Chương 47

The stables at Casterly Rock were built close to the Lion's Mouth, half-carved from the living stone, half-built of dark timber that had weathered to deep grey-brown over centuries of salt air. As Galad approached down the cobbled path that led from the keep proper, the smell of horses and hay and leather oil grew steadily stronger, mingling with the cleaner scent of the sea breeze rolling in off the Sunset. The stable yard was unusually empty.

A single stableboy peeked out from behind a column when Galad approached, then quickly disappeared back into the shadows. He knew why a moment later, when he turned the corner into the yard proper. It was not just Garlan and their horses waiting for him. King Robert Baratheon stood in the center of the outer yard, his great black cloak thrown back over one shoulder, his beard rough and untrimmed as if he had not paid it any attention that morning.

Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy stood in his white enameled plate with his white cloak hanging straight down his back, the morning light catching the careful polish on his armor. But what stopped Galad in mid-stride was what they were doing. The king and his Lord Commander were apparently demonstrating something to Garlan. Robert held what appeared to be an imaginary sword, his hands gripping nothing at all.

He was moving through some sequence of strikes and parries while Garlan watched with rapt attention, nodding eagerly. As Galad came into view, Robert was just executing what looked like a particularly enthusiastic decapitation, his imaginary blade swinging through the air in a great arc.

"—and then he came around like this, didn't he, lad? That tall one with the greatsword, he took his head clean off! By the seven, I have never seen the like!" Ser Barristan saw Galad first. The Lord Commander's expression shifted into something complicated as their eyes met across the yard, a strange, conflicted look that held many things at once. Apology, perhaps. Respect. Some measure of disquiet that Galad could not quite read.

The old knight straightened slightly, and his hand fell away from where it had been gesturing along with Robert's demonstration.

"Ser!" Garlan spotted him next, his face lighting up like a candle. The king turned last, stopping mid-swing with his fake sword still raised above his head. Robert lowered his hands slowly, an almost sheepish grin spreading across his bearded face.

"Ah, the man himself! Come over here, ser! Come over!" Galad walked into the yard at his measured pace, his boots making soft impacts against the cobblestones. The horses, four of them now, he noticed, stood saddled and ready at the rail. The pale mare he'd been riding in the joust, his destrier Ben had brought all the way from the Reach, a grey palfrey for Garlan, and a fourth horse, a stout black gelding loaded with supplies that must be intended as their packhorse.

"Garlan." Galad turned to his squire as he reached them.

"Are the horses ready?"

"All set, ser! Saddled and watered. The packhorse has provisions for two weeks, and I checked everything twice." The boy beamed up at him, then seemed to remember himself and added with hasty formality: "Your saddlebags can be tied on whenever you're ready, ser."

"Good lad." Galad handed off his saddlebags.

"See to it, then. Make sure the weight is balanced." Garlan hurried away to attend to the task, leaving Galad facing the king and his Lord Commander alone. King Robert cleared his throat. The earlier grin had faded somewhat, replaced by something more uncertain. The king actually scratched at his beard awkwardly, looking very much like a man who knew he had to say difficult things and was not sure how to begin.

"Ser Galad. I've come to wish you well on your journey." Robert paused, his blue eyes meeting Galad's directly.

"And also to..." Another pause. He shook his head once, as if irritated with his own hesitation.

"To apologize. For not stopping that madness in the great hall." Galad inclined his head slightly but said nothing, waiting.

"I couldn't think straight after seeing the girl's body. After hearing she'd been pregnant with my child." Robert's voice grew rougher.

"Bess was her name. A serving girl I took a liking to. Sweet thing. She used to laugh at all my terrible jokes." He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixing somewhere on the stable wall.

"I let my anger blind me. I should've known better than to trust those worms' words over the testimony of a knight who'd shown himself an honorable man to me not a day before." The king's words came easily now that he had started, but one thing became clear to him. Robert Baratheon was a man led by his emotions. The apology was sincere—of that Galad had no doubt. But the same passion driving it had nearly seen an innocent man condemned only hours before. A useful thing to remember, that.

Men ruled by feeling could be moved by clever tongues whispering the right words at the right moment. At least now he knew he could not rely on King Robert's good judgment going forward. Still, Galad would take what was offered.

"There is no need to apologize, Your Grace," he said, conciliatory.

"The matter is resolved, and no harm came to me in the end. Many kings would have ordered me killed first and asked questions never. You at least allowed the matter to come to trial."

"Aye, well." Robert seemed to brighten at the easy acceptance of his apology, his shoulders relaxing visibly. The grin returned, broader than before.

"Aye, well, thank you for that. Generous of you, ser. More generous than I deserve, perhaps." He waved his hand then, dismissing the heavier topic, and his expression transformed into pure boyish enthusiasm.

"But seven hells, what a fight it was! Seven men against one! I have never seen the like in all my years. The way you took down Moore—gone before any of us knew what had happened! And then the big one with the greatsword, when you stepped on his blade and jumped—!" Robert's hands started gesturing again, miming the movements.

"By the gods! I thought my heart would stop!" Galad raised an eyebrow at that.

"I am surprised, Your Grace. I did not see you in the royal box during the trial." Robert scratched at his beard once more, and this time the king of the Seven Kingdoms actually looked sheepish.

"Aye. Well." His weight shifted slightly.

"Truth is, ser, I caught it from a balcony above the courtyard. Could not bring myself to sit in the royal box, not when I was the one who'd let that farce proceed in the first place. But I could not stay away either. Watched the whole thing from up above, hidden behind a curtain like some scullery maid." Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. A bark of laughter escaped him, self-deprecating.

"And gods, am I glad I watched! I will have the bards compose a hundred songs about that fight, you can be sure of that. The Trial of Ser Galad. The Seven That Fell. The Dance of Steel at Casterly Rock." His grin widened further.

"We'll have a dozen ballads making the rounds by the end of the year, ser. The realm will not soon forget what you did in that courtyard." Robert turned to his Lord Commander, who had been watching the exchange in silence.

"Tell him what you said to me, Selmy. Tell him." Ser Barristan stepped forward at his king's bidding, his white cloak swirling slightly with the movement. The old knight's blue eyes met Galad's, and there was something almost wistful in them.

"I told His Grace it was a feat that not even Ser Duncan the Tall could boast of. Dunk fought in a Trial of Seven, of course—the most famous one in living memory. But he had companions in that fight. He did not stand alone." Ser Barristan paused, considering.

"I have known many great swordsmen in my time, Ser Galad. I trained alongside Ser Gerold Hightower and Prince Lewyn Martell. I sparred with Ser Arthur Dayne when I was still a younger man. I have seen Ser Jaime Lannister at his best, and King Robert in his prime." His eyes never left Galad's.

"What you did in that courtyard today, ser, I have never seen its equal in all my long years." Galad inclined his head, accepting the words with the gravity they deserved.

"High praise from a knight of your reputation, Lord Commander. My thanks, ser." He paused, then added: "And my apologies for the killing of your three sworn brothers." Ser Barristan's face twisted briefly. Pain there, certainly. The man had served beside Moore, Trant, and Blount for years, had taken sword oaths alongside them. Whatever their failings, they had been his brothers in white. Then the old knight let out a long, weary breath.

"Aye. They were my brothers, in name if not in spirit." His voice held the resignation of a man who had been forced to confront unpleasant truths.

"Though perhaps it is for the best that men who would lie under oath as they did vacated their spots. The white cloak is meant to symbolize honor. It cannot do so if it covers craven and corrupt hearts beneath." Robert nodded vigorously at his Lord Commander's words.

"Damn right. That kind of scum has no place in my Kingsguard. Should never have been allowed to wear the white in the first place." He turned back to Galad, and a familiar gleam entered his eye.

"Which brings me to a thought, ser. Surely now you might reconsider…" Galad sighed.

"Your Grace."

"Just hear me out, lad! Three slots vacated! And I need good men. Ser Barristan could certainly use a better sparring partner. The poor old man has been complaining for years about how no one in the Kingsguard can give him a proper challenge anymore." Ser Barristan made a small sound that might have been the ghost of a laugh. Galad allowed himself a small smile but shook his head.

"Your Grace, my answer must remain the same. The road calls me, and I will answer it."

"Ah, you stubborn ass." Robert grinned, taking the refusal in good humor this time.

"Worth a try, eh? Worth a try."

"Though I would respectfully recommend a candidate to fill at least one of those slots, if Your Grace would hear me."

"Oh? Speak then."

"Ser Arys Oakheart," Galad said.

"Who stood at my side during the campaign in the Iron Islands. He is a knight of both skill and honor—rare to find both in one man, as you well know. He proved his quality on that battlefield, and again in the grand melee. I would vouch for his character without hesitation." Robert considered for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Oakheart, you say? Solid Reach stock. Aye, I'll speak with the lad before we leave Casterly Rock. If you vouch for him, that carries weight with me. Considerable weight, after today." He bowed his head "Your Grace honors me." A brief silence fell between them. Behind Galad, the soft sounds of Garlan attending to the saddlebags continued, leather creaking, buckles clicking, the boy's occasional quiet word to one of the horses. Robert glanced at the horses, then back at Galad.

"There's one more thing, ser. The matter we spoke of last night. Your reports from the road. Can I still expect them?"

"I do not go back on my promises, Your Grace." Galad met the Robert's gaze steadily.

"Much less those made to a king. You will have your reports from every holdfast I stop at. The truth of what I see, written plainly."

"Good. Good lad." Robert exhaled, looking relieved.

"I will look forward to hearing of your adventures across my realm, ser. The bards will have plenty to sing about, no doubt. And perhaps, through your eyes, I will finally start to understand the kingdom I have been ruling these seven years." The king extended his arm. Galad took it, their hands meeting in a firm grasp at the forearm. Robert's grip was strong, the calloused hand of a fighter who, for all his years of comfort and indulgence, still remembered how to hold a hammer.

"Safe travels, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury."

"And to you, Your Grace. May your reign be long and your enemies few."

"Bah." Robert grinned.

"I think we both know I'll have plenty of enemies, with the dragons stirring across the sea. But that's a worry for another day. Off with you now! Before I think of another reason to try to keep you here!" Galad released the king's arm and turned. Garlan had finished securing the saddlebags and now stood holding the reins of both their riding horses, his face glowing with barely contained excitement.

"Ready, ser?"

"Ready, lad. Are you?" Garlan's smile spread across his entire face. He looked impossibly young at that moment, all of twelve years old, his riding cloak still too big for his frame. But his eyes held a determination that had grown steadily in him these past months.

"More ready than I've ever been, ser," he said. They passed Robert and Ser Barristan as they rode toward the stable yard's exit. The king raised his hand in farewell, that broad grin still on his face. Ser Barristan inclined his head with a knight's respect. Galad nodded to both men in turn and rode on. The path from the stables wound down through the lower levels of Casterly Rock, past storerooms and barracks and forges and all the workings of a great castle. People stopped to stare as they rode past.

Servants paused their tasks. Guards came to attention. Men and women stopped their daily labor to watch the woodsman knight pass with his young squire. But none stopped them. None challenged them. None even spoke as they rode by. The great gates of Casterly Rock came into view, the massive iron-bound oak doors standing open in the morning light. The guards on either side, Lannister men in crimson and gold, watched with wide eyes as Galad and Garlan approached.

One of them, an older sergeant with grey in his beard, finally found his voice.

"Ser Galad. We were told to expect you. The gate is open." He nodded at the man.

"My thanks, sergeant." A small attempt of redress from Lord Tywin? Galad didn't know, and in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care much. They rode through the great gates of Casterly Rock without further incident, emerging onto the road that wound down the mountain toward the coast and the broader lands beyond. Behind them, the Rock loomed dark and immense against the midday sky—the seat of House Lannister, the wealthiest castle in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Before them, the road stretched ahead, dusty and uncertain, leading to all the places Galad had not yet seen. Just a knight and his squire on the road. Exactly as Galad had wanted. He clicked his tongue again, urging the mare into a faster pace. Garlan kept easy alongside him, the destrier and the packhorse trotting behind with their leads. The wind off the sea pulled at their cloaks. The sun climbed higher into a sky finally clear of morning haze. Their journey had finally begun.