Chapter 14

Cersei Lannister

Taking a sip of her wine, Cersei watched Robert pace the solar like a caged bear. Back and forth he went, boots striking the Myrish carpet with heavy thuds, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The late morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Casterly Rock, casting long shadows across the room.

"I warned you," Robert said, stopping to point a thick finger at his dour brother. "I warned you and Jon and Varys, that fucking snake. But you didn't listen, did you?"

Across the room, Stannis Baratheon stood rigid as a soldier on parade, jaw working beneath his close-cropped beard. Cersei could almost hear the grinding of his teeth.

"Well, you'll hear me now." Robert's voice rose, filling the solar with the kind of passion she had not heard from him in years. "It shall be war. We will hunt them down even if we have to sail all the way to bloody Asshai and the very edge of the world."

He looked different after the war in the Iron Islands, Cersei had to admit. Less pale, less gaunt beneath his beard. His shoulders had rounded with muscle again from swinging that ridiculous warhammer of his. Even the way he huffed now, face red with anger, gave him a semblance of his old self, the man who had won the throne, who had smashed Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident.

Not that it made him any less insufferable.

Stannis remained rooted to his spot like a standing stone weathering a storm. "Where?" The word scraped through his locked jaw.

Robert stopped mid-stride. "What?"

"Where are we to sail to, Your Grace?" Stannis continued, each word measured and deliberate. "Did you even bother to read the missive, or did the words stop making sense after you saw 'Targaryen' written on the paper?"

"Careful now." Robert's voice dropped to a growl, the kind that had preceded violence in their early years of marriage.

From his seat near the window, Lord Tywin Lannister spoke without raising his voice. "Your brother is right, Your Grace. We must not act with haste."

Cersei watched her father, noting the way he sat perfectly still, hands folded on the armrest of his chair. His green eyes, the same shade as her own, remained fixed on Robert with the patience of a man humoring a child's tantrum.

"The Lord Hand is clear the ships were well gone by the time he put people to follow them," Tywin continued. "We don't know where they went. Where they're hiding. How many of them there are. Or if it was even the Targaryens themselves aboard those vessels."

"And?" Robert turned on her father, his face darkening further. " Do nothing? That's your brilliant idea, Lannister? Sit on our arses and hope the dragon whelps just disappear in a puff of smoke?"

Leaning forward, Cersei watched for her father’s reaction. Tywin Lannister was not a man used to being spoken to like this. Not by kings, not by anyone. At least not anymore.

It also surprised her to see such fire in her husband's voice, such actual conviction.

Robert had been a pathetic sight for a while now. Sad to look at, like a mangy old hound that had outlived its usefulness. But Cersei had not minded it overly much. It brought her some joy to know that Robert hated his life as much as she hated him, that his great victory and his precious throne had given him nothing but misery. 

The idea that she might one day wake to find he had thrown himself off his balcony in a drunken stupor had pleased her no less. She would look stunning in widow's black.

"We will act, Your Grace." Her father's voice remained level, though it had taken on an edge like cold steel. "The Targaryens are a threat that must be eliminated. But we cannot fight ghosts. We need credible information of their whereabouts and numbers before we can strike decisively."

Stannis shifted his weight, the leather of his boots creaking. "Jon Arryn said they put out a notice to every ship leaving the city to send back word if any dragon sails are spotted. Ravens have also flown down the eastern coast from Massey's Hook to Sunspear."

"Then make preparations, Stannis." Robert began pacing again, the carpet muffling his heavy tread. "We'll return to King's Landing tomorrow. Have word sent to every lord on the eastern coast to be ready with ships and men when I call on them. The Manderlys in the North, the Crownlanders, the Tarths and grandfather’s lot—all of them. I want the royal fleet doubled. Tripled if we can manage it."

"We can't leave." Cersei set down her wine cup, the crystal chiming softly against the table.

Robert rounded on her, blue eyes flashing. "What did you say?"

Meeting his glare with her own, Cersei lifted her chin. Robert had not sought her bed for more than a few years now, and had even stopped seeking out whores for a time during his melancholy. But the war had set something off in him. She had seen him take one of the serving wenches at the Rock before he set sail for the Iron Islands, pulling the girl into an alcove with all the discretion of a rutting bull.

She had no wish to ever share the buffoon's bed again. The thought of his weight pressing down on her, his wine-sour breath in her face, made her skin crawl. But if she wanted another child—and she did, desperately—she had to go through the motions of pretending to be his dutiful wife.

She and Jaime had been more careful since Robert stopped coming to her chambers regularly. There had been some close calls. She had even been forced to ask Grand Maester Pycelle for moon tea once, claiming women's troubles, enduring his oily concern and knowing looks.

But now was perfect. She had spent the last moon sleeping with Jaime in her old childhood bed while Robert and her father were away at war. It had been sweet, like living through a fond memory of when they still lived at the Rock together, when the world was just the two of them and nothing else mattered. She wanted to conceive their next child here, where their love had first begun in truth. And for that to happen, Robert could not be absent when the timing needed to line up correctly.

"We will miss the whole tourney if we leave now," Cersei said, keeping her voice even.

"You think I give two shits about your father's damned tourney when there are dragonspawn out there disputing my reign?" Robert's face had gone nearly purple.

They stared at each other across the solar, the air thick with mutual contempt. Cersei could feel Jaime's presence near the door, could sense him tensing, ready to intervene if Robert moved toward her. But her husband stayed where he was, fists clenched, breathing hard.

"My daughter is right," Tywin said.

Robert's head snapped toward her father.

"If you leave now, you will light a fire under every Targaryen loyalist still hiding in the Seven Kingdoms." Rising from his chair with measured grace, Tywin moved to stand before one of the tall windows. "It will give credence to their cause, when for now the sightings of the ships are being treated as just rumors in most of the realm."

"So I should just stay, then?" Robert's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Watch some men knock each other about like fools while the real war still waits for us out there?" He pointed east with one of his sausage-like fingers.

Tywin remained undeterred, hands clasped behind his back. "The tourney is a show of strength and unity, Your Grace. Every kingdom but Dorne and the Ironborn themselves has sent representatives to celebrate your victory over the Greyjoys. To leave now sends the wrong message to allies and enemies alike. It tells them you are afraid. That the mere sight of dragon sails can send you fleeing back to your capital."

From his position near Robert, Ser Barristan Selmy cleared his throat. "Lord Tywin speaks true, Your Grace. Tourneys matter. They stay in people's minds longer than battles sometimes. The songs, the pageantry, the display of the realm united in celebration. These things have value."

"I wouldn't mind winning another one," Jaime said, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Gods, you yellow-haired shits…" Robert trailed off, then cut himself off with a growl of frustration. Stalking to the table, he braced both hands on its surface, head hanging between his shoulders.

Silence stretched. Cersei watched him, watched the way his shoulders rose and fell with each breath, the way his fingers dug into the wood. For a moment she almost pitied him. Almost.

Finally, Robert straightened. "Fine. So be it." The words came out clipped, angry. "We'll stay for your bloody tourney. But Stannis." He turned to his brother. "You sail back to King's Landing with the royal fleet. Increase patrols along the coast. Send ships to Pentos, Braavos, Myr, Lys. Every corner of the world if you must. Find them. Find the Targaryens at all costs."

Stannis gave a curt nod. "It will be done, Your Grace."

"And send word to the Citadel. I want maesters scouring their records for any mention of where the dragonspawn might have fled. Old allies, distant holdings, anything." Robert's jaw worked. "If they think they can threaten my reign, they'll learn the same lesson the Mad King did."

"Yes, Your Grace." Without another word, Stannis turned on his heel and strode from the solar, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud.

Robert grabbed the wine jar from the table—Arbor gold, Cersei noted, one of her father's finest vintages—and headed for the door himself. "I need some fucking air."

Ser Barristan followed after his king, white cloak swirling. The door closed again, leaving only Cersei, her father, and Jaime in the solar.

"Well," Jaime said into the quiet, his smirk widening. "That went better than expected. I thought for certain he'd throw something at you, Father. Or perhaps—"

"Be silent." Tywin's voice cut across the room.

Jaime's smirk faltered. Moving from the window, Tywin returned to his chair and settled into it with the same precise movements he brought to everything. 

"This is not a matter for your japes, Jaime. The Targaryen threat is real and must be taken seriously."

"I am taking it seriously," Jaime protested, though his tone remained light. "That's why I offered to win the tourney. Show the realm that the Kingsguard stands ready to defend the crown from all threats, dragon or otherwise."

"You will do your duty as always," Tywin said dismissively. "But this goes beyond tourneys and shows of martial prowess. I have already sent my own men to make inquiries, discreet ones, in places where the crown's agents will not think to look."

Cersei leaned forward slightly. "Where?"

"That is my concern." Her father's green eyes met hers. "What matters is that we find them before they can gather their strength. Seven ships appeared in Blackwater Bay. Seven that we saw. How many others might there be? Velaryon took the Targaryen fleet along with Rhaella and Viserys. How many of those ships drowned in the storm that scoured Dragonstone? And how many Targaryen loyalists still wait in hiding, ready to rise the moment they show up on our shores again carrying a dragon banner?"

"Too many," Cersei said, thinking of Joffrey. Her baby—hers and Jaime's, though only the two of them knew the truth. "We cannot allow any threat to Joffrey's birthright to go unanswered."

"Indeed." Tywin nodded approval. "Your son will be king one day. We must ensure the realm he inherits is secure, free from the shadow of the dragons."

A knock at the door interrupted them. At Tywin's call, a servant entered and bowed low. "My lord, the knight you asked for is ready. He awaits your summons in the hall below."

"Good," Tywin said, then dismissed the man with the barest of nods.

The servant bowed again and withdrew. Closing the door behind him, he left them in silence once more.

"Which knight?" Jaime asked, curiosity replacing his earlier levity.

"The new wielder of an Ironborn Valyrian steel sword." Tywin's expression remained neutral, but Cersei caught the glint in his eye, the same look he got when discussing a particularly advantageous trade agreement or political maneuver.

Cersei perked up at that, setting down her wine cup. A Valyrian steel sword in the hands of some common-born knight? That was a waste of such a treasure.

"Ah, the Woodsman Knight." Jaime's interest was clearly piqued now. "I've heard of him. They say he killed Ser Harras Harlaw in single combat and claimed Nightfall as his prize. Some even say he's the best swordsman in the realm now." A competitive edge entered his voice. "I'd be glad to try my swordarm against dragonsteel. See if the stories are true. I doubt it holds a candle to Dawn."

Cersei scoffed, shaking her head at her brother's density. "You think Father summoned him for a friendly bout in the training yard?" Her brother blinked and she rolled her eyes at him. "Think, Jaime. Father wouldn’t waste time on lowborn knights unless there's something to be gained.”

Understanding dawned slowly on Jaime's face. 

She looked to her father, who watched them both with the patience of a man waiting for students to reach an obvious conclusion. "You mean to take it from him."

"I mean to acquire it for our house," Tywin corrected. "How that is accomplished remains to be seen. The knight earned it in fair combat and has the backing of the Tyrells, which complicates matters. But there are always... arrangements that can be made."

Cersei felt a smile tug at her lips. The Tyrells were no match to her house, she knew that with the same certainty she knew the sky was blue.

"It would make a worthy gift for your grandson, Father,” she said. “Joffrey should have a Valyrian steel blade when he comes of age."

"Perhaps," Tywin said, his tone noncommittal. "But it shall be a Lannister sword first and foremost. The details of its ultimate disposition can be determined later."

A flicker of anger sparked in Cersei's chest. Of course. Her father would likely give it to Jaime to wield as a Kingsguard, putting it in service of the crown rather than ensuring it stayed in their direct line. But she knew better than to push him too hard on this now. There would be time to work on him later, to remind him that Joffrey was his grandson, his heir in truth if not in name.

If only her father knew how Lannister Joffrey truly was. If only he could see that the boy was his grandson through both his daughter and his son. Perhaps then he would understand that giving the sword to Joffrey was not just appropriate. It was right.

But that truth could never be spoken. Not to him. Not to anyone.

Standing, Cersei smoothed her gown and lifted her chin. "Very well, Father. I look forward to seeing our family's new sword." She moved toward the door, aware of Jaime rising to follow. "Do let me know how your... conversation with the knight proceeds."

"I will handle the matter appropriately," Tywin said, dismissing them with a slight wave of his hand.

Cersei swept from the solar with Jaime behind her, the door closing on her father's calculating silence. They walked down the familiar corridors of the Rock, past tapestries she had known since childhood, past servants who bowed and averted their eyes.

They did not go far before she pulled Jaime into an empty room, a small receiving chamber rarely used at this hour. The door closed behind them, and suddenly they were alone in the dimness, afternoon light filtering through half-drawn curtains.

Jaime looked surprised. "Cersei, what is it?"

She pressed herself against him, cutting off his words with her mouth on his. He responded immediately, arms coming around her, pulling her closer. When she finally pulled back, she was smiling.

"Robert will be deep in his cups within the hour," she said, running her hands up Jaime's chest. "And Father will be occupied with his new acquisition. We have time."

Understanding lit Jaime's eyes. "Here? Now?"

"Why not?" Cersei's smile widened. "We're at home, Jaime. In the Rock where we belong. Where we've always belonged."

She thought of the child she would make with him here. Another golden son or daughter to secure the future, conceived in the home of their ancestors. And Robert would never know, would never suspect that the child she would present to him was not his at all.

Jaime's hands found her waist, and Cersei let herself forget about Targaryens and tourneys and everything else beyond this moment, this room, this man who was hers and hers alone.

Outside, the sun continued its descent toward the western sea, painting Casterly Rock in shades of gold and crimson. Inside, Cersei Lannister planned for a future where her children would rule unchallenged, protected by Valyrian steel and Lannister gold and the secret that bound her to the only man she had ever truly loved.

xxx

Galad

Waiting had never bothered him before. When he was younger in this life, he had sometimes spent hours meditating in his garden, minutes and hours flowing past without weight or substance. Time held little meaning in the calm of the oneness. But standing in the corridor outside Tywin Lannister's solar, Galad felt each moment stretch and thin like beaten iron.

More than an hour passed. Servants moved through the hallway on soft feet, eyes downcast as they hurried past. Guards stood at attention near the door, their faces blank and professional. Through the thick oak door, Galad could occasionally hear the scratch of quill on parchment, the sound of papers being shuffled.

He used the time to sink deeper into the emptiness, feeding his concerns into the flame. Worry about what Tywin Lannister might demand, anger at being made to wait like a petitioner, unease at facing a man whose reputation preceded him like a shadow. Let it all burn away until only the void remained.

Galad knew of Tywin Lannister by reputation only, but what he knew did not set him at ease. Wiping out entire families, the Reynes and Tarbecks extinguished root and branch for daring to defy him. Sacking King's Landing at the end of Robert's Rebellion, his men slaughtering thousands while the dragon skulls watched from the throne room walls. 

A man who commanded kingdoms through fear and gold in equal measure. He would not be an easy foe.

But then again, neither was Galad.

When the door finally opened and a servant gestured him inside, Galad walked into the solar with measured steps. The room that spread before him was large and well-appointed, with tall windows overlooking the sunset-painted sea. Gold was everywhere. Gold thread in the carpets. Gold leaf on the frames of paintings. Gold inlay on the furniture. Yet for all its ostentation, the space felt oddly austere. No personal touches beyond what rank demanded. Everything clean and tidy and uncluttered, arranged with geometric precision.

Behind an enormous desk of dark wood sat Tywin Lannister. The Lord of Casterly Rock did not look up from his writing, quill moving across parchment in neat, controlled strokes. Above and behind him, a massive vein of gold ran through the raw stone of the mountain itself, as if the Rock itself crowned him with wealth.

Standing before the desk, Galad took the man's measure. Tall even seated, shoulders broad beneath a crimson doublet worked with gold thread. Hair more silver than gold now, receding from a high forehead. With a close-cropped beard, his face still showed the hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Green eyes flecked with gold that remained fixed on his work.

The silence stretched. A minute passed. Then another. The quill continued its scratching. Papers were set aside, new ones drawn forward. Still Tywin did not acknowledge his presence.

In his previous life, Galad might have bristled at such dismissal. Galadedrid Damodred, Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light and First Prince of the Sword of Andor, did not wait on the pleasure of lesser men. But that life was gone, and this calculated display of power meant nothing to him in the void.

Finally, after what must have been three full minutes, Tywin Lannister set down his quill and looked up.

Before the lord could speak, Galad bowed as was appropriate to one of his station addressing a great lord. "My lord, I was informed by Lord Tyrell that you would seek to acquire Nightfall from me." Straightening, he met those gold-flecked green eyes directly. "I was also told you are a busy man and that you do not appreciate wasted time. So I shall respect your time and be forthright with your lordship instead."

Tywin's face remained perfectly neutral, but something shifted behind his eyes. Galad continued, voice level and empty of inflection.

"I have no intention of selling or lending or giving away the sword. I have no wish for land or titles or gold. No amount of any of them would see me parted with Nightfall." He paused, letting that sink in. "I do not wish to make an enemy of House Lannister, my lord, but I will not be making a deal with your house or any other in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond."

Tywin Lannister's face darkened as Galad spoke, color rising beneath his pale skin. His jaw tightened, the muscles working. But he said nothing, only watched with the intensity of a hawk observing a rabbit in an open field.

Galad stood still, hands at his sides, perfectly balanced. He did not need the void to know the man was not happy with his words. But the truth was the truth, and Galad would not compromise it for comfort or safety.

The silence returned, heavier now. Outside the windows, gulls cried as they wheeled above the sea. Somewhere in the castle, a bell tolled the hour.

When Tywin finally spoke, his voice was cold and controlled. "I am a man who appreciates bluntness as well, Ser Galad." Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers before him. "You are a competent knight, I am told. More than competent. And I reward competence and loyalty handsomely." A pause, deliberate and measured. "So I will make this offer to you only once. One million gold dragons and the lordship of Castamere or Tarbeck Hall. Lands, wealth, power. Everything a man could desire." Those green eyes bored into him. "An offer no man in the Seven Kingdoms would be foolish enough to reject. Are you a fool, ser?"

Galad did not hesitate. "I have been a fool for most of my life, my lord. But it is not foolishness that compels me to reject your offer. It is conviction."

"A foolish conviction," he said. “A woodsman’s idea of conviction.”

"Perhaps." Galad did not let the insult touch him. He bowed again. "If that is all, my lord."

Turning, he walked toward the door with the same measured pace he had entered.

"You are not dismissed."

The words cracked across the room like a whip. Galad halted, turned slowly to face the desk once more. Tywin Lannister had risen from his seat, hands planted on the dark wood as he leaned forward.

"You won that sword in combat. Took it from the hands of a dead man." His voice dropped lower, dangerous. "The men of the islands call that the iron price. You would risk losing it the same way?"

Meeting the lord's gaze, Galad allowed himself a small nod. "Should a man ever win a duel against me, my lord, then he is welcome to keep it. In the meantime, Nightfall shall stay at my side."

Without waiting for permission this time, he turned and walked from the solar. Behind him, Lord Tywin remained silent. No further offers came. No calls to return.

In the corridor outside, Galad released the breath he had been holding and let the void slip away. His heart beat steady in his chest. His hands were calm at his sides.

The lord had proven true to his word. He had made his offer only once, but Galad knew better than to think the matter settled. A man like Tywin Lannister did not accept defeat so easily.

xxx

That night, the great hall of Casterly Rock blazed with light and sound. Thousands of candles burned in iron chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Torches lined the walls between tapestries showing Lannister victories stretching back generations. Long tables filled the enormous space, packed with knights and lords from across the realm. Servants moved between them carrying platters of roasted meat and fish, flagons of wine and ale, plates piled high with bread and cheese and fruit.

Seated among the Reach contingent, Galad had thought he might be thrown from the castle entirely after his confrontation with its lord. But no guards had come to escort him out. No messages of displeasure had arrived. He remained as much a guest as any other knight in attendance, at least for now.

Around him, the Reach knights and lords talked and laughed and drank with enthusiasm. More than a few had called out greetings when he sat, clapping him on the back, wanting to hear stories from Harlaw. He had become popular with them despite his preferences otherwise. They saw him as one of their own now, the woodsman knight who had risen through merit and courage.

Galad ate sparingly, just some roasted chicken, fresh bread, and a few grapes. He drank even less. Around him, the feast continued to build in noise and energy as wine flowed freely.

When the music began, the minstrels in a gallery playing lutes and drums and a high, sweet pipe, ladies began moving toward the floor cleared for dancing. Galad tried to make himself less visible, but it was no use.

"Ser Galad!" A bright voice cut through the noise. Lady Margaery Tyrell stood before him, beaming, her brown curls adorned with tiny golden roses. "You must dance with me. I insist."

There was no refusing a request from the daughter of his lord. Rising, Galad bowed and offered his hand. She took it with delight, and he led her onto the floor where other couples were forming.

The dance was a familiar one and Margaery chattered happily as they moved, asking about the tourney, about any friends he made on the campaign, about a hundred small things. Galad answered as well as he could, grateful when the music finally ended and he could return her to the bench.

But before he could escape, another hand touched his arm.

"My turn, I think." Lady Victaria Tyrell smiled up at him, her eyes bright with amusement. "Unless you mean to slight me, Ser Galad?"

"Never, my lady." He offered his hand and led her to the floor as a new song began.

Victaria moved with more grace than her younger cousin, her steps confident and sure. She had clearly accompanied the rest of her family for the tourney, though Galad had not seen her among them earlier.

"It is good to see you again, my lady," Galad said as they turned through the figures of the dance.

"And you, ser. Though I must say, you've made quite the name for yourself since we last spoke at Highgarden." Her smile held secrets. "The hero of Grey Garden. The man who bested Ser Harras Harlaw and claimed Nightfall."

"I did only my duty."

"You're as humble as I remember." They spun, her skirts swirling. When they came together again, she tilted her head. "Tell me, ser, were you the one to teach Sergeant Ben his letters?"

Galad blinked, surprised. "How do you know Ben?"

"I've seen him in Highgarden's library, struggling with books meant for children." Light danced in her eyes. "He's very determined. And very shy when he notices he's being watched."

Understanding dawned. This was the highborn lady Ben had spoken of, the one he loved from afar. Galad felt a flicker of warmth at the thought of them. "I did help him with his letters, my lady. He's a good man. Brave. Loyal. He deserves every chance to better himself."

"I see." Victaria's expression softened. "Thank you for informing me of this." They moved through several more steps in silence. Then she spoke again, her tone turning playful. "You should know, Ser Galad, that you have become quite the topic of conversation among the ladies of the Reach after your exploits in the war. Some believe you will be given a lordship for it. You should expect many marriage proposals should that come to pass."

That again. Galad frowned despite himself.

Victaria laughed at his expression. "You would think I have just issued a threat. Is marriage such a daunting prospect for you, ser?"

The question struck deeper than she could know. When Galad thought of marriage, only one woman came to his mind. Only Berelain. Her dark eyes and quick smile, the way she had looked at him the morning he rode to face the Seanchan. The future they should have had together after the Last Battle. Children, a life, growing old in peace.

All of it lost. All of it belonging to another life, another world.

"It is, my lady." His voice came out rough with emotion he had not meant to show. "A most daunting prospect."

Victaria's smile faded, replaced by something softer. She studied his face as they completed the final turns of the dance. When the music ended, she curtsied. "Thank you for the dance, Ser Galad. And for your honesty."

Bowing, he excused himself and moved away from the floor before another lady could claim him. The hall felt too warm, too crowded. He needed air, or at least wine to wet his suddenly dry throat.

Spotting a servant carrying a tray of cups near the edge of the hall, Galad made his way through the press of bodies. He was only a step behind her when a drunken Stormlander knight stumbled backward and knocked into the girl. The tray flew from her hands, cups clattering across the stone floor, wine splashing in dark pools.

"Watch it, wench!" the knight growled, barely keeping his own feet. 

Moving quickly, Galad reached the girl before she could fall. His hand caught her elbow, steadying her as she regained her balance. He saw she was young when he looked down, perhaps his age, with black hair and a long face that would be beautiful once she lost the awkwardness of youth.

She flushed when she looked up at him, eyes widening. "Ser, I... thank you, ser."

"Are you hurt?" Galad asked.

"No, ser. Just..." She glanced at the spilled wine, the scattered cups. "I'll clean it. Right away."

Galad released her arm and stepped back. The girl hurried to gather the cups, kneeling in the spreading puddle. The drunken knight had already moved on, oblivious or uncaring to the disruption he had caused.

Watching her work, Galad thought of how he had never paid as much attention to servants and stableboys and grooms as he should have when he was a lord himself. It was easy to look past them when you occupied such a position, to see them as part of the landscape rather than people with their own lives and struggles.

Having lived among the common folk for so long had given him a different appreciation for their work. For the invisible labor that kept castles running, that fed and clothed and served the highborn who rarely bothered to learn their names.

"Ser Galad."

Turning, he found Ser Arys Oakheart approaching through the crowd. The young knight's face was flushed with wine and excitement. "A true knight," Arys said, gesturing toward the serving girl. "Stepping in to help where others would not even notice."

"Ser Arys." Galad inclined his head. "You seem to be enjoying the feast."

"Well enough." Coming to stand beside him, Arys lowered his voice slightly. "Though I confess I'm more interested in the tourney proper. Did you qualify for the main jousting this morning?"

"I did. First through, they tell me."

"Of course you were." Arys grinned. "I saw Ser Barristan in the yard earlier today, practicing his forms. Gods, the man moves like water. I wanted to ask him for a bout, but..." He trailed off, looking embarrassed.

"But you lost your courage?" Galad asked.

Arys gave him a shy nod. “Aye.”

Galad studied the younger man. "You had plenty of courage back at Harlaw,” he told him. “When the Ironborn cavalry came down on us, when we held that flank, you didn't hesitate."

"That was different," Arys protested. "That was... I don't know. It was happening, and I just acted."

"Then you need only shift to that same mindset when you need courage outside of combat." Galad kept his voice gentle. "The feeling is the same. The fear is the same. Only the circumstances differ."

Arys considered that, his young face thoughtful. Looking at him, Galad thought briefly of teaching Arys the flame and the void. The technique would serve the young knight well, help him find that calm center in all situations. But he was wary of teaching such things here. It went beyond a matter of trust and more one of necessity. 

If the Dark One suddenly appeared in this world, if hordes of Trollocs and Myrddraal came spilling forth to scour the land, then that would be different. Knowledge of the Oneness could be the difference in a fight for the Light. 

For now, simpler wisdom would have to suffice.

A ringing sound cut through the ambient noise of the feast. At the high table, Lord Tywin Lannister stood with King Robert beside him. The hall quieted, thousands of voices falling to whispers and then silence.

Robert stepped forward, raising a cup. "Lords and ladies, knights and warriors of the Seven Kingdoms!" His voice boomed across the hall, still strong despite the wine Galad had seen him drinking earlier. "We gather here to celebrate our victory over the Ironborn rebellion. To show the realm—and any who would dare challenge us—that we stand united!"

A great roar of approval shook the rafters. Cups were raised, fists pounded on tables.

"Let this tourney be a testament to our strength!" Robert continued. "Let it show that from the Wall to Dorne, from Casterly Rock to Dragonstone, we are one kingdom, one people, one crown!"

More cheering. Robert drained his cup in one long pull, then gestured to Tywin Lannister. "Lord Tywin will tell you the details. I'm off to... attend to other matters."

Galad watched as the king left the high table through a back door. A moment later, the black-haired serving girl he had helped earlier slipped through the same exit. He shrugged inwardly. Kings had their appetites, and their consciences, or lack thereof, were their own concern.

Tywin Lannister stepped forward, and silence fell again immediately. Where Robert had commanded attention through volume and force, Tywin commanded it through presence alone.

"The tourney will commence in two days' time," he said, his voice carrying clearly despite its measured tone. "There will be jousting, as is traditional. There will be archery for those who prefer the bow to the lance."

He paused, letting anticipation build.

"And there will be a melee. But not merely the traditional free-for-all." Tywin's green eyes swept across the assembled crowd. "This year, we will also hold a seven-sided melee. Each of the seven kingdoms present here will choose seven champions to represent them. The North. The Riverlands. The Vale of Arryn. The Westerlands. The Reach. The Stormlands. And the Crownlands."

As he spoke, Galad noticed Tywin's gaze pause on him for just a second, eyes sharpening with unmistakable focus, before moving on.

"Seven against seven against seven," Tywin continued. "The last team standing claims victory for their kingdom. Glory for their banners. And a purse of fourteen thousand gold dragons to be divided among the survivors."

Excitement rippled through the hall. Men began talking immediately, voices rising in speculation and boasting.

Galad's hand found Nightfall's hilt at his side. A melee where men fought until they yielded or fell. Where the victors could claim the arms and armor of those they defeated. Could claim their swords.

Was this Tywin Lannister's play? To have him killed in the chaos of the melee, Nightfall taken from his cold fingers? Or to force him to yield to a Lannister champion, surrendering the sword by the rules of the tourney?

His grip tightened on the pommel. The moonstone was cool beneath his palm.

Around him, the Reach contingent buzzed with excitement. Men were already jostling for position, calling out their achievements, listing battles they had fought and opponents they had bested. The noise built to a dull roar.

Arys leaned closer to be heard over the din. "Will you participate?"

Before Galad could answer, a familiar voice cut through the noise nearby. "Ser Galad."

Turning, they found Lord Randyll Tarly approaching. The Lord of Horn Hill moved through the crowd like a blade through water. Men stepped aside without being asked, conversations died as he passed. Arys straightened immediately.

"Lord Randyll," the young knight said, nodding respectfully.

Galad inclined his head as well. "My lord."

Tarly gave them both a taciturn nod in return. His eyes, hard and measuring, fixed on Galad. "Ser Galad. Lord Mace has entrusted this seven-sided melee to me. I already have half the Reach braying at my ears like donkeys for a spot." A muscle worked in his jaw. "The only one he commanded I choose is you, ser."

Galad did not need long to consider. For a moment there, he had thought of denying Tywin Lannister even the chance to take Nightfall through the melee. To back down from the lord’s challenge. 

But perhaps it was better this way. Public. Witnessed by the realm. 

Better the danger you knew than the one you could not see.

And a great showing at the melee would solidify his reputation, as Lord Mace had proposed back at Harlaw. Let the realm see what kind of man wielded Nightfall now.

"I accept, my lord," Galad said. "We shall leave our personal duel for after we put down the other kingdoms, then."

Satisfaction flickered across Tarly's stern face. "Good."

As the lord turned to leave, Ser Arys visibly gathered his courage. "Lord Randyll."

Tarly stopped, turning back with one eyebrow raised.

"It would be an honor to represent the Reach alongside Ser Galad and yourself, my lord." Arys' voice remained steady despite the color rising in his cheeks.

Tarly's eyes raked over the young knight the way a drill instructor assessed a new recruit. "You're Lady Arwyn's youngest boy, yes?"

"Yes, my lord."

"He acquitted himself well at Harlaw, my lord," Galad said. "I would trust him at my side against any opponent."

Tarly grunted, studying Arys for a long moment. "I see. I will trust Ser Galad on this matter, then. But I would see your skill with mine own eyes before I agree to anything."

"I understand, my lord." Arys straightened his shoulders. "I would be honored to compete for my spot among the seven with any Reachman."

"Good." Tarly nodded once. "I'll set a time and place for trials. All who wish to represent the Reach will have their chance to prove themselves worthy of the honor."

With that, he turned and walked away, the crowd parting before him once more.

Arys let out a breath, grinning. "Thank you, ser. For speaking on my behalf."

"I spoke only the truth." Galad watched as groups formed throughout the hall. Northmen gathering around their own lords, Valemen clustering together, Westermen organizing under Lannister banners. "You earned your place through your actions. Now you must prove it through your skill."

Looking down at Nightfall resting at his hip, Galad felt the weight of what was to come. Seven kingdoms. Forty-nine champions. All fighting for glory and gold and the pride of their homelands.

And somewhere among them, perhaps, would be men sent to take what Tywin Lannister could not buy.

So be it. Let them come. In the melee or elsewhere, the answer would be the same.

Nightfall would stay at his side until a better man took it from him. And Galad had yet to meet such a man in this world.