Chương 8

On his second day in Highgarden, Galad found himself drawn back to the godswood. Morning light filtered through the thick canopy above, breaking into pale green shafts that dappled the loam beneath his boots. The sounds of the castle, laughter, bells, the distant clash of practice steel, fell away as soon as he crossed beneath the boughs. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sap. He let out a sigh. It reminded him faintly of home.

Too long used to wooded solitude, this place was a nice relief to his ears and nose. He sat with his back against one of the low stone borders encircling the heart of the grove, a heavy tome resting across his lap. The book had taken some convincing to acquire. The keeper of the library, a thin, nervous man wearing the expression of someone perpetually awaiting disaster, had made Galad swear no fewer than three times that he would keep the volume dry, shaded, and well away from clumsy hands or sudden rain.

Only then had he allowed the knight to carry it out, muttering prayers to the Seven under his breath as Galad departed. The tome itself was thick, its leather cover cracked with age. An Account of a Short Journey Beyond the Wall, read the title, penned by a maester whose name had been scratched out of the yellowed, stiff pages.

After skimming through some rather interesting treatises about the North and the First Men, he had hoped for something much like those, conversations with the wildlings, discussions on culture and religion, a clear description of what lay north of the Wall, but the account quickly proved otherwise. The maester had written at length, yet said very little. There were passages filled with awe and terror, others steeped in disdain.

The wildlings were painted as little more than animals, savage and uncivilized and barbaric. And in line with the many mentions of the Seven, the customs surrounding the old gods and their sacred weirwood trees dismissed as barbaric superstition. Too much fear in the writing, too much revulsion. It did not come off as the writings of a man seeking truth, which frustrated Galad to no end. After a few hours, he closed the book with a quiet thud and let his head rest back against the stone.

Books will only take me so far, he thought. A man has to see things with his own eyes. Perhaps he would travel there after the war. If not as far as beyond the Wall, then the North at the very least. His gaze lifted, drawn once more to the weirwoods. The Three Singers stood close together at the center of the godswood. They rose as three, but up there in the branches, it was difficult to tell where one ended and another began. Their bark was bone-white as if someone had drawn upon it with chalk.

Red leaves stirred faintly above him, the sound like a distant whisper. Their eyes were what unsettled him most. He knew it was foolish. The carvings were ancient, lifeless things, yet as he shifted his position, he could have sworn the eyes followed him. The sensation of being watched crept along his spine. It had not faded with familiarity. If anything, it had sharpened since his first visit. Only in his other life had Galad felt something akin to this.

Yet not even the eyeless stare of a Myrddraal, something that might bring the most fearless of men to his knees, had pressed so insistently against his thoughts. That gaze had been predatory, cruel. This was different, though. Vast and old. Indifferent, even, yet curious all the same. He drew a slow breath and reached inward, feeding his unease into the flame he kept banked deep within his mind. Fear, doubt, anticipation. He offered them all up, one by one, until they were consumed.

The fire flared briefly, then receded, leaving only stillness. The void welcomed him as an old friend. He rose to his feet and took a few measured steps toward the nearest of the weirwoods, and the pressure returned at once, stronger now, as though something strained against the edges of his awareness. His hand lifted, hovering inches from the pale bark. The sensation intensified. Before his fingers could brush against the trunk, a laugh rang out, bright and clear, shattering the moment.

"Ser Galad!" His hand fell to his side as he turned. From between the trees came two small figures, barreling toward him with reckless speed. He let the void slip away from him.

"Ser Galad! Ser Galad!" they cried in unison. Little Loras Tyrell led the charge, all flailing limbs and white smiles. Beside him ran Margaery, only a step behind, skirts hitched up in her fists as she laughed. Trailing after them at a more sedate pace was Garlan Tyrell, already tall and broad despite his youth, his expression apologetic even as a smile tugged at his mouth. Two guards followed at a respectful distance. Galad's lips curved upward despite himself.

"Lord Loras. Lady Margaery," he greeted, inclining his head.

"This is a happy surprise. I'm afraid I have no firewood for you to chop today." Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Margaery skidded to a halt, planting her feet and pouting up at him.

"Then why else would you be in the godswood?"

"Yes," Loras chimed in, hands on his hips.

"Aren't you a woodsman?" Before Galad could answer, Garlan cleared his throat.

"He's a knight now, remember." Galad turned his smile on Garlan.

"I am at that. But if a woodsman can become a knight, then it follows that a knight can be a woodsman too. I am proof of it, no?" Margaery shot her brother a triumphant look.

"See! He can be both, dummy. He can just use his sword to chop the wood now." Garlan chuckled.

"You are wise, sister." He inclined his head toward Galad.

"Forgive my siblings, ser. They were quite excited when they heard you arrived yesterday. Loras nearly cried when you didn't attend the feast."

"Did not!" Loras protested hotly.

"Just got a hair in my eye."

"Yes." Galad nodded with exaggerated solemnity.

"That is very common." Margaery giggled.

"Why did you not attend, if I may ask, ser?" Garlan continued.

"Our lord father wished to honor you before the lords and ladies of the Reach." That made him all the more glad he had not gone. Still, he bowed his head.

"Please send my apologies to Lord Tyrell," Galad said.

"Had I known my presence was required, I would not have abstained. It had simply been a long day on the road. I wished for rest more than for good food and company."

"I was going to let you dance with me," Margaery said, crossing her arms.

"But now you can't." Galad felt a genuine smile pull at his lips.

"I would have risen from the dead, my lady, had I known I would dance with you. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me." She sniffed, chin lifting.

"I shall think on it." Garlan glanced past Galad, noting how close he stood to the weirwoods.

"Were you praying, ser? Forgive the interruption, if so. I hadn't known you kept to the old gods."

"Not praying," Galad said, gesturing to the book resting atop his folded cloak on a nearby stump.

"Simply enjoying the quiet. It's been a sudden shift, going from my home to such a lively castle."

"You don't like it here?" Margaery asked, eyes widening as though on the verge of tears. Her expression tugged at something old and tender in his chest. She reminded him painfully of Elayne when she was a young girl. He wished he could've been a better brother to her and Gawyn when they were growing up.

"That's not what I meant," he said gently.

"It will simply take time to adjust."

"But you only just arrived!" Loras said.

"You haven't taught us anything new yet. I want to be a woodsman like you when I grow up. A woodsman knight!"

"So do I!" Margaery echoed.

"So do I!"

"You can't," Loras said.

"You're a lady." She huffed.

"Didn't you hear Ser Galad? If a woodsman can be a knight, then a lady can be a woodsman too. A woodswoman!"

"Can not!" Galad smiled again and ruffled Loras's hair.

"I'm not leaving quite yet. How about this—if you two gather enough kindling for me, I'll show you how to start and keep a fire." The children whooped with delight and dashed off at once, gathering sticks by the armful, already arguing over who had found the best and driest ones. Once the children had run far enough away, Garlan's expression sobered.

"You will join the army when it leaves, then?" he asked.

"I will." The answer seemed to steel the boy. Garlan drew a breath.

"Then… please, ser. Take me with you as your squire." He blinked.

"My squire?"

"You will find none who will fulfill a squire's duties more diligently than I," Garlan said quickly.

"I swear it. I'm twelve already. I know how to clean the rust from plate and mail, how to oil leather and tend to horses. I rise early, I listen well, and if need be…" He swallowed, then lifted his chin.

"If need be, I will ride by your side and acquit myself well in battle." Galad studied him for a moment, the boy's face full of earnestness and admiration. He felt a knot tighten in his chest.

"My lord," he began, then stopped himself. He exhaled slowly.

"Garlan." He met the boy's gaze fully.

"It would be an honor to have you as my squire. Truly. But I will not take a child to war. No matter how capable he may be." Garlan's brow furrowed at once.

"Why not? Every knight and lord will take theirs. There is nothing wrong with it."

"Perhaps there isn't," Galad allowed.

"But did you not hear? I am a simple woodsman from the countryside. I know little of the customs highborn men follow. If taking a twelve-year-old squire into battle is tradition, then I will simply not follow it." Garlan opened his mouth to argue, but Galad continued before he could.

"Besides," he said, "why not squire for your lord father? You can serve as his cupbearer as well. You would meet important lords, attend and listen in during council meetings, learn the ways of war and the logistics of armies at the very source." It was a reasonable suggestion. A kind one. A high lord like Mace Tyrell may not even see battle in the campaign to come. That might be a safer, and still worthy, experience for a boy his age. Garlan's shoulders slumped. His eyes dropped to the ground.

Galad watched him and felt the familiar, bitter certainty settle in his chest. He would not move on this. He fully expected to be in the thick of the fighting when the time came. He wanted it that way. If death waited for him on the battlefield, he would meet it head-on. He had done so before and the idea did not scare him. But he would not take a boy with him into a slaughter of his own choosing.

"Because…" Garlan began after a moment. He hesitated, then forced the words out.

"Because if I become his squire now… then I can't squire under you." Understanding dawned. Something inside him softened.

"I see," he said. Garlan looked up again, hope flickering uncertainly across his face.

"Then how about this," Galad said.

"I will accept you as my squire now, but your duties will not begin until I return from war." He raised a hand as the boy's breath caught.

"In the meantime, we will train every day. One hour at dawn, another at dusk. You will practice footwork, forms, and endurance. And once my armor is ready, you may help me tend to it." Garlan beamed.

"I accept!" he said quickly. Then he paused.

"Well, I have to ask my lord father. And he will likely ask my grandmother." His grin returned, unabated.

"But I still accept, ser!"

"Very good, then," Galad said, amused.

"Let us start now, before your siblings gather enough sticks to set the entire castle afire."