Chương 6

He would have returned to his cabin if the children had not begged him to come with them to Highgarden. That was the simple truth of it, though not the whole. Once the riders brought them back, they clung to his sleeves and spoke over one another, voices still bright with relief and awe, calling him ser already, as if the word itself might keep him close. Lord Willas had almost cried at seeing him alive.

He thanked him thrice over, for fighting for them at the house, for convincing him of his foolishness, and for saving his family against all odds in the inn. Galad thought him a sensible young man who would make for a good lord once his father vacated the post. The middle boy, Garlan, had begged him to teach him the sword, while little Loras and Margaery insisted to their parents they would have no sworn shield other than Galad.

Even then, he might have refused, might have bowed and taken his leave once the Tyrells departed. But then he had seen the village after the fighting was done and the real damage was accounted for. There were far more bodies than he had noticed when he first came in from the trees with bow in hand. Every alley and doorway was splattered with blood, every half-burned home held a body or two of those who thought themselves safe behind their own walls. Many of them he knew by name.

Faces that had once nodded to him in passing, hands that had taken coin from him at market. Bryen the smith lay beneath the walls of the sept, his broad body twisted awkwardly. He was stabbed in the chest while defending his neighbors and family, his hammer still looped through his belt. The man had never held a sword in his life yet he had died by one. That was not the worst.

Late in the day, after most of the wounded had been tended and the dead laid out, they found five women inside a house at the edge of the village. Two of them girls still. When he saw them, Galad had turned away and walked until the sounds of the village faded, until he was alone beneath the trees, and there he had sought the Oneness with a desperation he had not felt since he heard what had been done to the woman who he thought of as a mother a lifetime ago.

What had been done in that house looked like the work of Trollocs. He had not seen such creatures in this life, but the memory of their cruelty lived like a badly healed scar inside of him. Trolloc or not, he well knew the truth of the world, though. Some men chose to be monsters even when they were not born as one. That was when Galad had decided what he would do. The next day, Lord Mace Tyrell received him in what remained of the inn, still flushed with victory and already speaking of banners and retaliation.

As his boon, Galad asked only for the means to fight the Ironborn. The lord blinked as though he had misheard.

"You ask too little," Mace said.

"After what you did? You should name gold, lands, honors. Highgarden will sing of this day." Galad had met his gaze evenly. Blood was what he wanted then. Not for himself, but for Bryen, for the baker's boy, and for the women whose names would never be sung. Justice, such as this world allowed. Lady Olenna, as he was starting to expect, had been sharper. She had wanted him close, bound by oath as a sworn sword to her family. To look after the children, she said, as if that alone would move him.

Galad had refused that as well, as gently as he could. He would not tie himself to any man or house beyond the war itself. In the end, it was Olenna who named the compromise, and Mace, after much blustering, had agreed. Before they left, Galad would be knighted quietly, as he asked. And once his affairs in the village were settled, he would go to Highgarden where he would be given arms and armor, quarters within the castle, and a place in the Tyrell household while the banners of the Reach assembled.

He would serve under them until the Ironborn rebellion was broken. After that, he would be free to go.

"To seek your fortunes wherever you may wish," Lady Olenna had said, her eyes watching him like a hawk's. Galad had inclined his head and let the words lie. He had no great wishes for fortune, no dreams of lands or halls. Truth be told, he did not know what he wished at all. He had hidden himself in a quiet corner of the world for seventeen years, content with hunting and seeing to his vegetables. Foolishly, he had believed that if he did not seek conflict, it might pass him by.

Instead, war had found him on its own. He remained in the village for two more weeks. There were graves to dig, walls to repair, roofs to patch before the spring rains came. He worked alongside the others until his hands blistered and his back ached. Each morning he took whatever task was left undone. Each night he slept poorly. The people treated him differently now. They thanked him too much. They watched him as if he might refuse them. When he reached for a shovel, someone else would hurry to take it from him.

He had to insist, more than once, before they would let him work. That was when he understood that he could not stay, even if he had wanted to. The life he had lived there was gone. Even if the Ironborn never returned, it would not be simple again. Two weeks after the attack, Galad rode toward the gates of Highgarden. Despite living within a few hours' ride of the great castle all his life, he had never seen it before. Never felt the need.

Now it rose before him atop a verdant hill, white walls gleaming in the sun, three great tiers climbing toward the heart of the keep. Between the outer and middle walls sprawled the briar labyrinth, green and cunningly shaped, its paths hidden beneath flowering hedges. Beneath it all, the Mander wound through the land like a silver ribbon, a small town sitting against its banks. He took it in without awe.

Palaces and royal halls had filled his past life; stone and splendor had long since lost their power to move him. At the gatehouse, his name set a chain of motion into place. A guardsman called for his superior, who called for a captain, who finally nodded and waved him through. Inside, a steward met him, a harried man with ink-stained fingers who barely spared Galad a glance as he led him through corridors already echoing with voices and bootsteps.

He was shown his quarters, modest but clean, and told he would be fitted for armor on the morrow. The steward rattled off directions to the kitchens, the sept, the godswood, places to eat, to pray, to escape the growing press of lords and knights arriving from every corner of the Reach. And there would be a feast that night, he added, as Lords Rowan, Tarly, and Fossoway of Cider Hall were expected before sunset. Before the man could leave, Galad asked only one thing. The steward blinked, then pointed him the way.

Soon the practice yard lay open before him, wide enough to hold a small town. He watched as hundreds of men trained beneath the open sky. Steel rang against steel. Shouts carried over packed earth and cobblestones. And even here, the divisions were clear. Guards and men-at-arms drilled on one side, their gear serviceable and worn. On the other, knights and lords sparred in finer armor, their movements watched by squires who hovered with towels and waterskins.

He scanned the nearer group and spotted a familiar mustache before he recognized the man beneath it. Lorne stood by one of the fountains, arms folded as two younger men sparred in front of him. He did not fight, but he did not stand idle either. Every few moments he barked a correction or a warning, tapping a boot against the stone when one of the men overextended or let his guard drift. He would not call the man a friend, but at least he knew him.

After gathering a dull sword from the rack, he crossed the yard in his direction, and Lorne noticed him when he was only a few steps away. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. His eyes widened, just slightly, before he straightened and gave a deep nod.

"Ser Galad," he said.

"Just arrived?" Galad returned the nod.

"Today."

"Welcome to Highgarden." One of the younger men glanced over, breathing hard.

"That's the one they knighted with you?" Lorne did not answer beyond a grunt.

"Can't believe we missed the action," the man went on, rolling his shoulders.

"Aye," the other added, lowering his practice sword.

"I'd have been knighted too if I'd been there. If the old man and the pretty boy were…" Galad did not look at him. He rested his hand on the pommel of his blunted sword and waited. If he were bothered by every man who spoke to him in jealousy, he'd have fought more honor duels than battles by now. Lorne stepped forward and scuffed the speaker on the side of the head with two fingers. He yelped"It'd take three of you to do half of what I could, boy," Lorne said.

"And there ain't enough men in this yard to do what Ser Galad here done." The young man scoffed.

"Enough of that. Ain't no one believe you and him fought off a whole Ironborn crew on your own. Leave the songs to the kitchen maids."

"It's Ser Lorne now," Lorne replied evenly, "and ain't no one said it was the whole crew. Half of it, more like. Lord Mace himself saw it. You calling him a liar?" The young man stiffened.

"I weren't calling the lord a liar." He turned to the other boy.

"Were you?" A head shook.

"I weren't neither."

"Good," Lorne said.

"Now get back to it, or I won't help you no more." The two guards resumed sparring, their movements a touch more careful than before. Galad watched them without comment. Their footwork was sloppy. Both lifted their swords too high on the swing. One favored his left side and left it open every time he pressed. He saw it all after a quick glance and said nothing. Once, he would have corrected them without thinking.

He would have spoken plainly and sharply, and wondered afterward why no one wished to speak with him again.

"I fought with his father in the Stormlands," Lorne said, nodding at one of the sparring men.

"Good fellow. This one's not half the man he was."

"I heard that," the young man said.

"I know," Lorne replied. Galad turned to him.

"I was not aware you had been knighted as well. You have my congratulations." Lorne waved it off.

"And you my thanks. But you should know, now that you're a knight, you can train over there." He jerked his chin toward the highborn side of the yard. Galad raised an eyebrow and looked at him.

"And you cannot?"

"I could," Lorne said.

"But then I'd have to deal with them." A brief smile tugged at his mouth.

"Is it always like this?" Galad asked.

"Worse now," Lorne said.

"With all the lords arriving." Galad nodded.

"When do we march?" Lorne shrugged.

"When Lord Mace decides. Last I heard, Prince Stannis is still halfway across the Dornish coast with the royal fleet. Best break the Ironborn at sea before we go throwing men onto transport ships." It made sense. Galad accepted it without comment. With the other kingdoms also joining the fight, he did not expect the Reach to send more than twenty thousand men once the banners finished gathering. They could raise far more, but excess numbers would only slow a campaign like this.

"Shall we?" he asked. With a grunt, Lorne reached for his practice sword.

"Why not." They squared off near the fountain. Galad moved lightly, testing rather than pressing. He did not force the pace or strike with full strength. Instead, he let Lorne come to him, watching how the man shifted his weight, how his guard rose and fell. When an opening appeared, Galad touched it and withdrew, again and again, never the same place twice. Lorne adjusted slowly. The man was no blademaster, but soon enough his guard tightened. He started covering one weakness, then another.

Galad eased the pressure just enough to let the lesson settle before offering the next. After several minutes, Lorne stepped back, breathing hard, sweat running down his temples.

"Seven hells," he muttered, wiping his brow.

"Who did you say trained you?" Names rose unbidden in his mind. Gareth Bryne. Hammar Gaidin. Henre Haslin. His brother Gawyn, always beside him in the yard. Matrim Cauthon, grinning as he knocked them both flat with a quarterstaff. Sometimes a man learned more from his peers and opponents than his mentors. In the end, he settled on the only name that meant anything in this world.

"Ser Garin Sand," he said. Lorne blinked.

"Never heard of him."

"Nor me," someone said. Galad lowered his sword as footsteps approached. He turned and saw a tall man coming toward them. He was well-built and plainly noble, young still, perhaps entering his third decade, but already going bald at the temples. The three guards stopped as the man approached. Each straightened and dipped his head. Not deeply, but enough to mark respect.

"Ser Owen," they said. The man did not slow his stride. He gave them a brief nod, eyes already past them.

"On you go, fellows." The men hesitated. Lorne scowled, but none of them argued. One by one, they stepped away, leaving Galad alone with the newcomer.

"Might I help you, ser?" he asked. This Ser Owen had dismissed the others deliberately. That much was obvious. He smiled widely now, a practiced thing. The sort of smile meant to put others at ease. Galad had seen plenty of those.

"Ser Owen Inchfield," he said for an introduction.

"I was training nearby and could not help overhearing that you are the new knight. Ser Galad." Galad glanced around the yard quickly. Knights of birth and standing trained on the far side, nearer the shade. A man with a noble last name would not be training nearby the guards and men-at-arms. Still, he understood courtesies had to be observed.

"Honored to make your acquaintance, Ser Owen." He offered a small bow.

"The honor is mine," Owen Inchfield replied, though his tone suggested otherwise. He was not as good an actor as he thought himself to be." We all heard so much of your battle from Lord Mace. I thought I might test my swordarm against a man of your… reputation." Nodding slowly, Galad gave himself a moment to study the man. Owen was broad and moved with confidence, though his stance betrayed impatience rather than discipline. His hand seemed to itch on his practice sword.

He had not come for instruction or fellowship or curiosity, that much was certain. It was a challenge, and not the friendly kind.

A younger Galad would have answered it without hesitation. He would have ended the spar quickly, publicly, and without apology. Not even as a statement. Simply because it was the thing to do. That instinct stirred now, but he pushed it aside.

"As you wish," Galad said, inclining his head. They took their places, and Ser Owen attacked the moment Galad raised his sword, swinging hard and fast. The knight treated the blunted blade as if it were sharpened steel and he meant to cut Galad in twine. Overhead, side swing, a thrust to the throat. Using his size, each strike was meant to overwhelm rather than probe. Galad stepped back, letting the blows glance off his guard, turning his wrists just enough to redirect force without meeting it directly.

Owen pressed harder. His boots slapped against damp earth as he advanced, hacking downward, then across, then back again. Galad gave ground steadily, eyes tracking Owen's shoulders, his hips, the way his weight shifted before each strike.

"Fight back, ser," Ser Owen grunted.

"Are you not the hero of Dustonbury?" Galad saw no need to answer. Dull steel rang as they traded blows. He spotted openings in every move. Owen's right side dipped when he swung high. His balance faltered after wide cuts. His instincts screamed at him to follow through on the parry, step inside the knight's guard and slice at the shoulder line. He could almost hear Gareth Bryne's voice telling him to end it quickly. Galad ignored them all, letting the spar stretch on.

He kept his movements tight, shifting slightly on the balls of his feet. Meanwhile, Ser Owen's breathing grew louder, harsher. Frustration crept into his movements until his blows lost precision, though not strength. With a discontented growl, Owen lashed out with his foot, aiming for Galad's knee. A foul strike that might cripple him if it connected. He shifted aside quick as a cat, the movement almost automatic. Owen's boot slid instead of planting.

The puddle by the fountain caught him at the worst possible moment and his weight kept going forward. His legs shot apart and he went down hard, yelping as both hands flew to his groin. Galad stared awkwardly, his sword going down to his side.

"Are you well, ser?" he asked. The reply came as a string of curses, some of them slurred by pain. Laughter broke out around the yard. Several men turned away, shoulders shaking. Others covered their mouths, failing to hide their amusement. The word maester carried clearly through the noise. Two guards hurried forward to help him up. Owen clung to them, face flushed, still swearing. Galad stepped back another pace and lowered his sword fully. Looking around, he noticed eyes were on him now. More than he liked.

Some whispering, others pointing. He had heard of House Inchfield before, though he did not have the education to know how high in the hierarchy a knight of such a house ranked in the social ladder. He did not need people thinking he had just injured a high noble during a spar. He sighed. So much for a relaxing hour at the yard. Galad had no wish to explain himself, so he nodded once to Lorne, then turned and left the yard without another word.