Chương 9

Later that day, Galad found Ben in a narrow room tucked into one of the castle's quieter wings, far from the noise of the barracks. The ceiling sloped low enough that he had to mind his head as he stepped inside. A small window let in a strip of pale afternoon light, just enough to illuminate the bed, a washbasin, and a single chair pulled close to the wall. Ben lay propped against a pile of pillows, bandages wrapped tight around his left thigh.

He looked better than Galad had expected, though the restless set of his jaw betrayed how little he enjoyed being confined.

"Three more weeks, then," Galad said after a glance at the leg.

"That's fast." Ben huffed.

"Not fast enough to march with the lot of you."

"There will be other wars," Galad said evenly. There always were. He hesitated, then added, "I had thought you and Lorne were both made knights." He had come here after asking Lorne for directions. Galad had seen Ben briefly after the fighting, when the children returned to the village with his cart and mule they had been taking to Highgarden. And the guard on top of it. The maester in the inn had done the rest.

"Nay," Ben said, more sad than bitter.

"I was still rewarded, aye. Got me a good purse and better quarters for it." He shifted, then smirked faintly.

"I'm a sergeant now."

"You deserve it," Galad said.

"What you did was brave. Worthy of song." Ben snorted.

"Not worth a knighthood, though."

"That was your dream, then. To be a knight?" Ben gave him a look.

"Wasn't it yours?" No, Galad thought, and nearly said, as was his habit. He caught himself in time.

"Yes," he said instead.

"I suppose so." It would have been a cruelty to deny it now, with the rank already given, speaking to a man who had wanted the same thing and fallen short of it. Ben stared at the ceiling for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

"It's not. Not my dream, I mean." He frowned, working his jaw.

"But… there's a woman. A lady." He shook his head, almost laughing at himself.

"I wouldn't mind being a guardsman my whole life, you hear. But a lowborn guard can't exactly go and get himself a lady for a wife, can he?"

"I see," he said.

"Love, then. A better reason than most." Galad swallowed. He had loved before. Deeply. To the point he didn't know if he ever would again. He almost reached for the Oneness as all those old emotions rushed in, but he could not hide behind it forever.

"Does she return it?" he managed to say. Ben barked out a laugh.

"Aye, sure. A fine lady falling for a castle guard. This isn't a bloody song, Galad." He fell silent, cheeks reddening. His fingers picked at the edge of the blanket.

"Will you help me?" he asked at last.

"Become a knight?" Galad raised an eyebrow.

"I can make you one, if that is truly what you want." He had heard it said often enough: any knight could make a knight. It would cost him nothing but a few words and the weight of his sword. Ben had earned at least that much in the defense of his home and the children. The man shook his head.

"That's not it." He grimaced.

"I can't just be a hedge knight. That's no better than being a man-at-arms, not really. You've got no lands or coin to give me even if you put the sword on my shoulder." He met Galad's eyes.

"No. I want help being better." Galad considered him in silence. What could he promise? Nothing that depended on the future. He might die in the war. He might leave Highgarden for good. He would not give the man false hope. His gaze dropped to the bandaged leg.

"I imagine you can't train until you're healed."

"Aye," Ben said sourly.

"Maester says no strain, no lifting, no yard neither."

"Then if I return to Highgarden," Galad said, "I will help you practice the sword." He did not intend to become a teacher twice in a single day, but Galad had had mentors of his own, men and women who helped him better himself when he needed. He would not deny a man the chance to fulfill his own potential. Ben groaned.

"That's not what I'm asking. Though fighting like you surely wouldn't hurt. What I want, what I'm asking is…" He looked embarrassed now, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I saw them books back in your house. You a lettered man, then?" Galad nodded.

"Then…" Ben hesitated, then took a breath.

"Will you help me learn how to read? I just figured, you know. The lady. She's smart, man, clever as any two maesters put together. Spends half her time in the library, from what I seen. She wouldn't marry a man who can't put two words together proper, yes?" The words came out in a rush, as if he feared losing his nerve.

"I see," Galad said, and smiled.

"That's commendable, Ben. You must care for her deeply, if you're willing to go this far." Ben shrugged. The previous embarrassment turned into a grin.

"I'm a romantic at heart. I'll either marry her or die trying. Seems a fair life to me."

"I'll come by after my time in the yard," Galad said.

"Every day, until the army departs. We'll start small." Ben's eyes lit up.

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"Thank you," Ben said.

"Really." Galad reached into his satchel.

"Ready to begin?" Ben blinked.

"Now?" Galad pulled out the book he had been carrying and set it on his knee. He dragged the chair closer to the bed and sat.

"Now," he said.

"We'll start with the letters." Ben eyes' widened. He stared at the yellowed pages as if they were a battlefield in its own right. Then Galad began to read. xxx Ten days after Galad arrived in Highgarden, the bells tolled. They rang loud and long across the castle's pale stone towers and over the fields beyond its walls, the sound seeming to ripple across the hills and spill into the town below. Word spread quicker than any rider could carry it.

Servants whispered it in corridors, stableboys shouted it across courtyards, and by midday the whole castle thrummed with the news. Lord Stannis Baratheon had smashed the Ironborn fleet off Fair Isle the day before, and the Reach rejoiced as though the war itself had ended in a single afternoon. By nightfall, Highgarden glittered with festivity. Lord Mace Tyrell ordered a banquet for every lord, knight, captain, and guest of sufficient rank.

The great hall had been transformed into a living garden of flowers and banners, green and gold roses intertwined with the sigils of House Tyrell's bannermen. Long trestle tables stretched the length of the hall, each covered with fresh linens and crowded with trenchers and silver cups. Lanterns shaped like blooming lilies cast a warm golden glow across polished stone floors, their light reflecting off colorful doublets and silk gowns.

Music drifted from a raised dais near the high table, harps, flutes, and fiddles blending into something lively and elegant, a few couples already dancing to the tune. Galad found himself far down one of the tables among the Tyrell household knights and the higher-standing guards, distant enough from the lords on the high table that the faces there blurred together beneath the lights. Ben sat at his side, his walking stick leaning against the bench.

He had limped his way into the hall on his own, which was progress. Across the table, Lorne shared the bench with the two young men Galad had first seen training him in the training yard. The food was rich and savoury, served with more drink than any man could want. He had eaten a plate of honey-glazed capon served with buttered carrots, roasted onions, and soft white bread dripping with herb sauce. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

"I knew they saved the good stuff for high feasts," Ben muttered beside him, humming delightedly over his ale mug. Galad nodded and took a sip of his own. Bitter still on the tongue, but it went down easily enough. He had never been much of a drinker. He found himself thinking instead of the sweet Mayene wine Berelain had always favored. How she always teased him for sitting so stiffly at feasts. He took another pull of the ale.

"Aye, can't get enough of the stuff," one of the young men next to Lorne said loudly.

"Bet you a penny I can finish my flagon 'fore you," the other replied. They grinned at each other with reckless enthusiasm. Mycah and Mors, Galad had learned, brothers from the same mother but different fathers, and thick as thieves despite it. Lorne had married the woman a few years back and taken the boys under his wing. Now a knight, the brothers served almost as his squires despite their age, though Lorne himself refused to call them that. Lorne reached out and rapped them both on the ear.

"Enough drinking," he grunted.

"With the iron fleet sunk, we might march off tomorrow already. I don't want you face down in the mud come morning."

"Isn't that even more reason to get pissed drunk?" Mycah shot back.

"I'll cheers to that," Mors said, raising his cup. Lorne huffed and shook his head. Ben did not raise his glass, sulking quietly. He was still sour that his injury kept him from joining the coming campaign in the islands. The brothers continued their back and forth, and Galad let their chatter fade into the background. Since arriving at Highgarden, his days had fallen into a steady rhythm. He'd train with Garlan at dawn and with Lorne and the other guards later in the morning.

After eating, he helped Ben with his reading before going straight to the library to devour anything he could find. At dusk, he split his time between drilling his unofficial squire and entertaining his younger siblings who insisted on joining Garlan in the godswood. He had discovered that he enjoyed teaching more than he expected. Whether it was fighting or reading or sparking a campfire, there was satisfaction in seeing understanding dawn in another's eyes. Yet despite the pleasant routine, he felt restless.

Highgarden's beauty was suffocating when filled with so many people. He almost felt eager for the war to come, which left him conflicted. He knew the ugliness of it better than most, but he could not help remembering the scenes back in the village. The Light itself demanded justice for such acts. He wiped his hands on a cloth and considered retiring early. Better to be rested if orders came with the dawn. Before he could rise, the men across from him suddenly half-stood and bowed their heads.

Galad turned, confused, just as someone tapped his shoulder. He looked down to see little Margaery Tyrell standing in front of him, hands tucked behind her back, forest-green skirts swaying shyly from side to side.

"I would allow you to dance with me tonight, Ser Galad," she said, as if she were granting him a great favor. Ignoring the raised eyebrows around the table, he placed his cup down carefully, then rose from his seat. He took one of her tiny hands in his and bowed with all due formality.

"Lady Margaery," he said, "would you care to dance with this lowly knight?" The girl grinned brightly, chin lifting with an earnest seriousness that did not quite mask her excitement.

"If you insist, ser," she said. Before Galad could offer another word, she had taken his hand in both of hers and was already tugging him forward. She pulled him across the hall toward the open space before the high table, where couples from the Reach moved in orderly lines and circles. She stopped just short of the dancers and turned to face him.

"Are you a good dancer, ser?"

"I will not embarrass you, if that's your fear," he told her. She giggled at that, clearly pleased.

"You can't embarrass me, silly. You would be embarrassing yourself." Then she tugged him forward again, pulling him into the line of dancers as the musicians struck up the next refrain. The steps were simple enough. Galad followed them without trouble. He had attended enough feasts and balls across the Westlands to recognize the pattern quickly.

Margaery watched him closely at first, as if waiting for him to falter, but when he did not, her attention drifted back to the dance itself, laughing with joy as he spun her until her feet left the ground. Around them, the nobility of the Reach danced on, older couples moving with practiced ease, younger ones with varying degrees of success. Galad was aware of the attention they drew. Not because of himself, but because of who she was.

A Tyrell daughter dancing with a knight not long arrived at Highgarden invited notice, and he felt more than a few eyes on his back. When the song ended, Margaery's cheeks were flushed, more from laughter than exertion. She released his hands and dropped into a careful curtsy, clearly proud of herself. Galad returned it with a respectful bow.

"Well done, my lady," he said.

"You kept the steps better than most." She beamed.

"I know," she said, then caught his hand again before he could step away.

"Come with me. My cousin wants to dance with you as well." Galad hesitated only a moment before allowing himself to be led. It was hard to refuse when she looked at him with those big doe eyes. She pulled him quickly toward the edge of the floor, then stopped right in front of a familiar face. Galad recognized her at once, the young woman he had met his first day in Highgarden, in the godswood. He kept his expression neutral, though inwardly he grimaced.

He had no desire to draw attention from that woman ever again. Still, she looked different this time. Not in dress, as she wore Tyrell green and gold as before, but in bearing. Her posture was straighter, her gaze more measured. Brown eyes followed him as he approached, sharper than he remembered."' Taria, this is Ser Galad of Dustonbury!" Margaery announced proudly.

"He is special, since he is both a knight and a woodsman. Willas says he is the best swordsman he's ever seen, and he is the best woodsman I've ever seen, so really he is the best!" Victaria Tyrell smiled at her cousin's enthusiasm.

"Is that so?" she said, eyes flicking to Galad.

"I hope he is the best dancer as well."

"He is!" Margaery insisted. Victaria raised an eyebrow at that, clearly amused, and Galad inclined his head.

"Would you care for a dance, Lady Victaria?" He figured he might as well take the lead of the situation since it came to this. She accepted his hand without hesitation. Margaery waved at them as they moved away, already turning her attention back toward the edge of the floor and whatever had caught her eye next. The bards began a new song as Galad and Victaria joined the dancers. This one was slower, and they moved through the opening steps in silence, her hand resting lightly in his.

"I hope you will forgive me for last week, ser," Victaria said after a moment. Her voice was low, but nothing like the breathy tone she had used before. Galad kept his attention on the dance, his posture relaxed but alert.

"Nothing happened," he said evenly.

"Thus there is nothing to forgive." She nodded once.

"I am glad, then." They danced on for several steps before she spoke again.

"My little cousins have spoken of you often," she said.

"They are quite taken with you."

"I am glad they find me agreeable," Galad replied.

"And if you were to spend time around them," she continued, "a concerned older cousin might have wanted to take the measure of the man behind the stories." Galad considered that as they turned.

"And what did you learn?"

"That given the opportunity," she said, "you would not take advantage of a vulnerable young woman in a secluded wood." So that was it. A test, then. He did not know whether to find it insulting or sensible.

"That is not much of an achievement," he said after a moment.

"I would think." She smiled faintly.

"You would be surprised, ser." Her gaze drifted past him, scanning the hall.

"Margaery was right, you are a good dancer. I have found few suitable partners of late, and I would not see that few diminished even further." She paused, then added, "You should know that you have made enemies in the yard, ser, and few friends. Few friends of import, that is." Galad frowned.

"I do not recall making enemies." He quickly went over his time in Highgarden. Could she be speaking of the Inchfield knight from his first day in the castle? He could not see how he had done anything other than spar with the man. Unless the knight saw his own slipping as Galad's fault. A ridiculous idea, but many men had strange notions when their ego came into question. The music slowed, signaling the end of the dance. Victaria stepped back and curtsied.

"I have said my piece, ser. I wish you good fortune in the war to come." Then she turned and left him standing there, alone in the middle of the floor. Galad watched her go for a moment before exhaling quietly. He had not sought notice, yet it seemed to find him all the same. He began to move toward the edge of the hall, but he had taken only a few steps when Lord Mace Tyrell rose from his seat on the dais.

The hall gradually stilled as his presence drew attention, voices fading as servants and nobles alike turned to face him. Galad halted to hear him.

"My lords," Mace called, spreading his hands wide.

"My ladies." The last murmurs fell away.

"Yesterday, the Seven Kingdoms won a great victory over the scourge of the Ironborn," he continued.

"With the might of the Arbor's finest at his back, Lord Stannis Baratheon struck a blow that will be remembered." Cheers of approval spread through the hall.

"But our work is not done," Mace went on.

"It will not be done until every longship lies broken, until we have set foot on every island, until every pirate lord has been torn from his seat." He paused, letting the words settle.

"We have answered the Crown's call and raised a mighty army to join this campaign. Today, I received our orders from the Iron Throne. The armies of the Reach will be responsible for subduing Orkmont, Blacktyde, and Harlaw.

'"Had the King asked, we would have taken every island ourselves—from Pyke to Great Wyk and even Lonely Light, but we will make do." Laughter rippled through the tables at that. He waited for the amusement to pass before continuing.

"As we have three islands under our charge, we will divide our strength accordingly. Lord Randyl Tarly will lead the force against Orkmont, with the spears of Florent, Fossoway, and Merryweather at his back. Lord Mathis Rowan will command the invasion of Blacktyde, leading men from Hightower, Caswell, Cuy, and Meadows." Mace's chest lifted with pride.

"And I, Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, and Warden of the South, will personally lead the Tyrell banners to Harlaw." More cheer rose up, ringing across the walls.

"Prepare yourselves, my lords," he said.

"Kiss your wives hungrily tonight. Hold your children close. On the morrow, we depart for Oldtown, and from there to the Iron Islands." He raised his cup.

"To war!"