Chapter 13

Victarion Greyjoy

Wind howled outside like a dying beast, rattling the shutters in their frames until Victarion thought they might tear loose and fly into the night. Yet despite the noise, Pyke had never felt so empty and silent. The wind was just wind, nothing more. It was the absence of voices that made the castle feel dead.

The first night after all the invaders had left the Iron Islands. The greenlanders, traipsing through his family's castle as if they owned it. Robert Baratheon with his warhammer and his bellowing laugh. Tywin Lannister moving through the halls like it was all beneath him. The Greatjon Umber and his savage northmen, drunk on victory and southern wine.

Cunts, the lot of them.

Victarion's hands curled into fists as he stalked through the corridors. His boots struck stone with heavy thuds that echoed in the emptiness. Most of the servants were dead or fled, killed in the sacking or run off when the greenlander armies came. The few that remained kept to the shadows, eyes downcast, moving like ghosts through their own home.

He had traded blows with Robert Baratheon himself during the fall of Pyke. The memory burned in his mind—the Usurper's warhammer coming down like a thunderbolt, Victarion meeting it with his axe, the impact rattling his bones. For a moment they had fought, strength against strength, and Victarion had felt the savage joy of battle singing in his blood.

Then the northmen had tackled him from the side, three of them bringing him down like hounds on a boar. By the time he fought back to his feet, Robert had moved on to other prey.

And though Victarion hated to admit it even in the privacy of his own mind, he did not think he would have come out on top had the duel continued. Robert Baratheon was no greenlander weakling. The man was a warrior born, strong as an aurochs and twice as mean when his blood was up.

Still. One day, Robert Baratheon would feel his axe bite into his throat. Into each of their throats, these greenlanders that had desecrated his home, that spat on the Old Ways. He promised himself that much.

Balon might have been a cunt too, arrogant and rash and as hardheaded as a bull-shark. But he had been Victarion's brother. His blood. That meant something. And a king too, the first Greyjoy king since the ancient kings of salt and rock were chosen through the kingsmoot. They might have failed in their rebellion, but Balon had the right of it all along.

The Old Way had to be restored.

Reaching the lord's apartments, Victarion pushed through the door without knocking. The chambers were empty. He had thought to find Euron balls deep in some wench at this time of night—his brother had never lacked for appetites—but the bed was cold and undisturbed.

Frowning, Victarion turned and made his way back through the castle. He passed through halls that still bore scorch marks from the fighting, stepped over stones that had been pried loose and never replaced. In the kitchen, he found one of the few remaining servants, an old woman with a bent back who had served House Greyjoy since before Victarion was born.

"Where is my brother?" he demanded.

The woman flinched at his tone, eyes darting away. "The great hall, m’lord. Saw him go there after dark. Alone."

Victarion grunted and continued on. It seemed strange that Euron would be in the great hall at this hour. There had been no feast today. There was nothing to feast about, no victory to celebrate. Only defeat and submission and the bitter taste of bowing to the greenlander king.

The great hall's doors stood open, darkness spilling out into the corridor beyond. Victarion stepped through and stopped, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. A few torches guttered in their sconces along the walls, casting more shadow than illumination. The long tables had been pushed to the sides, benches stacked haphazardly. At the far end of the hall, on the dais where the curling tentacles of the Seastone Chair weaved through the air, a figure stood.

"Euron," Victarion called, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.

His brother did not answer.

Walking forward, Victatrion felt the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end, and he wished he had brought his axe with him. Something felt wrong. 

As he drew closer, he heard it—a slow dripping, like a leak in a thatched roof. Drip. Drip. Drip. But when he looked up, the ceiling was solid stone. No rain could penetrate here.

The dripping continued. Steady as a heartbeat.

"Brother," Euron finally said without turning. One hand rested on a tentacle of the Seastone Chair, his fingers drumming against the black stone, oily and strangely reflective despite the low light. "Come to have a go at the chair when no one's looking, have you?"

Victarion could hear the mocking smirk in Euron's voice. It made his blood boil, that tone, the one that said Euron knew something Victarion did not, that he was playing a game Victarion could not comprehend. 

"I came looking for you," he said through gritted teeth.

"How touching." His other hand was by his head, balled into a fist. "It's not as comfortable a seat as you'd think, you can trust me on that."

Victarion's lips formed a thin line. He had learned long ago never to trust a word that came out of his brother's mouth. Euron lied as easily as other men breathed, twisted truth until it suited his purposes. But he was Lord of the Iron Islands now, chosen by Robert Baratheon to replace their executed brother. And Victarion owed his allegiance to the Greyjoy that sat the chair, no matter how much it galled him.

Narrowing his eyes, Victarion tried to make out what his brother was holding. The room was half in darkness, torchlight failing to reach the dais fully. But he could see Euron's silhouette against the Seastone Chair, could see something in his hand.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound came from whatever Euron held. Dark drops fell onto the ancient stone of the chair, running down its carved surface like black tears.

"What are you doing?" Victarion demanded.

Moving closer, he finally saw it clearly. The gaping hole in one side of Euron's face, a dark pit where his eye should have been. Blood dripped down his cheek in thick rivulets, staining his collar, falling onto the Seastone Chair.

"Your eye!" The words came out strangled. Victarion did not enjoy the trembling in his own voice, the note of something that might have been fear. "What have you done?"

"Paying the price, of course." Euron spoke as naturally as if Victarion had asked him about the weather, his remaining eye bright with something that might have been fever or madness or both. "An eye for an eye. And this one's sight was far too poor for little old me."

Victarion only stared at him, trying and failing to parse out his brother's words. An eye for an eye? What price? What had Euron done?

Turning fully now, Euron settled himself onto the Seastone Chair. Blood continued to stream down his face, but he seemed not to notice or care. "Speak your piece, then." Propping his chin on his balled fist—the one still holding something—he fixed Victarion with his remaining eye. "You need not look at me as if I've grown a second head. It's just an eye, Victarion. See?"

His hand opened.

In the torchlight, Victarion finally saw the eye clearly. White as bone the whole of it, pupil and iris both gone milky and dead. The thing stared back at him blankly, as if still attached to a man's face, still seeing things no living man should see.

Then Euron closed his fist, and the sound was like a grape being crushed underfoot, wet and obscene as a thing not meant to be heard. Clear fluid mixed with blood seeped between his brother's fingers.

Victarion's jaw dropped. His stomach turned.

Euron laughed at him, a rising cackle that echoed through the empty hall, bouncing off stone walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. "If only you could see your face!" Wiping a tear from his good eye with his free hand, he grinned. Blood stained his teeth. "Hah! Go on, then. What is it you want?"

Euron was mad. Truly mad.

Victarion had always known that, in some fashion. His brother had never been right, even as a boy. But it had only gotten worse after Euron sailed east a few years after Robert's Rebellion ended. He had been gone more than two years, and when the Silence returned to Pyke, it brought a strange crew of mutes and foreign thralls chained to the oars. Euron had walked down the gangplank wearing silks from Qarth and smelling of eastern spices, his smile wider and emptier than before.

Silent for a moment, Victarion shook himself. He swallowed dryly and tried to focus on why he had come here. "To ask... to ask what are our next steps."

Euron raised an eyebrow, the one above his remaining eye. "What steps would there be? I am as loyal a servant to the crown as any lord in Westeros." Wagging a finger at Victarion, his grin widened. "Watch out, watch out, Vic. This is treason you're speaking here."

"This is no jest," Victarion snarled, taking a step forward. "And servant? Has this defeat unmanned you so? You cannot mean to keep faith with the stag king. Not truly. The iron fleet needs must be rebuilt. More captains raised. More men trained.” Pounding his chest with a closed fist, he felt the familiar words rise up from his throat like a prayer. “What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."

"Yes, yes." Rolling his one good eye, Euron lounged back in the chair. Victarion could see deep into the dark pit where the other had been, could see the raw meat and bone within. "That's all well and good. But Robert Baratheon's rule is useful for now. My back is not so stiff that it cannot bow and scrape for a time."

"The ironborn should bow to no man," Victarion said. "We bowed only to the dragons, and the dragons are gone."

"Are they?" Euron's smile widened, blood still seeping from his ruined socket. "You aim too low, brother. Rebelling against this king or that, ruling these piss-poor islands." Leaning forward, his remaining eye gleamed in the torchlight. "I have my sights—well, sight—set higher than that. And for such a lofty goal, a man must be patient."

Victarion frowned, trying to understand. "What goal?"

Euron ignored his question. "We shall bide our time for now and save our strength. No need to waste it on further foolish rebellions." Rising from the Seastone Chair, Euron began to pace, his movements fluid despite the blood loss. "Worry not. Westeros will break itself apart without our need to kick down its door. The stag and the falcon. The lion and the viper. The wolves and the roses and all the rest. They will tear at each other soon enough."

Stopping before Victarion, Euron placed a hand on his shoulder. His grip was strong, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. "Then... only then, will I make my move, and the whole of Westeros shall know of it. Our sails will cover their horizon, will darken the very sun." His voice dropped to something almost reverent. "From the Wall to Oldtown, Lannisport to Gulltown, Sunspear to King's Landing. They will learn. And as I do now, so they too shall weep tears of blood."

His hand rose to touch the ruined socket, fingers coming away red. "I see it clear as day."

Victarion stared at his brother, at the mad light in his eye, at the blood running down his face, at the certainty in his smile. Part of him wanted to strike Euron down right there, to end this madness before it could spread. But another part remembered.

It was Euron more than anyone who had convinced Balon to raise their banners in rebellion, which Victarion had tried and failed to do for years. It was Euron who planned the sacking of Lannisport, and the mad thing had worked—the Lannister fleet burned, their gold stolen, their pride wounded. And it was Euron who had spoken against giving battle to Stannis Baratheon at sea, counseling patience. Balon had not listened. Neither had Victarion, thinking him craven for it.

And Euron had been right. The battle off Fair Isle had broken the iron fleet and left the Iron Islands open to invasion.

Perhaps his brother's madness had method in it after all.

"How long?" Victarion asked. "How long must we bow and scrape?"

Euron's smile was answer enough, wide and terrible and full of secrets. 

"As long as it takes, brother. As long as it takes."

Turning away, he climbed back onto the dais and sat once more upon the Seastone Chair. Blood continued to drip onto its ancient stone, staining it darker than the sea from which it had been carved.

Victarion watched his brother sit there, mad and bleeding and somehow still terrifying in his confidence. Then he turned and walked from the hall, his boots echoing in the emptiness.

Behind him, Euron's laughter followed, a soft, satisfied thing, like a man who had just won a wager no one else knew he had made.

xxx

Galad

The horse charged beneath him, hooves churning through the sand of the tiltlane. Couched beneath his right arm, the lance sat steady, its tip trained on the man coming fast across the field. His shield rested like a boulder on his left forearm. It would not move. He knew that like he knew his own name.

Through the narrow slit of his visor, the world had narrowed to a strip of sky, the churned sand of the lane, and the man coming toward him.

The northman sat his gelding with confidence, but the confidence was in his bearing rather than his form. Too stiff through the back. Too rigid in the shoulders, as if he were bracing for something he had already decided he could not prevent. 

Not a hedge knight, this one, but a captain of some northern house—the black battleaxe upon his surcoat marked him as such. He should have asked his squire the name of the sigil before taking the lane. He would remember to do so next time.

Closing distance fast, Galad read the small signs. A subtle tightening in the shoulder. The way the man's legs stiffened around the animal's barrel as the gap between them shrank. He would panic in the last moment, the lance tip drifting, the shield rising instinctively to protect the neck and upper chest. Knowing this, Galad angled his own lance low, beneath the metal lip of the shield that would come up in that final instant.

The collision jarred him despite his preparation. A shock jolted up his arm all the way to his shoulder and neck, reverberating through his bones. Then came the sound of wood breaking upon metal, his lance shattering into a thousand pieces that rained down upon his armor and the mare's flank. 

His mount did not break stride. The borrowed Tyrell mare had been bred for this and knew her business better than he did, carrying him through the impact and out the other side without hesitation. Ben had brought Galad's own destrier from Highgarden's stables when he arrived with the Tyrell household, but the horse was ill-suited to the joust, and the mare had been offered without him needing to ask.

Behind him, Galad heard the northman hit the ground with a hard thud that carried across the tourney field. Letting out a soft breath, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. 

Two rounds in the tilt lane in as many minutes. And only because he had been overly cautious in the first, facing a hedge knight from the Vale who had bragged about half a dozen tourney wins but had fallen on their third tilt.

Jousting against other knights was not much different than running at the quintain, Galad had discovered. How could he miss his thrust when he was one with his lance, one with the horse thundering beneath him, one with the man and beast opposite him? In the void, their arms and lances and shields were as much his as they were theirs. What feint could a man pull on his own body? 

Turning the mare around as she reached the end of the lane, Galad saw the northman struggling slowly up from the sandy ground. He rode back the way he had come, slowing as he approached the fallen knight.

"Well-ridden, ser."

The man looked up through his visor, then reached up and pulled his helmet off entirely, setting it in the sand beside him. A grizzled face stared back, grey-bearded, the lines in it suggesting twenty years more than Galad's own. Narrow grey eyes moved down from Galad's face to the small flower embroidered on the breast of his surcoat—the plain Tyrell household uniform he had been given on his first day at Highgarden and had not yet found reason to replace. He had not gotten around to making up arms for himself.

"I ain't no ser, Reachman," the man grunted. He coughed, pressing a fist against his chest. "And no, it wasn't well ridden. Gods, you hit harder than a giant." Another cough, shorter. "What's your name again?"

"Galad. Galad of Dunstonbury."

The man's eyes widened. Recognition flickered across his weathered features. "Ah, bloody hell. S'pose I didn't stand a chance either way." Pushing himself up with effort, he finally gained his feet, swaying slightly. "You that hero knight, then?"

Galad was glad his helmet hid his expression. That was one name he did not like. Calling him a hero set a bitter feeling across his chest.

"Just a woodsman in the right place at the right time," he said. "They made me a knight for it."

"Aye, heard that too. The woodsman knight." Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the northman studied him with new interest. "True you killed a hundred men on your own at Harlaw?"

Opening his mouth to deny it, Galad paused. He turned it over in his mind briefly. Dozens on the stairway of the gatehouse alone, working through each man as they came down in the narrow space. The fighting on the walls before that, and in the beach landings, and across the campaign through the hills and the valley and the ambushed column. The numbers, if he was honest with himself, might be there. He could not say with certainty, and he had no wish to count.

His silence lasted a moment longer than intended. The northman let out a short, pained chuckle, reading whatever he chose to read in that silence.

"No shame in this defeat, then. Good story to tell the lads back home." Turning, the man gave him a loose wave and limped away toward the edge of the field. "Hope you go on to win this whole damned thing, Ser Galad. Should’a known better than tryin’ this southern shit sport."

Galad raised a hand in return and watched the man walk away for a moment before continuing down the tilt lane to where his squire waited.

Twelve-year-old Garlan Tyrell stood at the far end of the field, practically vibrating with excitement. His brown hair was still neat despite the heat of the day, his Tyrell livery spotless. He had taken to his duties as squire with a seriousness that would have been amusing if it were not so endearing.

"Great showing, Ser Galad!" Garlan said enthusiastically as Galad dismounted. "Will you take a break now, ser?" He offered up a skin of water.

Taking it gratefully, Galad pulled off his helmet and drank deep. The water was cool and sweet, washing away the taste of metal and dust. Around them, the tourney grounds were relatively quiet. 

In this first stage of the jousting, where most of the high nobility need not yet participate, the rounds were held with far less fanfare. Attendance at the noble stands was sparse, with only a few smallfolk dotting the grassy hill on the other side of the field. Most would be waiting for the real spectacle when the great knights and lords of the realm donned their stately armor and the grounds filled with mummer shows and fire eaters and whatnot.

For now, there were not even straws to draw or brackets to follow. Men lined up at dawn and went at each other in pairs. Lose once and you were eliminated. One needed only to win three rounds without losing to advance to the next stage, and a winner could take an hour's break after each round while two other competitors took his and the loser's place in the field.

But Galad saw no need for rest. The week-long wait at Harlaw before embarking to Lannisport had been more than enough time for him to recover fully from his exertions at Grey Garden. The sea voyage had been uneventful, and it had taken another couple of days after their arrival before the tourney proper started.

There would be three days for all manner of hedge knights and enterprising men-at-arms and other free riders to batter each other for the few available spots in the main brackets. Galad had decided to get it done and over with on the first day.

It was sunny overhead, only a few clouds drifting lazily across the sky above Lannisport. The air smelled of salt from the nearby harbor mixed with the dust and sweat of the tourney grounds.

His breath was hot inside his helmet when he put it back on, hot but steady. "No need for a break." Looking down at Garlan, he nodded toward the organizer's tent. "Tell the steward I'm ready for the next contestant."

Garlan nodded, took back the water skin and swiftly set off to do his bidding. Watching the boy go, Galad reflected that he was a better squire than a man like himself deserved. And despite being the son of a high lord besides, Garlan was diligent and respectful and kind to all around him, treating the stable boys and serving men with the same courtesy he showed to lords.

Galad did not think he had been half as attentive to those beneath him when he had been a high lord himself in his previous life. Power and position had come too easily to Galadedrid Damodred, a son of two royal lines. He might’ve not been purposefully arrogant, but he had still worn his rank like armor, never questioning whether he deserved it.

The rest of the Tyrell family had been waiting at the docks when Galad followed Lord Mace down the gangplank days earlier. With the exception of the Lady Olenna, who waited insider their carriage, they were all there, standing amidst the slowly recovering ruins of the Lannisport docks—scaffolding and new timber marking where the Ironborn raid had done its damage. 

His wife, the Lady Alerie, Willas, Garlan, young Loras, and little Margeary, the youngest two nearly bouncing in place to stop themselves from tackling their father. Galad had almost been tackled himself later that day. 

He had been invited to stay in the castle as part of the Tyrell household, and he had not had it in him to deny the request when the children looked at him with their big brown eyes like baby does pleading for mercy.

He might have elected to stay with the men camped outside the city if the others had come to Lannisport as well, but Neral and Mors had joined the bulk of the Tyrell army in returning to the Reach through Oldtown. He had said his goodbyes back at Harlaw already, promising to visit Highgarden when he could. His travels would take him back south one day, he was sure of it.

Already lodged in Casterly Rock, the Tyrells housed in apartments befitting their rank, Galad had broken the news to the children that he would not be staying with their family permanently. There had been crying from Margaery and begging from Loras, but Lord Willas had understood well enough to wish him the best and promise never to forget the debt he thought he owed Galad.

Before telling them all, however, he had spoken with young Garlan first. He had told the boy back at Highgarden that he could be his squire after the war, and it felt too much like breaking a promise not to apologize sincerely for letting the young man down.

Unlike what he expected, Garlan Tyrell had not complained or asked him to reconsider. Nor did he act like his older brother and simply wish him good fortune. He had shrugged instead, insisted he would still be Galad's squire, then ran off to speak with his parents before Galad could object.

They had not talked about it since, but the boy continued to act as his squire in the days that followed. Now at the tourney, he helped with armor and horses and lances, fetching water and running messages. In return, Galad had seen to it that they continued the training they had started back at Highgarden.

What he saw left him impressed. Garlan Tyrell had not slacked while Galad went off to war. The boy must have followed the training regimen he had left behind to the letter, working diligently every day on the tasks and exercises Galad had outlined.

His footwork, the solidity of his stance, how he flowed from one form to the next. Garlan was talented, he could see it now. Very talented. On a field outside Lannisport where Galad had taken the boy to practice the first morning after arriving in the city, Garlan had reminded him of his brother Gawyn when they were boys. And like Gawyn, the young Tyrell had the makings of a Blademaster should he continue to improve as he was.

It would almost be shameful to stop training such a prospect.

Garlan returned from the organizer's tent at a jog, and Galad's next opponent appeared across the field moments later. A big man wearing the Crakehall sigil—a black and white brindled boar.

"A Westerlander this time, ser," Garlan reported, slightly breathless. "A bastard cousin to Ser Lyle Crakehall, they say. He's won his last two tilts."

Nodding, Galad took up a fresh lance from the rack and guided his mare back to the starting position. Settling the lance into position, he touched his heels to the mare's flanks.

The big Crakehall knight charged with confidence, his form better than the northman's had been. But in the void, Galad could see every flaw, every opening. The man favored his right side slightly. His shield sat a fraction too low.

One pass. The Crakehall knight hit the ground hard enough to raise a cloud of dust.

Riding back to Garlan, Galad handed off his shattered lance and accepted another skin of water. "Perhaps the melee will prove more exciting," he said, more to himself than to the boy.

As it was going, the jousting was proving no challenge at all.

xxx

When the jousting was done and his name had been properly recorded as the first to advance to the next stage, they made their way back to the winner's tent to remove the heavy tourney armor.

Inside the canvas structure, Galad sat on a wooden bench while Garlan moved behind him to work at the straps and buckles. Other knights occupied the tent—some celebrating their victories with wine, others nursing injuries or simply resting. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and leather and metal.

"Garlan?" Galad said as the boy worked at untying his left pauldron.

"Yes, ser?"

"You asked your lord father to follow me when I leave, did you not? As my squire."

The boy's hands paused for a second, then continued working at the knots. "Yes, ser."

Galad nodded, though Garlan could not see it from behind. "And?"

"I have not been given an answer yet, ser." Finishing with the pauldron, Garlan moved to the other side. "But if my mother's screaming is to be believed, my lord father is not against it. I do not think he would allow it if it were Willas asking. But he has an heir already, and Loras is a suitable spare." The boy's voice took on a carefully neutral tone that reminded Galad he was speaking to someone far more politically aware than his twelve years suggested. "He loves me plenty, I know, but he is not against his second son going out on a grand adventure. He thinks the whole thing is quite romantic, I think. He mentioned Ser Duncan and Aegon the Unlikely to my mother in one of their arguments."

"I see."

Garlan continued, warming to his subject as he worked. "He'll convince mother in the end. I'm sure of it. My grandmother, however..." He paused, and Galad could hear the worry in his voice. "It's been days since I asked my lord father, and not once has she has not summoned me to berate me. She knows of it by now, of course, so I do not know what she thinks or what her answer will be. I am quite nervous about it."

"Did you ever think of asking me?"

The work behind him stopped entirely. Garlan came around the bench, eyes wide, and immediately began bowing and apologizing profusely. "Ser, I am so sorry, I should have—I did not mean to presume—please forgive my—"

"A joke, Garlan." Galad sighed, reaching out to still the boy's frantic bowing. "I see I am not quite as skilled in those as I thought." Meeting Garlan's eyes, he softened his expression. "It would be an honor to have you as my squire. You are a good young man and will make for a great knight, I am certain of it. The best this land has ever seen."

"Not as good as you, ser," Garlan said immediately, his face flushing with pleasure at the praise.

"Perhaps. But it is the dream of every master to have his student surpass him."

Looking at him fiercely, Garlan straightened his shoulders. "Then I will do my best to live up to your name, ser!"

Galad raised an eyebrow at that. He had, in fact, no name whatsoever beyond "Galad," as was the custom for smallfolk in these lands. But he supposed the boy meant something else—reputation, perhaps, or legacy.

After his armor was taken care of and Garlan had polished each piece and separated them into bags for transport, they gathered the gear and made their way to the stables where the Tyrell mare and Garlan's own gelding were housed. 

The stable was cool and dim after the bright sunlight of the tourney grounds, smelling of hay and horse and leather. But their horses were not alone. 

A knight stood waiting near the stalls, wearing Lannister colors—a crimson doublet with gold thread, a golden lion emblazoned on his breast. Two other men flanked him, guards in Lannister livery with swords at their hips. The knight's own armor was visible beneath a rich cloak, good quality plate with lion-themed decoration and gold lining. 

Stopping Garlan with a hand when he spotted the men, Galad set down the bags he carried. The knight looked up as they entered, his eyes narrowing as they settled on Galad.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury?" His voice was young.

"Yes. May I help you, ser?"

"Aye, you may." The knight drew himself up slightly, projecting authority. "You have been summoned by Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock." He held up a sealed letter in his hand, the red wax bearing the Lannister lion.

Garlan spoke up beside Galad then, frowning. "And what authority does the Lord of Lannister have to summon a knight of Tyrell?"

The Lannister knight's eyes flickered down. "And who are you, boy?"

Drawing himself up to his full height, which was not particularly impressive at twelve, Garlan met the man's gaze without flinching. "I am Garlan Tyrell, ser. Son to Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden."

That stopped the man for a second. "I see.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Shall I tell Lord Tywin that the second son of Mace Tyrell, Garlan, refused the meeting on his father's authority?"

Clever, Galad thought. 

Garlan's eyes widened. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

Raising a hand, Galad stepped forward. "No need. I will meet with Lord Tywin."

"Ser?" Garlan turned to him, alarm clear in his young face.

"I have never met Lord Tywin Lannister, but from what I have heard, he is not a careless man." Galad kept his voice calm, reassuring. "He would not send me such a summons without consulting with Lord Tyrell beforehand. Am I wrong?"

Looking briefly caught, the Lannister knight gave him a nod of grudging respect. "The Tyrell apartments were my first stop this morning."

"See?" Galad looked down at Garlan. "Your lord father and I had spoken about this possibility. Do not worry overmuch." Turning back to the knight, he inclined his head. "We will follow you back to Casterly Rock, then. My squire here will go about his routine, and I will meet with your lord. Ser...?"

"Ser Lucion Lannister," the knight answered, drawing himself up with pride in his family name.

"Well met, Ser Lucion." Galad gestured toward the stable entrance. "Lead the way.""Paying the price, of course." Euron spoke as naturally as if Victarion had asked him about the weather, his remaining eye bright with something that might have been fever or madness or both. "An eye for an eye. And this one's sight was far too poor for little old me."