Chương 7

With murmurs rising at his back, he followed the steward's directions away from the noise, moving through covered walkways and into the godswood that rose nearby. The sounds of steel and shouted commands faded behind him as the path narrowed and trees closed in. Highgarden's godswood was thick with greenery, carefully tended but allowed to grow dense. Moss clung to stones. Small ponds appeared from the earth like sapphires, the water gleaming in the sun.

The air was cooler here, the shade a nice reprieve from the sun. He found the great weirwoods at the center. Not one tree, as he heard was usual for such a place, but three, their pale trunks rising close together. Their branches intertwined overhead, leaves thick and red, forming a canopy broad enough to dim the light below. The bark was smooth and white, marked with dark knots and shallow cuts left by time.

Aside from the carved faces, that is, staring back at him with red sap streaming from dark eyes like tears of blood. Galad paused a few paces away, as if stopped by their glance. A knowing glance. He had heard of the weirwoods, of course, of the old gods. They were not well liked in the Reach where the Faith of the Seven reigned supreme, but they still had adherents in the North. But whether north or south, Westeros or Essos. No one knew of the Creator here. Of the Light.

Was this another world entirely, or simply another turning of the Wheel? Perhaps the first turning, before creation even knew about creator. He shook his head. He did not wish to lose himself to philosophies and religious thoughts. Should the Dark One ever appear, Galad would fight him either way. No need to tie himself into knots about it.

"The Three Singers," a voice said behind him. He turned to see a young woman standing at the edge of the clearing. She was close to his age, with brown hair pulled back loosely and eyes the color of honey. Her cheeks were flushed red.

"Forgive me, ser," she said, smiling.

"I did not mean to startle you."

"No forgiveness is needed," Galad replied, inclining his head.

"I was only admiring the trees. This place feels old." She walked closer.

"As old as the castle itself. They say Garth Greenhand planted these weirwoods with his own hands." Galad did not answer. Garth Greenhand was as famous a name in the Reach as the king in the Iron Throne. He turned back to the trunks. The sensation had not left, like someone standing just over your shoulder. A subtle thing, faint, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge. He reached for the Oneness with a conscious thought, slowing his breathing, letting all his emotions fade into the void.

Birds chirped overhead. He saw a beetle crawling across a leaf ten yards away. A butterfly took off from a flowerhead to the side, and he thought he could hear the batting of its wings if he focused.

"I do not know you, ser," the woman said after a moment.

"Are you new to Highgarden?" He nodded absently, but his thoughts were not on her. In the Oneness, the feeling had only sharpened. He was one with the butterfly in flight. One with the crawling beetle. One with the godswood and the weirwoods. He felt full, as if something pressed around the void, a slow, patient force squeezing around him. Galad frowned. His gaze traced the pale bark, the carved faces staring blindly outward. Were they blind? No, something here noticed him. A throat cleared.

Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from the weirwoods. The young woman was still there, closer this time, clearly expecting more. He turned fully to her.

"Yes, my lady," he said.

"I arrived earlier today. Forgive me. I was distracted." She studied him openly, head tilting.

"Purple eyes," she said.

"Black hair. Are you Ser Galad of Dustonbury?" He nodded, and her face lit at once. She stepped closer and caught his arm.

"The hero of the Flower Hearth," she said, voice sweet as a peach.

"My name is Victaria Tyrell, ser. You saved my family. You must know how grateful I am." Her hand slid higher, fingers curling around his shoulder. She leaned in, close enough that he could smell her perfume. And the wine on her breath.

"Anything, ser," she murmured. She was a beautiful woman, but in the void, such distractions meant nothing. He could think about his and other's actions rationally, and her behavior clearly seemed strange. A lady of her standing throwing herself on a lowborn man, even if a knight, raised his hackles. His voice was cold when he spoke.

"If you could tell me where I might find the castle's library, I would be grateful." Then he gently removed her arms from his shoulders.

"That would be more than enough." For a moment she only stared at him, clearly uncertain how to respond. Then she nodded, flustered, and pointed down a winding path. Galad thanked her and took his leave, the sense of being watched lingering behind him as he walked away. A few books on weirwood and the old gods would not be amiss while he waited to march out. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

xxx Lady Olenna Tyrell The late afternoon light fell across the stone floor in uneven bands, filtered by the half-drawn shutters. Olenna Tyrell sat across from Victaria at a small table near one of the open windows. She stirred a mug of mint tea with slow irritation, the spoon tapping faintly against the sides. The maesters swore it was good for her teeth. She snorted softly at the thought. She had fewer teeth now than she had cups of the stuff in a week. Victaria shifted under her gaze.

The girl tried to sit still after telling her part, hands folded in her lap, posture careful, but her fingers kept twitching. Olenna let the silence stretch. People talked more freely when they were uncomfortable.

"And he did not seem interested?" Olenna asked at last. Victaria straightened.

"No, my lady. Quite the opposite, in truth. He seemed… bothered by me." Olenna paused her stirring.

"Oh?" She raised her eyes.

"A sword swallower, perhaps?" Victaria shook her head.

"I do not think so. I watched him in the yard before I approached him. His gaze did not linger on anyone. Not even those training without shirts."

"Unlike yours?" Olenna raised a painted eyebrow. Victaria smiled, just a little.

"Admiring the baker is not the same as eating the cake, my lady." Olenna allowed herself a brief smirk. The girl had a quick tongue when she wished to use it. A shame she had been born a rose too far down the bush. Like Mace, her own daughters had all taken after her dear Luthor, sweet, dull, and loud. Strong seed, that man had. Strong and thick in the head. Still, Victaria might yet prove useful. With her name, looks, and Olenna's backing, a high marriage within the Reach was not off the table for her.

"And what did he do after?" Olenna asked.

"He went to the library," Victaria said.

"I spoke with the attendant afterward. He asked for books. Histories. Treatises on the old gods. Garth Greenhand. The weirwood trees." Olenna stopped stirring altogether. She lifted the mug and took a careful sip, then set it down again.

"A woodsman who prefers books to pretty flowers." She sucked a breath through her few teeth left. She did not like it. She did not like it at all.

"What was the name of the man who raised him again?" she asked.

"Ser Garin Sand," Victaria replied. Sand. A Dornish bastard, then. Olenna leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly as she considered it. Purple eyes did not always mean Valyrian blood. The Dornish had their share of oddities. And Dorne had been quiet. Too quiet, if you asked her. Too many whispers had reached her ears of late. Too many oddities in the known stories. Targaryen sails sighted beyond the Narrow Sea. Three Kingsguard who had vanished into the desert and never returned.

Stark finding his dead sister by her lonesome on a random tower in Dorne. Royal bodies never recovered. Robert Baratheon wore the crown, but not with the ease Jon Arryn liked to pretend. Still, it did not quite fit. Why send a Dornish bastard to raise a child in the Reach? Why hide him in plain sight, in a village tied so closely to Highgarden itself? And to what end? Could Doran Martell truly be so patient as all that?

To place a man near them, wait years, then arrange for the Ironborn to strike, only for his own creature to save the Tyrells and earn their gratitude? Olenna felt her jaw tighten. Nonsense. She was tying herself in knots, seeing patterns where there were none. Age did that to a woman. Made her suspicious of every shadow. Besides, Mace had decided on that river outing the very same morning. No scheme spun in Sunspear could account for her son's talent for poor timing.

She exhaled slowly and turned her attention back to Victaria.

"And that knight you spoke of," Olenna said.

"I hope you did not give him any false hopes, dear. It will be a cold day at the Wall before a Tyrell flower marries an Inchfield… dung beetle." Victaria colored slightly.

"Nothing of the sort, my lady. I merely praised Ser Galad's valor within earshot of Ser Owen. That was quite enough. He has been pining for my attention as of late." Olenna's lips twitched.

"Ah. Owen." It was no wonder Mace was so fond of him. They shared half a brain between the two of them.

"Indeed," Victoria said.

"He then saw fit to embarrass himself in front of half the yard. He was quite wroth with Ser Galad last I heard."

"And the boy?" Victaria drew a breath.

"Leo believes Ser Galad is one of the finest swordsmen he has ever seen," she said.

"Despite his many shortcomings, my brother says Ser Owen is a fearsome warrior, and yet he is certain our newest knight was holding back throughout the spar." Olenna mulled that.

"Another fine display of both blade and humility, then," she murmured, more to herself than the girl. She lifted the mug again and took another sip. The tea had gone cold. Beyond the window, Highgarden carried on as it always had. Servants moved along the walkways. Knights crossed the yard. Banners were being unpacked and aired, their colors bright against the white stone. Lords were arriving from every corner of the Reach. Peace had lasted a long time. Too long. The Greyjoy rebellion was only the beginning.

Olenna felt that much in her bones, the way she felt rain before it came. Something was stirring. Alliances would shift. Old grudges would resurface. Men would grow ambitious. And into the middle of it all had walked a quiet young knight, as beautiful as a prince from song and legend, with strange eyes and a talent for killing. She did not like pieces she could not place.

"If the gods are kind," Olenna said at last, "the boy will find an honorable end for himself in the war to come." Startled, Victaria looked at her with wide eyes.

"Do not look so stricken, child. Honor is the best thing a man like that can hope for." Olenna waved a hand.

"I will not have him killed, if that is your worry." Not yet, at least. She pushed the mug aside and pointed to the door.

"You have done well," she said.

"Keep your eyes open, Victaria. Listen more than you speak. I will call for you again soon." Victaria nodded and rose.

"Yes, my lady." Olenna turned to the window as the girl left, her mind already moving on to the next problem. For the woman who truly ruled the Reach, Galad of Dustonbury was just a tiny drop in a sea of issues.