Chương 51

They rode south at first, taking the road out of Casterly Rock toward Lannisport and then further past the city. Not because Galad expected any pursuit—he doubted the Lannisters were foolish enough to send men after him so soon after his trial—but because caution cost nothing and mistakes could cost everything. He'd learned that commanding armies and nations, but the principle was the same even for a simple knight and his squire.

So they took the Ocean Road south along the coast for a full hour past the last houses of Lannisport, riding at an easy pace like men making for the Reach. Only when the road curved to skirt a headland where no traveler behind them could see did they turn their horses east, cutting cross-country over the sparse forests of the Westerlands.

Another hour of that before they finally turned north, angling toward the valley that ran between the northern reaches of the Western Hills and the Pendric Hills further to the north. The white mare beneath Galad, the same steady horse he had ridden through the jousting at Lannisport, borrowed from Lord Mace and now his by gift, moved with easy grace over the uneven ground. Beside her walked his old destrier, the great bay warhorse he had trained himself during his years in the Reach.

The bay bore no rider but carried a light saddle and blanket, ready to be swapped out when battle threatened. Behind them came Garlan on his grey palfrey, and behind him the stout black gelding packhorse loaded with their supplies. It made for a small but purposeful column moving through the rocky terrain. They made good time. Past the northern reaches of the Western Hills, past the fields and orchards that surrounded Lord Sarsfield's holdings, keeping their distance from the castle itself.

Then further north still, threading between the Pendric Hills and giving Ashemark a wide berth. The land was fair if rocky country, green pastures between steep hills dotted with hamlets and farmhouses, streams that fed into greater rivers, small woods where the shade offered welcome relief from the summer sun. Ben was waiting for them in a small clearing near the water when they finally rode up to the mouth of the Tumblestone.

He had made a proper camp, a fire pit banked with river stones, three additional horses grazing in a rope corral, his own gelding tied to a picket line, bedroll set out neatly beneath a canvas lean-to. He looked up at the sound of hoofbeats. His tanned face broke into a broad grin. Galad swung down from his mare, handing the reins off to Garlan. He walked toward the camp with a hand raised in greeting. Ben crossed the distance in three long strides and, before Galad could react, wrapped him in a fierce hug.

"Gods be good, I'm glad to see you well, ser." Galad stood very still for a moment, his arms half-raised in surprise, before he returned the embrace with a single firm clap on Ben's back. The sergeant stepped away, and Galad raised an eyebrow at him with a trace of amusement in his eyes.

"I am glad to see you well too, Ben," he said dryly. Ben's face flushed a deep red. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at his boots.

"Aye, well." Ben cleared his throat.

"I left in a rush, didn't I? I was at Lannisport collecting your lordly clothes before the trial even started. It wasn't as if I could ride to the nearest holdfast and ask if a raven had brought word of the outcome. So all I had was..." He gestured helplessly.

"Well. Ser. Seven against one, and me not knowing for a week whether you were breathing or being buried in some Lannister ditch." Galad's mouth curved into a small smile.

"I am disappointed in you, Ben, for doubting me."

"I never doubted you, ser!" Ben protested. Then he paused, seeming to reconsider his words.

"Well. Perhaps a bit. But even for you, fighting a trial by seven on your own is madness." Galad clapped him on the shoulder as he moved past toward the fire.

"The bravest man I ever met was mad, Ben. You should try it sometimes." Behind them, Garlan snorted with laughter as he led the horses toward the corral. Ben stood shaking his head for a long moment, then followed his knight to the camp with a rueful grin spreading across his face. xxx They didn't stay at Ben's camp for long.

After they had reorganized their gear and distributed the horses among their new party, they set out east along the river the next morning—and six days of relaxed riding later, starting late every morning and stopping early in the evenings to train with Garlan and continue his reading lessons with Ben, they were still following the Tumblestone through the western Riverlands.

The land around the banks was gentler than the country they had crossed to reach it, slow rolling hills covered in summer grass, groves of oak and ash. The air smelled of water and wildflowers and the sun-warmed earth. Fish jumped in the shallows in the mornings, and at night herons stalked the reeds along the banks. The three of them had settled into the comfortable rhythm of men on the road. Ben had proven himself a good traveling companion, quick to help with camp chores and a decent hand with a cooking pot.

Garlan, at nearly thirteen, seemed to grow more competent with each day of the journey, taking on his squire duties with a seriousness that reaffirmed Galad's choice in bringing the boy. All in all, the journey had been pleasant enough at first. Now, three hours past their morning camp on the seventh day, that was beginning to change.

"Another one," Ben said, pointing ahead. Galad had already seen it. A farmhouse, or what had once been a farmhouse, sat perhaps two hundred yards off the road on the far side of a small pasture. The roof had collapsed in on itself. The stone walls stood only to knee-height where the fire had done its worst. A broken cart lay overturned in the yard, one wheel missing.

"That's the third today," Garlan said quietly.

"Fourth," Ben corrected.

"You forgot the shepherd's hut near the crossing this morning." Galad nodded grimly, and they rode on without stopping. There would be nothing to find at this one that they had not already found at the others. Ash. Charred timber. A few corpses gone to the crows and worse, but no living people for them to help. Whoever had done this had been thorough.

"Ironborn," Ben said. He had been saying it since they passed the first one.

"Perhaps," Galad replied. Ben shook his head.

"Who else would it be, ser? Those bastards raid up and down the coasts. Everyone knows it."

"The coasts, yes." Galad glanced back at the destroyed farm as they rode past.

"But we are more than a hundred miles inland now. I have not heard of the Ironborn raiding this deep before."

"They've done it before," Garlan offered. Both Galad and Ben turned to look at the boy. Garlan flushed slightly under their attention but continued.

"Maester Lomys taught me about it. Before the time of the Targaryens, the Ironborn ruled all the Riverlands, and Harren Hoare built Harrenhal from the wealth he took from the smallfolk here. They know these rivers. They know these lands, or their ancestors did." The boy shrugged.

"It's not impossible for them to have done it. They could have landed at the coast, taken horses from the first village they hit, and ridden downriver from there." Galad considered that. The boy had a point. Despite his isolation and lack of general historical knowledge of this world, even he had heard of Harren the Black and his fiery fate at Harrenhal. That meant the Iron Islands had ruled these lands at least for a while, and that kind of knowledge did not simply vanish from a people.

Songs and stories preserved it, if nothing else. And with the Rebellion just ended, with many of the Riverlands lords still absent at the tournament in Lannisport, the timing would be perfect for a raid of unusual boldness. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Still, something felt wrong about it.

He'd seen the Ironborn using boys as young as twelve at Harlow to fight the invaders, and he imagined the rest of the islands did much the same before Pyke fell. They could not afford to spend their strength so far from home. A rogue captain could be the answer, but he had a hard time imagining an Ironborn captain abandoning his longship for a life in the saddle raiding hamlets and farms.

"Perhaps," he said again. They rode on. The sun climbed higher. The heat began to press down on them despite the shade of the trees along the river. Insects hummed in the reeds. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammered at a dying tree with hollow, rhythmic strokes. Then they came around a bend in the road, and Garlan gasped. Three bodies hung from a great oak tree at the edge of what had once been a farmyard.

They swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, their forms half-eaten by carrion birds, ropes creaking against the branch above. Two of them were grown men, perhaps in their thirties or forties. The third was a boy of Garlan's age, hardly more than a child. Beneath the tree, an old woman sat on a rough wooden bench. She was tiny. Bent nearly double by age, her grey hair unwashed and stringy, her clothes little more than rags.

She rocked back and forth slowly, staring at nothing in particular with dry eyes that seemed to have exhausted all their tears years ago. She did not look up as the riders approached. Galad glanced sideways at Garlan. The boy had gone pale beneath his summer tan, his jaw set tight, but he did not look away from the corpses. He held his reins in hands that Galad could see had begun to tremble slightly. He'd shielded the boy from the sight of most of the bodies they found along the way, but there was no hiding this.

Reining in his mare, Galad and the others dismounted and tied their horses to a post near the ruined farm's fate. Taking the lead, he walked slowly toward the old woman, careful to give her time to notice his approach. He did not want to startle her.

"They come back," the old woman said, still staring at nothing. Her voice was flat and papery.

"Come back to finish it, have you? Well. Get on with it. There's nothing left for you to take." She did not look up.

"We are not the raiders, grandmother," Galad said quietly. Only then did her head come up. Her rheumy eyes found his face, then Ben's, then Garlan's. She studied them for a long moment as if trying to determine whether they were real.

"Are these your family, grandmother?" Galad asked gently. She nodded slowly.

"May we help you bring them down?" The old woman's face did not change, but she seemed to sag slightly as if some weight she had been carrying had been lifted. She nodded again.

"About time somebody did," she said.

"Been five days. Birds have had their fill." Galad turned to Ben and Garlan. Both had already begun looking for tools. Ben found a spade leaning against what remained of a stone wall. Garlan uncovered a wooden shovel in the wreckage of the barn, though Galad saw him swallow hard as he carried it back.

"I'll go up," Ben said. Galad nodded. He drew a knife from his belt and passed it to Ben, who took it with a grim nod.

"Wait," the old woman said. They stopped.

"Cut them clean. Don't let them fall. I won't have my boys hitting the ground like sacks of turnips." Nodding at her, Ben went up the tree carefully, working his way out along the branch to where the first rope was tied. The wood creaked beneath his weight but held. He gestured to Galad and Garlan to position themselves beneath the first body.

"Ready?" he called down.

"Aye," Galad answered. Ben cut the first rope in a single swift stroke. The body dropped and Galad and Garlan caught it between them, easing it gently to the ground. Galad felt Garlan flinch as they took the weight. The smell of it was strong, of death and heat and rot, but the boy did not pull away. They laid the man out on his back on a patch of grass, then moved to position themselves for the second. Then the third. The boy. Garlan's hands shook when they took the small body between them, but he did not let go.

The work took the better part of two hours. Digging graves in the mercifully soft summer soil. Wrapping the bodies in what cloth they could find. Laying the two men and the boy side by side in the earth. The old woman watched all of it from her bench without moving, still rocking slowly, still saying nothing. While Ben worked at the last of the earth, Galad stepped a few paces away and gestured for his squire to follow.

"Are you well, Garlan?" Garlan swallowed hard.

"Yes, ser. I just..." He looked down at his hands.

"I didn't expect the smell of it. Thought I was going to be sick, ser."

"But you weren't."

"No, ser. I held it in." Galad rested his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You did well. Especially for holding it in front of the old woman. She has been through enough already without watching someone become ill at the sight of her dead. That was properly done, Garlan." The boy nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Some color returned to his face.

"Thank you, ser." When they had finished the graves, Galad approached the old woman again.

"Grandmother. Was that boy your grandson?" She nodded.

"The younger. Wen's son. Only nine years old, my Roric. They killed him first, to make his father watch. Then his father. Then Tam." Her voice remained flat, though her hands had begun to twist in her lap.

"Then they took the girls." Galad's head came up sharply.

"The girls?"

"My granddaughters. Meg and Sara. Tam's girls. Twelve and fourteen." Now the tears came, though the old woman's expression did not change. They simply began to trickle down her wrinkled cheeks and drip onto her rag of a dress.

"They screamed for their da'. They screamed for me. And I couldn't do a thing. Just an old woman. Just an old useless woman." Ben had gone very still. Garlan looked stricken.

"How many were they, grandmother? The raiders." Galad asked.

"Ten, maybe more. Came riding out of the woods. Rough men with swords and axes eager for violence."

"Were they Ironborn?" Ben spoke up.

"Might have been. Might not. I don't know. I've never met an Ironman." Galad glanced at Ben. Ben shrugged slightly. It did not confirm his theory, but it did not deny it either.

"Grandmother, is this land Lord Tully's? Are we close to Riverrun?" The old woman spat weakly at the ground.

"Two days ride, if you take the road proper. But don't waste your breath asking his help. That boy of his came through here already."

"Which boy?"

"Edmure, they call him. Little Lord Edmure. Rode in with his fine friends and his fancy horses, all polished armor and cloaks flying." Her mouth twisted.

"Gave me a few coppers. Said he was sorry for my trouble. Said he'd catch the bandits who did it. Then rode off looking for glory." Garlan frowned.

"He didn't help you take down your family?" She laughed, and it was a terrible sound.

"Take them down? Fine lords like him? No, ser. Fine lords don't dirty their hands with such work. He gave me his coin and rode away. What am I supposed to do with coin? Buy back my sons? Buy back my granddaughters?" Galad said nothing for a long moment. Then he crouched down before the old woman, meeting her eyes as directly as he could without startling her.

"Grandmother. Look at me." She turned her tear-streaked face toward him.

"I cannot bring back your sons or your grandson. No man can. But I will do what I can about your granddaughters. If they still live, I will find them. This I swear to you, on my honor as a knight." The old woman studied his face for a long moment. She did not look impressed by his oath. She did not look hopeful. She looked, if anything, tired beyond words.

"Aye," she said at last.

"Do what you can, ser. That's all any of us can do." They left her some food from their saddlebags before they departed. Nothing fit for an old woman, but it was what they had. Hard bread, salted meat, some dried fruit. Enough to see her through another week if she was careful. The old woman accepted it without thanking them, tucking the parcels into her lap as if they were small children she needed to protect. Garlan glanced back once as they rode away, his expression too grim for such a young face.

Galad did not try to comfort him again. Bandits were a fact of this world as much as his last one, and it would not do to coddle the boy. That night they made camp in a small clearing off the road. Ben cooked a rabbit he had shot earlier in the day. They ate mostly in silence, each of them alone with their own thoughts.

"Riverrun in the morning?" Garlan asked eventually, as if to fill the silence. Galad nodded, staring into the fire.

"We need to speak with Lord Tully. Or with young Edmure, if his father is not available. Mayhaps they've caught the raiders already, or recovered the girls." He tried to sound more confident than he felt. By the look on Garlan's face, he did not succeed.