Chương 52

They set off before dawn the next morning, riding hard along the river road. Galad wanted to reach Riverrun by nightfall. The horses were fresh from the previous evening's rest, and they made good time through the cool morning air. Mist rose off the Tumblestone in slow curls that dissipated as the sun climbed. They had been riding for perhaps two hours when the ambush came.

He would not have noticed it if the ambushers hadn't been sloppy in their signals, the sudden bird call too different from anything he'd heard in days.

"Ben. Garlan," he barked, pulling hard on his reins. Before either could respond, riders burst from the trees on both sides of the road. Six of them. Then eight. Then more. They fanned out to block the road ahead, but seeing as how they were spaced out in two groups, the ambush had clearly been set up to hem them in on both sides. Galad drew Nightfall in a single fluid motion. Beside him, Ben did the same with his longsword. Garlan, wide-eyed, drew the arming sword his lord father had gifted him before they left.

"Hold!" a voice called out.

"Hold, in the name of Lord Hoster Tully! Throw down your weapons and identify yourselves!" Surprised at the words, Galad studied the men who had ambushed them. They were young, most of them—perhaps half a dozen mounted knights with a dozen more men-at-arms behind. Their armor was well-polished and their horses fine. They carried banners bearing various sigils, a leaping trout in blue and red, a silver eagle, quartered dragons in green and black, a green willow, others he did not immediately recognize.

Not bandits, then. Nobles.

"Identify yourselves first, ser," Galad called back.

"You are the one who blocks the road with drawn steel." A young man rode forward from the group. He had auburn hair and a fine embroidered surcoat bearing the silver fish of House Tully. He looked perhaps eighteen years old and carried himself as most eighteen year olds did when they were heirs to great estates.

"I am Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun. And I demand—""Ser Edmure Tully?" Garlan spoke up, his voice cracking slightly with nerves.

"My lord, I am Garlan Tyrell of Highgarden." Edmure paused mid-word, his mouth still open. He squinted at the boy with obvious skepticism. A dust-streaked twelve-year-old on a palfrey did not look particularly like a son of the Reach's greatest house. Garlan raised his left hand and displayed the signet ring on his finger, the golden rose of Tyrell in careful detail. That gave Edmure pause. He rode closer, his men following him as he peered at the ring.

Then he sat back in his saddle, his aggressive posture softening somewhat.

"Well, that's..." Edmure cleared his throat, glancing back at his men.

"That's rather awkward, then. My apologies, Lord Garlan. We've been having some trouble in these lands and we cannot be too careful with armed men on the road."

"Understood, my lord," Garlan replied.

"And your companions?"

"This is Ben, a sergeant in my lord father's service, come to accompany me on the road." Garlan gestured to Ben, then to Galad.

"And this is my knight, whom I squire for. Ser Galad of Dunstonbury." The reaction was immediate. Behind Edmure, one of the young lords—a fair-haired young man with the great eagle of Mallister on his surcoat—actually pushed his horse forward, his eyes going wide.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury?" the young man said, his voice rising with excitement." The Ser Galad of Dunstonbury?" Galad inclined his head.

"Edmure!" The eagle-sigil lordling turned to his friend, gesturing with his sword.

"Edmure, this is him! The knight my father wrote me about! The one who won the grand melee at Lannisport! And—" He turned back to Galad.

"The trial by seven, ser. The whole realm speaks of it!" The other young lords crowded forward now, all speaking at once, their earlier hostility completely forgotten. Edmure's mouth had fallen open again.

"By the seven..." He looked at Galad with something approaching awe.

"Ser, forgive me. I did not know."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord." Galad turned to the eagle-sigil young lord.

"You must be Patrek Mallister, then. Your father Lord Jason is a formidable knight, and a man of considerable honor. I owe him my thanks."

"Your thanks?" Patrek looked bewildered.

"Aye. Like Lord Royce, he was among those outside the Reach who offered to stand with me in the Trial by Seven. That took courage, to step forth against kingsguards, and honor, both of which are in shorter supply than they should be in the Seven Kingdoms." Galad inclined his head.

"Please pass my gratitude to your lord father when you next see him." Patrek Mallister sat up straighter in his saddle, his young face flushing with pride.

"I shall, ser." One of the other lordlings—a rangy young man in Vance colors—leaned forward.

"Ser, if I may ask... why did you refuse the champions who offered to stand for you? With Lord Mallister and Royce and all the Reach knights offering to fight beside you, you would have had the finest seven in the realm. Why fight alone?" Galad turned to the young man. The truth, that he had wanted to send a message to the entire realm about the futility of coming against him, was not something he wished to share with young lords he barely knew. It would sound arrogant. Perhaps it was arrogant.

"The men who accused me were the ones I wished to see justice done upon," he said instead.

"They had lied under oath and had already killed an innocent young woman to further their scheme. I wished to deliver that justice with my own hands, and no one else's." Several of the young lords nodded gravely at that. It was the kind of answer a proper knight should give, and it satisfied them. Edmure Tully cleared his throat, apparently remembering his position as the highest-ranked among them.

"Ser Galad. Lord Garlan. May I ask what brings you to our lands? My father would be greatly honored to host a son of Highgarden and such a famous knight at Riverrun."

"We were on our way to Riverrun in any case, my lord," Galad replied.

"For supplies, and to speak with your lord father regarding the destroyed farms and villages we have passed on our journey."

"Ah." Edmure's expression grew serious.

"You've seen the raiding, then. Well, you can speak to me on that matter as well. My father has been ill these past weeks, so he has entrusted me with the hunt for the bandits doing this work."

"So we have heard," Galad said.

"We met an old woman whose sons were hung. She told us you came by and offered her some copper for her troubles." Edmure blinked at that, then seemed to remember something.

"That old woman," he said slowly.

"Aye, I remember her."

"We had to take them down and bury them ourselves." He stared at the young lord. Edmure had the grace to look uncomfortable. His friends studied their reins with sudden interest. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

"Aye, well, we were in some haste, ser. Chasing the bandits' trail. I meant to send men back to attend to it once we had them cornered, but the pursuit..."

"I understand, my lord." Galad did not entirely, but there was no purpose in further shaming the boy before his friends.

"But there is another matter. Her granddaughters. What has been done to find them?" Edmure's expression went blank.

"Her... granddaughters?"

"Two young girls. Twelve and fourteen. Taken by the raiders when they hung the men."

"I did not know she had granddaughters taken, ser." Garlan spoke up then, his young voice earnest.

"The old woman told us they took the girls after killing the men and the boy. Meg and Sara, she said their names were." Edmure's face fell. To his credit, the young lord looked genuinely distressed.

"I did not know that. Truly, I did not. But this makes sense now—we have been hearing of others taken as well. This is worse than I had realized."

"You have been searching for them?" Galad asked.

"For the raiders, yes. We have been out for nearly a fortnight now, riding in patrols, but with little success. They strike and vanish. We arrive too late." Edmure gestured helplessly.

"We have found only the aftermath."

"I promised the old woman I would help find her granddaughters," Galad said.

"I intend to see that promise kept." Edmure's face brightened at that. He straightened in his saddle, looking suddenly much younger despite his fine armor.

"Then we should join forces, ser! With your skill added to ours, surely we will catch these curs!" He turned to his companions, who were already nodding eagerly.

"We were about to head back to Riverrun to resupply anyway. Come with us. My father would want it, if he were well enough to say so himself. We can plan our next moves properly, over food and wine and good maps." Galad considered for a moment, then nodded.

"Very well, my lord. To Riverrun, then." The tension of the confrontation dissolved entirely. Edmure and his friends fell in around Galad's party as they resumed the road, chattering among themselves about the tournament, the trial, and the hunt to come. He kept his own counsel most of the time, nodding and speaking only when necessary, while Garlan rode confidently at his side alongside his peers. The boy was doing well.

He had comported himself with more grace under pressure than most twelve-year-olds could have managed. Galad had chosen him as his squire for reasons that had less to do with the boy's skill at arms than his character, and moments like this confirmed the wisdom of that choice. xxx They came within sight of Riverrun in the final hours of dusk. The castle stood at the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, its walls rising from the water on two sides like something out of legend.

A great sluice gate could flood the moat around the third side, making the fortress an island when threatened. Even now, in peace, the design impressed Galad. The castle would be nearly impossible to take without three armies and a fleet. Ben let out a whistle.

"Now that's a fine sight," he said.

"Aye," Galad agreed.

"That it is." They rode down toward the great gates, which had been opened for their approach at the sight of Tully banners. Servants and grooms hurried out to take their horses as they crossed the drawbridge into the courtyard, while a stern-faced steward soon informed Edmure that Lord Hoster remained in his sickbed.

"Then I shall welcome our guests myself," Edmure declared. He turned to Galad with a grin.

"Come, ser. Let me show you Riverrun." The evening passed pleasantly enough. Galad and Garlan were shown to fine chambers in the guest wing where hot baths were prepared, while Ben was given a room in the barracks. When they gathered in the great hall for the evening meal, they found a proper feast had been assembled in their honor—river trout in butter and lemon, roast pork with apples, fresh bread, various pies, good wine from the Reach.

The young lords who had been Edmure's companions on the road joined them, along with several older knights who had remained at Riverrun during Lord Hoster's illness. They ate well. Edmure and his friends drank well too. Galad kept his own drinking modest, as was his habit. By the time the maester arrived with the maps Galad had requested, Edmure Tully was flushed and voluble.

"Here," Edmure said, spreading the map across a table cleared of dishes.

"Riverrun is here, at the fork. And the raids—" He began pointing.

"Here, by Atranta. Here, at a hamlet north of Wayfarer's Rest. Here, near Acorn Hall. This one at one of Lord Lychester's villages. And these smaller ones through here, along the Tumblestone." Galad studied the map carefully. The Reach lay to the south. Casterly Rock and the Westerlands to the west. The Vale of Arryn to the east across the mountains. And the Riverlands themselves spread out in the middle, drained by the great river system that gave the region its name. The pattern of attacks was interesting.

Atranta lay in the north. Wayfarer's Rest in the west. Acorn Hall in the south. Lychester in the east. And the smaller raids all along the Tumblestone and the Red Fork.

"That's a wide area, my lord," Galad said.

"Nearly two hundred miles across."

"Aye. That's why we cannot catch them. They strike here, then here, then somewhere else. My father thinks—" Edmure caught himself.

"My father thought, before he fell ill, that they must have very fast horses. Or perhaps that there are multiple bands working together."

"When did the raids begin?"

"About three weeks after word reached us that Pyke had fallen. Perhaps a month ago now, in total." Galad frowned.

"Three weeks after the fall of Pyke?"

"Aye. My father is certain was that some of the Ironborn who escaped the destruction of the islands made their way here. They came here to make trouble while our lands were undefended."

"Undefended?" Garlan asked.

"How so, my lord?"

"Many of our bannermen are still at Lannisport with their knights and their household guards. My father called the banners for the war, and most have not yet returned. My father is ill, and I have only what men we can spare from Riverrun's defense." Edmure gestured helplessly.

"It is not enough to cover the whole of these territories." Ben spoke up from his seat.

"My lord, forgive me, but how would the Ironborn have gotten this far inland without being spotted? They'd have to cross the whole Riverlands from the coast."

"That's the mystery," Edmure said, spreading his hands.

"They must have moved very carefully. Or perhaps they have local help."

"Or perhaps they are not Ironborn at all," Galad said quietly. The young lords all turned to look at him.

"You disagree, ser?"

"I do not know for certain, my lord. But something is strange about this. Are there any reports of raids along the coasts? By Seagard or anywhere north of the Red Fork?" Edmure blinked, thinking.

"No. None that I have heard of. The raids have all been inland."

"Then the Ironborn are giving up their greatest advantage. They are sea reavers. Their ships are their strength, their means of quick escape. Why would they abandon that? Why come this far inland and then stay here, when at any moment a proper army could be raised to hunt them down?" Edmure frowned. He clearly had not considered the question in quite that light.

"They still have hostages to consider, ser. That is what I keep returning to. If they are taking captives, and they are, we know that much from the old woman's granddaughters, and others by your own admission—then they must be taking them somewhere. You do not kidnap people simply to leave them dead in the woods. You take them for a reason. For ransom, for slavery, for…" Galad let the word trail off." So there must be a base. Somewhere they return to."

"A base?" Edmure leaned forward, his interest sharpening. Galad traced his finger across the map, drawing a rough circle that encompassed the four castles Edmure had named.

"Here. Somewhere in this area. Between Atranta, Lychester, and Acorn Hall. Close enough to strike out from in any direction, but hidden enough that no one has stumbled upon it in a month of searching."

"Aye," Edmure said slowly.

"That makes sense. That makes a great deal of sense. Then we should patrol that area more intensively. Ride the roads in force and press them until they slip up." Galad shook his head.

"The roads may not be the answer, my lord."

"Why not?"

"The old woman told us the raiders came out of the woods, not down the road. She was quite clear on this point." Marq Piper sat up suddenly.

"That fits with something I heard, ser. Some of the survivors at Wayfarer's Rest, when we spoke to them, they said the raiders came like ghosts through the trees. That was their word. Ghosts. We thought they were being fanciful."

"Perhaps not," Galad said.

"Whoever these raiders are, they know the woods. They avoid the roads where you would expect to find them. If they have been striking for a month and you have been patrolling the roads for two weeks, then they must know exactly where you go and how to avoid you." Edmure sat back, thinking hard. Galad watched him work through the implications. The young lord's face went through several expressions—wounded pride, embarrassment, then genuine consideration.

"Then we need to change our approach entirely," Edmure said at last.

"Not just where we search, but how."

"That would be my advice, my lord." Galad was quietly relieved. Edmure Tully was young and inexperienced, and clearly given to leaping to conclusions. But he was not too proud to admit when he had been wrong, and he was willing to shift his strategy when presented with better information. That put him a considerable distance above men like Ser Owen Inchfield or Ser Willam Wythers, whose pride had cost them dearly. They spoke for another hour, planning the next day's departure.

By the time they retired for the night, Galad had a clearer picture of what they were dealing with. He slept well in the fine bed provided for him, though his dreams were troubled. In the morning, they set out early, Galad, Ben, Garlan, Edmure, and Edmure's company of young lords and men-at-arms, riding south into the deep Riverlands. Somewhere in those woods, a base of raiders was hidden. And somewhere in that base, if they still lived, an old woman's granddaughters were waiting to be found.