Chapter 22

Cersei Lannister

"You fool!"

Tywin Lannister’s voice cracked across the solar like a whip. The Lord of Casterly Rock stood by the carved mantle, his fingers white where they gripped the stone, his green eyes hard as cut emeralds. Behind him, Jaime stood in his gilded armor, his weight favoring his uninjured leg. The wound to his thigh from the melee had been treated and braced, but he still moved with care.

Morning light streamed through the tall windows of the Lord's solar, painting golden bars across the polished floor. Outside, the sun had finally burned through the morning haze and now climbed higher into a clear sky. The Sunset Sea stretched away to the west, calm and shimmering.

Cersei did not back down. "A fool? For uncovering such horrific crimes committed by a knight of the realm?"

"Crimes." Her father spat the word, lips curling in disdain. "Do you think the Tyrells will go along with this farce? Or even Robert? Your husband is a simple creature. He will side with the boy."

"Two of his Kingsguard were witnesses to it all. They will speak whatever I command them to speak."

"I know they will, Cersei." Tywin's voice was acid. "Who do you think arranged their cloaking? Yet I did not expect them to be so foolish as to follow your schemes."

Cersei bristled. She had known her father had hands in the appointments, of course. Smartly done too. With Lord Tywin sitting out most of the war against the Targaryens, Robert had always mistrusted any obvious Lannister influence in court. But between Moore, Trant, and Blount, none came from the Westerlands. Neither the king nor Jon Arryn had objected when the appointments were proposed amidst the celebratory tournaments after the Rebellion. The men seemed unconnected to House Lannister.

To this day, however, those three men's lesser houses still depended on Casterly Rock to pay their debts and borrow even more gold. Loyalty bought with coin was loyalty nonetheless.

"The wench was pregnant with Robert's get," Cersei said, lifting her chin. "She and her bastard were a threat to your legacy as much as the woodsman was. Threats I am eliminating."

At her words, Jaime looked at her with wide eyes. His face went still, then carefully blank.

Cersei lifted her chin higher. Her brother had never had the heart to do what was necessary to secure their family. It fell on her to make the hard choices. As it always did.

"Eliminated in the most foolish manner imaginable." Her father’s voice held nothing but contempt.

"Robert is an emotional man,” Cersei continued. He needed to make him see. “When the maester reveals the girl was pregnant, he will rage and scream and demand justice himself. Even if he liked the boy before, he will wish for blood. He always wishes for blood when he has been wronged."

Jaime finally spoke. "And whose blood will be spilled, sweet sister?" His green eyes held a warning. "I did not see him fight in the melee, but the stories from yesterday say he is the greatest swordsman in Westeros since the Dragonknight himself."

Cersei gave him a look. "Don't tell me he frightens you."

"No man frightens me." Jaime's voice carried genuine heat now. "But I have no wish to fight an innocent man to the death. And I saw what he did to the Mountain when they brought Gregor into the maester's tent. The man's leg was nearly severed, Cersei. He took half the Mountain's blood and left him alive only because he chose to. If that monster failed to defeat him, who will?"

Cersei shrugged, irritated by her brother's caution. "It need not come to a trial by combat at all. The wench was one of ours, a serving girl in our household. We will demand compensation for her death. The Valyrian sword will serve nicely as restitution."

Lord Tywin looked at her like she was stupid. "You are a fool if you think that woodsman would ever agree to that. Lowborn he might be, but he has a certain boorish honor. He will not surrender the sword to false accusers."

Cersei smiled. "Even better."

"How is that any better?" Jaime demanded. "Even Ser Lyle Crakehall said he has never seen anyone fight like that man. If he demands to fight, he will win."

"How, Cersei?" Her father’s eyes had narrowed, but a flicker of interest had entered them. He always paid attention when one of his children showed cunning. It was the only time he truly paid attention to her. “How is it any better?”

She let her smile widen, savoring the moment. This was the part she had been planning since the she first saw Ser Galad days before. This was where she would show her father that she was the true heir of his mind, even if she had been born without the cock that would have made her his proper successor.

"I have arranged it all with the High Septon's representative who traveled to the tourney. Ser Galad is accused of terrible crimes. He may fight those charges in a trial by combat, should he wish. But if he does, then we, the accusers, have all the rights to invoke a Trial by Seven."

Tywin's eyes widened for just a second. He considered for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "The boy is popular in the Reach. Many will stand for him. Victory would not be assured even with seven of our best."

"I am sure they will stand for him," Cersei said, allowing her smile to become a true grin. "But we will not be accusing Ser Galad alone. His despicable behavior had four accomplices, the men he was meeting on the road, the men who held the girl while he... tried to have his way with her before murdering her. Four lowborn gutter rats who will turn on him in the middle of the trial at the mere promise of gold."

That did it. Her father only stared at her, brows furrowed, but she saw as the corners of his mouth tightened. And for Tywin Lannister, that was very nearly a smile.

A thrill ran through Cersei. See, father, she thought. Open your eyes. Your daughter was the only one of your children to ever truly listen to your lessons. Not Jaime with his sword and his foolishness. Not the Imp with his books and his wine. Me. I am the one who learned.

"Even if the two knights who stand for the woodsman are the very best in the Reach, they cannot match eleven men against them,” she pressed on. “Seven knights, plus four turncoats who will strike from within. The woodsman will be cut down within a minute, and the Tyrells will have no say once the gods’ have proclaimed their will. We will have Nightfall as compensation and Robert will lose his bastard before the creature can trouble us."

The solar fell into quiet as Tywin studied her for a long moment. Then he gave a small, considered nod. 

"It might work," he said. "If it is executed properly."

"It will be," Cersei said.

A knock came at the door of the solar.

"Enter," Tywin called.

Ser Kevan Lannister stepped through. He bowed quickly to his brother. "My lord. Ser Meryn and Ser Mandon have returned. Word has already spread about what happened on the road. The Tyrells are up in arms."

"And the woodsman?" Tywin asked.

Ser Kevan swallowed. A flicker of uneasiness appeared on his plain face. He hesitated.

"Out with it, brother."

"My lord... he is still armed. They are at the great hall now."

Cersei felt the smile fall from her face.

xxx

The great hall of Casterly Rock was already in chaos when they arrived.

Noblemen and women had gathered along the edges of the cavernous chamber, whispering and murmuring to each other in tight clusters. The candles in the great chandeliers had been lit despite the morning hour, their light reflecting off marble columns and gilded fixtures, illuminating the scene with a brightness that felt almost theatrical.

At the center of the hall, near the foot of the dais where the lords' high table usually sat, a confrontation had erupted. A group of mostly Reachmen knights and lords were shouting wildly at a circle of Lannister men-at-arms. The Lannister force was led by Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Mandon Moore, and Ser Amory Lorch. They surrounded Ser Galad of Dunstonbury.

But not as prisoners surround a captive.

The Lannister men had spread out in a loose ring around him at what seemed to be a respectful distance, as if they did not want to be within range of the sword Galad still wore openly at his hip. Some had bows in hand, other wielded swords. 

"What is the meaning of this?" Tywin's voice boomed across the cavernous hall, cutting through the shouting in an instant.

The hall fell silent. All eyes turned toward the Lannister family entering.

Cersei surveyed the scene with growing unease. The woodsman still had his arms and armor on him. His hand rested easy at his side near the Valyrian steel sword. He looked entirely undisturbed by the situation, as if he were merely waiting for some tedious matter to be concluded.

"Why is the prisoner not in chains?" she demanded.

Lord Randyll Tarly turned to her with steely eyes. "And why would you assume he is a prisoner, Your Grace?" The Reachmen beside him roared in agreement.

Cersei stiffened, but she quickly schooled her face, nose in the air. "Why else would he be surrounded by our guards?"

Ser Meryn Trant spoke up, stepping forward. "Her Grace is right. This man is a criminal most vile! A slaver and a murderer!"

Gasps rang around the room. The Reachmen scoffed loudly. Lord Mace Tyrell, who had been near the front of the crowd of Reach nobles, made a sound of pure incredulity. Ser Baelor Hightower's hand went to his own sword.

Cersei nodded with all the dignity of her station. "I should expect nothing else from a lowborn hedge knight. Seize him properly, Ser Meryn."

Instead of obeying immediately, Ser Meryn hesitated.

He looked back at the woodsman, who stood there with no expression on his too-handsome face. The man simply waited, his violet eyes cold, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He had not moved or spoken. He had not even bothered to look at the Lannister guards surrounding him.

Cersei's chest burned with anger. She had wanted to see him broken. Wanted to see him pleading. Wanted to see fear or rage or anything other than this terrible, infuriating composure.

When Ser Meryn turned back, she saw his throat bob.

"Your Grace..." he began.

Ser Mandon Moore stepped up beside Trant, his small dead eyes narrowed. "Two of the men have tried, Your Grace. The criminal cut them down."

Tywin's voice cracked across the hall. "And why was he not shot on the spot?"

"He was, my lord." Mandon's jaw tightened. "Arrows were loosed at him. Three arrows from three archers at fifteen paces. But he cut them from the air, my lord. Cut them apart in flight."

A hush fell over the room. Someone gasped audibly. Cersei saw Jaime react physically beside her, his hand going involuntarily to his own sword hilt before he caught himself.

"Absurd," Tywin scoffed, though Cersei could see that he had paused before saying it. "Enough of this nonsense. Ser Meryn, tell us what happened now. From the beginning."

Meryn opened his mouth to give his answer, but the great doors of the hall groaned open then.

Everyone turned to see Robert Baratheon entering the great hall, his black cloak swirling behind him. Ser Barristan walked at his right, hand on his sword, his white cloak gleaming. Ser Boros Blount followed at his left, looking as if he wished to be anywhere else.

Robert's voice carried across the chamber. "What in the seven hells is going on here?"

He stopped a dozen paces into the hall as he took in the scene. His frown deepened when he noticed the ring of Lannister guards surrounding the woodsman. His eyes flicked from Galad to Trant to the assembled crowd of murmuring nobles.

"Ser Galad." Robert stared at the knight for a moment. "What is the meaning of all this?" He turned to the Kingsguard knight. "Out with it, Trant!"

So Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard told the story, and Cersei nodded along as if the words came from her own mouth, which of course they very nearly did. Ser Mandon Moore confirmed the story with sober nods at appropriate intervals. Ser Amory Lorch added details where needed, lending his own honest-seeming testimony to the tale.

Robert's frown grew darker with every word. By the time Trant finished, the king's face was thunderous.

He turned to Ser Galad. "What say you?"

"It is a lie, Your Grace." Despite it all, Ser Galad's voice remained clear.

His face had not twitched once during the recounting. Not when Trant accused him of slavery. Not when the Kingsguard claimed he had tried to rape then murdered a young girl. Not when Lorch described the supposed scene of his crimes. Nothing.

He told his own side of the story in minimal words. That he had woken early to ride to Lannisport to collect new clothes from his tailor. That on the road, he had come across a cart at the roadside with four men, and had heard a girl's cry for help from within. That he had disabled the four men with the intent of holding them for proper authorities. That the Kingsguard had then arrived with a force of Lannister men, ordered the death of the girl who could have testified to the truth, and arrested him on false charges.

He spoke it all without a single inflection or display of emotion.

Cersei found herself disconcerted by it. Most men would have grown heated defending themselves against such accusations. They would have raged, would have demanded justice, would have at the very least shown anger at being so wronged. Galad simply stated facts. As if reading from a ledger.

Robert growled, his hand gripping his sword belt. "Well. Who am I to believe?" He turned slowly to Trant. "If you are lying to me, Trant, I swear to all seven gods I will have your head myself."

"It is no lie, Your Grace!" Trant's voice took on a higher pitch. "The woodsman is a vile man! Please, Your Grace—we have brought evidence."

He called out toward the rear of the hall. From the far doorway, another group of Lannister men entered, accompanied by Maester Creylen in his grey robes and chain of office. Between them, they carried a litter.

On the litter lay a body, covered loosely with a sheet.

They brought it forward and laid it before the dais. When one of the Lannister men carefully pulled back the sheet to reveal the face, Robert's eyes went wide and bloodshot with sudden, terrible recognition. 

The girl had been pretty in life. Brown hair, perhaps eighteen years old, with the soft features of common birth. Her throat had been cut open, the wound gaping and obscene against her pale skin. Some of the nobles gasped. Others turned away.

Cersei felt a deep, vicious satisfaction at the king's recognition.

"No," Robert said. He stepped forward and knelt by the body, his voice low and dangerous. The girl's eyes were still staring up blankly at the chandeliers far above. Robert reached out with a surprisingly gentle hand and closed them. "Who did this?" He stood, his voice rising to a roar. "Who killed her?!"

"The woodsman, Your Grace," Trant said quickly. "He cut the girl's throat before we could reach him. We brought her back as quickly as we could in hopes Maester Creylen might save her, but—"

The maester glanced at Cersei briefly before stepping forward.

"Your Grace, forgive me." Maester Creylen gave a small bow. "I did all I could to save both the mother and the child, but I am afraid it was too late."

Robert went still as carved stone.

He turned to the maester. One of his hands whipped out fast as a viper and grabbed the maester's chain, pulling him close. The maester gasped.

"What did you say?"

Creylen coughed and struggled. "The wench was pregnant, Your Grace. Forgive me—I could not save her. The cut to her neck—"

"What about it?" Robert lifted the man higher, his feet leaving the ground.

"It was a clean cut, Your Grace! Too clean a cut!" Creylen's voice came out strangled. "I believe the blade that severed her neck was Valyrian Steel!"

Thunderous, Robert released the maester, who fell to the floor coughing and wheezing. Robert turned slowly to Galad. His eyes flickered to the sword at the knight's side. His face darkened to something terrible.

"What say you, ser?"

"That man used a dagger to kill the young woman, Your Grace." Galad's voice remained as level as before, but he gestured toward Ser Amory Lorch. "I am only ashamed I was not able to stop him before he killed her."

"Lies!" Amory Lorch spat. "The entire realm knows the Lorch family has never wielded such a blade." From his waist, he pulled out both his longsword and a dagger. Both were of perfectly ordinary steel. "I carry the weapons of an honest knight, not the cursed metal of dragonlords."

Cersei suppressed a smile. She’d taken the Valyrian steel dagger from the royal collection in King's Landing on a passing whim—a trinket to display during a feast after the fighting was done, or perhaps to wear as a symbol that even the realm's queen had joined the war against the Ironborn. She had ultimately worn neither and forgotten about the dagger entirely until the idea to incriminate Ser Galad of Dunstonbury came to mind.

By now, if Ser Amory had followed her orders properly, the dagger would be hidden away in the bowels of Casterly Rock by one of her men. The only possible explanation for the girl's wounds would be the woodsman's sword.

"Seven hells." Robert raged, his hands clenching into fists. "Seven bloody hells! Who am I to believe in this... this madness?"

"Your own Kingsguard, of course." Cersei stepped forward, her voice carrying clearly. "Over a common-born knight with Valyrian eyes."

Robert's head snapped toward her, eyes blazing with sudden fury at her words, but she knew the words would get to him. Nothing affected Robert more than the mention of anything Targaryen.

It was Lord Mace Tyrell who broke the king’s silence. "This is an outrage!" His face had gone red as his roses, his jowls quivering with indignation. 

His brood stood near him, the eldest boy with his serious face, the other looking ready to draw the practice sword at his hip, the young squire who shamefully served the lowborn woodsman. Mace’s plain little wife had already taken away the two youngest when the body of the wench had been brought out, sparing them the sight. Probably for the best. Cersei had no time for shrieking children, even those of the upjumped stewards.

"To suggest that a most noble knight as Ser Galad would be capable of such crimes." Mace puffed out his chest like the absurd peacock he was. "Nonsense, I say. Absolute nonsense!"

Tywin's voice cut across the bluster, cold as winter steel. "And yet a member of my household died to his blade. Unless you know of any other man with a sword like his found in the scene of the crime, Lord Tyrell?"

That gave the Tyrell oaf pause. He sputtered, mouth working but no words coming out for a moment. Cersei could have laughed. Mace Tyrell could not argue with her father any more than a sheep could argue with a wolf.

She stepped forward gracefully, taking up the thread her father had given her. "Perhaps he is not as honorable as you thought, Lord Mace. Perhaps he saw the girl in passing and wished to have her, the way commonborn men often do when their passions are up." She let her voice take on a tone of false sympathy. "It is in their nature, after all. The peasantry has always lacked the restraint of those properly raised."

Lord Randyll Tarly's eyes flashed at that, but it was Ser Baelor Hightower who spoke first.

"Ser Galad has shown nothing but restraint and honor in every interaction I have witnessed. Your Grace's characterization is unjust."

"Is it?" Cersei lifted her chin. "Or is it that you Reachmen have so attached yourselves to this woodsman that you refuse to see him clearly? Has it occurred to any of you that perhaps he was always exactly what he seems, a commoner with a talent for swords, but a commoner nonetheless?"

Her words only seemed to inflame their passions even more, and with Robert suddenly gone quiet, a poor mockup of a court formed, arguments flying from each side. Lords called out their opinions. Knights shouted over each other. Even some of the Stormlanders had moved closer to the dispute, their faces wary but interested. The Northmen kept their distance, watching with their usual cold judgment.

Through it all, the woodsman himself remained silent.

He simply stood there in his ring of guards, his expression unchanged from the moment he had been brought into the hall. Cersei found her eyes drawn to him again and again. She wanted him to react. Wanted him to shout, to weep, to plead. To break. She would have settled for fear.

She got nothing.

After several minutes of back and forth, Lord Tywin commanded that the prisoners finally be brought forth from the dungeons. The four men were a pathetic sight, as was to be expected, but Cersei had made sure they’d be well fed while in the dungeons, and that the promises of pardons and full pockets would be repeated as many times as necessary.

They shuffled forward in chains, their feet shackled, and they spoke as planned. The leader, his voice rough with fear and pain, reaffirmed Ser Meryn's version of events. Yes, they had been working with the Woodsman. He had organized everything. He had paid them a small sum in advance. He had told them to bring the girl to him at the appointed place. He had ravaged her himself, and when they had protested at the cruelty of it, he had turned on them to silence them. Only the Kingsguard's timely arrival had saved their lives. The man even went so far as to show his missing fingers after peeling off his bandages.

The other three reaffirmed each detail as well, their voices trembling exactly the way men's voices trembled when they spoke truth to power. The performance was credible enough, Cersei thought. She’d asked Ser Amory to select men he trusted to play their parts no matter what came to happen.

Robert's voice came out deathly quiet when the leader finished. "And you admit to taking the young girl? To holding her against her will?"

The leader nodded, perhaps thinking honesty about that lesser crime might save him from worse punishment.

Nobody was fast enough to stop Robert.

The king moved with shocking speed for a man his size. He crossed the distance between them in three long strides and tackled the chained leader to the ground. The man's bound hands could do nothing to defend himself.

Robert's fists came down like hammers. One, two, three blows. The leader's swollen face split open further. Blood sprayed across the polished marble.

"Your Grace!" Ser Barristan rushed after him.

The fourth blow. The fifth.

Cersei heard a sickening crack as the man's skull gave way. Brain and blood leaked across the marble in a spreading pool.

People throughout the hall gasped or turned away. Lady Hightower fanned herself rapidly. One of the younger lords looked as if he might be ill. Even Cersei felt a small twinge. Not at the man's death, which mattered nothing to her, but at the loss of one of her witnesses. The leader had been the most coached, the most reliable.

She forced herself to swallow any doubts. No matter. Three remained.

By the time Ser Barristan finally pulled the king from the body, Robert huffed and puffed with effort, his hands and beard dripping with blood. The Lord Commander spoke quietly into the king's ear, calming him.

The three other men in chains had begun begging for mercy. They threw themselves to their knees, scraping their foreheads against the marble.

"Mercy, Your Grace! We were only following the woodsman's orders!"

"He promised to pay us with the gold he won at the tourney, he did! Threatened to kill our families!"

"Please, Your Grace, we are poor men, we did not know what he intended!"

Their pleas were exactly what Cersei had instructed. Pitiful enough to inspire some small sympathy. Damning enough to ensure Galad's guilt seemed clear.

Before anyone else could speak, the woodsman's voice cut through the noise.

"This farce has gone on long enough."

The hall fell silent. The guards around Galad tensed up, hands tightening on weapons. Cersei turned toward him along with the rest of the hall, and something inside her chest twisted at the sight.

He stood unchanged, calm as still water. His hand still rested near his sword. His violet eyes were fixed on the king, not on her or her father or anyone else.

"My innocence is without question," he continued in that same level voice. "But His Grace is right that this crime demands justice. And if I can provide both at the same time, then so be it."

Robert glared at him, blood still dripping from his fists. But when his voice came out, it sounded pitifully sad. "Speak plainly, ser."

Ser Galad pointed toward Amory Lorch and the two Kingsguard. "If it is one of these three who are accusing me, then I will ask them to put their steel behind their words, and call for a trial by combat."

Those three words sent a shock through the crowd.

Trial by combat.

The whispers ran around the hall like wildfire through dry grass. Robert seemed conflicted, his bloody fists slowly unclenching as he considered. The Reachmen roared in approval, proclaiming the trial already won given Ser Galad's skill. Ser Arys Oakheart clapped a hand on the shoulder of the man beside him. Lord Mace Tyrell looked as if he had just been promised the throne itself.

Cersei tried not to let triumph show in her face.

This was exactly what she had wanted. Exactly what she had planned for. The woodsman had walked into her snare as neatly as if she had led him by the hand.

Ser Amory Lorch took his cue beautifully. He pointed his sword at Galad, his face a mask of righteous anger. "We know well of your skill with the blade, false knight. None of us are fools, but unlike you, we have our knightly vows to uphold. Justice demands it."

He paused, lifted his chin, and delivered the line Cersei had drilled into him a dozen times the night before.

"And to rid this world of your and your men's evil in but one trial, we call for a Trial by Seven!"

The hall erupted.

Lords and ladies murmured frantically to each other. Some shook their heads in disbelief. Others looked at each other with wide eyes. Beyond Ser Duncan the Tall’s story, a Trial by Seven was an ancient thing, almost forgotten in this age. Cersei doubted there were a dozen people in the hall who had even read of such proceedings, much less seen one.

"This is madness!" Lord Mace burst out. "A Trial by Seven?"

"It is still permitted under the laws of the Faith," Cersei said, raising her voice. "Is it not? Surely no good knight would deny the accusers their rights under the gods."

More heated discussion followed. Some argued that a Trial by Seven was too outdated to be properly invoked. Others questioned the legality of forcing Ser Galad to fight beside his supposed accomplices. Voices rose. Lord Mace demanded a septon be consulted.

The septon was already in attendance, Cersei had ensured it. He stepped forward from where he had been waiting near the entrance of the hall, his septagonal medallion gleaming on his chest, his hands clasped at his middle in the manner of holy men.

After assuring the king he’d already given the young wench her last rites, the man spoke when asked about the trial. "Most ancient is the right of Trial by Seven, and ancient does not mean abandoned. The Faith preserves all its laws, that they may be drawn upon when justice demands. Ser Lorch is within his right to invoke this trial."

"And the accomplices?" Lord Mace demanded. "Surely Ser Galad cannot be forced to fight alongside his supposed criminals?"

"The accused stands accused as part of a group," the septon explained patiently. "All who are accused must stand together in the trial. Ser Galad has accepted the trial. The others are bound by his acceptance."

The Reachmen protested loudly at that, but several stepped forward to claim spots on Galad's seven. Ser Arys Oakheart was first among them, his bandaged head held high.

"I stand for Ser Galad! I would fight at his side in any cause!"

Ser Baelor Hightower stepped forward next, his hand on his sword. "And I. Ser Galad's honor is beyond question."

Randyll Tarly only grunted, eyes hard and flinty. "Heartsbane shall see justice delivered."

Lord Mace Tyrell himself spoke next, drawing his sword with theatrical flourish. "House Tyrell will not see a true knight wronged! I stand with Ser Galad!"

Cersei nearly rolled her eyes. The thought of Mace Tyrell, who had not personally fought in any of the great battles of the Rebellion, swinging a sword in a real trial was almost amusing.

But others stepped forward who were less laughable.

Half a dozen Reach knights came forward. Ser Mathis Rowan. Ser Jon Fossoway. Ser Emmon Cuy, who Cersei had heard mocked Galad for being lowborn just days before—apparently his loyalty to the Reach overcame his snobbery when the woodsman was threatened. Others whose names she did not know.

Then, to her surprise, men from other kingdoms took up the call.

Lord Yohn Royce called loudly for his bronze armor to be fetched. "I have crossed blades with this man! I know him to be a knight of honor! The Vale stands with him!"

Lord Jason Mallister stepped forward with his hand on his sword hilt, his eagle-emblazoned chest puffed out. "I believe in Ser Galad's innocence. I will fight for him."

Even some Northmen and Stormlanders made noises of support, though they did not formally step forward.

Cersei found herself shocked by how many supporters the woodsman had gathered in his brief time in the realm. He had only been a knight for a year. How had he won so many over already? It was unsettling. But it changed nothing about her plan. 

The septon spoke again. "With the three other accused already included in Ser Galad's seven, he may choose only three additional champions to complete the number. Three only."

Three. Cersei smiled inwardly. Even three Tarlys with Valyrian steel would not be enough when three of their own seven would turn on them mid-fight.

"I pick no man to fight beside me."

The voice was Ser Galad's, cutting through the offered champions and the septon's pronouncements alike.

The hall fell silent again.

The septon turned to him with a patient expression that bordered on condescending. "Ser Galad, perhaps because of your low birth and irregular upbringing, you might not be aware of the requirements of a Trial by Seven. If you do not choose six men to fight with you, then you will be declared guilty at once. The verdict will be rendered immediately. Do you understand?"

The woodsman shook his head slowly. "No. I have read the Seven-Pointed Star, septon." His voice remained calm. "There is another way, and I invoke it now."

Cersei frowned. She did not understand what the woodsman meant. When she had spoken with the septon days earlier, he had explained the requirements clearly. Either he gathered seven, or he was guilty. Those were the rules.

Low murmurs filled the room. The septon himself looked uncertain now, his patient expression cracking.

"The Faith preaches the Seven Who Are One," Galad continued. He had still not raised his voice, but somehow it commanded attention. "Father and Mother. Warrior and Maiden. Smith and Crone. The Stranger. Seven faces of one god. So too may seven men be one champion."

He let his words settle for a moment before continuing.

"If a man accused cannot find his seven, then he will either be declared guilty, or he can choose to fight as one.” He lifted his eyes, and for the first time in the morning, they fixed on Cersei. “One man against seven, and let the gods decide his fate."