AN: This was supposed to come out yesterday, but I had a change of heart in how I wanted to deal with the first POV and the whole storyline that will come from it. Then I guess I couldn’t help myself and worked a bit more on the duel. Here it is tho.
Chapter 11
Jon Arryn
The council chamber felt larger than usual with so many seats empty. Listening to Petyr Baelish finish his report, Jon Arryn kept his expression neutral and his hands folded on the table before him.
“—which brings the total customs revenue for the past three moons to forty-two thousand gold dragons, my lords. A fourteen percent increase over the same period last year, despite the disruption to trade caused by the war.”
The boy had done well. Better than well, if the ledgers spread across the council table were to be believed, and Jon had enough experience with numbers and with men to know they were. Three moons in his new position as the King's Controller, and already Petyr had justified every argument Jon had made on his behalf, with gold flowing into the city's coffers despite a war that had more than emptied the realm's purses. It was the kind of result a Hand of the King rarely received and never tired of hearing.
Around the table, the reactions were precisely what he had expected.
Wearing the expression of a man chewing something sour, Lord Garon Estermont had not taken his eyes off the ledgers since Petyr placed them on the table, as though staring hard enough might cause the numbers to rearrange themselves into something more satisfying.
Beside him, Grand Maester Pycelle had settled his face into the dignified disapproval he reserved for those he considered beneath his notice. The Braavosi blood, most likely. Pycelle was older than him, old enough that certain prejudices had likely calcified into reflex, and he no longer bothered concealing them behind anything more than a thin veneer of scholarly disdain.
Jon felt a quiet and familiar satisfaction settle in his chest as he watched them both twist themselves into knots trying to find fault in the young man’s work.
He had not always been so certain about bringing Petyr over from his office in Gulltown. He even regretted it sometimes, considering how much gold the young man had brought into his own coffers there. But Lysa had insisted. She had been fond of the boy since they were children at Riverrun, and King's Landing had not been easy for her.
The noise and the smell of it, the politics, the distance from her uncle Brynden. He had not been able to give her much in the way of comfort. A companion in a city as foreign to her as the Eyrie had been when they were first wed was the least he could manage.
The truth was simpler than sentiment, though. Jon needed men of talent, and talent mattered more than birth when the crown's strained coffers were concerned.
"Are we supposed to believe, then, Lord Baelish," Estermont interrupted, the title delivered with barely concealed contempt, "that the captains are parting with this gold willingly? That the bloody Essosi, as tight-fisted as a penniless whore, have found it in their hearts to fill our purses for nothing in return?"
“Of course not, Lord Estermont.” Petyr's mouth curved into a sideways smile. "If anything, they pay less than ever before."
Silence fell across the chamber. Even the scratch of Pycelle's quill stilled.
Estermont's face darkened. "Do you take us for fools? That you can charge less and make more?" He leaned forward, voice dropping into something that wanted to be a growl. "I will very much have my men see these ledgers of yours. And let me assure you, if there is something to be found in them, they will sniff it out. I will gladly throw you in the darkest pits of the Black Cells, boy."
Jon shook his head. Estermont had never wanted Petyr here. As Master of Laws he had pushed for his own candidate when the position of King's Controller had opened—a distant cousin, Jon believed, though he had never bothered to remember the man's name, but Jon had thrown the weight of the Hand's pin behind Petyr, and that had been that.
It had been a foolish endeavor by Lord Estermont too. With old Penrose begging off his position as Master of Coin due to failing health, Estermont had lost his only ally in the council, and the man’s bluster had become only that.
When he next tried to gainsay him, Garon Estermont had learned quickly enough that being grandfather to the king only went so far when the king himself barely knew him, and considered Jon Arryn almost a father. A fact Jon was quite proud of. As a man who had never been able to sire his own living children, Robert was as close as he would ever have to a son. Him and Eddard Stark both. And he was not so foolish as to refrain from using that bond to maintain his grip on King's Landing.
Still, the game required constant attention. Queen Cersei would be whispering in her father's more than eager ears, pushing to fill the position left by old Penrose with a Lannister man. Not an unreasonable request on its face. Jon had allowed Tywin Lannister little enough opening to spread his influence in the capital, but he hoped the sacking of Lannisport would see the old lion occupied for long enough that Jon could make his own move.
"It's all a matter of taking the knife to the fat, my lord," Petyr said, undisturbed by Estermont's threats. "Like a butcher trimming a fine piece of meat. I've let eleven men go since I was entrusted as head of customs. Eleven who I heavily suspected of demanding bribes from foreign ships."
From somewhere inside his coat, Petyr produced a small stack of papers and laid them beside the ledgers with the unhurried ease of a man who had prepared for exactly this moment. "Sworn statements from more than three dozen merchants and captains, mostly from Braavos, Pentos, and Tyrosh, attesting to the fact that they were being charged more than was truly owed the crown. Along with the new arrangements I have signed with them, arrangements that will benefit both ourselves and them."
Estermont snatched up the papers first, his movements sharp with irritation. Eyes narrowing behind heavy brows, he scanned the documents, though he said nothing. Pycelle took his turn next, chains clinking softly as he bent over the parchment. Jon accepted his own copy last, though of course he had already been shown and approved these deals Petyr had brokered. Truly, the boy had a talent for finding gold like no other. Now it was all about the presentation.
Minutes passed. The only sound was the rustle of parchment and Estermont's labored breathing as he searched for holes in the arrangements and failed to find one.
"Come now, my lord," Jon said, setting his papers down and raising an eyebrow. "Are we to fault a man for his competence?" Estermont huffed and sat back. Jon turned to Petyr. "That is quite the feat, Lord Baelish. Truly, I am impressed. But to ease the minds of this council, do tell us how you managed to convince traders from as far away as Qarth to sign these."
Petyr's eyes caught the light. "Well, my lord, if you must know, I simply treat these captains, the important ones, of course, as a man treats a woman he's trying to woo."
"Oh?"
"Indeed. Nice conversation. Some wine. An expensive dinner. Only instead of seeing the deed done myself, I employ a few talented women who are much more capable than I."
Across the table, Grand Maester Pycelle's face colored. "Preposterous," he babbled, chains rattling as he shifted forward. "To use such base methods as the King's Controller—why, I have never heard—"
The door to the council chamber opened with a groan that cut through Pycelle's objection. Jon turned, grateful for the interruption. He did not need to hear moral indignation from a man who partook in the same trade himself despite his vows to the Citadel. It was an open secret, really, if one had enough eyes in the castle.
Despite his own misgivings about Petyr's less than honorable enterprises—and how that association might reflect poorly on Lysa—Jon could not deny the man's results. The boy had done the same in Gulltown, purchasing a brothel and befriending every merchant who came into the city. It was crude, perhaps, but effective.
The last member of the council still in the city walked into the room, his footsteps more hurried than usual. With Stannis and Ser Barristan off with Robert to the Iron Islands, their meetings were truly living up to the council's name.
"Lord Varys," Jon said, keeping his tone mild. "Your presence was dearly missed this morning."
When the Spider had failed to appear at the appointed hour, Jon had waited nearly half an hour before beginning. Despite the necessities of his craft, it was quite uncommon for the Master of Whispers to miss or be delayed for any meeting.
Varys tittered as he approached the table, soft hands disappearing into his billowing sleeves. "A thousand pardons, my lord Hand, but one of my little birds was quite insistent that his song be heard. I am a man of duty above all, despite what my detractors may say." A small laugh, his face disappearing briefly behind his raised sleeve.
"Out with it then, Spider," Estermont said. "What news do your birds bring us?"
Tilting his head, Varys glanced at the only man in the room who was not a member of the Small Council. "Rather important news, my lord. Matters our esteemed Lord Baelish here need not hear."
Jon caught the brief flicker of disappointment on Petyr's face before the young man schooled his features back to pleasant neutrality. He almost smiled at that. The boy was too curious for his own good, but one could hardly fault a hound for lifting his nose when he caught the scent of blood.
"Lord Baelish, you are dismissed. And well done today."
Petyr rose, gathered his ledgers with practiced efficiency, and departed with a bow. The door closed behind him with a soft thud.
"It gladdens me to say the rebellion is over, my lords." The eunuch's voice carried a note of satisfaction. "Our good King Robert's host of Stormlanders, along with Jon Umber's northmen and Lord Tywin's Westermen, took Pyke after a swift siege. Lord Stannis has subdued the island of Great Wyk, and our own Ser Barristan saw success at Old Wyk as well."
Estermont's fist came down on the table. "Hear, hear!"
Jon nodded, allowing himself a moment of relief. Thank the Seven. Beside them, Pycelle murmured his usual platitudes about the wisdom of the crown and the strength of the realm.
"And by all accounts," Varys continued, "Harlaw, Orkmont, Blacktyde, and Saltcliffe are all set to fall soon." Then the spymaster's round face twisted into a mockery of sadness, the lines around his mouth curving. "I am afraid, however, that the king saw fit to bring a more permanent change to Pyke."
Jon's eyes narrowed. Something in that phrasing set his teeth on edge. "Speak plainly, Lord Varys."
Varys's powdered cheeks colored slightly, a trick Jon was quite certain the man could conjure on command. "Of course, my lord Hand. I am saddened to report that, despite your own sage counsel, Balon Greyjoy is lord of the Iron Islands no longer.” A puse. “King Robert took his head, even after Balon's excuse that he had never sworn any vows to House Baratheon. He attainted his line and stripped the lordship from his only surviving son as well."
Jon let out a slow breath. Oh, Robert.
"It seems Lord Tywin's counsel, and the Greatjon's, was not quite so forgiving,” Varys finished.
"Bah." Estermont waved a dismissive hand. "No less than what that bastard deserved. You were too soft in suggesting he keep his seat, my lord. There's only one way to deal with these Ironborn bastards, and soft's not one of them." Leaning back in his chair, the older man crossed his arms. "Which one of Quellon's spawn will take the seat, then?"
Varys tittered again. "Balon's younger brother, Euron Greyjoy."
Closing his eyes, Jon pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. His advice to Robert, of letting Balon Greyjoy keep his seat despite the rebellion, had not come from any sense of mercy for the man. Quite simply, Jon had done his duty. He had made inquiries into who was most likely to rule as regent if Balon were killed and what sort of men these potential regents were.
And what he had found was that keeping Balon Greyjoy alive was not such a terrible alternative after all. For all his foolishness in raising his banners, he was a known quantity. A man who had tried and failed and would likely spend the rest of his days nursing that failure quietly.
From everything he had heard, Euron Greyjoy was something else entirely. He would be ten times the headache his older brother had ever been. And Robert had only gone and made the man Lord of the Iron Islands instead of simply the ruling regent for young Theon Greyjoy
Before he could begin to explain any of this to the others, the door opened again. Not with a groan this time but with a bang, the wood striking stone hard with enough force to make Pycelle jump.
Jon shot out of his seat. "What is the meaning of this?"
A knight stood in the doorway, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His face was flushed, sweat beading at his temples. "My lords," he gasped. "My lords... the bay… ships… Targaryens..."
The words made no sense strung together like that, but something in the way the man spoke had Jon's stomach clenching as if he'd taken a punch to the gut. Moving before conscious thought could catch up, he strode toward the balcony.
Footsteps followed behind him, several sets. Someone said something, a question perhaps, but the words washed past without meaning. Jon pushed through the doors to the balcony, the noon sun bright enough to make him squint.
Then he saw them.
The ships were out in Blackwater Bay, approaching the city in a straight line before curving away from the port. Seven of them. The closest ones already flew full sails, but the farthest vessels still had rowers working their oars as the cloth was slowly unfurled.
Red and black sails. A red three-headed dragon breathing fire on a black background.
Targaryen sails.
The knot in Jon's chest pulled tight, constricting his breath. Beside him someone drew a sharp breath, the Grand Maester, by the sound of it. A cup struck the marble floor somewhere behind him and shattered, wine spreading dark across the stone. No one spoke.
Even Varys, skilled an actor as Jon knew him to be, seemed genuinely surprised at the sight, though one could never truly tell with the Spider.
Spreading out across the city below, the bells began. Starting somewhere near the harbor, they moved from tower to tower, each one taking up the call until even the bells of the Red Keep were ringing above them. Every man and woman in King's Landing would be turning to look.
Those standing on any of the city's three hills would be able to see what Jon could see from this balcony, would see the Targaryen ships sailing past the port in defiance or declaration or something worse, and before night fell, the word would spread and all the realm would know.
The House of the Dragon was back.
xxx
Galad
Inside the courtyard of Grey Garden, the afternoon had turned grey. Clouds had rolled in from the sea, thick and low, casting the castle in a dim pallor that made the bloodstains on the cobbles look black instead of red.
Sitting on a weathered crate near the gatehouse, Galad waited while Mors worked at the straps of his armor, retying knots that had come loose during the fighting.
The young man-at-arms worked in silence, fingers deft despite their trembling. Sweat darkened his hair beneath his helm. Around them, men moved through the captured courtyard in small groups, checking bodies, tending wounds, securing the few Ironborn who had not managed to make it to the keep when the walls fell. The air smelled of blood and death and the sea wind that pushed through the open gates.
Footsteps approached across the stones. Galad did not need to look up to know who it was.
"I heard you arranged for a duel with the Harlaw knight, Ser Galad." Ser Owen Inchfield's voice carried across the yard. Behind him came three of his knights, their armor clean and unmarked, fresh men who had not climbed the walls or fought in the gatehouse. "That will not come to pass. The enemy is exhausted and outnumbered while we still have fresh men. We shall storm the keep at once, or put it to fire if needs be."
Pulling the final knot tight on the greave, Mors stepped back. Galad rose from the crate, movements measured and smooth despite the hour of fighting that had come before.
Deep in the void, his body felt distant, a thing he inhabited rather than something that belonged to him. He began checking his armor himself, testing each piece. Chestpiece secure. Pauldrons properly seated. Vambrace straps firm. Greaves snug against his shins.
"No," he said.
The word fell into the space between them like a stone into still water.
"No?" Owen's brow knitted together. Taking a step closer, he jabbed a finger toward Galad. "Do you think me a fool, woodsman? That I cannot see your aim here? To supplant me as commander? To take credit for this victory?" His voice grew harsher as he spoke, rising until he was nearly growling. "To unman me in front of the men?"
The man's words washed over Galad like a trickle of water breaking against a boulder, completely without power to disturb. He did not lift his gaze from his armor, checking the buckles at his sword belt, ensuring the blade moved freely in its scabbard.
"It bothers me naught what you think my goals are, Ser Owen," Galad said, his tone empty of inflection. "You have tasked me to take the castle and I shall see it through. That is all."
"Then I am rescinding that command."
Shaking his head, Galad finally looked up. "I have already given Ser Harras my word. I shall not go back on it."
"Your word?" The contempt in the man's voice was genuine, at least. "You think I care—"
Moving forward as he spoke, Owen made to step into Galad's space, to use his height and bulk to intimidate. Only for Galad to turn fully toward him, meeting his eyes with a gaze that held nothing. No anger. No fear. No concern at all.
The man stopped cold, words cutting short. Their gazes locked. Whatever Owen Inchfield saw in those violet eyes made his throat bob, made him glance back at the knights who had followed him. The three large men in their polished steel had not moved when Owen stepped forward. If anything, the biggest one—a bear of a man with a scar across his chin—had taken a step back.
Grinding his teeth together, Owen drew himself up to his full height. "Do you think I'm afraid of you?" The words came out in a hiss. "If I ordered you seized right now, the men would obey me. They would. I am their commander."
Looking deep into the man's eyes, Galad saw the threat for what it was. Empty. He knew this type well enough. They had filled the halls of Caemlyn and Tar Valon both. Deep inside, beneath the bluster and the title and the fine armor, Owen Inchfield was a coward. A bully, used to getting what he wanted by throwing the weight of his name around, or his connections, or his martial skill against lesser men. Nothing that worried Galad overmuch.
"If," he said, and turned away.
"This is treason." Owen's voice rose behind him, cracking slightly on the word. "Lord Mace will hear of this, do you hear me? I will have you hanged for this!"
But Galad was already walking toward the center of the courtyard. His boots struck the cobbles in even rhythm, the void keeping his stride steady and smooth.
The men who had taken the walls and the gatehouse and the chain room with him, along with those that had come in through the gates later, had gathered in a rough half-circle there, and when they saw him coming they opened a gap and let him through. Hands found his pauldrons and his back, and voices called out his name and wished him well.
Same as Owen's hollow threats, the words did not move Galad. Could not. Neither one could reach him now. The void held everything at arm's length—the pride and the fear and the good wishes and the hollow menace alike, all of them simply weather, simply the world going on around him while he stood at the center of it
Only the here and now mattered. Only the cobbles beneath his feet. Only the sword at his side. Only the man stalking up from the other side of the yard.
Coming out in a close group, Ser Harras Harlaw and the Ironborn warriors who had remained inside with him moved into the yard and spread around the opposite edge of the half-circle the Reachmen had made, filling it in until the ring was complete and the two knights stood alone in the middle of it, facing each other across a stretch of old grey stone.
Ser Harras Harlaw emerged from the keep's entrance flanked by dozens of Ironborn warriors, armed men who had refused to yield when the walls fell. They moved into the yard and spread around the opposite edge of the half-circle the Reachmen had made, filling it in until the ring was complete and the two knights stood alone in the middle of it, facing each other across a stretch of old grey stone.
Overhead, the clouds pressed lower. The light had gone flat and grey, turning the world into something without shadow or depth. Galad could hear every creak of armor as the crowd of men shifted in place, every sigh and every breath and every prayer and curse.
"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury." Harras' voice carried across the stones. The man stood easily despite the situation, shoulders relaxed beneath his half-plate. "You have made it clear what shall happen if you win. The castle will yield to you, you have my word. But tell me, what is it I can expect when I win?"
The man spoke as if winning were a foregone conclusion.
In the void, Galad felt no insult at the presumption. "Should you win, the men here will honor my last wishes. They will vacate the castle in good order, and you will live to fight another day. Whether that be later this night or when another force of Reachmen comes to your walls, I could not say."
"Piss poor rewards you offer, ser." A note of grim humor entered Harras' tone.
"It is the only one you have."
He sniffed once. "So be it, then." Cracking his neck to one side, the Knight of Grey Garden settled his feet on the cobbles. "To the death, then?"
"Will you yield if it comes to it?" Galad asked.
A smirk appeared on the knight's face beneath his half-helm, visible through the open visor. "Never."
Galad nodded once. He was not so proud as to refuse yielding in the face of a superior opponent, but it would not come to that. Instead, Ser Harras took his nod as confirmation that he, too, would never yield. Reaching to his side, the Ironborn knight drew his blade.
Nightfall sang as it left its scabbard, a thin sound that stretched across the yard and echoed off the castle walls. A hush fell through the crowd as the famed Valyrian steel longsword of House Harlaw came into the open, with hundreds of men pressing closer to glimpse the legendary blade.
Seeing it now in the grey afternoon light, Galad had to admit it was a beautiful weapon. Dark steel rippled with silver-like patterns that caught what little light remained, the metal seeming to flow like water frozen in place. A large moonstone sat in its pommel, brilliant and white as the full moon on a cloudless night, throwing back reflections that danced across Harras' armor.
Galad had never wielded a power-wrought blade in his past life, though he had seen them carried by Blademasters and kings. Still, none had looked as remarkable as the weapon before him now.
His own sword leapt from its sheath, the sound harsh and ordinary by comparison. The blade was solid enough, well-made by some castle smith, but it paled beside dragonsteel. Still, its weight felt right in his hand, the grip worn to the exact shape of his palm from years of daily use.
He had brought a shield to the duel, had it strapped to his left arm, but seeing Ser Harras approach without one, he let his own fall from his grip and heard it ring against the cobbles.
Across from him, Harras shook his head slightly, as if thinking him a fool for trying to be fair. In truth, it would only make the duel shorter. Galad was more accustomed to fighting without the shield than with it, and the extra freedom was worth more to him than the protection.
Ser Harras closed the distance between them, his steps confident and relaxed in a way that reminded Galad of Eamon Valda's arrogant saunter before their duel in another life. Cat Crosses the Courtyard, the movement was called, more a way to move and carry oneself than a true sword form, meant to project assurance and control, to tell an opponent what you were before the swords had even met.
At least then, Valda had been a Blademaster, and the form had its uses beyond the affectation of self-assurance. Here, it only showed Ser Harras' hubris. And, as with many men before him, hubris would precede his downfall.
Harras closed the last two steps at a dash, without warning, and Nightfall flashed up and across in a precise diagonal arc aimed at the thin gap between pauldron and chestpiece. If it found its mark, any other sword would simply slash against the mail beneath, but Galad had heard the stories. Valyrian steel would shear through chainmail as if it were silk.
Taking a single step back, only one, and keeping his body upright, Galad let the strike pass. His sword flew up to intercept the counter stroke he knew would come when the first missed entirely. The blades met when Ser Harras swung again at his head.
Dragon-wrought metal rasped against castle-forged steel, and the sound was like iron carving through wood, harsh and wrong and unlike anything he had ever heard in battle.
Three more passes followed as Ser Harras pressed the attack. Going high again, then feinting a thrust through the visor before dropping low, trying to catch him at the hamstrings. Galad parried each blow without moving from his spot, his sword moving as easily as if it were part of his arm.
And it was. In the void, he was one with the blade, one with the air through which it moved, one with the man attacking him. His movements were clean and economical. He moved no more than needed, expending no wasted motion.
Ser Harras circled before him, striking again and again, high and low, aiming for gaps in the greaves and groin and neck. Galad deflected the strikes with quick flicks of his wrist, one foot pivoting on the cobbles while the other remained planted like the root of an oak.
The man could not move him.
In that moment, deep in the oneness, Galad imagined all those warriors behind Harras—the dozens of Ironborn men watching from the circle—coming at him once their commander fell. Perhaps they would go back on their word. They might rush at him in numbers, try to drown him in a sea of bodies and steel.
He knew, however, that it would not work. He would stand, and they would break against him. He would cut each down as they came. Like flies they would buzz around him, but they would not touch him.
And if dozens could not touch him, Ser Harras Harlaw could not either, though the knight did not know it.
Roaring something wordless, Harras committed. Nightfall came down in a tremendous overhand stroke with the full weight of the man's body behind it, aimed to split him in half if it struck true.
Galad's sword rose before him, held upright while Harras' blade came down perpendicular. His thin blade, if half an inch out of place, would miss Nightfall entirely and the knight would shear through him. But he could not miss. In the void, Galad could feel Nightfall as if it were part of himself, could sense its position in space as clearly as his own limbs.
Gently, almost lovingly, his blade touched the Valyrian steel sword and guided it around him as it descended, the metals kissing each other like lovers. Air hissed as the dragonsteel passed near his ear, close enough he felt the wind of its passage.
In the follow-through, Galad struck. A quick thrust at the unbalanced Harras, and the flesh of the man's right thigh parted in a thick gash, blood welling dark against the mail. The knight cried out and lurched back, his right leg stumbling under his weight, barely catching himself before going down.
Standing where he had been standing since the duel began, Galad did not advance.
Harras dragged his weight onto his left leg opposite him, straightening himself. His breathing had changed, heavier now, the controlled ease of before replaced by something effortful. He stood and looked across the distance between them, and in that look something had shifted.
Dropping his eyes to his own sword, Galad saw what he had felt throughout the entire exchange. Along the blade's edge, in several places, small notches had appeared, tiny curved gouges where Nightfall had brushed against the castle-forged steel, each one no bigger than a thumbnail but deep and clean as if cut by a chisel.
In the course of a duel in which he had not blocked a single blow directly, always angling and deflecting rather than meeting force with force, the Valyrian steel had still bitten through his blade in passing as easily as a knife through candle wax.
An interesting thing to observe. A dangerous one.
If the duel continued much longer, his sword would not survive it. One strike, properly placed, might shear through the blade entirely rather than simply notching it.
"You are good, reachman." Ser Harras spoke through a tight jaw, pain evident in the clipped words.
Galad looked at him. The man was hurting, blood running down his leg to pool in his boot, but beneath his helm another expression showed itself. Resignation. The knight knew it, then. Knew the gulf between them, and knew that despite his powerful sword, it could not be bridged.
"You will not yield, ser?" Galad tried once more.
Ser Harras let out a short, brittle sound that might have been a laugh. "I am a Harlaw," he said, as though this required no further elaboration. A pause, and then his voice dropped slightly, losing some of its formality. "I ask only that you honor your word as a knight." Another pause, and the man glanced down at Nightfall, its dark steel gleaming."And the blade. It is my uncle's. I beg that you see it returned to him."
Galad nodded. "I will."
Then, with a mighty roar that echoed across the walls of his castle, the Knight of Grey Garden charged forward, and Galadedrid Damodred, to honor the man's bravery in the face of defeat and death, met him in the middle with his own charge.
To those watching around them, it must have seemed a spectacle—two knights trading blow after blow, dragonsteel singing against its ordinary counterpart, both men ducking and weaving and swinging and slashing with all their skill, the ring of the blades coming fast enough that individual strikes were difficult to follow.
The crowd pressed closer, men shouting, some calling encouragement while others simply watched in stunned silence.
It lasted no more than half a minute. Galad let it continue as far as his sword could take it. In the void, he was one with the blade, felt every impact as Valyrian steel scored it, gouged it deeper with each pass. His weapon was dying, piece by piece, and he knew it would not be long before it broke entirely.
Then, only then, did he end it.
He moved. Truly moved, for the first time in the fight. Stepping inside the man's guard as fast as lightning, close enough to see Harras' eyes widen, close enough to see the knight gain the sudden and complete understanding of exactly how wide the gulf had always been, how carefully it had been concealed from him until this moment.
He honored that recognition by making it quick.
A double strike. One cut to the wounded leg to bring the man down. The next at the neck, at a gap no other swordsman would have been able to find through the half-plate and mail, threading the needle in the space between helm and gorget.
Then it was over.
Blood sprayed red and thick across the grimy cobbles of Grey Garden as its master fell. The body hit the stones with a heavy sound, armor clanging against the courtyard floor.
Gasps spread across the crowd. The Reachmen, far outnumbering the Ironborn, did not even cheer at first. Most stood stunned as the duel reached its end, a contest that had seemed so hard-fought, so closely matched between the knights, they could not fathom how it had ended so abruptly.
Only when the swords and axes and maces fell from Ironborn hands, when the dozens of veterans who had come with their knight stripped off their helms and fell to their knees in surrender, only then did the men of the Reach scream out in victory. Fists thrust into the air. Men rushed forward to carry Galad on their shoulders.
He barely had time to snatch up Nightfall from where it had fallen beside Harras' body before hands lifted him. Mors took one of his legs on his shoulder, while a man-at-arms he did not know positioned himself beneath the other. Then he was rising above a sea of Reachmen, borne aloft on their triumph.
Cries of "Ser Galad! Ser Galad! Ser Galad!" filled his ears until the sound became a roar without meaning. The less excitable men, the more sensible ones, moved to secure the prisoners, directing the Ironborn to lay down their weapons and gathering them in groups.
A few minutes later, a harried Ser Arys Oakheart shouldered his way through the crowd even as Galad tried to wave the men off, to be set down. The young knight's face was flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
"Ser!" Arys called up. "Ser! It's Ser Owen."
Still sitting above the crowd, Galad turned toward him. He had not released the void quite yet. There would be a price to pay for delving so deep into it for so long, and he would not pay that price while surrounded by men, even if they were supposed to be his own.
"What of him?" Galad asked.
"I saw him riding away with his retinue just now." Arys gestured toward the gates. “He'll be riding to Ten Towers. He'll want to be the one to inform Lord Mace of the victory here." A pause, something careful in the young man's voice. "I fear he will try to diminish your part in it while covering himself in glory, ser."
The crowd had quieted around them to hear, and hearing it, voices rose immediately, men swearing up and down that every lord and knight and serving girl in the Reach would hear the truth of what happened at Grey Garden, men pledging their own testimony, men saying things about Ser Owen Inchfield's character and parentage that Galad chose not to repeat.
A flicker of something almost like humor moved through him and was gone before it could take hold.
It did not surprise him. Owen would do exactly what Arys described, and he would do it comfortably and with conviction, because men like Owen Inchfield believed very sincerely in the justice of their own perspective.
Here, surrounded by the men who had witnessed everything, Owen would not dare try anything. Yet in the halls he knew, among the lords and knights who knew his name and his family and owed him the natural deference of long familiarity, he would tell his version and it would be received as a version worth receiving.
But that was elsewhere. That was later.
"Let him do as he pleases," Galad said, pitching his voice to carry. The crowd settled to hear him. "The men here have earned their victory with the blood of many of our companions."
Grim nods moved through the group. A few men looked at the ground.
"In the morning, we will march out and join Lord Mace at Ten Towers. But tonight we shall rest, and we shall celebrate, and we shall honor our dead." He paused, looking across the faces below him. "I expect every man here to honor my offer to Ser Harras. No harm shall befall those who have surrendered, and no harm shall come to the smallfolk of these lands. That is my will."
They set him down shortly after that, and he was quick to put order to things before the celebration could take on a shape of its own. Neral was the right man for it, steady and trusted by the men-at-arms and possessed of a capacity for good humor Galad had come to rely on. He sent him into the keep with a group of trusted men to see that his instructions were carried out before anyone else had the chance to make them difficult to enforce.
He would not go back on his word. He had given it to a man who was dead now partly because he had trusted it, and that weight was not something Galad would set down. He would see that the smallfolk who worked the lands around Grey Garden did not become victims of wild Reachmen drunk with victory.
They found plenty of food and mead inside the castle that night. The men feasted and drank and made merry in the courtyard as the grey afternoon gave way to a grey evening and then to a dark and cloud-covered night. A few had to be spoken to sharply before the night was out. Only a few.
Galad left the rest of it in Neral's hands, and Ser Arys's, and retired to one of the guest rooms in the keep as the sounds of celebration drifted up through the stone floors below him.
The room was small but clean, a narrow bed against one wall and a simple nightstand beside it. Propping Nightfall carefully on the nightstand, the moonstone in its pommel catching the last grey light from the window, Galad finally allowed himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
Then he laid back against the thin mattress and let go.
The void released him like a dam breaking. All the fatigue and pain he had held at bay came crashing into him like a tidewave. His muscles screamed. His bones ached. The cuts and bruises he had accumulated over the past day made themselves known all at once, each one demanding attention.
But worse than the physical pain was everything else. The faces of the men who had died under his command. Mycah with the arrow through his throat. Lorne with his skull caved in by a horse's hoof. Ser Willam Wythers and his knights burning alive in the farmhouse. Ser Manfryd crushed beneath a stone.
All the nameless men-at-arms who had followed his orders and paid for it with their lives, all the young Ironborn boys he’d cut down as a scythe through wheat. And now Ser Harras Harlaw, an honorable man who had died because he would not yield.
Galad closed his eyes and saw them all. In his previous life, he had led men into battle. He had commanded the Children of the Light and the armies of Andor and then of the whole Westlands against the Seanchan. He had sent men to their deaths in service of what he believed was right. But it did not make this easier. It never did.
Outside, he could hear the sounds of celebration, men laughing, singing, drinking to their victory. Inside this small room, Galad lay alone in the darkness and let himself feel the weight of what he had done.
Tomorrow he would rise and march to Ten Towers. Tomorrow he would face whatever consequences Ser Owen's tale-spinning brought. Tomorrow he would return Nightfall to House Harlaw and honor his word to a dead knight.
But tonight, he would simply endure.