Chapter 24

The servants Galad passed in the hallways pressed themselves against the walls. They bowed low as he walked by, lower than he’d seen them bow to many a lord. He had spotted several who had been spooked by his echoing boots coming down the corridors and run back from peering through windows or off balconies, afraid of being caught still looking at the spectacle below.

If they had been too far away to recognize him by his face and armor, then Nightfall hanging at his side left no doubt that he was the one responsible for what had just happened in the courtyard.

He had already left Arys's sword with Garlan to see it returned to its owner. He had been extra careful not to notch it during the fighting—a borrowed blade was a borrowed blade, and it deserved respect. Perhaps he might have been able to end the trial faster had it been his own sword in his hand. But that had been the point, after all. The realm needed to see that he did not need Nightfall to protect himself.

He kept going down the hall, and he could hear the murmurs rising behind him as turned corners. No matter the time and age and world, people and gossip were as inseparable as always. Things grew quieter as he moved further away from the courtyard toward the wing of the mountain castle where the Tyrell apartments—and his own modest chambers—were located. 

He had not even had time to return to his room since everything happened, and if he planned to leave today, then he needed to gather the last of his things now while the rest of the nobles were still gathering their dropped jaws from the benches.

Now that the void no longer consumed his mind, Galad allowed himself an amused smile at the memory of the stunned faces he had seen in the stands. He could only imagine how they would look if they ever got to witness a blademaster like the last of the Malkieri kings, Al'Lan Mandragoran, wielding his power-wrought sword. There were men in his old world who had made Galad himself look like a regular swordsman by comparison. The men of Westeros would do well to remember that the world was larger than they knew.

Then he was turning a corner and very nearly running into someone.

He pulled up short at the last instant, his armor clinking as he stopped just in time to avoid trampling what at first appeared to be a young boy. But looking closer, he realized it was not a boy at all, but a young man with a man's face beneath a head of fine, pale hair. A young man with stunted, bowed legs and shoulders that did not quite match the rest of his frame.

A dwarf.

The young man's eyes—Galad noted they were mismatched, one green and one black, brightened up when he looked up at Galad. He showed no fear at all of having nearly been bowled over by an armored knight in full plate fresh from killing seven men.

"Ah, there you are!” the young man said. “I hoped to run into you before you made it back to your side of the Rock."

Surprised, Galad considered him for a moment. He had never met the man around the castle before, but his clothes were finely made in crimson and gold, with a small lion brooch at the collar, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to fine things despite his circumstances. A noble, then. Galad nodded in greeting.

"How can I help you, my lord?"

The dwarf cracked a smile at that. "Oh, not much, Ser Galad. I just wanted to look upon the man who has so thoroughly embarrassed my father and my sweet sister all in a single morning. Perhaps you can give me some tips as to how I might achieve the same success."

It took a second for things to slot together in Galad's mind. My father. My sweet sister. The lion brooch. The fine clothes. 

"Forgive me," Galad said. "I did not know Lord Tywin had another child other than the queen and Ser Jaime."

The boy laughed, the sound surprisingly pleasant. "I assure you, you are not the only one. I am quite easy to overlook, especially in crowds." He raised a hand up to his head to demonstrate his height—or lack thereof. "Ah, my apologies. I never introduced myself properly. My name is Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister, at your service." He gave a small, formal bow.

"How old are you, Tyrion Lannister?" Galad asked, genuinely curious.

"I turn sixteen a moon hence. Not a knight or a squire, as you can imagine." Tyrion opened his hands wide in a self-deprecating gesture, as if to say look at me, who would have such a thing?

"Sixteen?" Galad frowned slightly. Certainly not a child, then. "You were not at any of the feasts I attended. I would have remembered."

"I can be quite striking, can I not?" The smile Tyrion gave did not quite reach his eyes. He shrugged with practiced casualness. "Figured it was best for everybody if I stayed out of the way. My father got to hide his shame, and I could do without all the stares."

Galad's eyes narrowed. "Shame? What can a boy your age do to shame his father?"

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at that. "Do?" He laughed, but it was a sharp, bitter sound. "You think a dwarf can ever be worthy of being Tywin Lannister's son?"

"I see."

Indeed, Galad did see. That was the reason he had never even heard of this third child before. Lord Tywin certainly seemed the type to ostracize his son for how he had been born. His opinion of the man might have gone down further were it not already at the bottom after this morning's farce.

He looked down at the boy again, taking in the wariness behind the wit, the carefully maintained mask of indifference that did not quite hide the hurt beneath.

"Tell me then, Tyrion Lannister. What do you do?"

Tyrion blinked. "What?"

"You said you were not a squire or a knight, but you are a man already, or near enough.” Galad asked again. “What is it that you do?"

"I..." Tyrion hesitated. The boy seemed taken aback by the question, his mouth opening and closing for a second. “I don’t quite grasp your meaning, ser.”

"You asked me how you could achieve the same success, did you not?" Galad continued. "Since you are not a squire or a knight, I cannot help you with your swordwork. So I am asking what you do, that I might give you advice on it."

Tyrion blew out a breath, then managed a wry expression that almost passed for amusement. "You are a strange man, ser. I meant that only in jest. But if you must know, my father plans to put me in charge of the Rock's cisterns and drains. Seems that is the only type of work he thinks I am responsible enough for."

Galad could hear the hurt buried beneath the boy's flippant tone.

"And what are your plans for it?"

"My plans?"

"Yes, Lord Tyrion. How many hours do you think it took me to become good at this?" Galad patted Nightfall at his side. "I expect that a man soon to be put in charge of cisterns and drains has done much study in the field with the time he has."

Tyrion's eyes flashed with something that might have been anger. "He meant to mock me with this assignment, ser. Not to honor me. Why should I spend a whit of my mind studying for it?"

"Perhaps he did mean to mock you,” Galad allowed. “I imagine that even if you succeed in the work, he would not see fit to thank you for it. But why should you not feel proud of your own work? Your father's opinion is not the only one that exists in the world. The most important opinion of your work, in the end, is your own."

"I do not want to become a sewer expert, ser." He sounded petulant now.

"This is not about sewers, my lord. They are a duty of today, and so today you will work on sewers. But you are young and still have much time ahead to find what it is in this world that moves you. Perhaps it is not building sewers, but it is raising castles, or studying history, or designing ships." Galad shrugged slightly. "Whatever it is, do it well, regardless of what your father thinks or what your sister says. That is the kind of success no one can ever take away from you."

Tyrion Lannister seemed to consider his words for a long moment. Then his eyes hardened.

"Easy for you to say. By all accounts, you are the greatest living knight in the land. And a tall, whole man besides."

Galad nodded slowly. "Yes. It is easier for me. But do you think your life is harder than that of any number of smallfolk out there? The crippled boy begging in the street? The miller's daughter sold into marriage at twelve? The peasant farmer whose harvest fails three years running and watches his children starve?"

That seemed to make the boy pause. His mouth opened, then closed. His expression shifted into something more uncertain.

Galad walked closer and laid a hand on the boy's small shoulder. The dwarf flinched slightly, as if unused to being touched.

"That is my advice for you, Tyrion son of Tywin. Find something you can be proud of in your life, and you will never again shy away from stares at feasts. They will lose their power over you. That I can promise you."

He let his hand fall and stepped back. Tyrion looked up at him with an expression that was somewhere between confusion and reluctant gratitude. His mouth worked as if he wanted to say something but could not quite find the words.

Galad nodded to him once and continued down the corridor, leaving the young Lannister standing there in the lamplight, staring after him. 

xxx

He reached his rooms and found everything as he had left it that morning—a lifetime ago, it seemed now. The borrowed Hightower clothes from yesterday lay folded on a chair, and his travel gear sat in the corner where Garlan had placed it. He never managed to get his new garments with their sigil of tree and sunburst, but hopefully Ben would be able to collect them before he turned north.

Without Garlan to help him, shedding his armor took a little longer than he’d wished, but he’d done so plenty of times before, the plates and mail coming off in their proper sequence. The pieces went into a leather pack designed to carry them on the road, and he changed instead into traveling clothes of dark wool and good linen, simple but well-made, suitable for long days in the saddle.

Then he gathered his few personal belongings. A leather pouch with the tools needed for tending blades. The bone-handled hunting knife Ser Garin Sand had given him before his death. A few books he had recently acquired in Lannisport,

Not much to show for eighteen years of building a life in this world, but most of his possessions had been left back at his cabin in the Reach. 

He was packing the last of it into a pair of saddlebags when a knock came at the door. When he opened it, it was to find the Tyrell family staring at him from the corridor.

Lord Mace stood at the back, his round face flushed with what seemed to be a combination of anger, pride, and emotion. Lady Alerie at his side, calm and composed as always. The children stood before them, with Wilas holding his siblings by the shoulder.

Until he let them go, and little Margaery launched herself at him before he could react, hugging him hard around his waist with her small arms. Loras followed only a heartbeat later, the boy throwing himself into the embrace with equal force from the other side.

Both children were crying. Not sobbing, they were too well-bred for that, but tears streamed down their faces freely as they pressed themselves against him.

"You're alive!" Loras said.

"We were so scared," Margaery cried. "They said you would have to fight all seven and we thought the worst.”

Loras nodded into his leg. "It was so unfair, Ser Galad, so unfair!"

Smiling, he reached down to pat both their heads, ruffling their fine brown hair. "There now. All is well that ends well. You should have known better than to worry for me."

Mace Tyrell, watching the scene from beside his wife, belted out a great laugh at that. "Ha! That's right, my boy. We should have known not to doubt you! What a fight that was! Still—" His expression sobered. "Still, this farce of a trial shall not go without a response from the Reach, I promise you that. I have already sent word to Highgarden to begin gathering grievances. The realm will know what the Lannisters tried this day."

Galad would’ve preferred not to rattle the kingdoms any more than he’d already had, but in the end it was not his decision to make. "I will trust your wisdom on this, my lord."

"Garlan told us you would be leaving today," Willas said quietly from behind his parents. The young heir's eyes were serious, taking in the saddlebags visible through the open door.

"He spoke truly," Galad confirmed. "I will ride out before the sun is much higher."

Margaery pulled back from her hug just enough to look up at him, her tear-streaked face crinkling with concern. "But what about the jousting? Don't you want to become champion there too? You could crown a queen of love and beauty like in all the stories."

Galad knelt down to her level, the better to meet her eyes properly. "Perhaps some other time, little lady. I never cared much for jousting, truth be told. Champion's titles are not why I came to this tourney."

Lady Alerie laughed softly. "Lynesse will weep when she hears of it. The poor girl has been talking of nothing but you for two weeks now."

Galad smiled at that but did not respond. Lynesse was a kind young woman, but no good would come from his pretending otherwise about his intentions.

Lady Alerie continued, more gently: "Children, say your goodbyes to Ser Galad now, as you did with Garlan." She turned to Galad as the children released their grip and stepped back, sniffling. "And we thank you, ser. For everything you have done for our family. For saving our children at your cabin when the Ironborn came. For taking Garlan as your squire and shaping him into the boy he is now. For all of it." Her eyes were warm with what looked like genuine emotion. "You will always be welcome at Highgarden, ser. Whatever path your travels take, our gates will be open to you. Always."

"You honor me, my lady. Truly." Galad turned to the children, still kneeling. Margaery was wiping at her tears with a small embroidered handkerchief, trying to maintain her composure with all the dignity a six-year-old could muster. Loras simply sniffled and held tight to his sister's hand. "Now then. I expect proper goodbyes from you both."

Margaery threw her arms around his neck for one more hug. "You'll come visit us, won't you, Ser Galad? Please say you will."

"I will visit when I can, my lady. That I promise. Whenever my travels bring me near Highgarden, I will stop and see you."

"And me too!" Loras insisted, hugging him from the other side.

"And you too, young lord,” Galad said as he stood. "Remember what we discussed about footwork. The most important part of any fight is your feet, not your sword."

"I will, ser! I will!"

Willas stepped forward then, and bowed to him lower than was appropriate for someone his station, especially right in front of his parents. "Thank you, ser,” he said, head low. “For the lessons and your friendship. I shall never forget it."

"You will make a fine knight, my lord,” Galad told him. “I have seen the seeds of it in you these past months."

Willas smiled, his expression sober but pleased. "I will continue the training you set up for me, ser. I will not let it lapse just because my teacher is gone."

Lord Mace, his expression more serious now, came up around his son and clapped Galad on the shoulder with one of his thick hands. "Garlan is already waiting with your horses at the stables, ser. I have prepared the best animals we had for the two of you. Sturdy beasts, all four of them. They will see you across any terrain. I have also sent additional horses ahead with Ben, as you requested."

"My thanks, my lord. You are too generous."

"Bah, nonsense. After what you have done for this family?" Lord Tyrell waved his hand dismissively. "It is nothing. Truly nothing. Now, what of your gold? With your winnings in the archery tourney and the grand melee, you have nearly thirteen thousand gold dragons coming to you, all told. Do you wish to take it all with you? That much coin can buy many comforts on the road."

Taking all that gold with him would be foolish in the extreme, it would only attract bandits and worse. A man traveling with that much coin in saddlebags was a man with a target painted on his back.

"I will take five hundred dragons with me, my lord,” he decided. “Enough for travel expenses and good rooms when we want them. Could the rest be held for me at Highgarden?"

"Of course, of course! Whatever you wish." Lord Mace nodded eagerly. "I will keep it safe in your name, and we can arrange to send portions to you wherever you happen to be in the realm. A letter from you, properly sealed, and I will see to it that you receive it wherever you find yourself. Easy enough."

"That would suit me well,” Galad said, then thought of something else. “One more thing, my lord."

"Anything, my boy."

"From that gold—I would ask that a part of it be used to help Lorne's widow.” He could see in the lord’s eyes that he did not remember 

“Ser Lorne gained his knighthood along with Ser Galad, father,” Wilas cut in, “back in the Flower Hearth.”

Recognition dawned on Mace Tyrell then. “Ah, yes, of course, of course. Lorne was a good man, to be sure.”

“Indeed he was,” Galad said. “He fought bravely in Harlaw and died a hero in my eyes.” 

He nodded gravely. "I will see it done, ser. Lorne’s widow will want for nothing."

Something of a weight finally left Galad’s shoulder at that. Lorne deserved no less.

"One more thing, ser,” Lord Tyrell said, his voice lowering slightly. “About Garlan."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Take care of him. He is..." Mace's voice caught for just a moment before he recovered. "He is a good boy. A fine boy. And he wants nothing in this world more than to follow you. To learn from you. To become like you."

"I will care for him as if he were my own brother, my lord.” Galad tried to convey all his sincerity with a look. “You have my word on it."

"I know. I know you will." Lord Mace gripped his shoulder again, harder this time. "And if you can make him into half the knight you are, ser, then I will die a happy man. Half. That would be more than enough."

Galad met the older man's eyes, seeing the love a father had for his son, the worry of letting that son go off into the wide and dangerous world.

"I will do my best, my lord. He has the makings of greatness in him already. I will simply help him find it."

Mace nodded, unable to say more without breaking down. He stepped back, gathering his composure. Lady Alerie took his arm, and together they began to usher the children out into the corridor.

Margaery turned back at the doorway, her small face determined despite her tears.

"Be safe, Ser Galad,” she whispered. “Promise me you will be safe."

"I promise I will try, little lady."

She studied him for a moment with big brown eyes shimmering with tears. Then she nodded once, satisfied, and let her mother lead her away.

Galad watched them go down the corridor until they turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Then he closed the door, returned to his saddlebags, and finished packing for his journey.

xxx

The stables at Casterly Rock were built close to the Lion’s Mouth, half-carved from the living stone, half-built of dark timber that had weathered to deep grey-brown over centuries of salt air. As Galad approached down the cobbled path that led from the keep proper, the smell of horses and hay and leather oil grew steadily stronger, mingling with the cleaner scent of the sea breeze rolling in off the Sunset.

The stable yard was unusually empty. A single stableboy peeked out from behind a column when Galad approached, then quickly disappeared back into the shadows.

He knew why a moment later, when he turned the corner into the yard proper.

It was not just Garlan and their horses waiting for him.

King Robert Baratheon stood in the center of the outer yard, his great black cloak thrown back over one shoulder, his beard rough and untrimmed as if he had not paid it any attention that morning. Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy stood in his white enameled plate with his white cloak hanging straight down his back, the morning light catching the careful polish on his armor.

But what stopped Galad in mid-stride was what they were doing. The king and his Lord Commander were apparently demonstrating something to Garlan. Robert held what appeared to be an imaginary sword, his hands gripping nothing at all. He was moving through some sequence of strikes and parries while Garlan watched with rapt attention, nodding eagerly. 

As Galad came into view, Robert was just executing what looked like a particularly enthusiastic decapitation, his imaginary blade swinging through the air in a great arc.

"—and then he came around like this, didn't he, lad? That tall one with the greatsword, he took his head clean off! By the seven, I have never seen the like!"

Ser Barristan saw Galad first. The Lord Commander's expression shifted into something complicated as their eyes met across the yard, a strange, conflicted look that held many things at once. Apology, perhaps. Respect. Some measure of disquiet that Galad could not quite read. The old knight straightened slightly, and his hand fell away from where it had been gesturing along with Robert's demonstration.

"Ser!" Garlan spotted him next, his face lighting up like a candle.

The king turned last, stopping mid-swing with his fake sword still raised above his head. Robert lowered his hands slowly, an almost sheepish grin spreading across his bearded face.

"Ah, the man himself! Come over here, ser! Come over!"

Galad walked into the yard at his measured pace, his boots making soft impacts against the cobblestones. The horses, four of them now, he noticed, stood saddled and ready at the rail. The pale mare he’d been riding in the joust, his destrier Ben had brought all the way from the Reach, a grey palfrey for Garlan, and a fourth horse, a stout black gelding loaded with supplies that must be intended as their packhorse. 

"Garlan." Galad turned to his squire as he reached them. "Are the horses ready?"

"All set, ser! Saddled and watered. The packhorse has provisions for two weeks, and I checked everything twice." The boy beamed up at him, then seemed to remember himself and added with hasty formality: "Your saddlebags can be tied on whenever you're ready, ser."

"Good lad." Galad handed off his saddlebags. "See to it, then. Make sure the weight is balanced."

Garlan hurried away to attend to the task, leaving Galad facing the king and his Lord Commander alone.

King Robert cleared his throat. The earlier grin had faded somewhat, replaced by something more uncertain. The king actually scratched at his beard awkwardly, looking very much like a man who knew he had to say difficult things and was not sure how to begin.

"Ser Galad. I've come to wish you well on your journey." Robert paused, his blue eyes meeting Galad's directly. "And also to..." Another pause. He shook his head once, as if irritated with his own hesitation. "To apologize. For not stopping that madness in the great hall."

Galad inclined his head slightly but said nothing, waiting.

"I couldn't think straight after seeing the girl's body. After hearing she'd been pregnant with my child." Robert's voice grew rougher. "Bess was her name. A serving girl I took a liking to. Sweet thing. She used to laugh at all my terrible jokes." He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixing somewhere on the stable wall. "I let my anger blind me. I should've known better than to trust those worms' words over the testimony of a knight who'd shown himself an honorable man to me not a day before."

The king's words came easily now that he had started, but one thing became clear to him. Robert Baratheon was a man led by his emotions. The apology was sincere—of that Galad had no doubt. But the same passion driving it had nearly seen an innocent man condemned only hours before. A useful thing to remember, that. Men ruled by feeling could be moved by clever tongues whispering the right words at the right moment. At least now he knew he could not rely on King Robert’s good judgment going forward.

Still, Galad would take what was offered. 

"There is no need to apologize, Your Grace,” he said, conciliatory. “The matter is resolved, and no harm came to me in the end. Many kings would have ordered me killed first and asked questions never. You at least allowed the matter to come to trial."

"Aye, well." Robert seemed to brighten at the easy acceptance of his apology, his shoulders relaxing visibly. The grin returned, broader than before. "Aye, well, thank you for that. Generous of you, ser. More generous than I deserve, perhaps."

He waved his hand then, dismissing the heavier topic, and his expression transformed into pure boyish enthusiasm.

"But seven hells, what a fight it was! Seven men against one! I have never seen the like in all my years. The way you took down Moore—gone before any of us knew what had happened! And then the big one with the greatsword, when you stepped on his blade and jumped—!" Robert's hands started gesturing again, miming the movements. "By the gods! I thought my heart would stop!"

Galad raised an eyebrow at that. "I am surprised, Your Grace. I did not see you in the royal box during the trial."

Robert scratched at his beard once more, and this time the king of the Seven Kingdoms actually looked sheepish.

"Aye. Well." His weight shifted slightly. "Truth is, ser, I caught it from a balcony above the courtyard. Could not bring myself to sit in the royal box, not when I was the one who'd let that farce proceed in the first place. But I could not stay away either. Watched the whole thing from up above, hidden behind a curtain like some scullery maid."

A bark of laughter escaped him, self-deprecating.

"And gods, am I glad I watched! I will have the bards compose a hundred songs about that fight, you can be sure of that. The Trial of Ser Galad. The Seven That Fell. The Dance of Steel at Casterly Rock." His grin widened further. "We'll have a dozen ballads making the rounds by the end of the year, ser. The realm will not soon forget what you did in that courtyard."

Robert turned to his Lord Commander, who had been watching the exchange in silence.

"Tell him what you said to me, Selmy. Tell him."

Ser Barristan stepped forward at his king's bidding, his white cloak swirling slightly with the movement. The old knight's blue eyes met Galad's, and there was something almost wistful in them.

"I told His Grace it was a feat that not even Ser Duncan the Tall could boast of. Dunk fought in a Trial of Seven, of course—the most famous one in living memory. But he had companions in that fight. He did not stand alone." Ser Barristan paused, considering. "I have known many great swordsmen in my time, Ser Galad. I trained alongside Ser Gerold Hightower and Prince Lewyn Martell. I sparred with Ser Arthur Dayne when I was still a younger man. I have seen Ser Jaime Lannister at his best, and King Robert in his prime." His eyes never left Galad's. "What you did in that courtyard today, ser, I have never seen its equal in all my long years."

Galad inclined his head, accepting the words with the gravity they deserved. "High praise from a knight of your reputation, Lord Commander. My thanks, ser." He paused, then added: "And my apologies for the killing of your three sworn brothers."

Ser Barristan's face twisted briefly. Pain there, certainly. The man had served beside Moore, Trant, and Blount for years, had taken sword oaths alongside them. Whatever their failings, they had been his brothers in white.

Then the old knight let out a long, weary breath.

"Aye. They were my brothers, in name if not in spirit." His voice held the resignation of a man who had been forced to confront unpleasant truths. "Though perhaps it is for the best that men who would lie under oath as they did vacated their spots. The white cloak is meant to symbolize honor. It cannot do so if it covers craven and corrupt hearts beneath."

Robert nodded vigorously at his Lord Commander's words. "Damn right. That kind of scum has no place in my Kingsguard. Should never have been allowed to wear the white in the first place." He turned back to Galad, and a familiar gleam entered his eye. "Which brings me to a thought, ser. Surely now you might reconsider…"

Galad sighed. "Your Grace."

"Just hear me out, lad! Three slots vacated! And I need good men. Ser Barristan could certainly use a better sparring partner. The poor old man has been complaining for years about how no one in the Kingsguard can give him a proper challenge anymore."

Ser Barristan made a small sound that might have been the ghost of a laugh.

Galad allowed himself a small smile but shook his head. "Your Grace, my answer must remain the same. The road calls me, and I will answer it."

"Ah, you stubborn ass." Robert grinned, taking the refusal in good humor this time. "Worth a try, eh? Worth a try."

"Though I would respectfully recommend a candidate to fill at least one of those slots, if Your Grace would hear me."

"Oh? Speak then."

"Ser Arys Oakheart,” Galad said. “Who stood at my side during the campaign in the Iron Islands. He is a knight of both skill and honor—rare to find both in one man, as you well know. He proved his quality on that battlefield, and again in the grand melee. I would vouch for his character without hesitation."

Robert considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Oakheart, you say? Solid Reach stock. Aye, I'll speak with the lad before we leave Casterly Rock. If you vouch for him, that carries weight with me. Considerable weight, after today."

He bowed his head "Your Grace honors me."

A brief silence fell between them. Behind Galad, the soft sounds of Garlan attending to the saddlebags continued, leather creaking, buckles clicking, the boy's occasional quiet word to one of the horses.

Robert glanced at the horses, then back at Galad. "There's one more thing, ser. The matter we spoke of last night. Your reports from the road. Can I still expect them?"

"I do not go back on my promises, Your Grace.” Galad met the Robert’s gaze steadily. “Much less those made to a king. You will have your reports from every holdfast I stop at. The truth of what I see, written plainly."

"Good. Good lad." Robert exhaled, looking relieved. "I will look forward to hearing of your adventures across my realm, ser. The bards will have plenty to sing about, no doubt. And perhaps, through your eyes, I will finally start to understand the kingdom I have been ruling these seven years."

The king extended his arm. Galad took it, their hands meeting in a firm grasp at the forearm. Robert's grip was strong, the calloused hand of a fighter who, for all his years of comfort and indulgence, still remembered how to hold a hammer.

"Safe travels, Ser Galad of Dunstonbury."

"And to you, Your Grace. May your reign be long and your enemies few."

"Bah." Robert grinned. "I think we both know I'll have plenty of enemies, with the dragons stirring across the sea. But that's a worry for another day. Off with you now! Before I think of another reason to try to keep you here!"

Galad released the king's arm and turned. Garlan had finished securing the saddlebags and now stood holding the reins of both their riding horses, his face glowing with barely contained excitement.

"Ready, ser?"

"Ready, lad. Are you?"

Garlan's smile spread across his entire face. He looked impossibly young at that moment, all of twelve years old, his riding cloak still too big for his frame. But his eyes held a determination that had grown steadily in him these past months.

"More ready than I've ever been, ser," he said.

They passed Robert and Ser Barristan as they rode toward the stable yard's exit. The king raised his hand in farewell, that broad grin still on his face. Ser Barristan inclined his head with a knight's respect.

Galad nodded to both men in turn and rode on.

The path from the stables wound down through the lower levels of Casterly Rock, past storerooms and barracks and forges and all the workings of a great castle. People stopped to stare as they rode past. Servants paused their tasks. Guards came to attention. Men and women stopped their daily labor to watch the woodsman knight pass with his young squire.

But none stopped them. None challenged them. None even spoke as they rode by.

The great gates of Casterly Rock came into view, the massive iron-bound oak doors standing open in the morning light. The guards on either side, Lannister men in crimson and gold, watched with wide eyes as Galad and Garlan approached.

One of them, an older sergeant with grey in his beard, finally found his voice. "Ser Galad. We were told to expect you. The gate is open."

He nodded at the man. "My thanks, sergeant."

A small attempt of redress from Lord Tywin? Galad didn’t know, and in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care much.

They rode through the great gates of Casterly Rock without further incident, emerging onto the road that wound down the mountain toward the coast and the broader lands beyond.

Behind them, the Rock loomed dark and immense against the midday sky—the seat of House Lannister, the wealthiest castle in all the Seven Kingdoms. Before them, the road stretched ahead, dusty and uncertain, leading to all the places Galad had not yet seen.

Just a knight and his squire on the road.

Exactly as Galad had wanted.

He clicked his tongue again, urging the mare into a faster pace. Garlan kept easy alongside him, the destrier and the packhorse trotting behind with their leads. The wind off the sea pulled at their cloaks. The sun climbed higher into a sky finally clear of morning haze.

Their journey had finally begun.

xxx

AN: Bit of a low action chapter, but I needed a final one for the denouement of the Lannisport Tournament Arc from Galad's perspective.