Chapter 21

For a moment, Galad stayed rooted in the middle of the melee field, watching the king walking away with his massive warhammer by his side. 

The cheering crowds cried out his name, the sound washing over the churned earth in great waves. Smallfolk on the hillocks stomped their feet and waved makeshift banners. The noble stands rang with applause and the high voices of ladies calling encouragement.

With the void gone, Galad felt weary now, though the fighting itself had not been enough to truly exhaust him. The weight of armor pressed familiar against his shoulders, and his arms had that pleasant ache that came after good exertion rather than the deep fatigue of true battle.

And he had killed a man.

A shame, really, though he found the weight did not lay heavy in his heart. Lyn Corbray had made his own choices, had drawn his line in blood and treachery. Galad was not the one to have dishonored himself in that exchange. Still, he would have preferred the kill not to have happened. Tourneys were meant to test skill, not end lives.

From across the field, he spotted Garlan sprinting toward him. Well, half-sprinting, half jumping, the boy whooping with joy loud enough that Galad could hear it over the crowd's noise. That managed to put an easy smile on his face. He walked forward to meet his squire halfway. 

"Ser! Ser Galad!" Garlan reached him and bounced on his toes, unable to contain himself. "That was the most—I have never seen anything like that—when you fought the Mountain I thought—and then the king! The king himself!"

Galad accepted the waterskin Garlan thrust into his hands, drinking deeply. The water was warm but welcome. He poured some over his head, the liquid running down his face and neck in cool rivulets. It had not been a sweltering day, but armor cooked a man even in mild weather.

Knowing the boy was bursting to share, Galad said, "Tell me your favorite parts, then,"

And that was all that was needed for Garlan to launch into an enthusiastic recounting as they began walking toward the tents. The Freys ganging up on him, which almost had Garlan jumping the fence to help when he saw it. The way Galad had cut down Ser Lyn after that dishonorable attack, and how the entirety of the Reach in the stands had been on their feet shouting. Then the Mountain looming over him, so tall it had frightened Garlan even from a distance. And finally the fight with the king at the end, faster than anything Garlan had ever seen, like watching two waterdancers that used longswords and warhammers instead of their slender blades.

Galad listened with a patient smile, sipping occasionally from the waterskin. Garlan, with his boundless enthusiasm about anything related to swordfighting, reminded him of his brother Gawyn so much it actually hurt, and he could only regret not rewarding that eagerness then as he did now.

The melee grounds were bustling when they came up to it. Many of the participants sat or stood by their tents, some being attended to by maesters whose robes were stained dark with blood. The ones with the worst injuries, Galad imagined, were inside going through more thorough treatment. Servants moved between groups carrying water and wine and bandages. The smell of crushed grass and churned mud mingled with the metallic tang of blood and sweat.

As they made their way through the encampment, he was greeted often.

A group of Stormlanders stopped him first, their leader—a tall lord whose surcoat bore a moon and sun—offering profuse compliments on his victory over their king. "Best fighting I've ever seen, ser. The Stormlands salute you." The man pressed a wineskin into Galad's hand and refused to take it back when Galad tried to return it.

Further on, a giant Northman with blood-stained bandages wrapped around his head stepped into Galad's path. Lord Jon Umber stood at least a head taller than him, with shoulders like a barn door and arms that looked capable of crushing stone. A horn of ale appeared in his massive hand, which he extended toward Galad with a grin showing several missing teeth.

"Drink, southron! Any man who can put the bloody Mountain on his arse deserves a proper Northern toast!"

Galad accepted the horn and drank a polite swallow. The ale was thick and strong, the kind that men in the North favored. The giant slapped him on the back hard enough to make him stagger, then roared with laughter and moved on, joining a group of other Northmen who hailed Galad as he passed.

Lord Yohn Royce stood outside the Vale's tent, his bronze armor removed and a goblet of wine in his hand. He waved Galad over, his weathered face set in a frown.

"Ser Galad. A moment, if you would."

Galad obliged, gesturing for Garlan to wait a few paces away.

"I want to apologize again for Ser Lyn's behavior," Royce said, his voice low. "What he did was a stain on our kingdom's honor. The Vale prides itself on knightly conduct, and his actions…" He shook his head. "There is no excuse. I am sorry you were forced to do what you did."

"It was not your doing, my lord. There is no need for apology."

"Still. I should not have allowed him on our team, knowing his nature." Royce hesitated. "There is the matter of ransom."

Galad shrugged. “Consider it forgiven, then.”

"That will not do, ser.” Royce shook his head. “Honor demands we repay you fairly."

"My lord, believe me when I say I have no interest in the arms or armor from any of the men I defeated today.” He ran the numbers in his mind. “The purse for the melee is more than generous. Eight thousand gold dragons will see me well on my travels, and that does not count the archery purse. I have no need of more coin from knights who fought honorably."

Royce’s heavy brows furrowed, clearly displeased. "What of Lady Forlorn? Ser Lyn's sword?"

That gave Galad pause. He had not thought of it. The Corbray sword was Valyrian steel, a treasure of his house. He had agreed to give away Nightfall to any who defeated him in fair combat, but he had done so without any expectation that other Valyrian steel wielders would do the same. He had no interest in carrying two of the famed blades. The complications they brought were already burden enough.

"As family sword of House Corbray, you would not be allowed to keep it regardless," Royce continued, pressing his point. "But the lord of the house is honor-bound to pay a good ransom for its return. Lord Corbray is not in attendance today, but I will see word sent to him. He will pay what is owed."

He sighed. “Truly, there is no need.”

"There is every need, ser. This is how things are done." Lord Royce's voice took on a firmer tone. "Allow Lord Corbray to settle his brother’s debts. It is the only way to preserve what honor remains to his house in this matter."

Frowning, Galad took a moment to consider. The man was right, in his way. To refuse would be its own kind of insult, implying the Corbrays were not worth the ransom, that their dishonor was so complete no payment could redress it. And Galad had no interest in starting a feud with another house, particularly one in the Vale where he might travel.

"Very well, my lord. I will accept whatever Lord Corbray sees fit to send. Perhaps it can be settled when I pass through the Vale on my journey."

"That would be acceptable." Royce relaxed slightly. "I will write to him myself. And ser—" He met Galad's eyes seriously. "My offer to visit Runestone stands. There would be a place for you in the Vale."

"My thanks, my lord."

Galad bowed and moved on, Garlan falling in beside him with a curious look which he waved away. A worry for another time.  

When they arrived at the Reachmen's tent, Galad found that something resembling a small celebration had been hastily assembled outside. More than a score of noblemen and noblewomen from the Reach had gathered around the entrance, mingling with his six teammates who had fought in the melee proper. Servants moved through the crowd with wine and small delicacies. A musician with a lute played softly in the background, his tune cheerful and triumphant.

A cheer went up as he stepped into view.

The next while passed in a blur of congratulations. Pats on the back from men he barely knew. Toasts raised in his honor. Lords and ladies pressing forward to be introduced, their words flowing thick with praise and flattery that he accepted with what grace he could muster.

Ser Arys Oakheart was among the first to approach him properly, his arm in a sling and a bandage wrapped around his head. "Apologies, ser. I should have lasted longer. To go down to Lord Royce so quickly…" 

"You fought well, Arys. There is no shame in losing to a skilled opponent."

"Still. I wanted to make it further. To stand with you at the end."

"There will be other tourneys."

Ser Baelor Hightower clasped his hand, his sister Lynesse at his side wearing a gown of pale gold that complimented her hair beautifully. "Magnificent fighting, Ser Galad. Truly. I do not think I have ever seen its equal."

"You honor me, my lord."

"My brother does not exaggerate," Lynesse added, her eyes warm and wide as they met his. "The whole crowd was on its feet. You should have heard the cheers from our box." 

Galad bowed politely. He could detect no false note in either of their voices, and their praise seemed genuine, not the calculated flattery he had grown wary of. That was something, at least.

The Tyrell siblings descended on him next. Young Margaery and Loras were almost in tears as they described their emotions during the different fights, talking over each other in their excitement.

"And then when the Mountain came at you I thought—I really thought—"

"But you were so fast! Like the wind!"

"Father said no one but himself has ever beaten the king before!"

Galad smiled through it all. 

Willas, more sober than his younger siblings, congratulated him with quiet sincerity. Galad noticed the way he looked at him now, with more awe than ever before, but an awe edged with something that might have been calculation. The boy was older than his siblings, more aware of what skill like this meant in the great game of the Seven Kingdoms. He did not blame the boy for it. If anything, such pragmatism would serve him well when he took on his father’s lordship.

Indeed, Galad had noticed the way people looked at him had shifted entirely. Especially among the other young knights in the group, the ones who truly knew how to spot a man's skill with a blade. Their gazes held a new measure of respect, even fear in some cases.

At least half a dozen men came up to him asking for tips or training advice, requests for sparring sessions, offers to introduce him to their fathers or liege lords. And at least double that number of young maidens approached to congratulate him with too-sweet smiles on their faces, their eyes lingering and their hands finding excuses to touch his arm.

Galad accepted it all with patient courtesy. None of it interested him particularly. He had spent his previous life navigating courts and political maneuvering, had been raised to it from birth. The flattery and the flirtations and the carefully positioned introductions were all familiar tools of a game he had played long before any of these people had been born.

When Lord Mace finally stepped up on a stool to begin a victory speech, Galad saw his opportunity. He had grown thoroughly tired of all the adulation, and Mace Tyrell's speeches had a way of going on for great lengths.

Feigning weariness was not difficult. He let his shoulders slump, his expression soften into one of obvious fatigue, and quietly excused himself with murmured apologies. Most people understood. He had just fought through an entire grand melee, after all. Even the maidens reluctantly gave way before his obvious need for rest.

He stepped into the Reach's pavilion and did not leave again until it was time to return to Casterly Rock for the night's feast.

A feast he would, unfortunately, not be able to escape from so easily.

xxx

Galad had enjoyed the feasts at Casterly Rock more when he had not been required to sit at the high table.

The great hall of the Rock was magnificent as usual, he could not deny that. Hewn from the very stone of the mountain itself, the chamber soared high overhead with golden chandeliers hanging from chains thick as a man's arm. Hundreds of candles flickered in their settings, their light reflecting off polished marble floors and gilded columns. Banners hung from the walls between great tapestries showing Lannister victories, the crimson and gold of the lions dominating the eye wherever it turned beside a single Baratheon banner behind them. The high table sat upon a raised dais at one end of the hall, while long trestle tables stretched out below for the lesser nobles, knights, and their ladies.

But for all its splendor, the high table felt stuffy. Galad did not think there were many friends among the people sitting there.

Besides himself, the royal family, and Tywin Lannister, the table was populated by a smattering of great lords from each of the kingdoms—particularly those who had fought in the melee earlier that day. Lord Selwyn Tarth sat further down, his bandaged shoulder hidden beneath fine evening clothes. Lord Yohn Royce ate with quiet dignity beside Lord Mallister. Several others, all wearing their finest, picked at the elaborate dishes that servants brought in endless procession.

Sitting to his left, Lord Mace Tyrell certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. He had taken the spot meant for Lord Tarly, who had led their team into the field, but that did not stop Mace from talking as if he had fought all the same. He held forth to anyone within earshot about the courage of the Reach's contingent, the brilliance of their tactics, the natural superiority of his region's knights. Lord Tarly himself, sitting at one of the lower tables and eating in his usual silent intensity, would no doubt be furious about this appropriation.

The king sat to Galad's right.

Though Robert seemed less cheerful than earlier in the day, when battle-fury had animated his every movement, he had been pleasant company through the meal so far. They had spent the last hour talking about war and fighting, trading stories. Robert had wanted to hear about the campaign in the Iron Islands, particularly the taking of Grey Garden. Galad had given him the unvarnished truth: the difficulty of the assault, the fierceness of Ironborn resistance, the duel with Ser Harras Harlaw. In return, Robert had shared tales from his rebellion—the Battle of Summerhall where he had won three battles in one day, the Battle of the Bells, the Trident.

It had been a good conversation. Robert spoke of war with the easy familiarity of a man who genuinely loved it, and Galad found himself enjoying the king's company more than he had expected.

It was only after some time, when Ser Barristan stepped closer behind the table and spoke into the king's ear, that the glint from earlier returned to Robert's eyes.

Robert stood, raising his goblet, and his voice boomed across the hall.

"Hear me!" The conversations died at once, every face turning toward the high table. "I have an announcement to make!"

Stepping around the table, Robert beckoned. "Ser Galad of Dunstonbury! Approach!"

Galad rose, exchanging a brief glance with Lord Mace whose face showed surprise. He made his way around the table to stand before the king.

"This man!" Robert's voice carried to every corner of the great hall. "This man, this newly-made knight from the Reach, has shown himself today to be perhaps the finest warrior in all the Seven Kingdoms!" 

Not one eye strayed from where they stood at the edge of the dais.

"I have spent the day speaking with men who fought beside Ser Galad in the Iron Islands. With those who saw him take the walls at Grey Garden. With those who watched him fight today on the tourney grounds." Robert turned to address Galad directly while still speaking loudly enough for all to hear. "His reputation as a peerless warrior is spotless, and I can confirm the truth of it myself, having had my arse handed to me by him this very afternoon!"

Laughter rippled through the hall. Robert had a way of making self-deprecation sound triumphant rather than diminishing.

Galad watched it all with growing caution. He did not like where this was going. Robert's manner, the building speech, the public setting… It all spoke of something planned, something intended to be memorable.

"I have decided," Robert continued, raising his voice further, "to elevate my kingship to heights never before seen in the Seven Kingdoms. To restore the honor and glory that has been lost in recent years. And to do so, I must begin with those closest to me." He turned fully to Galad now. "Ser Galad of Dunstonbury. Kneel."

A collective intake of breath ran through the hall.

"It is my honor and privilege to induct you into the esteemed brotherhood of the Kingsguard."

Gasps spread through the assembled nobles. Lord Mace looked stricken at his table, mouth falling open. Lynesse Hightower, sitting with her family, dropped her cup. Even Tywin Lannister's expression shifted, a momentary flash of something Galad could not quite read before the mask returned.

Ser Barristan stepped forward, offering his sword to the king with practiced ceremony.

Galad did not hesitate to kneel. The marble was cold beneath his knee through the fine fabric of his borrowed evening clothes. But as Robert took Ser Barristan's sword and prepared to speak, Galad raised one hand to stop him.

"Your Grace, if I may speak before you continue?"

Robert paused, frowning slightly. "Speak, then."

A realization had come to Galad in the moment between the king's words and his action. This was an opportunity. The original purpose of his joining the tournament had been to present himself before the realm as the rightful wielder of Nightfall, to make it known that the sword had a true and worthy owner. But this—being offered the white cloak by the king himself, before the assembled lords of the realm, and publicly refusing it—would solidify that image far more powerfully than any victory in the lists.

It would tell every potential threat that he had chosen freedom over the highest honor a knight could receive. That nothing they could offer or threaten would change his course.

"I am greatly honored by the offer, Your Grace," Galad said, his voice carrying clearly through the silent hall. "Truly. To be considered worthy of the white cloak is more than any knight could ask. But I must respectfully decline."

Low murmurs spread across the crowd. Whispers and exchanged glances.

Robert's frown deepened. "Why not, ser?"

Galad spoke the truth, knowing every ear in the hall hung on his words.

"My heart sings for adventure, Your Grace. I wish to journey across the Seven Kingdoms as a simple knight, to see the wonders of this land with my own eyes. From the red deserts of Dorne to the white ice of the Wall, from the Iron Islands I have already known to the Vale I have not yet seen. There are mountains I would climb, rivers I would cross, peoples I would meet. Even an honor as great as the white cloak cannot move me from this wish, for it has burned in my heart since I was a boy."

Silence held the hall. Galad waited, knee still on the cold marble, sword still in Robert's hand.

Then, instead of anger or insult, a slow smile spread across the king's face. Robert let out a chuckle that grew into a laugh.

"Seven hells, lad. If I was younger and didn't have a kingdom to run, I'd bloody well join you!" He grinned broadly, his teeth white behind his black beard. "Just a knight on the road, is it? Not a bad life, that. Not a bad life at all."

"Like Ser Duncan the Tall," Ser Barristan said quietly from beside the king. 

"Aye, like so." Robert nodded.

"I would need a king as a squire for that to be the case, Your Grace," Galad said. "And I do not think you would agree to going bald."

Eyes widening, Robert burst out in genuine laughter, the sound echoing across the hall. He grasped Galad's arm and pulled him to his feet with surprising strength. "Ha! No, I would not. Cersei would have a fit if I shaved my head. Though sometimes I think it might be worth it just to see her face."

The hall, taking its cue from the king's reaction, began to relax. Laughter and chatter resumed, though the conversations now buzzed with discussion of what had just occurred.

"So be it, then." Robert handed Ser Barristan's sword back to its owner. "I will not begrudge you a dream I myself once had, ser."

He stepped to the side of the dais, drawing Galad with him, away from the immediate earshot of the others at the high table. His voice dropped, becoming more serious.

"I do have a request of you, though. And since you already rejected me once, I will not take no for an answer this time."

"Anything within my power, Your Grace."

Robert hesitated. Then, with what seemed like genuine difficulty:

"I have been remiss in my duties as king, ser. To my deep regret. I have turned a blind eye to many wrongs in my kingdom while I wallowed in self-pity and wine and whores. No more." His voice hardened with new resolve. "But getting the truth of things as a king is harder than you might imagine. Everyone tells me what they think I want to hear. The lords, the courtiers, even my own Small Council. The reports I get are filtered through a hundred mouths before they reach my ears."

"I see."

"I want you to serve as my eyes as you go on your merry journey."

Galad frowned, uncertain. "You wish for me to spy for you, Your Grace?"

"Piss on that." Robert waved a hand dismissively. "I have spies aplenty already. Varys has more whisperers than the realm has whores, and that's saying something. No, I want a knight's eyes. A true knight. Someone who can look at the truth of things and bring that same truth back to me, undistorted."

He gestured broadly. "Tell me about the state of my kingdom. Which roads have bandits preying on travelers. Which lords abuse their smallfolk. Which villages suffer under plague or famine. Which holdfasts have fallen into disrepair. Anything you see that ought to be known. All I hear in my Small Council these days is copper-counting and word of the great lords. I want to know of the people."

His eyebrows climbing, Galad found himself surprised. It was reasonable. More than reasonable, it was a sign that Robert truly was trying to take his kingship seriously, a man asking honestly for help rather than demanding obedience. 

"I will do so, Your Grace,” he said. “I will send a letter from any holdfast I stop at, with whatever observations seem worth reporting."

"Good. Good." Robert looked around the hall, seemingly embarrassed by what he had admitted. He should not have been. Galad found himself gaining a different sort of respect for the king. Taking firm hold of his kingship now, even seven years after ascending to the throne, was better than never doing so at all.

"Oh, one more thing, ser."

Galad snapped his attention back.

"War, lad. When the Targaryens come—and they will come, I am sure of it—I will want a warrior like you by my side. Will you answer my call?"

Galad gave him a firm nod. "Of course, Your Grace. Whenever and wherever you have need of me if your cause is just." He chose his words carefully, and Robert did not seem to have picked up on it.

"That is what I like to hear." The king clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway slightly. "Now go on back to your feast. I have grown tired of these blasted things, and I have to see about a serving wench I have been looking for. Haven't seen the girl in days."

With that, the king strode away, calling for Ser Barristan to accompany him. Galad watched his back for the second time that day, and this time wished he could join the man, for he had grown tired of the feast as well. But he knew he was not so lucky.

He could already hear Lord Mace calling for him.

xxx

The feast continued long after his refusal of the white cloak, and the hall buzzed with talk about it. Galad, to his dismay, was at the center of attention. With Lord Mace guiding him from one cluster of nobles to another, he flitted through conversation after conversation, speaking with more lords and ladies than he could remember by the time the night was halfway done.

Names blurred together. Titles ran into one another. Compliments and questions came in endless streams. Galad accepted them all with patient courtesy, deflecting personal questions when he could, answering with practiced diplomacy when he could not.

He danced as well, with plenty of ladies. The musicians played stately court dances suitable for the great hall, and Galad—who had been taught such dances in his previous life—performed them with the ease of long practice despite the differing steps. The ladies who partnered him seemed to expect a country knight clumsy on his feet, and their pleased surprise at his competence was a small amusement.

Lynesse Hightower was one of those he danced with. As they moved through the figures, her hand light in his, she did not hide her disappointment at his earlier refusal.

"You truly mean to leave us all behind?" Her blue eyes held real sorrow. "There is nothing the Reach could offer that would tempt you to stay? Nothing... or no one?"

Galad understood her meaning clearly enough. She was a kind young woman, and beautiful enough to start wars. In another life, perhaps, things might have been different. But he had no intention of leading her on with false hopes.

"My lady, you do me great honor with your regard. But my heart is set on my journey, and it would be unfair of me to make any promises I cannot keep,” he told her. “I do not wish to marry any time soon, and when I do, I cannot say where my life will have taken me by then."

She was quiet for several steps of the dance, processing his words. Her chin lifted slightly. "I appreciate your honesty, ser. Most men would have lied to spare my feelings, then spared themselves the awkwardness by avoiding me entirely afterward."

"You deserve better than that."

"I do." She managed a small, sad smile. "I wish you well on your travels, Ser Galad. Truly. May the Seven watch over you."

"And over you, my lady. May you find happiness wherever your life leads."

She blinked back what might have been tears as the dance ended, then offered him a graceful curtsy before withdrawing to her family's company.

The biggest surprise of the evening came when Queen Cersei Lannister approached him directly.

Galad had been talking with Lord Selwyn Tarth about Tarth's daughter Brienne, who was apparently a girl of extraordinary size and martial inclination, when he saw the queen making her way across the hall. She moved with elegant purpose, her crimson gown catching the candlelight, gold thread glinting at her throat and wrists.

She stopped before him, her smile carefully arranged. "Ser Galad. Would the great champion have time for a dance?"

The musicians had just begun a slower piece, one of the gentler court dances. Galad bowed and offered his hand. To refuse would have caused a scene neither of them needed.

"It would be my honor, Your Grace."

They moved onto the floor together, and Galad felt every eye in the hall turning toward them. Their last encounter had not been spoken of publicly, naturally, yet here she was, dancing with him before the entire realm. 

As the dance began, she spoke softly enough that only he could hear.

"I owe you an apology, ser. My behavior toward you the other evening was... unbecoming of a queen, and a wife. I had been drinking, and the strain of recent events—" She paused, her face becoming a study in genuine-seeming regret. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I should not have spoken to you the way I did. I should not have... done what I did."

Galad's hackles rose immediately. The woman was a good actress, he had to grant her that. The remorse in her voice would have convinced almost anyone. Gentle, sincere, just vulnerable enough to seem real. But she was arrogant to the point of stupidity if she thought he would believe it after what had truly transpired between them. She had not been drunk. She had been calculating, manipulative, and ultimately vicious in her threats when her seduction failed.

This new act was simply a different approach. She had failed to seduce him, failed to threaten him, and now she would try kindness. Or perhaps this was something else entirely—perhaps she was establishing public appearance of reconciliation for some future purpose he could not yet see.

He kept his expression neutral, his voice polite but reserved as they moved through the dance figures.

"There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace. Such matters are best left in the past, where they belong."

Her smile widened. Wide and full of teeth, pretty teeth, white and even, but somehow predatory in their display.

"You are most gracious, ser. I am glad we understand each other."

"As am I, Your Grace."

They completed the dance in silence, exchanging only the formal pleasantries the figures required. When it ended, Galad bowed properly and Cersei nodded, and they parted with all the appearance of cordial relations restored.

But as he watched her glide back to her seat, Galad disliked very much what her satisfaction might mean. People like Cersei Lannister did not let go of grudges. They only buried them deeper, to be retrieved when most useful.

He retired for the night not long after, citing the day's exertions—an excuse no one could refute given what he had been through. And for the first time since taking residence in the Rock, he requested Tyrell men-at-arms to guard his door through the night.

Better cautious than dead.

xxx

The castle still slept when Galad rode out through the great gates of Casterly Rock.

Dawn had barely touched the eastern sky, the world wrapped in that grey hour before true morning. Mist clung to the slopes of the Rock and drifted down toward the coast in pale ribbons. The guards on the gate, men who had been awake all night, merely nodded as he passed, too tired to do more than mark his departure in whatever ledger they kept of comings and goings. The horses stabled in the lower castle had been roused by the boy Galad had paid the night before to ready her, and his mare stood saddled and warm.

She moved beneath him now with the easy gait of a horse glad to be free of her stall. The road wound down the great stone bulk of the Rock in switchbacks, descending toward the coastal plain where Lannisport sprawled like a jewel along the sea. The sun rose at his left as he rode, a pale disc fighting its way through the morning haze.

Galad had worn Ser Baelor Hightower's spare evening clothes the night before. His own new garments for the final feast—commissioned at the insistence of little Margaery Tyrell and Lady Lynesse, should be ready this morning at the tailor's shop, embroidered with the tree and sunburst sigil he had finally settled upon for himself. 

A bird called somewhere in the scrub beside the road. The sound carried strangely in the cool morning air. Galad's mare flicked her ears at it but did not break stride.

Ahead, perhaps two hundred paces down the road, something interrupted the empty stretch of dirt and grass.

A cart, mule-drawn, had stopped at the roadside. Four men stood or sat around it, looking entirely too casual for travelers who had broken down. One leaned against the cart's wooden side. Another sat on a stone, picking at his teeth. The other two stood near the mule, talking quietly.

Galad slowed his mare to a walk as he approached. Something about the scene felt wrong. He could not have said exactly what, but years of war and worse had taught him to trust such instincts. Travelers with a broken cart would be working at it, frustrated, perhaps cursing. These men looked like they were waiting.

His hand drifted to rest near Nightfall's hilt as he drew closer. The Valyrian steel blade had been at his hip since he woke, as it always was now. He kept his approach steady, his expression neutral, his eyes taking in every detail.

The men noticed him. Their conversation ceased. They watched him approach with too much interest.

Galad was about to ride past when a sound came from the back of the cart.

A muffled scream. High, female. Cut short by what sounded like an open hand striking flesh.

He reined in immediately. His mare came to a stop perhaps ten paces from the cart and turned, his hand now openly resting on Nightfall's hilt.

"You have one chance," he said, his voice echoing in the morning silence. "Let the woman go. Surrender yourselves. I will see you delivered to lawful justice."

The four men exchanged glances. One of them, a wiry fellow with a scar across his chin, looked at the man who seemed to be their leader, a broader man with greasy black hair tied back with a leather thong.

"He the one?" the scarred man asked.

The leader studied Galad for a long moment, seeming to focus on his purple eyes. "Looks like the one."

Galad's frown deepened. The exchange made no sense. They were not surprised to see him. They were not frightened by his obvious capacity to harm them. They were... confirming his identity.

Why would kidnappers on a deserted road have any idea who he was, or be waiting to confirm it?

Before he could pursue the thought further, another cry came from the cart. Weaker this time. 

"Please—please help me—" 

The voice cut off again with another sound of impact. A young woman’s voice.

Whatever was happening here, whatever the strangeness of the encounter, there was a girl in that cart suffering at the hands of these men. Galad had no choice in what came next.

He drew Nightfall.

The Valyrian steel slid free of its scabbard with a soft whisper. The rippling pattern in the blade caught the pale morning light and threw it back in shimmering arcs.

The reaction was immediate.

"Shit!" the scarred man hissed, scrambling back from the cart. His hand went to a short sword at his belt.

"It's the damned fockin' Woodsman!" Another of the men, this one bald with a thick beard, pointed at Galad. "I saw him fighting yesterday! That's his sword!"

“No one said it was him we’re waiting for!” the scarred one said.

"Shut your mouths!" The leader snarled at them, drawing his own weapon—a longsword of decent quality, better than the men around him carried. "He bleeds same as any other man. Four of us, one of him. Mind your spacing and we'll have him."

They drew their weapons in a clattering chorus. Three swords and a heavy mace.

Galad considered for less than a heartbeat. He could ride them down—a mounted knight against four men on foot was usually no contest, even without his particular skills. But mounted, he might let one or two escape on foot through the forest and scrub. And he needed every one of them. There were too many questions here that demanded answers, and dead men gave none.

He dismounted in a single fluid motion, landing lightly on the dirt road. His mare, well-trained, simply backed away to give him room.

The leader's mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. Galad knew what the man was thinking. A foe abandoning the advantage of horse and height meant a foe who underestimated them. A foe who could be brought down by numbers.

Let them think it. It meant they were less likely to run.

They spread out, trying to circle him, three to the front and one—the wiry scarred one—looking to slip behind. Galad let them think they had time to position themselves. Then he moved.

He went at the leader first.

Nightfall came down in a diagonal cut that the man tried to parry with his longsword. At the last second, he flicked his wrist, sliding the Valyrian steel against the common sword and striking at the wooden crossguard. Wood, flesh, and bone parted like butter, and before the man could even register his missing fingers, Galad reversed his stroke and brought the flat of his sword across the man's temple. The leader dropped like a poleaxed ox, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The other three faltered, shocked by how quickly their leader had fallen. That moment of hesitation was all Galad needed.

He pivoted, ducked beneath a clumsy mace swing, and brought Nightfall up in a precise cut that opened the mace-wielder's sword arm from wrist to elbow. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough that the man dropped his weapon and fell back with a scream, clutching at the streaming wound.

The bald one came at him with desperate fury, his sword raised overhead in a wild chop. Galad sidestepped, struck the man's blade aside with Nightfall, and kicked his legs out from under him in the same motion. The bald man crashed onto his back. Galad's boot came down on his sword wrist with enough force to make him drop the weapon, and the pommel of Nightfall met his temple a heartbeat later.

That left only the scarred man, who had circled fully behind Galad and was now charging at his back.

Galad did not bother turning. He simply stepped sideways at the last instant, let the man's momentum carry him past, and brought Nightfall down on the back of his skull with the flat of the blade. The scarred man face-planted into the dirt of the roadside and did not move.

The whole encounter had taken perhaps twelve heartbeats.

Breathing only slightly faster than normal, he stood amidst the dust of the road, surveying his work. Four men on the ground. Three unconscious, one bleeding but alive. None dead. He could tie them up and use the cart to take them back to Casterly Rock easily enough.

He turned toward the cart, intending to free the girl and tend to her, only for a new sound to reach him.

Hoofbeats. Many hoofbeats, coming down the road from Casterly Rock at a hard gallop.

Galad turned to face the approaching riders, Nightfall still bare in his hand.

A company of horsemen came into view at the bend in the road, perhaps thirty of them in total. At their head rode two figures in white enameled plate—the unmistakable armor of the Kingsguard. Galad recognized them as they drew closer. Ser Meryn Trant with his sour, brutal face. Ser Mandon Moore with his strange, cold eyes.

Beside them rode a third knight, this one in finer steel armor of grey and gold. Older, perhaps forty, with thinning hair visible beneath his open-faced helm and a heavy moustache. His shield bore a manticore on white beneath three gold coins. The sigil of House Lorch, if he remembered the heraldry Garlan had drilled into him during the tourney correctly. 

Behind them came some two dozen men-at-arms in Lannister red and gold, swords at their hips, expressions hard.

The riders pulled up perhaps twenty paces from Galad. Their horses snorted and stamped, breath steaming in the cool morning air. The Lannister men spread out in a loose half-circle.

Ser Meryn Trant spoke first, his voice carrying a nasal whine that grated at the ears. "Get the girl."

Galad's head turned sharply. "What?" How did they know about a girl? Had they heard her screams?

Ser Amory Lorch did not hesitate. He swung down from his horse with surprising agility for a man his size and strode toward the back of the cart.

Something made Galad start forward, something about the look of the man, but the kingsguards knight rode to stop him.

"Stand where you are, ser." Ser Mandon Moore's voice was flat and cold. He and Trant had drawn their swords now. Some of the Lannister men had bows in their hands—not raised yet, but ready. "Move and you will be cut down."

"What is the meaning of this?" Galad demanded, though even as he said the words, the cold weight of understanding was settling in his stomach. The men's strange behavior. Their confirmation of his identity. Their waiting on a road that no one should have known he would be traveling at this hour.

"We have been investigating this slaving ring for more than a week," Trant said, his thin lips curling into something approximating satisfaction. "And imagine our surprise, ser, when our patient watch finally bore fruit this morning. Who would have thought the famous Woodsman knight, the great hero of the Iron Islands, was the one behind it all?"

"You must be mistaken, ser," Galad said, though he knew it was useless now.

A brief, terrible scream came from the back of the cart, taking him by surprise. Ser Amory Lorch simply climbed back out of the cart, wiping a long dagger on a rag. He’d killed her. Plain and simple. Before he sheathed the dagger back at his side, Galad briefly saw that the blade rippled in the sun. Valyrian steel.

“Shame,” Ser Amory said, spitting on the road. “Wanted to have a go at the king’s whore meself.”

Revulsion rose within him, but Galad understood completely what had happened then.

It was a trap. Had been a trap from the moment Cersei Lannister's wide, satisfied smile had bloomed during their dance the night before. Probably from the moment he had stepped out of her chambers. The girl in the cart had been bait—and now, more importantly, she was a corpse. Evidence. A murder Galad would be accused of committing.

He looked at the four men he had brought down—men who had been waiting for him specifically, who had been told what he looked like, who had been provided with a victim to make the scene convincing. They had been told to put up a token resistance, perhaps, but most certainly to be alive when the "investigators" arrived. Witnesses to his guilt. They would tell whatever story they were paid to tell, and no one would believe a man on charges of slavery and murder over the testimony of Kingsguard knights.

The deep calm of the void was already settling over him without his conscious summoning. The world sharpened. He counted the men. Two Kingsguards in half-plate, alongside the Manticore  knight. Twenty four Lannister men-at-arms. Twelve of them with bows in hand. Open road, no cover except the cart itself. His mare ten paces behind him, free but not saddled for fighting.

Even unarmored, he could probably kill the two Kingsguard before the archers brought him down. Possibly Lorch as well. But the archers would loose at the first sign of attack, and an arrow could find the gap in any guard.

And even if he won, even if he cut his way through them, or even if he managed to escape into the brush, he would be a man who had killed two Kingsguard, several Lannister guardsmen, and a Lannister knight. He had no delusion that he could kill them all without at least one of them escaping to tell whatever tale the queen wanted told. 

Ser Meryn Trant stepped his horse forward, his sword now resting casually across his saddle.

"You will be coming with us, false knight, on charges of slaving and murder." His thin smile widened, showing yellow teeth. "To await the King's justice."

The Lannister archers raised their bows in unison.

Galad stood very still in the morning light, Nightfall in his hand, and felt the void inside him become absolute.

xxx

AN: Cersei be scheming. She can't help herself. Also, I based this on the rumors (iffy, since they come from Littlefinger) that Cersei once had a serving girl who got pregnant with Robert's bastards sold into slavery and the children killed.