Chương 39

Galad When the last Valeman fell, only Galad and Lord Randyll Tarly remained standing for the Reach. Lord Tarly came up to him as Lord Royce strode away from the field, walking beside the stretcher-bearers that carried Lyn Corbray's body. Tearing his eyes away from the dead Valemen, Galad turned to the Lord of Hornhill. The older lord's breathing was controlled despite the exertion, his grip on Heartsbane steady.

"Let us end this quickly with the others." Randyll nodded toward the rest of the battlefield, his voice matter-of-fact.

"You've gotten your Valyrian steel duel. I still want mine." He remembered how Lord Tarly had expressed interest in testing Nightfall against Heartsbane. The man seemed to be a purist about such things, believing that only matching blades of equal quality could truly measure a swordsman's skill. Galad acknowledged the words with a nod. Deep in the void, he felt no exhaustion despite the fights already behind him. No exhilaration either. There was only what he must do, the next opponent, the next movement.

And though Lord Tarly might want some grand duel to end the tournament, Galad had no intention of granting such a wish. He had already had to kill a man today due to his own overcaution, his own pride in drawing out the fight with Corbray. He would not make the same mistake again. Looking around the melee grounds, most of the fighting had died down. Bodies littered the churned earth, some unconscious, some yielded, some being helped away by squires and servants. Some dead too, he knew. It happened in such events.

To one side, Galad spotted the king's distinctive antlered helmet locked in combat with the golden armor of Ser Jaime Lannister, their fight drawing the attention of what seemed like half the realm. And approaching from between the scattered combatants, three men in Lannister colors. The first was impossible to miss. He stood taller than any man Galad had ever seen, as tall as any Trolloc from his previous life, a giant in dull grey plate armor. Ser Gregor Clegane.

Galad had seen him during the jousting, had marked him then as something dangerous, something unnatural in his sheer size. The man wielded a greatsword that must have been six feet of steel, holding it in one hand as easily as most men held a longsword. The other two were large men by normal standards, though they looked almost small beside the Mountain. One wore a surcoat decorated with a black and white brindled boar, his movements confident and powerful.

The other had finer armor, gold chasing on the lion-themed breastplate, moving with a swordsman's grace.

"I'll take the Mountain," Randyll said, stepping forward to intercept Gregor. It didn't come off as a request. That left the other two for Galad. They spread out as they approached, trying to flank him. The big one spoke first, his voice booming even through his helmet.

"Ser Lyle Crakehall." He nodded.

"You fought well today."

"Ser Gerion Lannister," the other added, his green eyes visible through his visor, a hint of humor in them despite the circumstances.

"Nothing personal, lad, but I'm going to be needing that fancy sword of yours." Galad was in no mood for banter. Before either could say anything else, he struck. He darted forward like a viper, closing the distance to Ser Gerion in three rapid steps. Nightfall came down in a diagonal cut aimed at the gap between helmet and pauldron. Gerion barely got his shield up in time, the Valyrian steel biting deep into the wood with a crack. Galad didn't give him time to recover. He struck again, a thrust toward the armpit.

Gerion twisted, the point scraping across his breastplate. Another strike, this one at the knee. Gerion's shield came down to block. Then Galad sensed movement from his other side and spun. Ser Lyle's sword was already descending in a massive overhead chop. Galad brought Nightfall up to catch it, and the impact sent a shock through his arms. The man's strength was tremendous—like fighting a Trolloc, all raw power behind the blow. But if Galad knew how to do something, it was to kill Trollocs.

He gave ground from Lyle's strike, letting the momentum carry the bigger knight forward and off-balance. Then he sidestepped, positioning himself so both men were in front of him rather than on either side. His footwork was constant, never stopping, always adjusting to keep them where he wanted them. Ser Gerion came in from the left, his blade seeking Galad's ribs. Galad parried and countered in the same motion, his sword slashing across Gerion's vambrace.

The Valyrian steel found the mail beneath the plate, cutting through several rings. Blood welled up. Ser Lyle attacked from the right with a horizontal sweep. Galad ducked under it and thrust toward his thigh. Lyle twisted his leg aside, but not quite fast enough. Nightfall's point scored a line across the outside of his cuisses, finding the gap between plates.

"Bloody hell," Lyle muttered, his voice carrying even through the grunt of pain. They pressed him together now, trying to use their numbers and strength to overwhelm him. But Galad was faster. Always faster. He stepped in when they expected him to retreat, darted out when they thought they had him cornered. His blade was everywhere at once, cutting, thrusting, parrying. Never still. Never predictable. He feinted toward Gerion's head. The Lannister knight raised his shield.

Galad reversed his strike mid-swing and slashed low instead, the blade finding the back of Gerion's knee. The knight's leg buckled slightly. Lyle came in hard with a thrust aimed at Galad's chest. Galad sidestepped and brought Nightfall down on the extended blade, using the leverage to force it toward the ground. Before Lyle could recover, Galad's boot lashed out and caught him in the chest, sending the big man stumbling back. In his periphery, Galad caught glimpses of Lord Randyll's fight with the Mountain.

The older lord was being driven back, each of Gregor's strikes forcing him to give ground. The greatsword came down like a falling tree, and even with Heartsbane to block, the sheer force behind each blow threatened to drive Randyll to his knees. Galad picked up his pace. His movements became a blur. Nightfall flashed in the afternoon sun, the Valyrian steel singing as it cut through the air. He struck at Gerion three times in rapid succession—shoulder, hip, wrist. Each blow found its mark, each one drawing blood.

The Lannister knight was slowing, his defenses crumbling under the relentless assault. Galad feinted an opening, dropping his guard on his left side for just an instant. Gerion saw it and lunged, his sword thrusting toward the gap. It was a trap. Galad spun away from the thrust, and as Gerion overextended, brought Nightfall around in a vicious horizontal slash. The blade caught the back of Gerion's leg, cutting deep through the mail protecting his hamstring.

Ser Gerion cried out and collapsed to one knee, his wounded leg unable to support him. Roaring, Ser Lyle pressed his attack with renewed fury. His sword came down in a series of powerful overhead strikes, each one meant to break through Galad's defense through sheer force. But Galad was no longer there. He moved like water around the strikes, never quite where Lyle expected him to be. The big knight's blade struck empty air, again and again.

And each time Lyle committed to a strike, Galad was already countering—a cut across the back of the hand, a thrust into the gap beneath the arm, a slash across the outside of the thigh.

"Bloody—" Strike.

"—hell!" Strike.

"Stand—" Strike.

"—still!" Galad didn't respond. He simply kept moving, kept cutting, until Ser Lyle was bleeding from a dozen wounds and breathing hard enough that his chest heaved with each breath. Then Galad darted inside the bigger man's guard and swept his leg. Lyle crashed to the ground with a tremendous clatter of armor. Before he could rise, Nightfall's point rested against his throat.

"I yield," Lyle gasped, his booming voice reduced to a wheeze.

"Gods, I yield." Galad pulled the blade back and turned just in time to see the Mountain's greatsword slam into Lord Randyll Tarly's guard with such force that Heartsbane flew from the older lord's hands. The Valyrian steel blade spun through the air and landed in the mud ten feet away. Gregor raised his sword for a killing blow, the massive blade descending toward Randyll's unprotected head. In a heartbeat, Galad crossed the distance and brought Nightfall up to block.

Valyrian steel met common steel with a tremendous clang that rang across the melee ground. The impact jarred his bones, nearly tearing Nightfall from his grip despite his strength. Gregor Clegane's head turned toward him. Behind the helmet, dark eyes studied him with cold calculation, flicking down toward his sword.

"You," the Mountain said. His voice sounded like rocks grinding together, deep and rough and utterly without emotion. Galad looked at the giant properly for the first time. Taller than seven feet. Closer to eight, he figured. He wore heavy plate armor, thick steel dull grey and scarred from countless battles. Chainmail showed beneath the plates at the joints, good quality mail, the rings small and well-made.

The greatsword in his hand was just short of Galad's own height, a weapon that might take two men to wield, yet Gregor held it easily in one hand. His other carried a shield bearing the three black dogs of House Clegane. Everything about the man spoke of violence. Of death dealt without thought or mercy. Galad didn't take his eyes off the giant when he spoke.

"Lord Randyll. We shall have to test our blades some other time."

"Aye," Randyll's voice came from behind him, tight with pain.

"So it seems." Before the older lord left, he added in a low voice meant only for Galad: "This one is a monster, ser. I do not say this lightly, but yield if you must." Galad nodded but said nothing. He was well used to fighting monsters. In the void, he felt his heartbeat slow. Felt the world sharpen around him until every detail became clear as the water on a crystalline lake. The way Gregor stood, weight slightly forward, ready to attack. The position of that massive sword, held low but ready to sweep upward.

The gaps in the armor, few and far between, but they were there. The crowd had gone nearly silent. Thousands of people watching, holding their breath. And Gregor Clegane attacked first. The greatsword came down in a massive overhead chop that would have split a horse in two. Galad sidestepped, the blade slamming into the earth where he had been standing a heartbeat before. The impact threw up a spray of mud and sand. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Before Gregor could recover, Galad struck at the exposed side, Nightfall aimed at the gap beneath the arm. The Mountain's shield came around faster than something that large should move, catching Galad's blade with a clang. Then Gregor was swinging the greatsword back up in a diagonal cut that forced Galad to give ground. The strength behind each strike was tremendous. Beyond anything Galad had felt before, beyond Ser Lyle's crushing blows, beyond even a Myrddraal's strength. This was something else entirely.

Each impact when he blocked sent jolts up his shoulders, his muscles flexing like they'd tear/ Galad had abandoned his shield earlier in the melee, and looking at the force behind these strikes, he knew he would have had to do so again if he still carried it. Without two hands on Nightfall's hilt, he would not have managed to block even one blow. So he stopped blocking. Instead, he deflected and parried, angling his blade to redirect the greatsword's momentum rather than stopping it directly.

Let the weight of Gregor's attacks work against him. Each time the giant committed to a strike, Galad shifted just enough to avoid the worst of it, then looked for openings in the recovery. A gap in the form. A moment of lowered guard. Yet somehow, the Mountain's defense was just as impressive as his offense. Gregor used his shield like a battering ram, slamming it forward whenever Galad tried to close distance. The painted wood was reinforced with iron bands, and each thrust of it forced Galad back.

And every swing of either of Gregor's arms—sword or shield—carried enough force to take a man's head clean off. Galad managed a few cuts. A slash across the outside of Gregor's thigh that skipped off the thick plate. A thrust toward the knee that missed the mail by an inch. Even Nightfall's edge struggled against armor this heavy, plate thicker than any Galad had seen before. The greatsword swept horizontally at head height. Galad ducked under it, feeling the wind of its passage.

Immediately followed with a thrust toward Gregor's exposed side. The shield crashed into his blade, nearly tearing Nightfall from his hands. Another overhead strike. Galad rolled aside, the greatsword burying itself in the ground. He came up and cut at Gregor's extended arm. The blade scraped across the vambrace without finding a gap. Dodge. Parry. Deflect. Galad's footwork was flawless, his boots seeming to glide over the churned earth like a dancer's.

He moved in patterns, never quite where Gregor expected, always just ahead of that massive blade. Gregor grunted, the sound frustrated and bestial. His attacks intensified, the greatsword moving faster despite its size.

"Stop—" Swing.

"—moving!" Another swing, this one a diagonal slash that would have cut Galad in half. Galad ducked under it and finally saw his opening. As Gregor's momentum carried him forward, his back leg extended for balance. The mail protecting the back of his knee was exposed. Nightfall darted in like a cobra's strike, the Valyrian steel parting the mail rings as if they were thread. Blood poured from the cut, but Gregor barely acknowledged the pain.

He pivoted on the wounded leg—it should have buckled but didn't—and swung his shield in a backhanded blow that would have shattered Galad's skull if it connected. Galad swayed back, the shield's edge passing an inch from his face. The Mountain glared at him through his helmet's eye slits.

"I'll take that sword from your corpse." He roared and came at Galad even harder. The greatsword became a blur of grey steel. Overhead chops, horizontal sweeps, upward cuts, each one delivered with enough force to crumple stone. Galad deflected and dodged, his blade meeting Gregor's just enough to redirect each strike while his feet carried him out of danger. But he noticed something. The more frustrated Gregor became, the sloppier his technique grew. His recovery took longer. His footwork became predictable.

Rage was making him stupid. Deep in the void where completing his mission was all that mattered, Galad tried something he almost never did. Provocation.

"Is this the best you have?" His voice came out flat and emotionless. Gregor grunted but did not seem particularly moved. His next strike was no wilder than the previous ones. Galad's brows furrowed behind his helmet. That had been weak. Inadequate. He ducked under another sweep, parried an overhead chop that sent vibrations through his arms, then circled to keep Gregor turning.

"I knew sheepherders twice as skilled as you." That one landed. Gregor's eyes widened behind his helmet, then narrowed to slits. His face—what Galad could see of it—turned red. The next attack came with a scream, the greatsword swinging in wild arcs that had more rage than technique behind them.

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" The blade came down in a vertical chop that could've cut a boulder in half. Galad brought Nightfall up at an angle, catching the greatsword and redirecting it past his shoulder. The Valyrian steel sang as six feet of common steel slid along its edge. As Gregor's momentum carried him forward, Galad slipped to the outside of his sword arm, and just for an instant, the gap beneath the armpit was exposed.

Nightfall darted in, cutting a line of fire through the mail protecting the joint, through the padding beneath, finding flesh. Blood sprayed across Galad's blade. Gregor almost dropped his shield. His left arm spasmed from the pain, fingers loosening on the shield's grip. But he caught himself, swinging the shield around in a desperate block that stopped Galad from exploiting the opening further.

"You should yield, ser." Galad's voice remained calm.

"I do not wish to kill you needlessly." The Mountain's face turned crimson beneath his helmet. Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed wordlessly and attacked with renewed fury. But Galad was too fast. The greatsword swept horizontally. Galad ducked under it. Vertical chop. Galad sidestepped. Diagonal slash. Galad parried it away. Each time Gregor committed to an attack, Galad was already moving, already countering. Nightfall found the back of Gregor's other hamstring, cutting deep.

The giant stumbled but stayed upright through sheer rage and strength. Another cut across the gap in his vambrace. Red ran down Gregor's sword arm. A thrust into the knee joint that made the Mountain's leg buckle momentarily before he caught himself. In thirty seconds, Galad opened a dozen wounds. Each one precise. Each one aimed at the gaps where mail could be parted with Valyrian steel. Until the Mountain bled from cuts all across his body, his movements slowing as blood loss and pain accumulated.

Galad noticed the change in Gregor's eyes. The mindless rage was bleeding away, replaced by something else. Fear. The giant had realized he was going to lose. That this smaller man with the fancy sword was cutting him apart piece by piece, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Yield, little giant," Galad said. Gregor's eyes bulged at the insult. He opened his mouth to roar defiance, and so Galad struck. Nightfall came up in a vicious cut beneath Gregor's right arm, finding the wounded gap there and cutting deeper. Much deeper. Through mail, through padding, through muscle and sinew. The greatsword slipped from the Mountain's suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the ground.

Before Gregor could recover, Galad spun and brought Nightfall around in a horizontal strike with the flat of the blade. The Valyrian steel crashed into the side of Gregor's helmet with a tremendous clang that echoed across the field. The Mountain-that-Rides' knees buckled. He swayed for a long moment, his massive frame refusing to fall even with consciousness fleeing. Then, slowly, almost gracefully, he toppled backward and hit the ground with a crash of armor that shook the earth.

As if shaken awake by the fall, the smallfolk exploded. Their roar washed over the melee ground like a wave, thousands of voices raised in celebration. Applause came loud from the noble stands. But closer, someone else was clapping. Galad turned to see King Robert Baratheon approaching, his warhammer hanging from his belt, the antlered helmet firmly above his head. He stood taller than Galad but more than a foot shorter than Gregor's massive frame.

Blood stained the king's armor, running from a wound at his shoulder. More blood showed at his side where the plates met. Robert looked down at the unconscious Mountain, then back at Galad. Even through the helmet, Galad could sense the grin.

"Now that's a sight to see, eh?" The king's voice boomed.

"The Mountain-that-Rides brought down by a newly-made knight. That'll make for a damn good song when we're done, you and me." Galad frowned.

"You are injured, Your Grace."

"Bah! Bugger that." Robert reached down and took his warhammer from his belt. The weapon looked almost small in his large hands, though Galad knew it weighed as much as most men's armor.

"I want a good fight, woodsman. Like you had with those three. Like I had with the Kingslayer." Galad stared at the king for a long moment. Studied the way he stood, with his weight balanced despite the injuries, grip steady on the warhammer, eyes bright with the kind of anticipation that came before violence. This was not a request. Not really. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

"As you wish." Robert exploded forward. The warhammer came around in a brutal horizontal swing aimed at Galad's ribs. Galad brought Nightfall down to deflect, angling the blade to redirect the weapon's momentum. The king was strong, incredibly so, even wounded and tired. But Galad did not hold anything back. He riposted immediately, Nightfall thrusting toward the gap beneath Robert's arm. The king twisted, his armor turning the point. Countered with an upward swing of the hammer.

Galad sidestepped, the weapon whistling past his helmet. The fight became a blur of motion. Warhammer and sword moved as if in a choreographed dance that both men somehow knew the steps to. Block, parry, strike, deflect. To anyone watching, it must have looked like they were fighting with four hands each, their weapons flying fast enough to seem in two places at once. Robert feinted high with the hammer. Galad raised his blade to block. The king reversed and struck low.

Galad's sword was already there, catching the haft and redirecting it past his knee. Galad thrust toward Robert's throat. The king brought his hammer up in a vertical block, steel ringing against iron. Pushed Galad's blade aside and countered with a horizontal sweep. Galad ducked under it and cut at Robert's exposed side. The blade scraped across the king's breastplate, searching for a gap. For a few precious seconds, Robert Baratheon matched him blow for blow.

The king's strength was greater than Galad's, each strike of that hammer carried tremendous force. But Galad was more than used to fighting opponents stronger and heavier than himself. If anything, it came naturally to him. He had fought Trollocs and Fades and Forsaken, beings whose strength made even Robert's power look ordinary. But the king could not maintain the pace. He was injured. Tired. The wound at his shoulder was bleeding freely now, running down his armor in crimson streams.

His breathing came harder with each exchange. In the void, Galad felt fresh. Felt nothing at all beyond the rhythm of the fight, the striking of hammer against blade, the shifting of his feet and the king's feet, the pattern of Robert's breathing. He felt as if he were both of them at once, as if he were fighting himself, and he knew himself well enough to see the opening before it appeared. Robert swung high. Galad blocked and promptly countered, Nightfall coming around in a horizontal blow.

The flat of the blade rang against Robert's helmet with a tremendous ring that made the king's head snap to the side. Robert staggered, his next hammer swing wild and uncontrolled. Galad ducked beneath it and struck again, low this time. Nightfall sliced past mail and padding and flesh on the outside of Robert's thigh. Not deep—he did not want to cripple the king—but deep enough. Robert's leg buckled. He fell to one knee, tried to rise, but Galad was already moving. A boot to the chest sent the king onto his back.

Before Robert could blink, a Valyrian steel edge rested on the gap of his visor. Silence fell across the melee ground like a blanket smothering sound. No one dared cheer. No one moved. Thousands of people held their breath as they watched their king lying in the mud, defeated. Until Robert broke into loud peals of laughter.

"Seven hells!" His voice boomed across the field despite his position, despite the sword at his face, despite the blood and exhaustion. He was grinning behind his helmet, Galad could hear it in his voice.

"How did a damned woodsman get so good with a blade, eh?" Galad could only shrug.

"It is just like chopping wood, Your Grace. Only easier." Robert laughed again, the sound genuine and delighted.

"Aye! Aye, I yield! The tourney is yours, lad. You deserve it." With those words, the smallfolk hill behind them burst into a huge roar. The very air seemed to shake with it. The noble stands erupted as well, lords and ladies rising to their feet, applause thundering down. Bright kerchiefs waved in the air like flowers in a wind. Galad thought he spotted the loudest cheers coming from the box beneath the golden rose banner, the Tyrells celebrating their knight's victory.

Pulling Nightfall away from the king's throat, he offered his hand. Robert took it without hesitation. Galad hauled the large man to his feet, no easy task given the king's size and the weight of his armor, and Robert immediately seized Galad's sword hand and lifted it high into the air. The cheers somehow got louder. Galad played his part. He removed his helmet for the crowd to see, letting them witness the face of the tournament's champion.

His dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat, his violet eyes clear and bright despite the exertion. This was what he had wanted, in the end. To display his skills before the realm so that none would dare come against him when he left on his travels. To make taking Nightfall seem impossible enough that most would not even try.

"You're sitting at the high table with me tonight, Ser Galad," Robert said, his voice lower now, meant only for Galad's ears despite the crowd's roar. The king's eyes had taken on a new glint.

"We have a lot to talk about, you and I." Galad met those eyes and saw something there that made him wonder if winning this tournament had been the wisest choice after all. But it was too late for regrets now. The crowd was chanting his name, and the King of the Seven Kingdoms had taken an interest in a common-born knight with a Valyrian steel sword and purple eyes. Releasing the void, he let himself feel the weight of what he had just done.