Chapter 23

Galad

Sitting unsheathed upon his lap, Nightfall glittered as it caught the red-tinted sunlight filtering through the lion-themed stained glass windows. The blade's patterned ripples shimmered like a heat mirage, creating a sort of bloody illusion in the steel. A mere trick of the light, Galad knew. He had already cleaned it from the blood of the Lannister guards he had cut down earlier.

After a lifetime of war and campaigns, he’d grown a habit of sharpening his blade after every battle. But Valyrian steel swords like Nightfall held an edge of their own, never dulling, never chipping. So instead of a whetstone, he simply ran an oiled rag along the blade. The movement was familiar. Calming. He had learned long ago that it sharpened him as much as it did his swords.

Now, it helped him sink even deeper into the void.

He felt the rag running along Nightfall's surface as if it were his own skin. The warmth of the sunlight was the warmth of his own pulsing blood. The small sounds of the room: the rustle of his own breathing, the distant murmur of voices through the door, the faint scrape of a guard shifting his weight outside, all settled into a kind of music.

Once, when he was around thirteen years old in this world, he had gone into a cave in the woods to meditate and hone his skill with the flame and the void. He had stayed there for nearly three days without eating or drinking or even seeing the sunlight. And when he left, he thought he had found the depths of his connection with himself and the world around him.

A faint trace of amusement flickered inside him for a heartbeat before it disappeared into the void. Hubris was a funny thing when you had the privilege of hindsight.

Gareth Bryne, his old mentor from his time as a prince, used to tell him that a hundred hours in the practice yard could not substitute for one hour in real battle. Perhaps the same was true for his prowess with the Oneness. His days of meditation in the darkness of a cave did not compare to the single moment after those false knights had killed the girl and accused him of slavery and worse.

Had he not found the Oneness then, he might have slaughtered the entire Lannister company and half the Kingsguard on the spot. But he was glad he hadn’t. It would have been a child's tantrum, if much more deadly. With no witnesses to side with him, he would have become an outlaw in the eyes of the realm even if he won a subsequent trial by combat.

That would not have bothered him much even a few months ago. But Galad could not act so rashly now. He had promises to honor, friends to help, and a squire to teach.

A quick knock came at the door then, followed by Garlan slipping past the guards outside and into the room. Galad caught a glimpse of them as the door opened, both Lannister and Tyrell men, watching each other with thinly veiled hostility. The arrangement had been the result of furious negotiation between Lord Mace and Lord Tywin, neither trusting the other to guard the accused properly until the trial.

Unlike his usual boisterous self, Garlan looked rattled even now. He had barely spoken as he had helped Galad putting on his armor, his small hands trembling slightly as he worked the buckles.

"Twenty minutes until the trial, ser."

Galad nodded his thanks. The boy fidgeted by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"What is it, Garlan?"

"I know you said it didn't matter, but I found out the knights you'll be fighting."

Galad raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Aye, ser. I can tell you if you wish."

Looking at him, Galad thought the boy might burst if he did not let him speak his mind. "Go on."

Garlan stepped closer, his hands wringing together. "There is some good news, ser. Ser Jaime is still injured from the melee, his leg won't hold his weight, and Ser Gregor Clegane has not woken up yet from his wounds. The Lannisters tried to convince the Mountain's brother to fight, but he refused. Some are saying he even left their service entirely."

The Mountain's brother. Galad's mind supplied the scarred face of the man who had come to fetch him for the queen days ago. The man had warned him against the brutality of his brother even then. There must have been quite a story for a man to favor a stranger over his own blood.

"Good on him."

Garlan shook his head, his earlier nervousness returning. "But there will be three Kingsguards, ser. Ser Boros Blount has joined Ser Meryn and Ser Mandon in the seven." His voice took on a desperate note, as if these men were special because of an empty title and a white cloak. "Then there is Ser Amory Lorch, of course, and another Lannister knight, Ser Benedict Broom, as well as a Crownlander by the name of Ser Balman Byrch who seeks the queen’s favor. I do not know much about him, but they say he is big and good with a sword."

"And the last man?"

Garlan's face fell further. "Ser... Ser Owen Inchfield, ser. He volunteered when he heard it was you he would be fighting. My father threatened to strip his family of their titles and throw them out of the Reach entirely, but he did not care. He's like a mad dog."

Galad did no more than nod at that. It was not unexpected that Ser Owen would take his chances now. He had proven himself to be as vengeful as he was foolish.

"I see. You may thank your father for his spirited defense of my person, but there is no need to disinherit a family for one of their son's shortsightedness.” He fixed his gaze at his squire. “But there are a few more things I must ask of you, Garlan."

"Anything, ser."

"After all this, are you certain you want to be my squire still? And travel with me across the kingdoms?"

His eyes widened immediately. "Of course, Ser Galad. More than anything."

Galad's face hardened. "Then you must say your goodbyes to your family today. Before the trial is over. And I do not intend for it to last long."

"But—what, wait." Garlan shook his head, seeming thoroughly confused. "What of the tourney, ser? The jousting! Two more rounds and you'll be the champion."

Galad gave the boy a comforting smile. "How much do you think the title of champion means to me, Garlan?"

"Uh... not much?"

Galad nodded. "Not much. And I told you I did not join it for the glory or the gold of it. I meant only to send a message to the realm. This trial will serve me fine for that purpose."

Mouth ajar, Garlan stared at him for a second, then sighed and seemed to deflate slightly. "I see, ser. I will... I will speak with my lord father. I will say my goodbyes today."

"Soon, Garlan. I do not plan to stay long after the trial. I find this castle suits me not." Galad paused. "I need you to find Ben for me, and tell him to prepare horses for our journey. He is to take four with him and ride northeast past Ashemark. We will meet him a week hence at the foot of the Tumblestone."

"It shall be done."

Garlan turned to leave, but Galad stopped him.

"One more thing, squire."

Garlan stiffened at the formality.

"Ask Ser Arys Oakheart to come here. I need to borrow his sword."

"His sword?" The boy frowned, his hand on the door. "Do you intend to wield two of them in the trial?"

Rising from where he sat, Galad walked up to him. His plate-and-mail armor clinked with every step. He sheathed Nightfall in its scabbard, untied it from his belt, and handed the entire rig off to him.

"Hold it for me until the trial is over, if you please,” he told him. “I will not have need of it today."

"What?" Garlan sputtered, taking the sheathed sword automatically and then nearly dropping it as he registered what he held. "No. No, you can't, ser. You must use it in the trial. You are already one against seven. There is no honor in further disadvantaging yourself!"

His eyes had filled with tears. He blinked them back furiously, gripping Nightfall's scabbard tight against his chest.

"Do not fret." Galad rested a hand on the boy's head, ruffling his brown hair gently. "This is not about honor. I could never lose or gain any of it against such men as those who oppose me. I will simply show the Lannisters and anyone else who might wish to make an enemy of me the truth of things."

"What truth, ser?"

"That it is the man that makes the sword, Garlan. Never the other way around." Galad let his hand fall to the boy's shoulder, squeezing gently. "They will learn this lesson today. And the realm will learn it with them."

Garlan looked up at him, tears finally spilling over despite his efforts. He clutched Nightfall to his chest as if afraid Galad might change his mind and take it back. Then, with a tremendous swallow, he nodded.

"Yes, ser. I'll fetch Ser Arys."

He left, his small frame disappearing through the door, the great Valyrian steel sword almost as long as he was tall held carefully in his arms.

xxx

Ser Arys Oakheart arrived not five minutes later, and his reaction was not unlike Garlan's, if voiced with a man's weight rather than a boy's anguish.

"Ser, you cannot be serious." He stood near the door in his tourney armor, hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his hip—the same sword Galad had requested. "Nightfall is one of the finest blades in Westeros. To set it aside for this trial… it is madness."

"I have made my decision, Arys."

"Then make a different one." Arys stepped forward, his face earnest beneath the bandage that still wrapped around his head from the melee. "And while you are reconsidering, reconsider also your refusal of champions. I would stand with you. Any number of us would stand with you. To fight seven alone is not bravery, ser, it is folly."

Galad let him speak. The man's worry came from genuine friendship, and friendship was a thing Galad would not lightly dismiss. He had not had so many true friends in this life that he could afford to wave away those few he had earned.

"You are a good friend, Arys."

"Then listen to me!" Arys's voice rose. He paced a small circle in the room, his armor clinking. "Lord Mace will support you. Lord Tarly will support you. Even men I do not know want to fight at your side. We could have seven of the finest knights in the realm by your side. Royce is eager to join, and Lord Jason Mallister is better sword than any of these false knights. We could match the Lannisters' best and exceed them. You could keep your sword. You could fight on the side that has the advantage."

"Arys."

"And if you will not change your mind, then I will not lend you my sword."

The words came out with the petulance of a younger brother making demands. Galad recognized them for what they were, a friend's last desperate attempt to force him to see reason. Or what Arys saw as reason.

"You would deny me a weapon for my trial?"

"If it makes you see sense, then yes." Arys crossed his arms, looking very young despite his armor. "If I cannot fight beside you, then I will at least force you to fight with the sword that will give you the best change to win."

Galad did not argue further. There was no point. Arys would come to it on his own, in his own time. So he sat back down, picked up his oiled rag, and waited.

For perhaps ten minutes they sat in silence, Arys pacing intermittently, Galad attending to the small details of his armor and gloves. Through the high window, the morning sun continued its climb. Somewhere in the castle, servants were preparing the courtyard where the trial would be held. 

Apparently, stands were being arranged, the ground was being marked. The Lannisters meant to make it a spectacle. So be it. He would give them one.

Then the bells began to toll. Deep, resonant tolling that carried through the stone walls of Casterly Rock.

Arys stopped pacing. He stood in the center of the room, his shoulders slumping. After a long moment, he reached down and unbuckled the sword from his belt. His hands moved slowly, as if performing some sacred ritual against his will.

He held the sheathed blade out to Galad in both hands, the way a squire might present a sword to his knight.

"Take it, then." His voice had lost its earlier heat, replaced by something quieter and far more frightened. "Take it and use it well. But promise me, ser. Promise me you will give it back to me when this is done."

Galad rose and accepted the sword, drawing it partially from its sheath to examine the blade. It was a good sword. Well-made castle-forged steel, properly balanced, the edge keen from recent honing. Not Valyrian steel, but a fine weapon for any knight.

He met Arys's eyes as he sheathed the blade and buckled it to his belt. He knew it was not the sword the man wanted returned hale and whole.

Galad grasped him by the shoulder, the way men did with brothers-in-arms before they rode into battle. "You are a true friend, Arys Oakheart. I will not have you mourning for me before the fight has even begun."

"Then do not give me cause to mourn after it." Arys's voice cracked slightly. "Please, ser. Reconsider. Even now. Tell the septon you have changed your mind. Take Nightfall. Take six champions. Even three. There is no shame in it."

"Arys."

The man fell silent.

"I am clearing the way for your dream."

Arys frowned in confusion. "What?"

Galad allowed himself a small smile. "When this is done, there will be three vacancies in the Kingsguard. The realm will need new knights to wear the white. Knights of true honor and skill, not the wretched men who currently sully the cloak."

Understanding dawned slowly on Arys's face. His eyes widened. "You... you intend to kill them. The three Kingsguard."

"I intend to see justice done. The consequences shall be what they shall be."

The bells continued to toll.

Galad gestured toward the door. "Come. Let us not keep them waiting."

Arys Oakheart did not move for a moment. He stood looking at Galad with something that might have been awe, or might have been simple inability to comprehend what he was seeing. Then he nodded, slowly, and turned toward the door.

Galad followed his friend out into the corridor, the borrowed sword swinging easily at his hip, his armor catching the lamplight as he walked toward the great courtyard where seven men waited to kill him.

In the void, he felt nothing at all.

Just the slow, steady rhythm of his own heart, the sharp clarity of the world around him, and the certainty of what must be done.

xxx

When Galad arrived through the great arched passage that led from the keep proper, he found that the stands were already filled with noblemen and noblewomen by the hundreds, with the courtyard at the heart of Casterly Rock transformed into an arena. 

Wooden viewing platforms had been hastily erected against the walls of the courtyard, their tiers packed shoulder-to-shoulder with lords and ladies in their finery. The royal box rose higher than the others, draped in crimson and gold, the Baratheon stag and Lannister lion competing for prominence on its banners.

And they were not the only spectators.

It seemed every scullery maid and stableboy and groom in the Rock had found a nook or cranny around the yard from which to watch the spectacle. Heads poked out of upper windows, hands gripping stone sills to lean out for a better view. Children had hidden themselves beneath benches and behind columns, their parents either too occupied to drag them away or perhaps unaware they had escaped. Servants in their work clothes crowded into doorways, careful not to fully enter the stands but determined not to miss the proceedings either.

The sun had risen high enough now to fully clear the eastern wall, painting the courtyard's pale stone in shades of gold. Sand had been raked across the central fighting ground, smooth and even, ready to drink whatever blood would be spilled.

A full dozen Lannister guards escorted Galad all the way into his side of the makeshift arena. The Tyrells had matched that number with men of their own, who made sure to leave only after the lions had gone, neither party trusting the other to handle the accused with any pretense of fairness. As the Tyrell men finally withdrew, Galad received nods and pats on the back, words of low encouragement.

"For the Reach, ser."

"Show them, Ser Galad."

"Seven save you, ser."

They saw him as one of their own. A common man who had made his way to the heights of highborn circles and was now facing the consequences for daring to rise.

None of it broke Galad's absolute focus. The lions' sneers and the flowers' cheers were no more than ripples on still water. The void held him deep, and through it he saw everything, the angles of the courtyard, the elevation of the stands, the distances between the men he would soon face, the position of every guard and observer.

Across the yard, seven men stood close together near the opposing side of the arena. Their squires ran between them carrying waterskins and shields, adjusting straps, holding swords steady for final inspection. Some of the knights moved with the easy confidence of men accustomed to violence. Others kept casting wary glances toward Galad's side of the yard.

Garlan had prepared everything in advance. The boy now stood at Galad's side worrying his nails with his teeth, his small face pale beneath his brown hair. He clutched Nightfall's sheathed length close to his chest. 

The septon from earlier stepped to the center of the courtyard and called the eight combatants forward. His seven-pointed star medallion gleamed against his grey robes as he raised his hands for silence.

Galad walked into the center of the sand, the borrowed sword at his hip, his armor clinking softly with each step. The seven opposite walked toward him in a loose group, taking their positions before the gathered nobility like warriors about to hack at each other in bloodsport for the favor of the crowd.

Some of the seven sneered at him as they drew closer. Galad's eyes scanned each of their faces in turn, memorizing the details so he would not mistake one for another in the fight. Whenever possible, he preferred to know the faces of the men he killed. It seemed only proper.

Ser Amory Lorch with his thinning hair and heavy moustache. Ser Mandon Moore who showed nothing at all, his cold dead gaze fixed on Galad with the patient attention of a predator. Ser Meryn Trant gave him a yellow-toothed grin that promised cruelty. Ser Boros Blount looked nervous, his piggy eyes darting about. Ser Balman Byrch, tall and broad with a bushy mustache and a greatsword strapped to his back. Ser Benedict Broom, an older knight Galad had never seen before, gaunt and grey-haired. And finally Ser Owen Inchfield, his blue eyes blazing with deep hatred, face twisted into something that barely qualified as human.

The septon bid them wait as he spoke his holy words, a long sermon about the Seven and their judgment, about how the gods would show truth through the blades of just men, about how the innocent would prevail through divine providence. Galad let the words wash over him, neither attending nor dismissing them. The man was doing his duty as he saw it.

Up in the stands, Galad spotted familiar faces with their gazes fixed on him. Different gazes. Different feelings beneath them.

Young Margaery sat between her brothers, her small hands clutched together in her lap, her brown eyes wide with apprehension. Loras beside her looked similarly afraid. They had been allowed to come see his trial despite their youth. Lord Mace had insisted, apparently, claiming his children needed to bear witness to the injustice being done. Willas Tyrell sat at the edge of his seat, his face composed but his hands gripping the wooden railing. Faith showed in his eyes. Faith Galad hoped to honor.

Lord Randyll Tarly stood amidst the other lords, arms crossed, his hard scowl fixed on the seven knights opposite Galad as if memorizing their faces for some future settlement. The Reach contingent surrounded him, Ser Baelor Hightower with his sister Lynesse, Lord Mathis Rowan, others.

Many in the stands looked positively on him, Galad knew. Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone in his bronze armor, Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard. Lord Gulian Swann nodded at him from his seat among the other Stormlords, his fair face grim but supportive.

But those who sat in the highest box, those whose banners flew most prominently above the courtyard, did not look kindly upon him.

Robert Baratheon had not deigned to show his face, it seemed. A large chair sat empty in the royal box, its dark cushions undisturbed.

But the others beside it were filled with golden-haired Lannisters.

There sat the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei Lannister. Her emerald-green glare threatened to burn a hole through his armor. She had dressed in crimson silk with gold embroidery, her hair arranged in an elaborate style that caught the morning sun. She looked beautiful and terrible at once, like a goddess of vengeance from some old tale. She did not bother to hide her hatred. Did not bother to school her features into anything resembling royal composure. She wanted him to see her hate. Wanted him to know she had arranged all of this.

Lord Tywin Lannister sat on the other side of the king's empty chair, his face a mask of hard granite, his brows furrowed tightly. His expression revealed nothing, but Galad could read the tension in his posture, the way his fingers gripped the arms of his chair just slightly too tightly.

Ser Jaime stood next to his sister as her white-cloaked guard, yet it was the expression on his face that caught Galad's attention. Conflict of some kind. He frowned down at the yard with something almost like discomfort. Was it his leg that pained him or the farce playing out below?

Galad recognized some others sitting close by as well. Ser Lucion Lannister with his cousins, Ser Gerion Lannister whom Galad had faced in the melee. He did not get the impression they had any hand in this mad scheme. Their faces showed surprise and concern, not anticipation. They were watching what their queen had wrought, and they did not entirely approve.

In the midst of the crowd, Galad saw men who had fought with him in Harlaw and Grey Garden. He saw ladies he had danced with in this very castle just nights before. He saw knights he had faced in the tilt lanes and in the grand melee. Hundreds upon hundreds of faces, each with their own thoughts and fears and hopes for what was about to unfold.

In the void, he could almost hear the thrum of all their heartbeats coming together like a great chorus. Some fretting and afraid. Others excited, eager to see blood. A few perhaps even bored, attending out of duty rather than interest.

He let it all break over him as a boulder stands in the midst of a river. The current was strong, but the stone did not move.

The septon finally finished his speech, and a crier stepped forward to announced the proceedings in his loud carrying voice. 

"Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms! The accused: Ser Galad of Dunstonbury, charged with the crimes of slaving, rape, and murder most foul!"

A wave of murmurs rolled through the stands, hands covering mouths, heads shaking in disbelief or anger.

"The accusers: led by Ser Amory Lorch, knight of House Lorch and sworn man of Casterly Rock! Standing with him: Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Meryn Trant, and Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard! Ser Benedict Broom, master-at-arms of House Lannister! Ser Balman Byrch of the Crownlands! And Ser Owen Inchfield of the Reach!"

Each name brought its own reaction. Some cheers rose at the Kingsguard names from the smallfolk crowded in their nooks and windows. Owen Inchfield's announcement drew angry shouts from the Reach contingent.

"The trial!" The crier raised his voice further. "By ancient custom and sacred right, a Trial of Seven! The accused shall fight as one against the seven accusers, this contest to be decided by either death or yielding of one side! No quarter shall be demanded that is not freely given! No mercy shall be required that is not freely offered!"

He drew a deep breath, then pronounced the traditional closing words with all the solemnity his office could muster.

"And may the gods show them mercy."

Galad nodded at that. He found himself in agreement. He did wish the gods would show his opponents mercy, for there would be none in his heart.

The bell tolled.

The trial began. 

He did not wait for them to organize themselves. 

The seven men had begun to spread out from their cluster, clearly planning to surround him, to box him in like hunters stalking game. 

It was good tactics, well-conceived if perhaps poorly executed. Against a normal man, against any other knight in Westeros perhaps, it would have worked. Forcing the lone defender to constantly turn, to never know which direction the next attack would come from, to be slowly worn down until exhaustion or a missed parry ended things.

Galad gave them no time to complete the maneuver.

He dashed forward toward the closest man, Ser Mandon Moore, pulling his sword free as he ran.

The borrowed castle-forged steel sang from its scabbard, catching the morning sun. Mandon's cold pale eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he registered the wrong color of steel, the absence of Valyrian ripple in the blade. It was not the sword he had expected, not the sword he had been preparing himself to face.

That moment of surprise was enough.

Galad assessed Mandon in the heartbeats of his approach. The man's stance was solid, his shield well-positioned, his sword held in a proper high guard. Of the seven, he was the best by far. Better than the other Kingsguard, better than the Lannister knights. His movements held the precision of long training and his focus the coldness of a man who killed without feeling.

Good. Better to deal with the most dangerous first.

Closing the distance, he held his borrowed sword level before him. Mandon recovered from his surprise quickly, settling into his guard, ready to receive the charge.

Galad feinted low, a thrust that seemed aimed at the groin. Mandon's shield dipped reflexively to protect the vulnerable area while his sword remained high on guard, ready to chop down at Galad's exposed head.

In the void, Galad saw the opening the moment Mandon's shield moved. The Kingsguard had presented him a fraction of his throat—the gap between gorget and helmet, where the chainmail aventail was the only protection.

Galad's blade flickered up faster than any normal eye could track. The thrust seemed to begin as a sideways slash, then transformed mid-strike into a precise upward thrust, the motion as seamless as wind flowing through reeds.

The sword's point met the soft flesh of Mandon Moore's neck just above the gorget. Castle-forged steel parted chainmail, then skin, then the vital structures beneath. In and out in half a second.

Mandon Moore was dead before he registered the wound.

His body began to fold, blood already fountaining from the precise puncture, but Galad was already turning. Already moving to meet the next opponent.

A second knight had been rushing in from behind, Ser Balman Byrch, the tall one with the bushy mustache. He had seen Mandon engaged and tried to take Galad from behind, swinging his greatsword in a wild overhead chop that would have split Galad in half had it landed.

He sidestepped to his left as the massive blade came down, and the greatsword cleaved only empty air, its weight carrying it deep into the sand of the courtyard floor. Byrch's hands remained on the grip, his stance overextended.

Galad killed him in three moves.

First, he stepped onto the man's two-handed grip with his foot, pinning the greatsword to the ground. Byrch's eyes widened above his mustache.

Second, Galad launched himself upward, using his foot's purchase on the trapped sword as a springboard.

Third, the borrowed castle-forged steel came around in a clean horizontal slash at Byrch's neckline, the blade biting through flesh and spine as it passed.

Ser Balman Byrch's head separated from his shoulders. It hit the ground at the same time as Ser Mandon Moore's body, the two impacts producing nearly simultaneous thuds in the suddenly silent courtyard.

Landing lightly on the sand, Galad was already turning to face the remaining five.

Two of them had been rushing him from the flanks, but having seen what had just happened to their fellows, seemed to think better of pressing the attack alone. They retreated quickly, regrouping with the rest.

The five remaining knights gathered together, this time forming a proper formation. Shields raised, swords ready, no one stepping forward to be picked off individually. Ser Amory Lorch took command, gesturing his men into position. Ser Meryn Trant looked considerably less confident than he had a moment before. Ser Boros Blount looked openly terrified. Ser Benedict Broom held his sword in a steady grip but his face had gone pale. Ser Owen Inchfield's hatred had cooled into something more like calculation. He had seen the speed of Galad's strikes, and even his rage could not entirely eclipse self-preservation.

The five of them would come at once. Together. Coordinated. Galad nodded slowly to himself. Perhaps this way they would make it a challenge.

He set his stance and waited for them to advance. Two men dead in less than ten heartbeats. Five to go.

The courtyard remained dead silent. No one cheered. No one even breathed loudly. Hundreds of nobles and servants stared down at the impossible sight before them, trying to reconcile what they had just witnessed with what was supposed to be happening.

And as the void held Galad in its perfect stillness, he waited for the dance to continue.

xxx

Jaime Lannister

Jaime could not help his jaw dropping as he watched Ser Galad of Dunstonbury dancing between the five remaining knights.

Two had died faster than he could blink. He had never seen a man move like that—so decidedly, so sure of every step, so rightful in every swing of the sword. 

The woodsman knight had crossed the sand to Ser Mandon Moore in less time than it took to draw breath, and Mandon—Mandon, who Jaime knew was one of the finest swordsmen in the Kingsguard, however unpleasant a man—had fallen with a precise thrust to the throat that had been so quick Jaime almost missed it. 

Then Ser Balman Byrch, that tall fool with his greatsword, had charged in from behind and been beheaded with a maneuver that involved Ser Galad jumping on the man's blade, springing upward, and using the leverage to take the head off in a clean slash.

To Jaime's surprise, and to the surprise of many in the stands who had gasped and shouted and pointed at it, Ser Galad was not wielding the Valyrian steel blade Nightfall. Only regular castle-forged steel. As if to inform the realm he needed no tricks or fancy swords to do what he was about to do.

Somehow, Jaime found he liked the man despite himself, though he was wise enough not to say those words out loud. Not with his sister standing beside him in her crimson fury, and his father on the other side of the empty throne, watching the proceedings with the stone-faced control he had perfected over decades.

Cersei hissed as Ser Meryn Trant almost scored a cut against the Reach knight, a desperate swing that should have caught Galad across the shoulder. But the man glided away like a dancer, his footwork carrying him just beyond reach, his sword slashing out in the same motion to parry a strike from Ser Boros Blount on the other side.

The five remaining knights had tried to maintain their formation after the first two fell. They had attempted to close in together, to use their numbers properly. But Galad would not let them. He moved constantly, always shifting position, always forcing them to break ranks to keep up with him. When one came too close, he punished them. When two tried to flank him, he was already somewhere else.

None dared step too close after Ser Boros Blount got a nasty cut on his overextended leg. The Woodsman had let Blount come at him with a clumsy thrust, sidestepped at the last moment, and opened the back of the kingsguard's knee with a precise downward slash. Blount now hobbled around the courtyard like a wounded dog, shying away from the thick of the fighting but still skulking around the edges, hoping perhaps to land a coward's blow when Galad was distracted by the others.

An angry heat bloomed in Jaime's chest at the sight. How far had the institution of the Kingsguard fallen if men like Boros Blount and Meryn Trant donned the white cloak? Ser Gerold Hightower would have spat upon them. Ser Arthur Dayne would have wept.

"These fools," Cersei snapped beside him, her voice low and venomous. "Why don't they kill him already?"

Jaime caught his father shooting her a glare, a small flicker of expression that meant his sister had said something foolish. Tywin Lannister did not answer the question, only turned back to the courtyard with his stone face firmly in place.

His father was not quite gifted with a sword like Jaime was, Jaime knew, but Lord Tywin had seen plenty of fighting in his time. The Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion. The Ninepenny Kings. The Sack of King's Landing, however ignobly. He had seen enough to know exactly why the seven men below had not yet killed Ser Galad.

"Because they cannot," Jaime said quietly.

"What?" Cersei turned to him, her green eyes flashing. "It's seven against one!"

"Was seven against one," he corrected. "Now it's five."

Gasps rang out in the stands at that moment as Galad's blade flickered out and back, scoring a deep wound across Ser Benedict Broom's upper chest where his breastplate met his pauldron. The old Lannister master-at-arms fell to his knees, then to his side, blood spreading rapidly across his armor and into the sand beneath. Some scattered cheers came from the Reachmen's section.

Jaime looked back down and could not help the trace of amusement that coated his voice. "Four now. Seems Ser Benedict Broom was a shame to the name of Lannister."

"He was no Lannister," Lord Tywin grated out, his voice low and dangerous.

"He was your master-at-arms."

Tywin glared. "Who we will say was ill-liked and went against my orders to join this folly. Do you two hear me?"

Jaime shrugged, but his sister fumed beside him at the implication.

"You can't mean to let this go, father?" Cersei's voice carried real disbelief. "After everything—"

"It is done, Cersei." Tywin did not look at her. He continued to watch the fighting below with that same impassive expression, but his hands had tightened on the arms of his chair. "You are blind if you cannot see it."

"You're admitting defeat?"

"It is not a defeat." Tywin's jaw worked once. "I'll make sure that by the time the realm hears of it, the name Lannister will not even be mentioned in connection with this farce. The Kingsguard knights acted on their own initiative. Ser Amory Lorch was a fool who exceeded his orders. Ser Benedict Broom was ill-liked and went rogue. We had no hand in any of it."

"The highborn here will not forget the truth," Jaime said.

"They will," Tywin spat.

Jaime did not argue further. Wisely, perhaps more than usual, his sister shut her mouth as well. Jaime knew better than to try to convince his father of anything once that tone had entered his voice. To Tywin Lannister, the truth was what he believed it to be, not what everyone else could plainly see. The Lord of Casterly Rock would simply will the narrative into existence through sheer force of personality and gold, and over time, his version would become accepted as fact. Or at least he’d try.

Jaime's attention shifted back to the fighting beneath, and what fighting it was.

Ser Galad of Dunstonbury was a storm amidst the four remaining knights. He shifted sideways and slipped beneath swings, parried and blocked and slashed back in motions so fluid they seemed less like combat and more like some intricate dance choreographed in advance.

Ser Amory Lorch made the mistake of trying to press an attack just then. He came at the Woodsman with a downward chop that would have split a lesser man's helmet. Ser Galad's blade rose to meet it in what looked at first like a simple parry. But then his sword twisted in some way Jaime could not quite follow, and Amory Lorch's longsword went flying from his grip, spinning end over end before clattering to the sand a dozen paces away.

Before Lorch could react, before he could even register that his weapon was gone, Galad struck twice in rapid succession. Two piercing thrusts beneath Lorch's raised arms, finding the gaps in the armpit gussets of his armor with surgical precision. Blood spewed down both his sides, soaking through the mail and padding to spill onto the cobblestones beneath.

Lorch's knees hit the ground a heartbeat later, his strength fleeing him along with his lifeblood. He stayed upright for perhaps three more seconds, his eyes wide and disbelieving, before toppling forward onto his face.

Three now.

Jaime had to physically stop himself from cheering with the rest of the crowd. He felt like he was watching an expert sculptor carving his masterpiece, using men's bodies for stonework. He leaned forward now, eyes glued on the yard, his heartbeat leaping in his chest in a way it had not since—since he could not remember when.

Gods, he wished he was down there in the trial. Just so he could trade blows with such a swordsman. Just so he could see what it was truly like to face perfection with steel in hand.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Jaime Lannister had to admit there was someone out there better than him with a blade in hand.

Could it be true? He had to think so. Jaime himself was better than all seven of the men who had taken the field against Ser Galad, of that he had no doubt. Even injured as his leg was, he figured he could have defeated any of them in single combat. 

But he also did not think he could take all seven of them at once. Not without serious injury. Likely not without dying. Ser Mandon Moore was no slouch with a sword in hand, and he had fallen before Jaime could blink.

The more he watched, the more Jaime got excited.

Ser Galad flowed from stance to stance, his feet always moving, always dancing across the sand. His blade shifted like it had a mind of its own, singing through the air in a beautiful song of steel and blood. 

He never seemed to be where his opponents expected him. He never seemed to swing where they thought he would. Every motion led to another, every parry transitioned into an attack, every defensive movement set up an offensive opportunity.

It was poetry. It was art. It was the platonic ideal of swordsmanship made flesh.

Jaime felt like he was a boy again, watching Ser Gerold Hightower—the White Bull—sparring in the practice yard against Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He had spent hours as a young man watching those two giants of the Kingsguard go through their drills, marveling at their grace, their power, their absolute mastery of their craft. He had wanted to be like them with every fiber of his being. Had practiced for hours upon hours in pursuit of that dream.

But even Ser Arthur Dayne, the greatest swordsman of his generation, perhaps of any generation… Jaime was not certain he had moved like this.

This Galad of Dunstonbury was something else entirely. Something beyond even the legends. Only men of Ser Gerold or Ser Arthur's caliber could have stood against him for any time at all, and Jaime was not entirely certain even they could have prevailed.

The thought should have troubled him more than it did. But somehow, watching such mastery, Jaime found only joy in it. Like watching a great work of art come into being. Like witnessing one of those moments that bards would sing of for a thousand years.

Ser Boros Blount tried to flee.

The piggy-faced kingsguard had been circling the edges of the fight, doing nothing useful, hoping perhaps to outlast his fellows and avoid Galad's notice. But as the woodsman knight finished Lorch and turned toward the remaining three, Blount apparently decided his survival lay elsewhere. He hobbled toward the edge of the courtyard on his wounded leg, his face pale with terror.

Galad gave him no chance to escape. He closed the distance in three swift strides, his sword flashing once, and Ser Boros Blount fell with a wound across the back of his neck that severed his spine. The kingsguard was dead before he hit the sand.

Two now. Just Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Owen Inchfield.

Meryn Trant did what Jaime had half-expected him to do from the start. The wretched man dropped his sword. The castle-forged steel rang against the cobblestones as it fell, and Trant opened his mouth to speak.

“I yie—”

But Ser Galad did not let him.

The woodsman flew in like an eagle stooping on its prey, faster than thought, faster than mercy. His sword came around in a clean horizontal strike, and Ser Meryn Trant's silence was sealed forever as his head separated from his shoulders. The body fell like a ragdoll discarded by a careless child.

Jaime felt a small, fierce satisfaction at that. Trant had deserved no better. Less, perhaps.

In a fit of mad rage, the last man standing, Ser Owen Inchfield from the Reach, roared and bullrushed Ser Galad, the sound more animal than human, as if he meant to frighten his opponent more than actually fight him.

It ended with a whimper.

One slash from Galad's sword took Owen's right arm at the elbow, severing it cleanly through the gap in the armor. The arm flew through the air still clutching his sword and landed in the sand several paces away. Owen made a small, broken sound and stumbled forward, his stump fountaining blood.

The next slash gave him a mercy Jaime did not think any of these seven deserved. Galad's sword punched through the face-plate of Owen's helmet, ending him quickly. His body fell beside the others, joining the carnage spread across the courtyard.

Seven men dead. Just like that, the trial was over. And without Inchfield’s incessant yelling, a hushed silence fell across the courtyard.

Standing stock-still in the royal box, Jaime scanned the faces around him. His sister's stunned horror, her mouth slightly open, her green eyes wide with disbelief and rage warring against each other. Her hand gripped the railing of the box so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

His father's dead quiet. Tywin Lannister's face revealed nothing, but Jaime had grown up reading the subtle signs of his father's moods. The tightness around his eyes. The set of his jaw. The way his fingers had stilled on the chair's arm. 

His father was furious. Furious in that cold, controlled way that meant terrible things would happen to certain people in the weeks and months ahead. But those things would happen quietly, behind closed doors, far from public view. Lord Tywin would not lash out now. 

Beneath them in the stands, the men and women of the realm stared quietly in a moment of complete disbelief.

Jaime almost found that comforting. For some reason, something in him wanted to know that others were as stunned as he was. Wanted to confirm that he had not hallucinated what he had just seen, some fever-dream brought on by his wounded leg or too much wine. That one man had truly just slaughtered seven anointed knights like a butcher would his sheep. 

Then the spell broke and the crowd erupted.  Men jumped up from their seats, fists pumping the air, voices raised in shouts and cheers that echoed off the stone walls of Casterly Rock. Women cried out and gasped, some clutching at their husbands or fathers, others standing alone and screaming openly. Some called out Ser Galad's name with a reverence usually reserved for lovers or gods.

Lord Mace Tyrell was bellowing something incoherent and triumphant. Lord Randyll Tarly stood rigid as a statue with his arms crossed, but Jaime thought he could see satisfaction in the harsh lines of the man's face. Young Margaery Tyrell was crying with relief, her face buried in her brother Willas's shoulder.

Others around them wept openly, even grown men, even hardened knights who had seen battle, as if they had just witnessed the Warrior himself come to earth to dispense the Father's justice. 

Perhaps they had witnessed exactly that, Jaime thought. What else could explain a man fighting like this? He did not know. Not truly. He had spent his life around the greatest swordsmen of the realm, had trained with them and against them. He had thought he understood the limits of what was possible with a blade in a man's hand.

He had been wrong.

Down in the courtyard, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury stood alone amidst seven corpses. Blood spattered his armor and stained the sword in his hand. He breathed evenly, showing no sign of exertion. His violet eyes scanned the stands once, perhaps looking for someone specific, perhaps simply taking in the reaction of the realm to what he had done.

Then he sheathed the sword and walked calmly toward where his young squire stood holding Nightfall. The boy met him halfway, and Galad took back his Valyrian blade with the same easy motion a man might use to reclaim a hat from a servant.

The Woodsman Knight walked away calmly from the slaughter he had wrought, and Jaime Lannister knew one thing for sure.

He would never forget Ser Galad's Trial of Seven.

Neither would the Seven Kingdoms.

xxx

AN: Beefy chapter. Also, if you have a RoyalRoad account, do me a solid and give this story a follow there: https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/172666/game-of-thrones-a-blademaster-in-westeros