Chương 44

When Galad arrived through the great arched passage that led from the keep proper, he found that the stands were already filled with noblemen and noblewomen by the hundreds, with the courtyard at the heart of Casterly Rock transformed into an arena. Wooden viewing platforms had been hastily erected against the walls of the courtyard, their tiers packed shoulder-to-shoulder with lords and ladies in their finery.

The royal box rose higher than the others, draped in crimson and gold, the Baratheon stag and Lannister lion competing for prominence on its banners. And they were not the only spectators. It seemed every scullery maid and stableboy and groom in the Rock had found a nook or cranny around the yard from which to watch the spectacle. Heads poked out of upper windows, hands gripping stone sills to lean out for a better view.

Children had hidden themselves beneath benches and behind columns, their parents either too occupied to drag them away or perhaps unaware they had escaped. Servants in their work clothes crowded into doorways, careful not to fully enter the stands but determined not to miss the proceedings either. The sun had risen high enough now to fully clear the eastern wall, painting the courtyard's pale stone in shades of gold.

Sand had been raked across the central fighting ground, smooth and even, ready to drink whatever blood would be spilled. A full dozen Lannister guards escorted Galad all the way into his side of the makeshift arena. The Tyrells had matched that number with men of their own, who made sure to leave only after the lions had gone, neither party trusting the other to handle him with any pretense of fairness. As the Tyrell men finally withdrew, Galad received nods and pats on the back, words of low encouragement.

"For the Reach, ser."

"Show them, Ser Galad."

"Seven save you, ser." They saw him as one of their own. A common man who had made his way to the heights of highborn circles and was now facing the consequences for daring to rise. None of it broke Galad's absolute focus. The lions' sneers and the flowers' cheers were no more than ripples on still water. The void held him deep, and through it he saw everything, the angles of the courtyard, the elevation of the stands, the distances between the men he would soon face, the position of every guard and observer.

Across the yard, seven men stood close together near the opposing side of the arena. Their squires ran between them carrying waterskins and shields, adjusting straps, holding swords steady for final inspection. Some of the knights moved with the easy confidence of men accustomed to violence. Others kept casted wary glances toward Galad's side of the yard. Garlan had prepared everything in advance for him.

The boy now stood at Galad's side worrying his nails with his teeth, his small face pale beneath his brown hair. He clutched Nightfall's sheathed length close to his chest. The septon from earlier stepped to the center of the courtyard and called the eight combatants forward. His seven-pointed star medallion gleamed against his grey robes as he raised his hands for silence. Following him, Galad walked into the center of the sand, the borrowed sword at his hip, his armor clinking softly with each step.

The seven opposite walked toward him in a loose group, taking their positions before the gathered nobility like warriors about to hack at each other in bloodsport for the favor of the crowd. Some of the seven sneered at him as they drew closer. Galad's eyes scanned each of their faces in turn, memorizing the details so he would not mistake one for another in the fight. Whenever possible, he preferred to know the faces of the men he killed. It seemed only proper.

Ser Amory Lorch with his thinning hair and heavy moustache. Ser Mandon Moore who showed nothing at all, his cold dead gaze fixed on Galad with the patient attention of a predator. Ser Meryn Trant gave him a yellow-toothed grin that promised cruelty. Ser Boros Blount looked nervous, his piggy eyes darting about. Ser Balman Byrch, tall and broad with a bushy mustache and a greatsword strapped to his back. Ser Benedict Broom, an older knight Galad had never seen before, gaunt and grey-haired.

And finally Ser Owen Inchfield, his blue eyes blazing with deep hatred, face twisted into something that barely qualified as human. The septon bid them wait as he spoke his holy words, a long sermon about the Seven and their judgment, about how the gods would show truth through the blades of just men, about how the innocent would prevail through divine providence. Galad let the words wash over him, neither attending nor dismissing them. The man was doing his duty as he saw it.

Up in the stands, Galad spotted familiar faces with their gazes fixed on him. Different gazes. Different feelings beneath them. Young Margaery sat between her brothers, her small hands clutched together in her lap, her brown eyes wide with apprehension. Loras beside her looked similarly afraid. They had been allowed to come see his trial despite their youth. Lord Mace had insisted, apparently, claiming his children needed to bear witness to the injustice being done.

Willas Tyrell sat at the edge of his seat, his face composed but his hands gripping the wooden railing. Faith showed in his eyes. Faith Galad hoped to honor. Lord Randyll Tarly stood amidst the other Reach lords, arms crossed, his hard scowl fixed on the seven knights opposite Galad as if memorizing their faces for some future settlement. The Reach contingent surrounded him, Ser Baelor Hightower with his sister Lynesse, Lord Mathis Rowan, all the others. Many in the stands looked positively on him, Galad knew.

Beyond the Reach contingent, there was Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone in his bronze armor and Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard. Lord Gulian Swann too, who nodded at him from his seat among the other Stormlords, his fair face grim but supportive. But those who sat in the highest box, those whose banners flew most prominently above the courtyard, did not look kindly upon him. Robert Baratheon had not deigned to show his face, it seemed. A large chair sat empty in the royal box, its dark cushions undisturbed.

But the others beside it were filled with golden-haired Lannisters. There sat the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei Lannister. Her emerald-green glare threatened to burn a hole through his armor. She had dressed in crimson silk with gold embroidery, her hair arranged in an elaborate style that caught the morning sun. She looked beautiful and terrible at once, like a goddess of vengeance from some old tale. She did not bother to hide her hatred.

Did not bother to school her features into anything resembling royal composure. She wanted him to see her hate. Wanted him to know she had arranged all of this. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Lord Tywin Lannister sat on the other side of the king's empty chair, his face a mask of hard granite, his brows furrowed tightly.

His expression revealed nothing, but Galad could read the tension in his posture, the way his fingers gripped the arms of his chair just slightly too tightly. Ser Jaime stood next to his sister as her white-cloaked guard, but it was the expression on his face that caught Galad's attention. Conflict of some kind. He frowned down at the yard with something almost like discomfort. Was it his leg that pained him or the farce playing out below? Galad recognized some others sitting close by as well.

Ser Lucion Lannister with his cousins, Ser Gerion Lannister whom Galad had faced in the melee. He did not get the impression they had any hand in this mad scheme. Their faces showed surprise and concern, not anticipation. They were watching what their queen had wrought, and they did not entirely approve. In the midst of the crowd, Galad saw men who had fought with him in Harlaw and Grey Garden. He saw ladies he had danced with in this very castle just nights before.

He saw knights he had faced in the tilt lanes and in the grand melee. Hundreds upon hundreds of faces, each with their own thoughts and fears and hopes for what was about to unfold. In the void, Galad could almost hear the thrum of all their heartbeats coming together like a great chorus. Some fretting and afraid. Others excited, eager to see blood. A few perhaps even bored, attending out of duty rather than interest. He let it all break over him as a boulder stands in the midst of a river.

The current was strong, but the stone did not move. The septon finally finished his speech, and a crier stepped forward to announce the proceedings in his loud carrying voice.

"Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms! The accused: Ser Galad of Dunstonbury, charged with the crimes of slaving, rape, and murder most foul!" A wave of murmurs rolled through the stands, hands covering mouths, heads shaking in disbelief or anger.

"The accusers: led by Ser Amory Lorch, knight of House Lorch and sworn man of Casterly Rock! Standing with him: Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Meryn Trant, and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard! Ser Benedict Broom, master-at-arms of House Lannister! Ser Balman Byrch of the Crownlands! And Ser Owen Inchfield of the Reach!" Each name brought its own reaction. Some cheers rose at the Kingsguard names from the smallfolk crowded in their nooks and windows.

Owen Inchfield's announcement drew angry shouts from the Reach contingent.

"The trial!" The crier raised his voice further.

"By ancient custom and sacred right, a Trial of Seven! The accused shall fight as one against the seven accusers, this contest to be decided by either death or yielding of one side! No quarter shall be demanded that is not freely given! No mercy shall be required that is not freely offered!" He drew a deep breath, then pronounced the traditional closing words with all the solemnity his office could muster.

"And may the gods show them mercy." Galad nodded at that. He found himself in agreement. He did wish the gods would show his opponents mercy, for there would be none in his heart. The bell rang a final time, then the trial began. He did not wait for them to organize themselves. The seven men had begun to spread out from their cluster, clearly planning to surround him, to box him in like hunters stalking game. It was good tactics, well-conceived if perhaps poorly executed.

Against a normal man, against any other knight in Westeros perhaps, it would have worked. Forcing the lone defender to constantly turn, to never know which direction the next attack would come from, to be slowly worn down until exhaustion or a missed parry ended things. Galad gave them no time to complete the maneuver. He dashed forward toward the closest man, Ser Mandon Moore, pulling his sword free as he ran. The borrowed castle-forged steel sang from its scabbard, catching the morning sun.

Mandon's cold pale eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he registered the wrong color of steel, the absence of Valyrian ripple in the blade. It was not the sword he had expected, not the sword he had been preparing himself to face. That moment of surprise was enough. Galad assessed Mandon in the heartbeats of his approach. The man's stance was solid, his shield well-positioned, his sword held in a proper high guard. Of the seven, he was the best by far.

Better than the other Kingsguard, better than the Lannister knights and Ser Owen. His movements held the precision of long training and his focus the coldness of a man who killed without feeling. Good. Better to deal with the most dangerous first. Closing the distance, he held his borrowed sword level before him. Mandon recovered from his surprise quickly, settling into his guard, ready to receive the charge. Galad feinted low, a thrust that seemed aimed at the groin.

Mandon's shield dipped reflexively to protect the vulnerable area while his sword remained high on guard, ready to chop down at Galad's exposed head. In the void, Galad saw the opening the moment Mandon's shield moved. The Kingsguard had presented him a fraction of his throat—the gap between gorget and helmet, where the chainmail aventail was the only protection. Galad's blade flickered up faster than any normal eye could track.

The thrust seemed to begin as a sideways slash, then transformed mid-strike into a precise upward thrust, the motion as seamless as wind flowing through reeds. The sword's point met the soft flesh of Mandon Moore's neck just above the gorget. Castle-forged steel parted chainmail, then skin, then the vital structures beneath. In and out in half a second. Mandon Moore was dead before he registered the wound, his sword half raised for a counter strike.

His body began to fold, blood already fountaining from the precise puncture, but Galad was already turning. Already moving to meet the next opponent. A second knight had been rushing in from behind, Ser Balman Byrch, the tall one with the bushy mustache. He had seen Mandon engaged and tried to take Galad from behind, swinging his greatsword in a wild overhead chop that would have split Galad in half had it landed.

He sidestepped to his left as the massive blade came down, and the greatsword cleaved only empty air, its weight carrying it deep into the sand of the courtyard floor. Byrch's hands remained on the grip, his stance overextended. Galad killed him in three moves. First, he stepped onto the man's two-handed grip with his foot, pinning the greatsword to the ground. Byrch's eyes widened above his mustache. Second, Galad launched himself upward, using his foot's purchase on the trapped sword as a springboard.

Third, the borrowed castle-forged steel came around in a clean horizontal slash at Byrch's neckline, the blade biting through flesh and spine as it passed. Ser Balman Byrch's head separated from his shoulders. It hit the ground at the same time as Ser Mandon Moore's body, the two impacts producing nearly simultaneous thuds in the suddenly silent courtyard. Landing lightly on the sand, Galad was already turning to face the remaining five.

Two of them had been rushing him from the flanks, but having seen what had just happened to their fellows, seemed to think better of pressing the attack alone. They retreated quickly, regrouping with the rest. The five remaining knights gathered together, this time forming a proper formation. Shields raised, swords ready, no one stepping forward to be picked off individually. Ser Amory Lorch took command, gesturing his men into position.

Ser Meryn Trant looked considerably less confident than he had a moment before. Ser Boros Blount looked openly terrified. Ser Benedict Broom held his sword in a steady grip but his face had gone pale. Ser Owen Inchfield's hatred had cooled into something more like calculation. He had seen the speed of Galad's strikes, and even his rage could not entirely eclipse self-preservation. The five of them would come at once. Together. Coordinated. Galad nodded slowly to himself.

Perhaps this way they would make it a challenge. He set his stance and waited for them to advance. Two men dead in less than ten heartbeats. Five to go. The courtyard remained dead silent. No one cheered. No one even breathed loudly. Hundreds of nobles and servants stared down at the impossible sight before them, trying to reconcile what they had just witnessed with what was supposed to be happening. And as the void held Galad in its perfect stillness, he waited for the dance to continue.