GO GIVE YOUR POWER STONES TO MY NEW STORY, IF YOU CAN. "A BLADEMASTER IN WESTEROS."
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I couldn't exactly run away from the Red Keep just because of her warning. Whatever the king meant to show to the lords and ladies in the castle, I would have to face it either way.
I did the only thing I thought would help. With Queen Rhaella's eyes on my mind, dark and hurting and fearful, I went back to the practice yard.
I found a knight wearing Targaryen colors adjusting his sword belt near the weapons racks. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with the confident bearing of someone who'd never lost a real fight.
"You," I said. "Spar with me."
He looked up, surprised. "Who are you, then?" He took me in again, head tilting. "You that stormlander knight?"
"Now."
Something in my voice made him shrug and follow me to the center of the yard. We collected practice swords. Took our positions. Then I didn't even wait for him to get set properly. Just attacked.
The first blow would've taken his head off if I'd hit him with a real sword. He got his guard up at the last second, though even then I could see his block almost budging. I followed with a low sweep that he jumped over, then a thrust that caught him in the ribs before he could recover.
He stumbled back, gasping. "Seven hells, what—"
I pressed forward. No flare. No showing off. No testing his skill level or playing to the crowd that was already starting to gather.
I just wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him feel it. Wanted to punish these men who wore the dragon on their chests, who were supposed to protect that woman but had already failed in doing so and would continue to fail going forward.
I knew it was bullshit. Knew it wasn't their fault. Knew I had as little if not a smidgen more influence to stop the king as any of them, and I wasn't doing anything either.
But I just wanted to hurt someone for it. And the yard was the only acceptable place for now.
The knight tried to mount a defense. He was good. Better than most. But I was faster, stronger, and I didn't care when his blade caught me across the shoulder. Barely felt it.
I parried his attempt at an attack, threw him off balance, then drove my practice blade into his shoulder joint. Hard. He cried out and dropped his sword, clutching at the injury.
"Yield," I said flatly.
He nodded, face pale with pain. I'd dislocated his shoulder, I realized, and someone would have to pop it back in. Not my problem.
"Next!" I called out.
Three more came. Not all at once. They tried to be honorable about it. One at a time, testing themselves against the Tarth knight who'd beaten Prince Rhaegar at Lannisport.
I put them all down. Efficiently. Brutally. No wasted motion.
The first took a wooden blade to the knee that left him limping. The second got his fingers smashed when I beat aside his guard and followed through onto his hand. The third was smart enough to yield after I broke his defense and put my sword to his throat.
"All together," I said to the crowd that had gathered. "Three of you. Four. I don't care."
Four men stepped forward. A mix of knights and men-at-arms. They looked at each other, nodded, and came at me as a unit.
It was better. Harder. I actually had to work for it.
Two attacked from the front while the others tried to flank. I parried the first, ducked under the second, spun and caught the third across the back of the legs hard enough to drop him. The fourth got his sword inside my guard and landed a solid hit to my ribs.
I barely registered the pain. Just turned, kicked him hard on the shin, then swept his legs when he was off-balance, tapping him twice on the chest as he fell. Dead, if this were real.
The other three pressed their advantage while I was engaged. Smart. One scored a hit on my back. Another clipped my shoulder.
It didn't count to end the spar so I didn't care.
I turned the pain into fuel. Channeled it into a brutal sequence of attacks that shattered their formation. Disarmed one. Drove another to his knees with a strike to the thigh. Forced the third to yield when picked up one of his buddy's swords and put both blades to his throat.
I let out a heavy breath after it was done, only then realizing the fight had become something of an attraction beyond just the practice yard. On some of the balconies surrounding the area, lords and ladies had stopped to watch. I spotted a few familiar faces there.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon and a coterie of hangers-on. Cersei Lannister and her septa among them, the girl lifting her chin when our gazes met, green eyes bright with interest.
And two men who stood out by their distance to anyone else. One I recognized immediately—red hair and a griffin on his doublet. Jon Connington. Future Hand of the King, political exile, and father-who-stepped-up to a potentially false dragon.
So I was not surprised when the next contestant came.
Tall, brawny, walking with a confident swagger. I didn't recognize the face, but I could tell the sigil of all Stormlander houses large or small by heart, and the skull and lips were too distinguished to miss.
"Ser Galladon," he called out. "I'm Richard Lonmouth, squire to Prince Rhaegar. I'd like to try my hand, if you're willing."
Smiling a bit, he said it like the title should mean something to me. Like being the prince's squire made him special.
I gestured for him to pick up a practice sword.
Richard Lonmouth was about a year my senior. He had all the solid fundamentals and plenty of skill to be a successful knight once he was dubbed. Tall enough and stronger than most grown men already.
The spar lasted no more than half a minute.
I started the way I'd begun the last few matches, trying to batter him down with pure strength and speed. Overhead strikes, quick combinations, relentless pressure.
It didn't work. Lonmouth was competent enough to handle the assault. He gave ground, yes, but his defense stayed solid. His parries were clean, his footwork sound. Young and unblooded still, but well-trained.
So I switched tactics. It took a feint within a feint to get him to make a mistake. I went high, drawing his guard up while leaving my armpit open for a counter. Too open, which he realized, so after parrying and pushing my sword away, he went for the other shoulder.
The moment he committed, I let go of my practice blade entirely.
His eyes widened as I stepped inside his guard, grabbed his extended swordarm with both hands, and used his own momentum against him. Twisting my hips, I heaved and threw him over my shoulder.
Lonmouth hit the ground with a dull thud and a sharp gasp as the air was driven from his lungs. Before he could recover, I twisted the sword from his grip—he grunted in pain as the wood was wrenched from his hands—and put the blade to his chest.
"Yield?"
He nodded, still trying to catch his breath.
I stepped back and offered him a hand. He took it, and I pulled him to his feet. He winced from the movement, rotating his wrist carefully.
"I think I sprained it," he said, examining the joint. But he didn't seem upset. If anything, there was a glint of respect in his eyes. "That was well done, ser. I didn't see the second opening was a feint too."
"It's what makes it effective," I said, then gave him a nod. "You fought well too. Solid defense."
Before Lonmouth could respond, his companions rushed forward.
"Richard!" Connington looked between his friend and me, his expression darkening. "Are you hurt?"
"Just my wrist. Nothing serious." Lonmouth flexed his fingers experimentally. "My own fault. Should've let go of the sword when I could hardly even breathe."
"Your guard was fine," Connington snapped, still glaring at me. "This was excessive. Throwing a squire to the ground like that."
"Jon, stop." Lonmouth cut him off before I could defend myself. "He offered me a fair match. I accepted. That's the end of it."
Connington's jaw worked, but he kept whatever else he was thinking to himself. His pale eyes stayed fixed on me. "Come on," he said finally, taking Lonmouth's good arm. "Let's get that wrist looked at."
As they walked away, Connington glanced back over his shoulder. The hostility in that look was unmistakable, and I did not look away until he was gone around a corner, my own eyes narrowed.
What the hell was his problem? I could guess, of course. Griff here likely disliked me by principle alone for defeating his precious prince back in Lannisport. He certainly seemed the type, from what I knew of him.
I spat to the side. Screw him. I wouldn't put my head down to fucking Jon Connington. Bowing to kings and great lords was one thing, but a man had to draw a line somewhere. I hadn't meant to make enemies with any of the prince's men—and honestly believed Lonmouth didn't come out of the spar thinking any less of me—but that one would clearly be a problem.
I turned back to the yard, already searching for the next opponent. Despite having trained Gerion the whole morning, then fighting man after man for more than an hour now, I felt like I could keep going. Keep fighting. Keep hitting things.
Connington's punchable face helped with the desire, and fighting would allow me to forget about the queen. About the dozens of things I needed to do back in Tarth. About dealing with my father and sister.
Turns out that, instead of therapy, hitting things that occasionally hit back helped a lot.
More than anything, I had wanted to try my sword arm against the best. And the best weren't princes' squires and random knights and men-at-arms. I wanted the Kingsguard. Or the prince himself.
Hell, throw Aerys into the yard and let's see if Westeros could still imagine a king who could fight his own battles.
I'd sent word already after defeating the first group, challenging any man of the Kingsguard to come see if they were worth their white cloaks. I had not been so brazen with my choice of words, but the spirit of the call out remained.
None of them had turned up. And I found out why soon enough when the king's summons came.
I'd thought it would be a general summoning to court for all lords and ladies in the castle. And it was. The bells tolled across the Red Keep, three long peals that echoed off the stone walls. Criers moved through the corridors, announcing the king's orders.
I knew there was more to it when the man I'd truly wanted to see for the past hour came to call on me personally.
Ser Barristan Selmy, the greatest living knight in the Seven Kingdoms, wearing the white cloak of his office, found me in a corner of the yard while I was changing my shirt.
He looked the same as he had yesterday in the king's solar. Tall, his bearded face already more white than black, expression solemn. But it was the way his pale blue eyes looked at me that sent chills down my spine.
Sad and angry at the same time. And the anger somehow seemed directed at me.
"Come, ser," Barristan said simply. "His Grace calls on you."
I nodded, finishing with my sword belt. "What is the grand occasion, Ser Barristan?"
His heavy brows furrowed. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"You shall see."
I did see.
The great hall's doors stood open, and the crowd had already formed along the walls and galleries. Lords and ladies in their finest, drawn by curiosity or command or whatever else drove these people. The buzz of conversation died the moment I appeared behind Ser Barristan, and a herald stepped forward.
"Presenting Ser Galladon Tarth," the man loudly announced. "Heir to Lord Selwyn Tarth of the Stormlands, the Scourge of the Weeping Town, the Sapphire Knight."
I almost lost my stride. The herald's words echoed in the cavernous room. All around, people turned to look at me, and I saw curiosity in those eyes. I saw envy. I saw pity.
Something like panic rose up in me, my stomach twisting. Sweat ran down the curve of my spine. All my instincts were screaming at me, that something was wrong, that I was a sheep walking into the jaws of a dragon. I had to restrain myself from bolting back out.
The crowd parted ahead of Ser Barristan, and then I could finally see that the throne room had been transformed. At its far end, at the foot of the Iron Throne where King Aerys already sat hunched and eager, stood an old man I recognized.
Elmar Whitehead, Lord of the Weeping Town.
He was tied to a tall wooden post driven into the floor. His hands bound behind him, wrapped around the thick timber. His clothes were torn and stained. His face was bruised, swollen on one side.
And beneath him, piled around the base of the post, was kindling. Straw and twigs and split logs arranged with care. A pyre. Built before the throne of swords.
And beside that pyre, sticking out like the wrong splash of color in an otherwise monochromatic painting of blacks and grays, stood a red woman in crimson robes and a ruby pendant glimmering at her throat.
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