"I will do so, Your Grace," he said.

"I will send a letter from any holdfast I stop at, with whatever observations seem worth reporting."

"Good. Good." Robert looked around the hall, seemingly embarrassed by what he had admitted. He should not have been. Galad found himself gaining a different sort of respect for the king. Taking firm hold of his kingship now, even seven years after ascending to the throne, was better than never doing so at all.

"Oh, one more thing, ser." Galad snapped his attention back.

"War, lad. When the Targaryens come—and they will come, I am sure of it—I will want a warrior like you by my side. Will you answer my call?" Galad gave him a firm nod.

"Of course, Your Grace. Whenever and wherever you have need of me if your cause is just." He chose his words carefully, and Robert did not seem to have picked up on it.

"That is what I like to hear." The king clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway slightly.

"Now go on back to your feast. I have grown tired of these blasted things, and I have to see about a serving wench I have been looking for. Haven't seen the girl in days." With that, the king strode away, calling for Ser Barristan to accompany him. Galad watched his back for the second time that day, and this time wished he could join the man, for he had grown tired of the feast as well. But he knew he was not so lucky. He could already hear Lord Mace calling for him.