Chapter 12
When Galad woke the morning after taking Grey Garden, he knew immediately that he could not ride. His body felt as if a giant had taken hold of him and squeezed until he nearly burst like a melon.
Every muscle screamed protest at the smallest movement. Rolling onto his side sent sharp pains lancing through his ribs. Pushing himself upright required gritting his teeth against the agony that radiated from his shoulders down through his arms.
This was the price of the void. Of going so deep into it, of holding it for so long. The emptiness had protected him from feeling the toll his body paid during the fighting, but now, released from that state, every bruise and strain made itself known at once.
Breathing carefully, he sat on the edge of the narrow bed and took stock. His hands trembled slightly when he held them before his face. The knuckles were swollen, purple with bruising. His left shoulder throbbed where he had taken a glancing blow from an axe against his pauldron. His thighs burned from the hours of fighting, from holding his stance on the walls and in the gatehouse.
Outside the small window, morning light filtered through grey clouds. Voices carried from the courtyard below, men moving about their duties, the clatter of cookpots, the whinny of horses. The war effort could not wait for him to recover at his own pace.
Pushing himself to his feet took effort. Walking to the door required careful thought lest he fall. But Galad made it, step by painful step, until he could open the door and call for Ser Arys Oakheart.
The young knight arrived within minutes, his face brightening when he saw Galad upright. Then concern crossed his features as he took in Galad's careful movements.
"Ser Galad, you should be resting," Arys said.
"I know." Galad leaned against the doorframe. "Which is why you will take the bulk of the army and march to Ten Towers to aid Lord Mace in its taking."
Arys blinked. "Ser?"
"The castle may have already fallen by now, but we must do our part all the same. Take everyone who can march. Leave a garrison to hold Grey Garden and horses for myself and a small company to follow when I am able."
Understanding dawned on the younger man's face, followed by something that might have been pride at being given such responsibility. "Of course, ser. I'll see it done within the hour."
After Arys departed, Galad returned to the bed and allowed himself to collapse back onto it. The thin mattress felt like the finest featherbed in that moment. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
He woke once that evening to take a light supper of bread and cheese and cold chicken that one of the men brought to his room. His body protested every movement required to eat, but he forced the food down anyway. Strength would not return without sustenance. After, he slept again through the night, into the next day, and beyond
Three days after taking Grey Garden, Galad rode out through its open gates with Neral, Mors, and four other men-at-arms from Highgarden at his back, and Nightfall belted at his left hip. He still hurt as he took the saddle, but pain was not a new acquaintance, and discomfort had never been sufficient reason to fall short of his duties.
The road to Ten Towers took them east through the foothills of a low mountain chain, the summits bare and brown in the early light, the sun rising slow behind the ridgeline and throwing long pale shadows down the slopes ahead of them. Three hours of riding across that rough ground, the horses picking their way carefully over the loose stone, before the coast came into view and Ten Towers appeared along it.
It was an interesting castle from a distance. A tangle of towers and stone bridges and covered walkways hiding behind high curtain walls that abutted the sea directly, waves breaking white against dark stone. Beside the castle, a small settlement sprawled, steep-roofed houses in the Ironborn style clustering around a decent-sized port.
The water around the port showed signs of recent battle. Wrecks bobbed in the waves, the shattered remains of Ironborn longships and Redwyne war galleys alike, their masts broken and hulls listing. Debris floated among them, splintered oars, torn sailcloth, things Galad could not identify from this distance.
Yet the ships berthed there now, flying the grapes of the Arbor and the flower of Tyrell, told him the battle’s result.
The walls of Ten Towers itself, on the other hand, showed no siege damage. No scorching from burning pitch. No gaps where stones had been battered loose. No bodies strewn before the gates.
Settling the men at the edge of the army's encampment, Galad learned what had happened from the soldiers nearby. Rodrik Harlaw had put down his banners before the main assault had come, but only after his fleet sunk, his port was taken, and the land forces closed around him on all sides.
But the yielding had come too late to satisfy the nobility of Westeros. Orders from Pyke, from the king himself, had stripped the major lords of the Iron Islands of their lordships, passing the seats to lesser men or distant relations whose names were not important enough to be considered for purging.
Rodrik Harlaw, the Reader, had not escaped that fate.
xxx
Inside, Ten Towers was quieter than he expected. Early morning stillness filled the courtyards and corridors, the castle mostly sleeping after what must have been festivities the night before celebrating the Reach's victory. Empty wine cups sat on benches. A few men slept slumped against walls, snoring softly.
Finding the dungeons was not difficult. A guard directed him to the First Tower, the oldest of the ten that gave the castle its name. More than one door one his way opened before he had to ask twice. His name, it seemed, had traveled ahead of him.
The temporary gaoler outside Rodrik Harlaw's cell was a Highgarden man-at-arms who gave Galad a deep nod, turned the key, and withdrew down the corridor without being asked.
Stepping through the door, Galad took in the room. Better than most cells, a proper cot with blankets, a small table, a candle burned most of the way down. High in the wall, a narrow window let in a strip of grey morning light and the distant sound of the sea.
Seated on the cot with a book open across his knees was a slight man of middle age, brown-haired and plain-faced, nothing about him that would have drawn a second glance in a market or a library.
He wore simple clothes, no jewelry, no ornamentation. His hands on the book were scholar's hands, fine-boned and careful. Nothing about him suggested the image of the common Ironborn warrior. The image of a lord who had led his people in rebellion. He looked like someone's maester.
Until he raised his head. Sharp brown eyes moved from Galad's face to the sword at his hip and stayed there a moment before returning.
"Oh," Rodrik Harlaw said. "The new wielder of Nightfall appears." Closing the book with care, he turned in his chair to face him fully. "Come to boast about taking my family's sword, Reachman?"
Looking around the cell, Galad found a small wooden crate in the corner. He dragged it closer with one hand and lowered himself carefully to spare his still-aching muscles.
"Is that not the way of your people?" Galad asked. "The iron price?"
Rodrik gave a slow nod. "Aye, so it is. And a prosperous land it has made us." His voice was dry, not quite sardonic.
Reaching down, Galad unbuckled the sheathed sword from his belt and set it on the floor between them.
"My name is Ser Galad of Dustonbury," he said. "I came to return this to you, Rodrik Harlaw. Harras named his uncle its true owner before he died. He asked me to see it delivered. I promised him I would."
For a moment, the Reader said nothing. Then a genuine smile appeared on his face, small but warm. "Sounds like something Harras would ask. His ideas of honor lay more within the mainland than the Islands." The smile faded as quickly as it had come, and he shook his head. "But I am no longer Lord Harlaw. I am bound for the Wall with the other foolish lords and captains who followed Balon in his madness."
Galad shrugged. "It is still yours by right."
"I suppose so." Rodrik looked at the sword without touching it. "And what should I do with it? Bring it to the Wall and go on a ranging, drop it in the snow when my fingers turn to frost? See it in the hands of a wildling if I fall beyond the Wall?" He shook his head. "Nay. The sword deserves better than that."
"Another Harlaw, then," Galad said. "I heard your sons fell outside Fair Isle. And Harras now. But is there no one else? No cousin, no distant relation?"
"Plenty of those." Rodrik leaned back slightly against the wall behind the cot, considering the ceiling for a moment. "But men worthy of this sword? My father's sword?" Another slow shake of the head. "Most will end up taking the black as well, though I'm sure some will escape it. Boremund is a crafty bastard, and the Silverhair will throw himself overboard before he truly swears the Watch’s vows." He brought his eyes back to Galad. "No. It is not a Harlaw that must wield the blade from now on."
"Who, then?" Galad asked. "I swore to Harras I would deliver you the blade. But I care not for the precise wording of it. I will see Nightfall in the right hands."
Leaning forward, Rodrik met his eyes. "My nephew. My sister's son. Theon Greyjoy. His brothers are dead. He will be the Lord of the Iron Islands after Balon, and Harlaw blood runs through him as much as it ran through my own boys. Nightfall must go to him."
"I see you have not been informed yet, then." Galad's lips formed a thin line. "Balon Greyjoy is no longer Lord of the Iron Islands. He lives no more, and his line has been attainted. His son will not inherit Pyke."
The widening of Rodrik's eyes lasted only a moment before a long breath left him, his head dropping forward. He sat that way for several seconds, the candle guttering slightly in a draft from the window.
"Damn you, Balon," he said quietly. "Damn you to the deepest, darkest pits." Looking up, his eyes had gone tight at the corners. "Who then?"
"Euron Greyjoy. Balon's oldest living brother."
Closing his eyes as if resigned to some terrible fate, Rodrik sat very still. Long moments passed before he spoke again. When he did, his voice carried a weight that made Galad pay closer attention.
"Balon was rash and arrogant and he led us to our downfall, but let me warn you now, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury." Rodrik opened his eyes and fixed him with a hard stare. "He is not even half as dangerous as Euron Greyjoy. Westeros will not know peace for long with that man ruling the Islands."
Galad's brow tightened. He was no Aes Sedai to be able to read the faces of men and know their hearts with certainty. But he thought himself a decent judge of character. And so married to the truth he had become, he had developed an even better hand at spotting liars.
Rodrik Harlaw did not seem like one. The man spoke with genuine conviction, with something that looked almost like fear buried beneath his resignation.
Still, Galad was not in any position to alter the board and depose lords, much less on the words of an already deposed Lord of Harlaw.
"I shall pass on your warning if I can," Galad said. "And the sword?"
Rodrik shook his head firmly. "Nightfall must not go to Theon. Not yet. He is a boy still. Euron would see some terrible fate befall him and claim the sword for himself."
"I believe they will send the boy to ward away from his home," Galad offered. "Though I know not where."
"They may send him as far as Asshai by the Shadow, it makes no matter." Rodrik's voice took on an edge. "Once Theon claims the sword, it shall pass on to House Greyjoy if he were to die. And Euron would make sure the boy does. He has always been obsessed with Valyrian steel."
Silence fell between them. The only sound was the distant drip of water somewhere in the dungeons and the muffled call of gulls from outside. Rodrik seemed deep in thought, his gaze distant, before he focused on Galad again.
"Are you an honorable man, Ser Galad?" The question came out carefully, and the Reader's eyes watched him the way an owl watches its prey.
Galad kept to the truth. "I try to be."
A slow nod. "You would not have brought me this sword if you were not. Do you know how much someone like Tywin Lannister would pay for its like?"
"A great deal of gold, I imagine."
"I imagine it would be more gold than you can imagine, ser. Most men do not have a fertile enough mind to conceive how much gold the lion has." Pausing, Rodrik let that hang in the air for a moment. "Now that you know this, will you sell it?"
"I have no use for gold where I am going."
"And where is that?"
Galad shrugged. "Anywhere that calls to me. I feel a thirst to see these lands properly. They say the Hightower at Oldtown is taller than the Wall where you are going. I would like to see whether that is true."
"A wandering knight, are you?" Amusement touched Rodrik's voice. "They came to brag about you yesterday. Told me how Harras fell to your hands. One of them said you are the best swordsman they had ever seen. Was he telling the truth?"
"Likely he was," Galad said simply. "Most men have not seen much."
"Oh?" An eyebrow rose. "And you have? They said you were a woodsman before you were a knight. How much could you have seen?"
"Enough to have seen better swordsmen than myself."
A small smile passed across Rodrik Harlaw's face, there and gone like sunlight through clouds. "You shall make a fine wielder of Nightfall, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury. Finer than many of my ancestors, I would wager. Many of them were right old cunts."
Galad frowned. "What about your nephew? Theon Greyjoy."
"Too young, as I said. Perhaps he will grow up to be worthy of it." Rodrik held his gaze. "And perhaps you will be honorable enough to pass it on to him when the time is right."
Sitting back on the crate, Galad did not answer immediately. His frown deepened as he thought the matter through. His understanding of Rodrik Harlaw shifted in his mind like pieces on a stones board being rearranged. Not a liar, no. But a shrewd man indeed.
"Your wish is not truly for me to wield it," Galad said at last. "You wish only to see it safe until it can be passed on to someone of your blood. Safe from the likes of Euron Greyjoy and Tywin Lannister. To use my honor and my skill at arms as a shield for it."
Surprise stamped itself clear on the Reader's face. "How interesting. A clever woodsman too." His eyes narrowed as he seemed to reassess the man before him. "Who are you truly, ser?"
Rising from the crate, Galad picked it from the floor and buckled Nightfall back around his belt, the weight already feeling familiar there. He turned and walked toward the cell door, stopping at the threshold to shoot the man a final look over his shoulder.
"Fortunately for you, Rodrik Harlaw," he said, "I am a man who keeps his promises."
Then he stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind him, leaving the Reader alone with his books.
xxx
Getting a meeting with Lord Mace Tyrell early that afternoon proved easier than Galad expected.
Having sent word through one of his stewards, he was granted an audience within the hour, which surprised him until he considered that a lord with nothing left to besiege had more time on his hands than usual.
The steward led him not toward the lord’s formal apartments that would typically house a conquering commander, but to the Book Tower instead, to the rooms by the library where Rodrik the Reader had apparently spent most of his days before his downfall. Lord Mace, it seemed, had made himself comfortable among the shelves.
The smell of old parchment and leather bindings grew stronger as they climbed, mixing with something more immediate—roasted meat and fresh bread. At the top of the stairs, the steward knocked twice on a heavy oak door, then pushed it open.
"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury, my lord."
"Ah, Ser Galad!" Lord Mace's voice boomed across the chamber. "Come, come, do sit down."
Galad stepped inside and took in the scene. Mace Tyrell sat at a table positioned near a tall window that overlooked the sea, surrounded by what could only be described as a kingly spread.
Honeyed chicken glistened on a silver platter, the skin golden-brown and dripping. A bowl of creamy soup, white as fresh snow, sat steaming beside it. Hot bread, still giving off wisps of heat, had been torn into chunks and scattered across a wooden board. Quail eggs gleamed in a dish, dipped in brown gravy that pooled at the bottom.
Half a dozen other plates held foods Galad could not immediately name, pastries of some kind, roasted vegetables in butter, small fish arranged in a pattern, cheese cut into precise cubes. A jar of chilled wine sweated gently atop a thick leather-covered tome that had been pressed into service as a coaster.
Still chewing on a piece of chicken, Mace wiped his hand on a linen napkin and waved Galad forward. Honey glistened at the corner of his mouth. "It was a long day yesterday, and I am just now breaking my fast. Will you join me for a simple fare?"
Sketching an appropriate bow, Galad kept his expression neutral. "Thank you, my lord, but I have already eaten." Hard bread and salted pork from the army's provisions, but it was food all the same. "I can return later if your lordship prefers."
"Nonsense, you will at least sit with me." Mace pointed at the chair opposite him with the hand still holding a napkin. "I know you requested this meeting yourself, but I have my own matters to ask you."
Galad nodded and moved to take the indicated seat. The chair was well-cushioned, far finer than anything else he had sat on in weeks. Through the window beside them, the sea stretched grey and restless beneath gathering clouds.
Popping a quail egg into his mouth whole, Mace chewed thoughtfully before continuing. "You see, I have heard your name plenty these last few days. Plenty of differing accounts, mind you, so I would like to hear your own version of the rebellion." Another egg disappeared past his lips, but his eyes never left Galad's face. "From the landings in the south, the fighting on the beach and along the coast, the fire in the farmhouse and how you came to lead the army. Then there's your pursuit of the Ironborn harrying the column, taking their camp, and finally the storming of Grey Garden and your duel with Ser Harras. I would hear it all, if you could. Spare me none of the details. And worry not—" He gestured broadly with the hand holding his napkin, nearly knocking over his wine. "Battle stories do not steal my appetite."
Surprised, it took him a moment to reassess the situation. He had come here to deliver a decision, not to recount his actions. But Lord Mace Tyrell was his liege, at least nominally, and the request was reasonable enough. Settling back in his chair, Galad began.
He told it straight through, from the moment the boats ground onto the sand at Harlaw to the duel in the courtyard. No embellishment, no false modesty, no careful shaping of events toward a more flattering light or a more humble one.
He named the men who died where their names were relevant, described his own decisions and their consequences without either pride or apology, and corrected himself once when he realized he had spoken out of sequence. In the end, as in all things, he told the only story he could be bothered to tell. The truth of it.
Across the table, Mace ate his way through the meal with steady enthusiasm. Chicken bones accumulated on a side plate. The soup bowl was scraped clean and pushed aside. Bread disappeared in large bites between questions. But despite his focus on the food, the Lord of Highgarden's attention never wavered. His brows rose at certain moments—when Galad described holding the flank against the cavalry charge, when he recounted holding the chain room at the gatehouse. Tiny reactions that showed he was listening through it all.
When he finished, Mace finally set down a chicken wing he had gnawed to the bone.
"I see." Reaching for the wine jar, he poured himself a cup, considered the level, and poured a little more. "Very well told, Ser Galad. You would make a great minstrel if you so wished. It paints quite the picture."
He settled back in his chair with the cup and seemed to look at something in the middle distance for a moment, the gregarious warmth of his face giving way briefly to something more considered.
"I pride myself as something of a patron of the arts, you see." Gesturing with the cup, the rings on his fingers caught the light. "I have brought all kinds to Highgarden, artists from as far away as Qarth and Qohor and even Ib. Just as well there are those closer to home that come from the humblest of origins. All of them are different, do you know? Some men paint with one color only. Others will slather the piece with the whole rainbow. Some do this clever trick where they paint only the shadows, using the bare white of the canvas to give form to an object." He set the cup down and reached for a piece of bread, tearing it in half with the efficiency of long habit. "But when I ask for a painting of Highgarden, I expect to be able to see my own castle in it, even if the palette or the style varies. Do you get me?"
Picking up a chicken bone, he held it between two fingers like a pointer. Honey dripped from it onto the table. "When I ask for an account, men will tell me what they've seen with their own eyes. No man sees the world the same way, so differences are to be expected. But when I step back and look at the canvas, I must see the castle. The general truth of things."
He tossed the bone into an empty plate, letting out a long breath that seemed to deflate him slightly. "It is a shame," he said, more quietly, "that some men, some friends, think to lie to their liege. Painting me a garden when I asked for a castle."
Galad remained silent. Watching the lord's face, he saw something morose there, almost pitying, though he did not think it was directed at him. Others had told him different versions of the events, it seemed, some more different than others, and Mace Tyrell had proved to be more capable than his genial exterior would present.
Looking back up, Mace showed a broad smile, the momentary cloud gone as quickly as it had arrived.
"Not you, lad, not you. I am quite pleased with you. Quite pleased." Reaching for more bread, he tore off a piece and gestured with it. "And though you have the talent for it, I see not the future of a minstrel for you. Instead, after your exploits here, Ser Galad, I do not think even my mother would deem you unworthy of a lordship. Oh, she would grumble about it, but she would acquiesce in the end." His smile widened. "Extraordinary service must be rewarded extraordinarily. Dunstonbury still lies empty for now. Those are good lands, fertile lands. You could become a great lord of the realm with one stroke of my pen."
That offer again.
A tempting one, Galad imagined. Tempting for most if not all living men in the kingdoms. The promise of land, of title, of a place in the great game of Westeros. Yet he was not one of them.
"I understand that, my lord. And it is a generous offer." Galad kept his voice level, his posture respectful. "But I have no wish to be tied down to land and liege for now. I am young yet. My heart hungers to see the world."
Seemingly unsurprised, Mace watched him for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. "These opportunities do not come by so easily, you understand that?"
Galad nodded. He had been a great lord before, in another life. Had commanded armies and countries by the end of it all. The First Prince of the Sword. Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light. It had been a noble task, a fulfilling task.
But perhaps in this second life he could try something simpler. Just a man, a horse, and his sword on the road. He had found his quiet years in the cabin to be to his liking, the simple rhythm of hunting and gardening and watching the seasons turn. He had lived in plenty of palaces before, and none had felt so much like home as his small cabin in the woods.
If he misliked the life of a wandering knight, he could always build another house to call home.
"I understand. But I remain resolute in my answer for now."
Mace let out a short laugh, not unkind. "A young man who hungers for neither glory nor titles. Truly, it will be a shame to see you leave the Reach, ser. You would make a fine lord, I am sure of it." Spreading his hands wide, he sighed. "Alas, if I cannot convince you, I will not force the matter. I will see you well rewarded for all you have done, truly I will. All the coin and all the horses you may want for your travels. Anything at all."
"Then I would ask for passage on a ship headed to Oldtown," Galad said. "I have made commitments to some back in Highgarden. The man-at-arms, Sergeant Ben, who fought with me to protect your children in my house. And with your son Lord Garlan, who I am sure has told you he wished to become my squire."
Mace brightened at that, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "Oh yes, he has told me plenty. Did not stop singing your praises the whole time you were training him. Him and the little ones." A slight softening passed over his face at the mention of the youngest Tyrells, there and gone quickly. "They'll all be devastated to learn you will not be staying."
"I would speak with them in person to deliver the news," Galad said. "I know some of the men will be leaving for the Reach already, so I would join them as they return."
Waving a hand, Mace shook his head. "If you wish to speak with my children, Highgarden is not the place you want to go. Along with Lord Tywin, the king has announced a victory tournament to be held at Lannisport, and House Tyrell will present itself in force for it. By the time you made land in Oldtown, they'll likely be at Casterly Rock already." He clapped his hands, the sound sharp in the quiet solar. "How about this. I will send a raven at once asking for—" He clicked his fingers, searching for the name.
"Ben."
"Ben, yes. I will write to Highgarden ordering Sergeant Ben to join my family when they travel north. That way you need not travel up and down half the continent only to speak face to face with one man."
"That will make things considerably easier," Galad said. "Thank you, my lord."
But Mace Tyrell did not dismiss him at once. He gained a pensive look to his face, fingers drumming against the table. When he looked back up, his eyes glimmered in the dim light.
"Tell me, then, Ser Galad. Do you plan on joining the lists?” he asked. “Or perhaps the melee? I am not sure that you were ever trained to joust, but none would doubt your skill with a blade by now."
Ser Garin Sand had been adamant on the point of jousting, back in the years when the old man was still alive to be adamant about anything. A knight who could not joust was no knight at all, he had said more than once. and with the particular emphasis of a man who suspects he is not being fully believed. Galad had never shared the enthusiasm for the sport. It seemed wasteful, two men charging at each other with blunted weapons to prove nothing of real import.
But he had never let personal preference stand in the way of practice, and he was a firm enough hand at running at the ring to know the basics of it, though he could not boast much experience in the real thing against real opponents.
He had been silent long enough that Mace spoke again, a smile playing at his lips.
"May I give you some advice, ser?" Before Galad could respond, he waved a hand. "Well, I shall give it anyway. You should join the lists, even if you do not care for gold or the glory of it."
"Why so?"
"So people can see you with that new sword of yours." Mace nodded toward Nightfall where it hung at Galad's belt. "So they know who its wielder is now, and know him by name and face and deed. And know that its wielder has friends, powerful friends. And should that wielder be met with some unfortunate accident during his travels, or should he be set upon by bandits and highwaymen on the road, those powerful friends would not be pleased." His expression grew more serious, the jovial mask slipping to reveal the calculating lord beneath. "They would ask questions. They would have eyes on whose hands the sword ends up in. Do you get my meaning, ser?"
Galad was taken aback for a moment. He had not considered that angle. Plenty of houses in Westeros held Valyrian steel blades, and it was rare for one to be taken by another house. They were seen as heirlooms tied to a family's honor and heritage, and should one find himself in possession of a house's sword, he was in turn honor-bound to return it to its rightful place.
That only worked because the rest of Westeros knew which house owned which sword. To have a stolen blade in your possession meant not only the enmity of a house, or even an entire kingdom depending on where that house was located, but the undesirable reputation of being ignoble and dishonorable.
This was not truly about the Tyrells doing something should someone steal Nightfall. It was about his name being tied to the sword and to a great house of the realm, the connection to them serving as a deterrent to action in the first place.
After all, a wandering knight without name or land was easy prey. A wandering knight with a public friendship with the Lord of Highgarden was a different calculation entirely.
It was, Galad had to admit, quite clever. Especially as it brought prestige to the name Tyrell without requiring any investment beyond public association.
"I understand completely, my lord."
"Good!" Mace slapped the table with his palm, making plates jump. "Then you shall join me when I leave for Lannisport. And you shall join me tonight as well at the high table. The lords of the Reach have all arrived from the other islands for our own victory feast, and it is past time I give you your due honors."
"It will be an honor," he said, though the idea did not quite suit him.
"Excellent, excellent." Rising from his chair with a groan of satisfaction, Mace came around the table and clapped Galad on the shoulder with enough force to make him sway slightly. "I shall see you tonight, then. Wear something fine. I will have my steward bring you proper attire if you lack it. A knight of your deeds should look the part."
Galad stood as well, then bowed. "My lord."
As he made his way to the door, Mace called after him. "Oh, and Ser Galad? That was a fine account you gave. The truth suits you."
Turning back, Galad met the lord's eyes and saw approval there, mixed with something else. Respect, perhaps, or simply recognition. "Thank you, my lord."
Outside in the corridor, Galad paused to let out a slow breath. The feast tonight. The tournament at Lannisport. More spectacle, more eyes, more attention. Everything he had hoped to avoid by refusing the lordship.
But Mace was right about the sword. Nightfall would make him a target without the right protections. And if presenting himself at a tournament and a feast was the price of being able to travel freely afterward, then he would pay it.
Descending the stairs of the Book Tower, Galad's hand rested on Nightfall's pommel. The moonstone was cool beneath his palm. Outside, the sun had just now begun its descent toward the western horizon, painting the land in shades of amber and grey.
One feast. One tournament. Then he could go wherever the road called him.
It seemed a fair bargain.
xxx
The great hall of Ten Towers had been transformed for the victory feast. Torches blazed in iron sconces along the walls, their light dancing across the high ceiling where ancient kraken banners had been torn down and replaced with the golden rose of House Tyrell and a dozen other sigils besides.
Long tables stretched the length of the hall, packed with men still wearing the dust and grime of campaign despite their attempts to clean up. The smell of roasted meat and spilled wine filled the air, mixing with the salt wind that pushed through the open windows.
From his seat at the high table, Galad watched as Lord Mace Tyrell rose to his feet with a goblet raised high. The hall quieted, hundreds of voices falling to silence as men turned their attention to their commander.
"My lords, my knights, my brave men of the Reach!" Mace's voice carried across the stone chamber. "We have achieved a great victory here in the Iron Islands. The kraken has been brought low, and the Greyjoy rebellion is at an end!"
Cheers erupted from the tables below. Cups were raised, fists pounded on wood, men roared their approval. Mace waited for the noise to subside before continuing.
"But no victory is won by one man alone. It is the courage and skill of our finest lords and commanders that brought us this triumph." Turning to gesture at the men seated along the high table, Mace began calling out names. "Lord Randyll Tarly, whose steel never wavers and whose men never break!"
More cheers. At the far end of the table, Lord Tarly gave a curt nod, his stern face unchanged.
"Lord Mathis Rowan, stalwart and true! Lord Alester Florent, whose banners were first over the walls at Blacktyde! Ser Balon Hightower, who held the line when lesser men would have fled!"
Each name brought fresh cheers from the tables below. The lords and knights mentioned acknowledged the recognition with varying degrees of pleasure—some beaming, others nodding with martial dignity. A Caswell cousin flushed red with pride. A Fossoway knight raised his cup high.
Settling back in his chair, Galad let the names wash over him. He had dressed in the fine clothes Mace's steward had provided, a doublet of deep green with gold thread at the collar and cuffs, well-fitted and clearly expensive. Nightfall hung at his side, the moonstone pommel visible above the table's edge. Despite his preference for simpler fare, he had to admit the roasted venison and honeyed carrots were excellent.
When it came time to honor the men in Mace's own forces that had taken Harlaw and all its castles, the lord mentioned plenty of his household knights. Names Galad recognized from the campaign, men who had fought well, who had led their companies with competence if not brilliance. And when Grey Garden was mentioned, it was not Ser Owen Inchfield who received the credit.
"And of course, I could never forget the hero of the Flower Hearth himself, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury." Mace turned toward him, eyes bright with wine and satisfaction. "Stand for a moment, good ser. Stand."
He had no wish for fame, and no particular hunger for the attention of lords. Given the choice, he would have spent the evening down at the campfires with Neral and the others, eating whatever the cook fires had produced and listening to the men argue about nothing in particular. But he was by no means uncomfortable here. He had stood in far greater courts and councils than this, had been examined and measured and watched by queens and generals and men who held the fates of nations in their hands, and through all of it the same composure had come to him as naturally as breathing.
It came to him now. Every face in the room turned toward him. Rising from his seat, he looked back, his expression open and still, and waited.
"This week, Ser Galad was hero once again here in Harlaw," Mace continued. "Leading the men onto the beach, holding strong against fierce Ironborn charges time and again, turning ambushes back on the Ironborn as they fought their reavers' wars. And finally, his finest moment, the taking of Grey Garden, being the first man atop its walls!" The lord paused for effect, letting the anticipation build. "And the man who now wields the famed Valyrian Steel sword Nightfall, having fought and bested Ser Harras Harlaw in the finest single combat seen since Ser Gwayne Corbray crossed blades with Daemon Blackfyre himself upon the Redgrass Field!"
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the hall. Many had heard the rumors, but hearing it confirmed by Lord Mace himself made it real.
"The sword, ser! Let us see the sword!"
Stepping out from behind the table, Galad moved to the open space before the Harlaw throne, where two enormous scythes of beaten silver hung on the wall above the carved seat like the arms of some vast, patient creature. Standing beneath them, framed by silver, he reached to his left side, took Nightfall's hilt, and drew the blade in a single clean motion.
The sound of dragonsteel leaving its scabbard was like a whisper of wind through leaves. Galad held it aloft, letting the torchlight play across its surface. The rippling pattern along the dark blade caught the flickering flames like waves under the sun, silver and shadow dancing together. The moonstone in the pommel threw back reflections that scattered across the ceiling.
Cheers erupted from the Reachmen below. Men stood from their benches, raising cups and weapons in salute. The noise washed over Galad like a wave, but in his mind he stood in the stillness, separate from it all.
The moment passed. Lowering the blade, he sheathed it with the same smooth motion and returned to his seat. Mace moved on to announcing the coming tournament in Lannisport, the king's victory celebration, where all the great houses would gather to display their prowess and celebrate the end of the rebellion.
Sitting back down, Galad reached for his wine. He had barely taken a sip when the first lord approached, a florid man with a Meadows sigil on his doublet, full of questions about the duel and eager to introduce his two sons who stood behind him looking awed. After him came a Graceford knight wanting to know if Galad had truly held an entire flank alone against cavalry. Then a Redwyne cousin asking about the ambush in the valley.
Such a clear sign of favor by Lord Mace was sure to spark the curiosity of even the most dour of lords. They came in a steady stream, making conversation, paying compliments, fishing for information or alliance or simply the chance to say they had spoken with the man who wielded Nightfall.
Galad answered their questions with courtesy, shared wine with those who offered it, and maintained the princely mask throughout. This was the price of the display, he understood. Mace had elevated him publicly, and now the lords of the Reach wanted to know where he stood, what he wanted, whether he could be useful to them.
As the feast started to slow down, men growing drunk or tired, the servants clearing away the remains of the meal, a different sort of figure approached. Lord Randyll Tarly walked with purpose from his seat at the table, his bearing as martial and controlled as if he were on a parade ground.
Behind him came his son Samwell, a soft boy who looked profoundly uncomfortable in the martial atmosphere.
Stopping before Galad's seat, Tarly got straight to the point. "Many will covet such a blade, ser."
"Many will," Galad agreed, meeting the lord's hard gaze.
"I should like to test this swordarm of yours." Tarly's voice carried no warmth, but neither was it hostile. Simply direct. "I have never wielded Heartsbane against another Valyrian steel sword. "
"I plan to join the melee, my lord,” Galad told him. “I would welcome the challenge."
A small smile appeared on Randyll Tarly's face, barely visible but unmistakably present. "I shall see you in the field, then."
After Tarly departed, with his son trailing behind with a backwards glance at Galad that might have been fear or fascination, more lords came. A Fossoway asking about serving wenches around the room. A Cuy knight sharing news from the other islands. The conversations blurred together, mostly polite and meaningless, until finally Galad found himself speaking with Ser Arys Oakheart.
The young knight had cleaned up well, his hair combed back and his doublet fresh. But excitement still shone in his eyes when he looked at Galad, the same eager energy he had shown on the battlefield.
"The way you moved during the duel, ser," Arys was saying, leaning in close enough that others would not overhear. "I have never seen anything like it. When you stepped inside Ser Harras' guard at the end…" He shook his head in wonder. "How does one train for that? What exercises build that kind of speed?"
"Footwork," Galad said, keeping his voice low. "Most men neglect it in favor of strength training. But a swordsman who cannot move cannot win, no matter how strong his arm." He paused, considering how to explain concepts he had learned in another world. "Practice the forms slowly at first. Focus on balance, on knowing exactly where your feet are at all times. Speed comes later, after the body knows the movements without thought."
Arys nodded eagerly, clearly committing every word to memory. "And when facing a superior weapon like Valyrian steel—"
"Ser Galad!"
The shout cut through the hall's ambient noise like a knife. Conversations died around them as heads turned toward the source. Galad looked up to see Ser Owen Inchfield stumbling through the far entrance, clearly drunk, his face flushed red and his movements uncoordinated.
He had heard the man had not been invited to the feast, but it seemed he had found his way inside after all.
"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury!" Owen's voice slurred as he pushed past a servant who tried to intercept him. "Where is that bastard son of a whore? Some no-name woodsman playing at being a knight!"
Moving unsteadily across the hall, Owen grabbed the edge of a table for support and pointed an accusing finger. "You think you're better than me? Think you can steal my glory? I should've—I should've killed you when I had the chance!"
The hall had gone completely silent. Every eye was on the drunk knight as he lurched forward another few steps. "Common-born trash! Upjumped peasant with a stolen sword!"
Before Owen could continue his tirade, three large men-at-arms appeared from the shadows and grabbed him by the arms. He struggled against them, still shouting obscenities as they dragged him backward toward the entrance.
"Unhand me! I am Ser Owen Inchfield! My house is old, you hear me!"
Looking toward the high table, Galad saw that same pitying expression on Mace Tyrell's face he had seen earlier. With a small gesture, the lord dismissed his former friend. The men-at-arms hauled Owen through the door and out of sight, his voice fading into the distance.
Murmurs filled the hall immediately. Whispers passed from table to table, speculation about what had transpired between Ser Galad and Owen Inchfield, theories about why the latter had been excluded from the high table, reminders of Owen's family connections and how this disgrace would reflect on them.
Rising from his seat, Galad decided the feast was well over for him. He gave Arys a nod. "Continue what we discussed. Practice the footwork, slowly at first."
"Yes, ser. Thank you, ser." Arys seemed uncertain whether to acknowledge the scene they had just witnessed, settling finally on pretending it had not happened.
Making his way toward the exit, Galad ignored the stares and whispered conversations that followed his passage. Outside in the courtyard, the night air was cool and clean, washing away the heat and smell of the crowded hall. Stars glittered overhead between scattered clouds, and the sound of the sea was a constant whisper against the rocks below.
He walked through the gates and headed toward the sprawling encampment where the common soldiers had made their beds. Cooking fires dotted the darkness like fallen stars, circles of warmth and light where men gathered to share food and drink and stories.
He found his men exactly where he expected them. They sat around a fire near the edge of the camp, using logs and upturned crates as seats and passing a wineskin between them. Neral saw him first, his weathered face breaking into a grin.
"Ser! Done with the fancy lords already?"
"More than done," Galad said, lowering himself onto a log across from the grizzled veteran. Someone passed him the wineskin and he took a long drink. The wine was sour and cheap, nothing like what they had served in the hall, but it tasted better somehow.
"How was it?" Mors asked from his left.
"Loud. Full of talk." Galad passed the skin to Mors. "A lot of talk."
Neral chuckled. "Aye, lords do like to hear themselves speak. Though we hear you put on quite a show with that sword of yours. All the men are talkin’ ‘bout it."
"Lord Mace's idea, not mine."
"Still." One of the other men-at-arms, a stocky fellow named Pate, gestured with his cup. "Must've been something, holding up a Valyrian steel blade in front of all those highborn cunts."
They drank in comfortable silence for a while, watching the fire crackle and spit. Around them, other campfires hosted similar scenes, men unwinding after weeks of campaign, sharing the quiet satisfaction of survival.
"To victory," someone said, raising his cup.
"To victory," the others echoed.
Taking the wineskin when it came around again, Galad held it up. "To those who did not live to see it."
The mood sobered immediately. Neral nodded slowly. "Aye. To Lorne and Mycah." Mors closed his eyes when he heard his brother’s name.
"Ser Willam Wythers," another man added.
"And Ser Manfryd," said Pate.
They went through the names, every man they could remember who had fallen during the campaign. From the beach landing to the final assault on Grey Garden, they spoke the names aloud and drank to each one.
Some Galad knew well, others he had barely spoken to. But each had fought beside them, had bled on Harlaw's soil, and each deserved to be remembered.
When the wineskin was empty and the names had all been spoken, Galad stared into the fire and made a decision. Should he win the purse at the melee or the joust, he would see that Lorne's widow received a share.
He needed some gold to fund his travels, just not all of it. It was the least that could be done for the first friend he had lost in this world.
"You're thinking loud, ser," Neral said from across the fire, voice rough with drink and exhaustion.
Looking up, Galad met the veteran's eyes. "Just planning ahead."
"Planning to knock some fancy lords on their arses at Lannisport?"
A small smile touched Galad's lips. "Something like that."
"I'd pay good coin to see you face the Kingslayer,” Mors said. “They say he's never been unhorsed in the melee."
Everyone can be unhorsed, he thought, though he did not voice it. Winning was one thing, making too many powerful enemies was another.
They drank for a while after that, until the fire breathed low between them, and no one moved to add wood to it.
xxx
AN: Not an exciting chapter, but it took me longer than I wanted to finish this arc. I didn’t want to rush the ending. Can’t forget the denouement otherwise things feel unfinished.