Chapter 26

They rode south at first, taking the road out of Casterly Rock toward Lannisport and then further past the city. Not because Galad expected any pursuit—he doubted the Lannisters were foolish enough to send men after him so soon after his trial—but because caution cost nothing and mistakes could cost everything. He’d learned that commanding armies and nations, but the principle was the same even for a simple knight and his squire.

So they took the Ocean Road south along the coast for a full hour past the last houses of Lannisport, riding at an easy pace like men making for the Reach. Only when the road curved to skirt a headland where no traveler behind them could see did they turn their horses east, cutting cross-country over the sparse forests of the Westerlands. Another hour of that before they finally turned north, angling toward the valley that ran between the northern reaches of the Western Hills and the Pendric Hills further to the north.

The white mare beneath Galad, the same steady horse he had ridden through the jousting at Lannisport, borrowed from Lord Mace and now his by gift, moved with easy grace over the uneven ground. Beside her walked his old destrier, the great bay warhorse he had trained himself during his years in the Reach. The bay bore no rider but carried a light saddle and blanket, ready to be swapped out when battle threatened. Behind them came Garlan on his grey palfrey, and behind him the stout black gelding packhorse loaded with their supplies. It made for a small but purposeful column moving through the rocky terrain.

They made good time. Past the northern reaches of the Western Hills, past the fields and orchards that surrounded Lord Sarsfield's holdings, keeping their distance from the castle itself. Then further north still, threading between the Pendric Hills and giving Ashemark a wide berth. The land was fair if rocky country, green pastures between steep hills dotted with hamlets and farmhouses, streams that fed into greater rivers, small woods where the shade offered welcome relief from the summer sun.

Ben was waiting for them in a small clearing near the water when they finally rode up to the mouth of the Tumblestone. He had made a proper camp, a fire pit banked with river stones, three additional horses grazing in a rope corral, his own gelding tied to a picket line, bedroll set out neatly beneath a canvas lean-to.

He looked up at the sound of hoofbeats. His tanned face broke into a broad grin.

Galad swung down from his mare, handing the reins off to Garlan. He walked toward the camp with a hand raised in greeting.

Ben crossed the distance in three long strides and, before Galad could react, wrapped him in a fierce hug.

"Gods be good, I'm glad to see you well, ser."

Galad stood very still for a moment, his arms half-raised in surprise, before he returned the embrace with a single firm clap on Ben's back.

The sergeant stepped away, and Galad raised an eyebrow at him with a trace of amusement in his eyes.

"I am glad to see you well too, Ben," he said dryly.

Ben's face flushed a deep red. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at his boots.

"Aye, well." Ben cleared his throat. "I left in a rush, didn't I? I was at Lannisport collecting your lordly clothes before the trial even started. It wasn't as if I could ride to the nearest holdfast and ask if a raven had brought word of the outcome. So all I had was..." He gestured helplessly. "Well. Ser. Seven against one, and me not knowing for a week whether you were breathing or being buried in some Lannister ditch."

Galad's mouth curved into a small smile. "I am disappointed in you, Ben, for doubting me."

"I never doubted you, ser!" Ben protested. Then he paused, seeming to reconsider his words. "Well. Perhaps a bit. But even for you, fighting a trial by seven on your own is madness."

Galad clapped him on the shoulder as he moved past toward the fire.

"The bravest man I ever was mad, Ben. You should try it sometimes."

Behind them, Garlan snorted with laughter as he led the horses toward the corral. Ben stood shaking his head for a long moment, then followed his knight to the camp with a rueful grin spreading across his face.

xxx

They didn’t stay at Ben’s camp for long. After they had reorganized their gear and distributed the horses among their new party, they set out east along the river the next morning—and six days of relaxed riding later, starting late every morning and stopping early in the evenings to train with Garlan and continue his reading lessons with Ben, they were still following the Tumblestone through the western Riverlands.

The land around the banks was gentler than the country they had crossed to reach it, slow rolling hills covered in summer grass, groves of oak and ash. The air smelled of water and wildflowers and the sun-warmed earth. Fish jumped in the shallows in the mornings, and at night herons stalked the reeds along the banks.

The three of them had settled into the comfortable rhythm of men on the road. Ben had proven himself a good traveling companion, quick to help with camp chores and a decent hand with a cooking pot. Garlan, at nearly thirteen, seemed to grow more competent with each day of the journey, taking on his squire duties with a seriousness that reaffirmed Galad’s choice in bringing the boy. 

All in all, the journey had been pleasant enough at first. 

Now, three hours past their morning camp on the seventh day, that was beginning to change.

"Another one," Ben said, pointing ahead.

Galad had already seen it. A farmhouse, or what had once been a farmhouse, sat perhaps two hundred yards off the road on the far side of a small pasture. The roof had collapsed in on itself. The stone walls stood only to knee-height where the fire had done its worst. A broken cart lay overturned in the yard, one wheel missing.

"That's the third today," Garlan said quietly.

"Fourth," Ben corrected. "You forgot the shepherd's hut near the crossing this morning."

Galad nodded grimly, and they rode on without stopping. There would be nothing to find at this one that they had not already found at the others. Ash. Charred timber. A few corpses gone to the crows and worse, but no living people for them to help. Whoever had done this had been thorough. 

"Ironborn," Ben said. He had been saying it since they passed the first one.

"Perhaps," Galad replied.

Ben shook his head. "Who else would it be, ser? Those bastards raid up and down the coasts. Everyone knows it."

"The coasts, yes." Galad glanced back at the destroyed farm as they rode past. "But we are more than a hundred miles inland now. I have not heard of the Ironborn raiding this deep before."

"They've done it before," Garlan offered.

Both Galad and Ben turned to look at the boy.

Garlan flushed slightly under their attention but continued. "Maester Lomys taught me about it. Before the time of the Targaryens, the Ironborn ruled all the Riverlands, and Harren Hoare built Harrenhal from the wealth he took from the smallfolk here. They know these rivers. They know these lands, or their ancestors did." The boy shrugged. "It's not impossible for them to have done it. They could have landed at the coast, taken horses from the first village they hit, and ridden downriver from there."

Galad considered that. The boy had a point. Despite his isolation and lack of general historical knowledge of this world, even he had heard of Harren the Black and his fiery fate at Harrenhal. That meant the Iron Islands had ruled these lands at least for a while, and that kind of knowledge did not simply vanish from a people. Songs and stories preserved it, if nothing else. And with the Rebellion just ended, with many of the Riverlands lords still absent at the tournament in Lannisport, the timing would be perfect for a raid of unusual boldness.

Still, something felt wrong about it. He’d seen the Ironborn using boys as young as twelve at Harlow to fight the invaders, and he imagined the rest of the islands did much the same before Pyke fell. 

They could not afford to spend their strength so far from home. A rogue captain could be the answer, but he had a hard time imagining an Ironborn captain abandoning his longship for a life in the saddle raiding hamlets and farms.

"Perhaps," he said again.

They rode on.

The sun climbed higher. The heat began to press down on them despite the shade of the trees along the river. Insects hummed in the reeds. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammered at a dying tree with hollow, rhythmic strokes.

Then they came around a bend in the road, and Garlan gasped.

Three bodies hung from a great oak tree at the edge of what had once been a farmyard. They swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, their forms half-eaten by carrion birds, ropes creaking against the branch above. Two of them were grown men, perhaps in their thirties or forties. The third was a boy of Garlan's age, hardly more than a child.

Beneath the tree, an old woman sat on a rough wooden bench.

She was tiny. Bent nearly double by age, her grey hair unwashed and stringy, her clothes little more than rags. She rocked back and forth slowly, staring at nothing in particular with dry eyes that seemed to have exhausted all their tears years ago. She did not look up as the riders approached.

Galad glanced sideways at Garlan. The boy had gone pale beneath his summer tan, his jaw set tight, but he did not look away from the corpses. He held his reins in hands that Galad could see had begun to tremble slightly. He’d shielded the boy from the sight of most of the bodies they found along the way, but there was no hiding this. 

Reining in his mare, Galad and the others dismounted and tied their horses to a post near the ruined farm’s fate. Taking the lead, he walked slowly toward the old woman, careful to give her time to notice his approach. He did not want to startle her.

"They come back," the old woman said, still staring at nothing. Her voice was flat and papery. "Come back to finish it, have you? Well. Get on with it. There's nothing left for you to take."

She did not look up.

"We are not the raiders, grandmother," Galad said quietly.

Only then did her head come up. Her rheumy eyes found his face, then Ben's, then Garlan's. She studied them for a long moment as if trying to determine whether they were real.

"Are these your family, grandmother?" Galad asked gently.

She nodded slowly.

"May we help you bring them down?"

The old woman's face did not change, but she seemed to sag slightly as if some weight she had been carrying had been lifted. She nodded again.

"About time somebody did," she said. "Been five days. Birds have had their fill."

Galad turned to Ben and Garlan. Both had already begun looking for tools. Ben found a spade leaning against what remained of a stone wall. Garlan uncovered a wooden shovel in the wreckage of the barn, though Galad saw him swallow hard as he carried it back.

"I'll go up," Ben said.

Galad nodded. He drew a knife from his belt and passed it to Ben, who took it with a grim nod.

"Wait," the old woman said.

They stopped.

"Cut them clean. Don't let them fall. I won't have my boys hitting the ground like sacks of turnips."

Nodding at her, Ben went up the tree carefully, working his way out along the branch to where the first rope was tied. The wood creaked beneath his weight but held. He gestured to Galad and Garlan to position themselves beneath the first body.

"Ready?" he called down.

"Aye," Galad answered.

Ben cut the first rope in a single swift stroke. The body dropped and Galad and Garlan caught it between them, easing it gently to the ground. Galad felt Garlan flinch as they took the weight. The smell of it was strong, of death and heat and rot, but the boy did not pull away. They laid the man out on his back on a patch of grass, then moved to position themselves for the second.

Then the third. The boy.

Garlan's hands shook when they took the small body between them, but he did not let go.

The work took the better part of two hours. Digging graves in the mercifully soft summer soil. Wrapping the bodies in what cloth they could find. Laying the two men and the boy side by side in the earth. The old woman watched all of it from her bench without moving, still rocking slowly, still saying nothing.

While Ben worked at the last of the earth, Galad stepped a few paces away and gestured for his squire to follow.

"Are you well, Garlan?"

Garlan swallowed hard. "Yes, ser. I just..." He looked down at his hands. "I didn't expect the smell of it. Thought I was going to be sick, ser."

"But you weren't."

"No, ser. I held it in."

Galad rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. "You did well. Especially for holding it in front of the old woman. She has been through enough already without watching someone become ill at the sight of her dead. That was properly done, Garlan."

The boy nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Some color returned to his face.

"Thank you, ser."

When they had finished the graves, Galad approached the old woman again.

"Grandmother. Was that boy your grandson?"

She nodded. "The younger. Wen's son. Only nine years old, my Roric. They killed him first, to make his father watch. Then his father. Then Tam." Her voice remained flat, though her hands had begun to twist in her lap. "Then they took the girls."

Galad's head came up sharply. "The girls?"

"My granddaughters. Meg and Sara. Tam's girls. Twelve and fourteen." Now the tears came, though the old woman's expression did not change. They simply began to trickle down her wrinkled cheeks and drip onto her rag of a dress. "They screamed for their da’. They screamed for me. And I couldn't do a thing. Just an old woman. Just an old useless woman."

Ben had gone very still. Garlan looked stricken.

"How many were they, grandmother? The raiders." Galad asked.

"Ten, maybe more. Came riding out of the woods. Rough men with swords and axes eager for violence."

"Were they Ironborn?" Ben spoke up.

"Might have been. Might not. I don't know. I've never met an Ironman."

Galad glanced at Ben. Ben shrugged slightly. It did not confirm his theory, but it did not deny it either. 

"Grandmother, is this land Lord Tully's? Are we close to Riverrun?"

The old woman spat weakly at the ground.

"Two days ride, if you take the road proper. But don't waste your breath asking his help. That boy of his came through here already."

"Which boy?"

"Edmure, they call him. Little Lord Edmure. Rode in with his fine friends and his fancy horses, all polished armor and cloaks flying." Her mouth twisted. "Gave me a few coppers. Said he was sorry for my trouble. Said he'd catch the bandits who did it. Then rode off looking for glory."

Garlan frowned. "He didn’t help you take down your family?"

She laughed, and it was a terrible sound. "Take them down? Fine lords like him? No, ser. Fine lords don't dirty their hands with such work. He gave me his coin and rode away. What am I supposed to do with coin? Buy back my sons? Buy back my granddaughters?"

Galad said nothing for a long moment.

Then he crouched down before the old woman, meeting her eyes as directly as he could without startling her.

"Grandmother. Look at me."

She turned her tear-streaked face toward him.

"I cannot bring back your sons or your grandson. No man can. But I will do what I can about your granddaughters. If they still live, I will find them. This I swear to you, on my honor as a knight."

The old woman studied his face for a long moment. She did not look impressed by his oath. She did not look hopeful. She looked, if anything, tired beyond words.

"Aye," she said at last. "Do what you can, ser. That's all any of us can do."

They left her some food from their saddlebags before they departed. Nothing fit for an old woman, but it was what they had. Hard bread, salted meat, some dried fruit. Enough to see her through another week if she was careful. The old woman accepted it without thanking them, tucking the parcels into her lap as if they were small children she needed to protect.

Garlan glanced back once as they rode away, his expression too grim for such a young face. 

Galad did not try to comfort him again. Bandits were a fact of this world as much as his last one, and it would not do to coddle the boy. 

That night they made camp in a small clearing off the road. Ben cooked a rabbit he had shot earlier in the day. They ate mostly in silence, each of them alone with their own thoughts.

"Riverrun in the morning?" Garlan asked eventually, as if to fill the silence. 

Galad nodded, staring into the fire. "We need to speak with Lord Tully. Or with young Edmure, if his father is not available. Mayhaps they’ve caught the raiders already, or recovered the girls."

He tried to sound more confident than he felt. By the look on Garlan's face, he did not succeed.

xxx

They set off before dawn the next morning, riding hard along the river road. Galad wanted to reach Riverrun by nightfall. The horses were fresh from the previous evening's rest, and they made good time through the cool morning air. Mist rose off the Tumblestone in slow curls that dissipated as the sun climbed.

They had been riding for perhaps two hours when the ambush came.

He would not have noticed it if the ambushers hadn’t been sloppy in their signals, the sudden bird call too different from anything he’d heard in days.

"Ben. Garlan,” he barked, pulling hard on his reins. 

Before either could respond, riders burst from the trees on both sides of the road.

Six of them. Then eight. Then more. They fanned out to block the road ahead, but seeing as how they were spaced out in two groups, the ambush had clearly been set up to hem them in on both sides. Galad drew Nightfall in a single fluid motion. Beside him, Ben did the same with his longsword. Garlan, wide-eyed, drew the arming sword his lord father had gifted him before they left.

"Hold!" a voice called out. "Hold, in the name of Lord Hoster Tully! Throw down your weapons and identify yourselves!"

Surprised at the words, Galad studied the men who had ambushed them. They were young, most of them—perhaps half a dozen mounted knights with a dozen more men-at-arms behind. Their armor was well-polished and their horses fine. They carried banners bearing various sigils, a leaping trout in blue and red, a silver eagle, quartered dragons in green and black, a green willow, others he did not immediately recognize.

Not bandits, then. Nobles.

"Identify yourselves first, ser," Galad called back. "You are the one who blocks the road with drawn steel."

A young man rode forward from the group. He had auburn hair and a fine embroidered surcoat bearing the silver fish of House Tully. He looked perhaps eighteen years old and carried himself as most eighteen year olds did when they were heirs to great estates.

"I am Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun. And I demand—"

"Ser Edmure Tully?" Garlan spoke up, his voice cracking slightly with nerves. "My lord, I am Garlan Tyrell of Highgarden."

Edmure paused mid-word, his mouth still open. He squinted at the boy with obvious skepticism. A dust-streaked twelve-year-old on a palfrey did not look particularly like a son of the Reach's greatest house.

Garlan raised his left hand and displayed the signet ring on his finger, the golden rose of Tyrell in careful detail.

That gave Edmure pause. He rode closer, his men following him as he peered at the ring. Then he sat back in his saddle, his aggressive posture softening somewhat.

"Well, that's..." Edmure cleared his throat, glancing back at his men. "That's rather awkward, then. My apologies, Lord Garlan. We've been having some trouble in these lands and we cannot be too careful with armed men on the road."

"Understood, my lord," Garlan replied.

"And your companions?"

"This is Ben, a sergeant in my lord father's service, come to accompany me on the road." Garlan gestured to Ben, then to Galad. "And this is my knight, whom I squire for. Ser Galad of Dunstonbury."

The reaction was immediate.

Behind Edmure, one of the young lords—a fair-haired young man with the great eagle of Mallister on his surcoat—actually pushed his horse forward, his eyes going wide.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury?" the young man said, his voice rising with excitement. "The Ser Galad of Dunstonbury?"

Galad inclined his head.

"Edmure!" The eagle-sigil lordling turned to his friend, gesturing with his sword. "Edmure, this is him! The knight my father wrote me about! The one who won the grand melee at Lannisport! And—" He turned back to Galad. "The trial by seven, ser. The whole realm speaks of it!"

The other young lords crowded forward now, all speaking at once, their earlier hostility completely forgotten.

Edmure's mouth had fallen open again. "By the seven..." He looked at Galad with something approaching awe. "Ser, forgive me. I did not know."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord." Galad turned to the eagle-sigil young lord. "You must be Patrek Mallister, then. Your father Lord Jason is a formidable knight, and a man of considerable honor. I owe him my thanks."

"Your thanks?" Patrek looked bewildered.

"Aye. Like Lord Royce, he was among those outside the Reach who offered to stand with me in the Trial by Seven. That took courage, to step forth against kingsguards, and honor, both of which are in shorter supply than they should be in the Seven Kingdoms." Galad inclined his head. "Please pass my gratitude to your lord father when you next see him."

Patrek Mallister sat up straighter in his saddle, his young face flushing with pride.

"I shall, ser."

One of the other lordlings—a rangy young man in Vance colors—leaned forward. "Ser, if I may ask... why did you refuse the champions who offered to stand for you? With Lord Mallister and Royce and all the Reach knights offering to fight beside you, you would have had the finest seven in the realm. Why fight alone?"

Galad turned to the young man. The truth, that he had wanted to send a message to the entire realm about the futility of coming against him, was not something he wished to share with young lords he barely knew. It would sound arrogant. Perhaps it was arrogant.

"The men who accused me were the ones I wished to see justice done upon," he said instead. "They had lied under oath and had already killed an innocent young woman to further their scheme. I wished to deliver that justice with my own hands, and no one else's."

Several of the young lords nodded gravely at that. It was the kind of answer a proper knight should give, and it satisfied them.

Edmure Tully cleared his throat, apparently remembering his position as the highest-ranked among them.

"Ser Galad. Lord Garlan. May I ask what brings you to our lands? My father would be greatly honored to host a son of Highgarden and such a famous knight at Riverrun."

"We were on our way to Riverrun in any case, my lord," Galad replied. "For supplies, and to speak with your lord father regarding the destroyed farms and villages we have passed on our journey."

"Ah." Edmure's expression grew serious. "You've seen the raiding, then. Well, you can speak to me on that matter as well. My father has been ill these past weeks, so he has entrusted me with the hunt for the bandits doing this work."

"So we have heard," Galad said. “We met an old woman whose sons were hung. She told us you came by and offered her some copper for her troubles.”

Edmure blinked at that, then seemed to remember something. "That old woman," he said slowly. "Aye, I remember her."

“We had to take them down and bury them ourselves.” He stared at the young lord.

Edmure had the grace to look uncomfortable. His friends studied their reins with sudden interest.

"Aye, well, we were in some haste, ser. Chasing the bandits' trail. I meant to send men back to attend to it once we had them cornered, but the pursuit..."

"I understand, my lord." Galad did not entirely, but there was no purpose in further shaming the boy before his friends. "But there is another matter. Her granddaughters. What has been done to find them?"

Edmure's expression went blank. "Her... granddaughters?"

"Two young girls. Twelve and fourteen. Taken by the raiders when they hung the men."

"I did not know she had granddaughters taken, ser."

Garlan spoke up then, his young voice earnest. "The old woman told us they took the girls after killing the men and the boy. Meg and Sara, she said their names were."

Edmure's face fell. To his credit, the young lord looked genuinely distressed. "I did not know that. Truly, I did not. But this makes sense now—we have been hearing of others taken as well. This is worse than I had realized."

"You have been searching for them?" Galad asked.

"For the raiders, yes. We have been out for nearly a fortnight now, riding in patrols, but with little success. They strike and vanish. We arrive too late." Edmure gestured helplessly. "We have found only the aftermath."

"I promised the old woman I would help find her granddaughters," Galad said. "I intend to see that promise kept."

Edmure's face brightened at that. He straightened in his saddle, looking suddenly much younger despite his fine armor.

"Then we should join forces, ser! With your skill added to ours, surely we will catch these curs!" He turned to his companions, who were already nodding eagerly. "We were about to head back to Riverrun to resupply anyway. Come with us. My father would want it, if he were well enough to say so himself. We can plan our next moves properly, over food and wine and good maps."

Galad considered for a moment, then nodded.

"Very well, my lord. To Riverrun, then."

The tension of the confrontation dissolved entirely. Edmure and his friends fell in around Galad's party as they resumed the road, chattering among themselves about the tournament, the trial, and the hunt to come. He kept his own counsel most of the time, nodding and speaking only when necessary, while Garlan rode confidently at his side alongside his peers.

The boy was doing well. He had comported himself with more grace under pressure than most twelve-year-olds could have managed. Galad had chosen him as his squire for reasons that had less to do with the boy's skill at arms than his character, and moments like this confirmed the wisdom of that choice.

xxx

They came within sight of Riverrun in the final hours of dusk.

The castle stood at the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, its walls rising from the water on two sides like something out of legend. A great sluice gate could flood the moat around the third side, making the fortress an island when threatened. Even now, in peace, the design impressed Galad. The castle would be nearly impossible to take without three armies and a fleet.

Ben let out a whistle. "Now that's a fine sight," he said.

"Aye," Galad agreed. "That it is."

They rode down toward the great gates, which had been opened for their approach at the sight of Tully banners. Servants and grooms hurried out to take their horses as they crossed the drawbridge into the courtyard, while a stern-faced steward soon informed Edmure that Lord Hoster remained in his sickbed. 

"Then I shall welcome our guests myself," Edmure declared. He turned to Galad with a grin. "Come, ser. Let me show you Riverrun."

The evening passed pleasantly enough. Galad and Garlan were shown to fine chambers in the guest wing where hot baths were prepared, while Ben was given a room in the barracks. When they gathered in the great hall for the evening meal, they found a proper feast had been assembled in their honor—river trout in butter and lemon, roast pork with apples, fresh bread, various pies, good wine from the Reach. The young lords who had been Edmure's companions on the road joined them, along with several older knights who had remained at Riverrun during Lord Hoster's illness.

They ate well. Edmure and his friends drank well too. Galad kept his own drinking modest, as was his habit. By the time the maester arrived with the maps Galad had requested, Edmure Tully was flushed and voluble.

"Here," Edmure said, spreading the map across a table cleared of dishes. "Riverrun is here, at the fork. And the raids—" He began pointing. "Here, by Atranta. Here, at a hamlet north of Wayfarer's Rest. Here, near Acorn Hall. This one at one of Lord Lychester’s villages. And these smaller ones through here, along the Tumblestone."

Galad studied the map carefully. The Reach lay to the south. Casterly Rock and the Westerlands to the west. The Vale of Arryn to the east across the mountains. And the Riverlands themselves spread out in the middle, drained by the great river system that gave the region its name.

The pattern of attacks was interesting.

Atranta lay in the north. Wayfarer's Rest in the west. Acorn Hall in the south. Lychester in the east. And the smaller raids all along the Tumblestone and the Red Fork.

"That's a wide area, my lord," Galad said. "Nearly two hundred miles across."

"Aye. That's why we cannot catch them. They strike here, then here, then somewhere else. My father thinks—" Edmure caught himself. "My father thought, before he fell ill, that they must have very fast horses. Or perhaps that there are multiple bands working together."

"When did the raids begin?"

"About three weeks after word reached us that Pyke had fallen. Perhaps a month ago now, in total."

Galad frowned. "Three weeks after the fall of Pyke?"

"Aye. My father is certain was that some of the Ironborn who escaped the destruction of the islands made their way here. They came here to make trouble while our lands were undefended."

"Undefended?" Garlan asked. “How so, my lord?”

"Many of our bannermen are still at Lannisport with their knights and their household guards. My father called the banners for the war, and most have not yet returned. My father is ill, and I have only what men we can spare from Riverrun's defense." Edmure gestured helplessly. "It is not enough to cover the whole of these territories."

Ben spoke up from his seat. "My lord, forgive me, but how would the Ironborn have gotten this far inland without being spotted? They'd have to cross the whole Riverlands from the coast."

"That's the mystery," Edmure said, spreading his hands. "They must have moved very carefully. Or perhaps they have local help."

"Or perhaps they are not Ironborn at all," Galad said quietly.

The young lords all turned to look at him.

"You disagree, ser?"

"I do not know for certain, my lord. But something is strange about this. Are there any reports of raids along the coasts? By Seagard or anywhere north of the Red Fork?"

Edmure blinked, thinking. "No. None that I have heard of. The raids have all been inland."

"Then the Ironborn are giving up their greatest advantage. They are sea reavers. Their ships are their strength, their means of quick escape. Why would they abandon that? Why come this far inland and then stay here, when at any moment a proper army could be raised to hunt them down?"

Edmure frowned. He clearly had not considered the question in quite that light.

"They still have hostages to consider, ser. That is what I keep returning to. If they are taking captives, and they are, we know that much from the old woman's granddaughters,  and others by your own admission—then they must be taking them somewhere. You do not kidnap people simply to leave them dead in the woods. You take them for a reason. For ransom, for slavery, for…” Galad let the word trail off. " So there must be a base. Somewhere they return to."

"A base?" Edmure leaned forward, his interest sharpening.

Galad traced his finger across the map, drawing a rough circle that encompassed the four castles Edmure had named.

"Here. Somewhere in this area. Between Atranta, Lychester, and Acorn Hall. Close enough to strike out from in any direction, but hidden enough that no one has stumbled upon it in a month of searching."

"Aye," Edmure said slowly. "That makes sense. That makes a great deal of sense. Then we should patrol that area more intensively. Ride the roads in force and press them until they slip up."

Galad shook his head. "The roads may not be the answer, my lord."

"Why not?"

"The old woman told us the raiders came out of the woods, not down the road. She was quite clear on this point."

Marq Piper sat up suddenly. "That fits with something I heard, ser. Some of the survivors at Wayfarer's Rest, when we spoke to them, they said the raiders came like ghosts through the trees. That was their word. Ghosts. We thought they were being fanciful."

"Perhaps not," Galad said. "Whoever these raiders are, they know the woods. They avoid the roads where you would expect to find them. If they have been striking for a month and you have been patrolling the roads for two weeks, then they must know exactly where you go and how to avoid you."

Edmure sat back, thinking hard. Galad watched him work through the implications. The young lord's face went through several expressions—wounded pride, embarrassment, then genuine consideration.

"Then we need to change our approach entirely," Edmure said at last. "Not just where we search, but how."

"That would be my advice, my lord."

Galad was quietly relieved. Edmure Tully was young and inexperienced, and clearly given to leaping to conclusions. But he was not too proud to admit when he had been wrong, and he was willing to shift his strategy when presented with better information. That put him a considerable distance above men like Ser Owen Inchfield or Ser Willam Wythers, whose pride had cost them dearly.

They spoke for another hour, planning the next day's departure. By the time they retired for the night, Galad had a clearer picture of what they were dealing with. He slept well in the fine bed provided for him, though his dreams were troubled.

In the morning, they set out early, Galad, Ben, Garlan, Edmure, and Edmure's company of young lords and men-at-arms, riding south into the deep Riverlands.

Somewhere in those woods, a base of raiders was hidden. And somewhere in that base, if they still lived, an old woman's granddaughters were waiting to be found.

xxx

AN: Starting now, we'll see Galad's adventures as an errant knight throughout the Seven Kingdoms, meeting both large and small characters from the books and shows and expanding on the fic's lore as his legend grows, while the larger political story goes on in the background with occasional POVs.