Chương 43

Sitting unsheathed upon his lap, Nightfall glittered as it caught the red-tinted sunlight filtering through the lion-themed stained glass windows. The blade's patterned ripples shimmered like a heat mirage, creating a sort of bloody illusion in the steel. A mere trick of the light, Galad knew. He had already cleaned it from the blood of the Lannister guards he had cut down earlier. After a lifetime of war and campaigns, he'd grown a habit of sharpening his blade after every battle.

But Valyrian steel swords like Nightfall held an edge of their own, never dulling, never chipping. So instead of a whetstone, he simply ran an oiled rag along the blade. The movement was familiar. Calming. He had learned long ago that it sharpened him as much as it did his swords. Now, it helped him sink even deeper into the void. He felt the rag running along Nightfall's surface as if it were his own skin. The warmth of the sunlight was the warmth of his own pulsing blood.

The small sounds of the room: the rustle of his own breathing, the distant murmur of voices through the door, the faint scrape of a guard shifting his weight outside, all settled into a kind of music. Once, when he was around thirteen years old in this world, he had gone into a cave in the woods to meditate and hone his skill with the flame and the void. He had stayed there for nearly three days without eating or drinking or even seeing the sunlight.

And when he left, he thought he had found the depths of his connection with himself and the world around him. A faint trace of amusement flickered inside him for a heartbeat before it disappeared into the void. Hubris was a funny thing when you had the privilege of hindsight. Gareth Bryne, his old mentor from his time as a prince, used to tell him that a hundred hours in the practice yard could not substitute for one hour in real battle. Perhaps the same was true for his prowess with the Oneness.

His days of meditation in the darkness of a cave did not compare to the single moment after those false knights had killed the girl and accused him of slavery and worse. Had he not found the Oneness then, he might have slaughtered the entire Lannister company and all the Kingsguards on the spot. But he was glad he hadn't. It would have been a child's tantrum, if much more deadly. With no witnesses to side with him, he would have become an outlaw in the eyes of the realm even if he won a subsequent trial by combat.

That would not have bothered him much even a few months ago. But Galad could not act so rashly now. He had promises to honor, friends to help, and a squire to teach. A quick knock came at the door then, followed by Garlan slipping past the guards outside and into the room. Galad caught a glimpse of them as the door opened, both Lannister and Tyrell men, watching each other with thinly veiled hostility.

The arrangement had been the result of furious negotiation between Lord Mace and Lord Tywin, neither trusting the other to guard the accused properly until the trial. Unlike his usual boisterous self, Garlan looked rattled even now. He had barely spoken as he had helped Galad putting on his armor, his small hands trembling slightly as he worked the buckles.

"Twenty minutes until the trial, ser." Galad nodded his thanks. The boy fidgeted by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"What is it, Garlan?"

"I know you said it didn't matter, but I found out the knights you'll be fighting." Galad raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"Aye, ser. I can tell you if you wish." Looking at him, Galad thought the boy might burst if he did not let him speak his mind.

"Go on." Garlan stepped closer, his hands wringing together.

"There is some good news, ser. Ser Jaime is still injured from the melee, his leg won't hold his weight, and Ser Gregor Clegane has not woken up yet from his wounds. The Lannisters tried to convince the Mountain's brother to fight, but he refused. Some are saying he even left their service entirely." The Mountain's brother. Galad's mind supplied the scarred face of the man who had come to fetch him for the queen days ago. The man had warned him against the brutality of his brother even then.

There must have been quite a story for a man to favor a stranger over his own blood.

"Good on him." Garlan shook his head, his earlier nervousness returning.

"But there will be three Kingsguards, ser. Ser Boros Blount has joined Ser Meryn and Ser Mandon in the seven." His voice took on a desperate note, as if these men were special because of an empty title and a white cloak.

"Then there is Ser Amory Lorch, of course, and another Lannister knight, Ser Benedict Broom, as well as a Crownlander by the name of Ser Balman Byrch who seeks the queen's favor. I do not know much about him, but they say he is big and good with a sword."

"And the last man?" Garlan's face fell further.

"Ser... Ser Owen Inchfield, ser. He volunteered when he heard it was you he would be fighting. My father threatened to strip his family of their titles and throw them out of the Reach entirely, but he did not care. He's like a mad dog." Galad did no more than nod at that. It was not unexpected that Ser Owen would take his chances now. He had proven himself to be as vengeful as he was foolish.

"I see. You may thank your father for his spirited defense of my person, but there is no need to disinherit a family for one of their son's shortsightedness." He fixed his gaze at his squire.

"But there are a few more things I must ask of you, Garlan."

"Anything, ser."

"After all this, are you certain you want to be my squire still? And travel with me across the kingdoms?" His eyes widened immediately.

"Of course, Ser Galad. More than anything." Galad's face hardened.

"Then you must say your goodbyes to your family today. Before the trial is over. And I do not intend for it to last long."

"But—what, wait." Garlan shook his head, seeming thoroughly confused.

"What of the tourney, ser? The jousting! Two more rounds and you'll be the champion." Galad gave the boy a comforting smile.

"How much do you think the title of champion means to me, Garlan?" If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Uh... not much?"

"Not much. And I told you I did not join it for the glory or the gold of it. I meant only to send a message to the realm. This trial will serve me fine for that purpose." Mouth ajar, Garlan stared at him for a second, then sighed and seemed to deflate slightly.

"I see, ser. I will... I will speak with my lord father. I will say my goodbyes today."

"Soon, Garlan. I do not plan to stay long after the trial. I find this castle suits me not." Galad paused.

"I need you to find Ben for me, and tell him to prepare horses for our journey. He is to take four with him and ride northeast past Ashemark. We will meet him a week hence at the foot of the Tumblestone."

"It shall be done." Garlan turned to leave, but Galad stopped him.

"One more thing, squire." Garlan stiffened at the formality.

"Ask Ser Arys Oakheart to come meet me. I need to borrow his sword."

"His sword?" The boy frowned, his hand on the door.

"Do you intend to wield two of them in the trial?" Rising from where he sat, Galad walked up to him. His plate-and-mail armor clinked with every step. He sheathed Nightfall in its scabbard, untied it from his belt, and handed the entire rig off to him.

"Hold it for me until the trial is over, if you please," he told him.

"I will not have need of it today."

"What?" Garlan sputtered, taking the sheathed sword automatically and then nearly dropping it as he registered what he held.

"No. No, you can't, ser. You must use it in the trial. You are already one against seven. There is no honor in further disadvantaging yourself!" His eyes had filled with tears. He blinked them back furiously, gripping Nightfall's scabbard tight against his chest.

"Do not fret." Galad rested a hand on the boy's head, ruffling his brown hair gently.

"This is not about honor. I could never lose or gain any of it against such men as those who oppose me. I will simply show the Lannisters and anyone else who might wish to make an enemy of me the truth of things."

"What truth, ser?" the boy asked.

"That it is the man that makes the sword, Garlan. Never the other way around." He let his hand fall to the boy's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"They will learn this lesson today. And the realm will learn it with them." Garlan looked up at him, tears finally spilling over despite his efforts. He clutched Nightfall to his chest as if afraid Galad might change his mind and take it back. Then, with a tremendous swallow, he nodded.

"Yes, ser. I'll fetch Ser Arys." He left, his small frame disappearing through the door, the great Valyrian steel sword almost as long as he was tall held carefully in his arms. xxx Ser Arys Oakheart arrived not five minutes later, and his reaction was not unlike Garlan's, if voiced with a man's weight rather than a boy's anguish.

"Ser, you cannot be serious." He stood near the door in his tourney armor, hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his hip—the same sword Galad had requested.

"Nightfall is one of the finest blades in Westeros. To set it aside for this trial… it is madness."

"I have made my decision, Arys."

"Then make a different one." Arys stepped forward, his face earnest beneath the bandage that still wrapped around his head from the melee.

"And while you are reconsidering, reconsider also your refusal of champions. I would stand with you. Any number of us would stand with you. To fight seven alone is not bravery, ser, it is folly." Galad let him speak. The man's worry came from genuine friendship, and friendship was a thing Galad would not lightly dismiss. He had not had so many true friends in either life that he could afford to wave away those few he had earned.

"You are a good friend, Arys."

"Then listen to me!" Arys's voice rose. He paced a small circle in the room, his armor clinking.

"Lord Mace will support you. Lord Tarly will support you. Even men I do not know want to fight at your side. We could have seven of the finest knights in the realm by your side. Royce is eager to join, and Lord Jason Mallister is better sword than any of these false knights. We could match the Lannisters' best and exceed them. You could keep your sword. You could fight on the side that has the advantage."

"Arys."

"And if you will not change your mind, then I will not lend you my sword." The words came out with the petulance of a younger brother making demands. Galad recognized them for what they were, a friend's last desperate attempt to force him to see reason. Or what Arys saw as reason.

"You would deny me a weapon for my trial?"

"If it makes you see sense, then yes." Arys crossed his arms, looking very young despite his armor.

"If I cannot fight beside you, then I will at least force you to fight with the sword that will give you the best change to win." Nodding slowly, Galad did not argue further. There was no point. Arys would come to it on his own, in his own time. So he sat back down, picked up his oiled rag, and waited. For perhaps ten minutes they sat in silence, Arys pacing intermittently, Galad attending to the small details of his armor and gloves, polishing them more for the sake of the movement than the shine.

Through the high window, the morning sun continued its climb. Somewhere in the castle, servants were preparing the courtyard where the trial would be held. Apparently, stands were being arranged, the ground was being marked. The Lannisters meant to make it a spectacle. So be it. He would give them one. Soon, the bells began to toll. Deep, resonant tolling that carried through the stone walls of Casterly Rock. Arys stopped pacing. He stood in the center of the room, his shoulders slumping.

After a long moment, he reached down and unbuckled the sword from his belt. His hands moved slowly, as if performing some sacred ritual against his will. He held the sheathed blade out to Galad in both hands, the way a squire might present a sword to his knight.

"Take it, then." His voice had lost its earlier heat, replaced by something quieter and far more frightened.

"Take it and use it well. But promise me, ser. Promise me you will give it back to me when this is done." Galad rose and accepted the sword, drawing it partially from its sheath to examine the blade. It was a good sword. Well-made castle-forged steel, properly balanced, the edge keen from recent honing. Not Valyrian steel, but a fine weapon for any knight. He met Arys's eyes as he sheathed the blade and buckled it to his belt. He knew it was not the sword the man wanted returned hale and whole.

Galad grasped him by the shoulder, the way men did with brothers-in-arms before they rode into battle.

"You are a true friend, Arys Oakheart. I will not have you mourning for me before the fight has even begun."

"Then do not give me cause to mourn after it." Arys's voice cracked slightly.

"Please, ser. Reconsider. Even now. Tell the septon you have changed your mind. Take Nightfall. Take six champions. Even three. There is no shame in it."

"Arys." The man fell silent.

"I am clearing the way for your dream." Arys frowned in confusion.

"What?" Galad allowed himself a small smile.

"When this is done, there will be three vacancies in the Kingsguard. The realm will need new knights to wear the white. Knights of true honor and skill, not the wretched men who currently sully the cloak." Understanding dawned slowly on Arys's face. His eyes widened.

"You... you intend to kill them. The three Kingsguard."

"I intend to see justice done. The consequences shall be what they shall be." The bells continued to toll. Galad gestured toward the door.

"Come. Let us not keep them waiting." Arys Oakheart did not move for a moment. He stood looking at Galad with something that might have been awe, or might have been simple inability to comprehend what he was seeing. Then he nodded, slowly, and turned toward the door. Galad followed his friend out into the corridor, the borrowed sword swinging easily at his hip, his armor catching the lamplight as he walked toward the great courtyard where seven men waited to kill him. In the void, he felt nothing at all.

Just the slow, steady rhythm of his own heart, the sharp clarity of the world around him, and the certainty of what must be done.