4 Chapter 4

It had only taken me twenty minutes to make it back to Casterly Rock instead of the thirty I'd imagined. With no one to hold me back, I could build up a serious pace, and I was panting by the time I got back to my room on one of the lower levels of the castle.

House Tarth was a middling house in the Stormlands, certainly behind in strength to the Marcher Lords of Swann, Dondarrion, and Caron. Buckler was richer, Connington more influential, and recent marriages had brought Estermont closer to the Baratheons of Storm's End. Still, we had the biggest naval force in the region, shabby as it were, and our ancient name still carried enough weight that we necessitated apartments in the Rock.

I didn't stop there for long. My father was out, no doubt politicking with this or that lord, and I saw no sign of my mother and sisters, so I made my way to the largest yard in the castle where the noble knights and lords would be practicing. It was still early in the morning, seeing as I had left before five o'clock, and I hoped to try my mettle against men from outside Tarth.

I had never had the chance to travel beyond a few visits to Storm's End and once to King's Landing, but that had been when I was only a child. This would be the best opportunity I had in years to see where I stood amongst the best in the realm.

Evenfall Hall was a large castle relative to middle nobility, seeing as we were once kings in our own right, but the Rock's main yard dwarfed ours by a crazy order of magnitude. I wagered some five thousand men could squeeze together here in times of war, and even now the place bubbled with activity as lords and heirs, knights and squires fought and practiced with each other.

The air rang with the song of metal and the cracking of wooden swords. The piercing sounds rattled against my ears in a way I would have found unpleasant in another life. Now, it lit a fire in my chest that demanded to be extinguished. The fatigue from the morning run melted away to a simmering soreness that I could easily ignore. My conditioning was so good that the past day's jousting was nothing but a memory.

I made my way to the main weapons rack in the center of the yard, dodging the small pockets of duels that formed around the more prolific fighters. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the best warriors in the land. Looking back, I saw dozens of ladies, children, and older lords lining the balconies that overlooked the yard, some caught up in conversation over refreshments, others attentively observing the action below.

I was stopped before I got within ten feet of live steel. "You there!" A gruff voice spoke. I turned to see a middle-aged, barrel-chested man glaring at me with baleful black eyes. "How old are you, boy?"

I tried not to let the title of boy get to me. "This boy has a name, ser," I said, polite as could be. "I'm Galladon Tarth, Lord Selwyn's son and heir. Yours would be…?"

He huffed. "Son and heir and not old enough to join this side of the yard, I say." He pointed a meaty finger toward where the younger boys and squires were whacking at each other with wooden swords. "That's where you'll be for the day, my lord."

I grimaced. I could see a few squires with potential—solid stances and good instincts though unbalanced by growth spurts, but most of those boys were hammering at each other like the swords were clubs. That would be beyond a waste of my time.

Mustering up my best smile, I tried again. "I still haven't gotten your name, ser."

"Ser Benedict Broom." He crossed his arms over his front, as if daring me to keep talking. "Master-at-arms here at the Rock. Which means this here is my yard. Is that going to be a problem, lordling?"

I knew a lost cause when I saw one. I might have the physique and stature of a young man, but my voice was a dead giveaway. And though I was handsome enough with promises of a strong jaw, my upper lip was bare of any fuzz and some baby fat still puffed out my cheeks. Ah, the detriments of reincarnation.

But as an idea slowly came together in my mind, I allowed myself to relax. "No problem at all, Ser Benedict," I said, keeping up the smile. Only this time it had an edge to it. "I'll make myself known to the older squires."

xxx

I punted the squire closest to me with a frontal kick to the diaphragm when he lifted his sword to attack. The straw-haired boy folded like an envelope around my foot and crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. The thin sound of a downcut cutting the air to my left had me raising up my shield to meet it, and the next moment I spun out of the way of another sweeping blow aimed at my knee.

And so I danced in between the three squires still on their feet, all my age or older. I made it impressive too, not letting even a single blow so much as glance against my padded torso while delivering what would be serious cuts and stabs were I to use a real sword. I was more than used to this style of training when I practiced against my own men back home.

When I decided enough was enough, I went in for the kill. A feint to the left saw that I had a second's advantage against the tallest of the squire before his two friends had a chance to help him. Dash in, parry, punch to the face. Another down. The last squires were smart enough to try and synchronize their attacks, but they weren't good enough.

When the round, pimply boy tried a textbook sideswing, I swept his wooden blade away and pushed him onto his ally. The bulk of the boy knocked his friend's weapon out of his hand, and then it was all a matter dotting the i's and crossing the t's. Ten seconds later I had them both flat on their backs, repeating "I yield, I yield," like the words were some kind of ritual chant.

I let myself breathe out once it was all over. Instead of gloating, I went over and offered hands to the two boys, helping them up as they muttered their thanks. This group was under direct tutelage of the Rock's master-at-arms, from what they told me, and it was a credit to him that they took their defeat with dignity. The straw-haired squire I kicked and the tall one I punched had gotten to their feet on their own, so I only offered a respectful nod. One squire answered in kind, the other huffed and stormed away.

Ah well. You can't win them all. There's always a dick in every group.

As the straw-haired boy—Clay Linderly by name—came over to ask me for tips, I made sure not to indicate that I had noticed the smattering of knights and lords that had gathered around to watch me fight. These boys were the third group of older squires I had demolished without breaking a sweat, so it made sense that my fights had gained a following in the yard.

"Try not to over-flourish your form when you go for a swing," I told him. "Keep it tight. Short movements. That'll make a difference, you'll see."

He slapped me on the shoulder amicably and was about to speak up again when someone cleared their throat. Oh I knew the voice. I had to hold back a grin when I turned toward Ser Benedict Broom

"Back to the dummies, Linderly," the master-at-arms grunted. "I won't have it said you learned that ridiculous form from me. Go!" He shooed off the boy. Clay took it in good humor and left after another cheery thanks. "Warrior save that boy. He wasn't made for the yard." He turned toward me, eyes narrowed. "This your idea of fun, Tarth. Beating up on my squires?"

Looking about, I noticed the small crowd had dispersed after the squires and I started talking. Good. The one man I wanted to get the attention of at the moment was right here.

"I did say I was going to introduce myself, ser." I shrugged. "This is just how I say hi."

That cracked him. Ser Benedict chortled. "Alright kid, you got it." He nodded toward the center of the yard where dozens upon dozens of men were still hard at practice. "On your head if you get yourself hurt though."

My smile was genuine this time.

The morning carried on like that. Some of the knights who had been watching me against the squires were the first to ask for a spar. I asked for their names and tried my best to remember them, but their initiative soon opened the floodgates and I fought man after man for an hour, too many to remember. I stopped only occasionally to refresh myself for a few minutes here and there.

The only ones I made sure to recall were the Stormlanders: a jolly man of House Fell and a fierce one of Herston; an older knight who served the Errols of Haystack Hall and almost tricked me with a feint; a cocky prick called Ser Lomas Estermont that I had to be conciliatory with when his skills couldn't cash in his tall talk; a tough bout with Cedrik Storm, the Bastard of Bronzegate, and even Lord Bryen Caron of Nightsong who had just had a son called Bryce earlier in the year and spent half the fight gushing about the boy.

I hadn't realized who my next opponent was until he introduced himself.

"Ser Gwayne Gaunt," the man said simply, as if he was just another knight. He held up his practice, dulled-egde blade. "Shall we?"

I gaped for a full five seconds before I got myself together. "It will be an honor, ser," I managed to say.

I could finally test my swordhand against a kingsguard.

xxx

- Lord Selwyn Tarth -

"What do you say, Steffon?"

Selwyn Tarth leaned against the stone balustrade of one of the balconies that afforded a view of the Rock's main practice yard. He didn't bother watching the rest of the bout, instead focusing on the stunned expression of his liege lord. Selwyn wasn't particularly talented in the field beyond what was expected of him as a stormlord, but he knew who would be the winner of the spar after the first few exchanges

Steffon took a moment to answer, his eyes glued on the fighting. "I say you should have let the boy try the melee." He chuckled. "Seven hells, Selwyn. Are you sure the boy's your son? I would've taken him for a dothraki warlord had he not had your blond hair."

Were it anyone else who said it, even jokingly, Selwyn would've taken it as an insult. But despite what many thought, his friendship with Steffon Baratheon went a long way back, back before the time his lord left Storm's End to be a page in King's Landing where he would become close with Lord Tywin Lannister and King Aerys.

"He's not ready yet, my lord." Selwyn turned back to the yard. Below, the kingsguard and his son met in a fierce clash of swords, a whirlwind of slashing and stabbing that looked like a stage presentation so fast were their movements. "Look at his feet. Galladon is quicker than Ser Gwayne, and—"

—and stronger," Steffon cut in as Galladon pushed the kingsguard knight back with a powerful blow. "By the Warrior the boy's strong." He watched the bout with a feverish focus for another moment before he nodded to himself. "But I see what you mean. Strong and quick he may be, he's too green. Right there, see. He still falls for a good feint. His speed is the only reason Gaunt hasn't ended the damn thing."

Say what you will about the Baratheons, but they knew their way around a fight. Steffon himself had been a monster in his youth. Selwyn could well remember his lord's furious charge into the enemy line at the Steptones after his father's death. And it seemed Steffon's keen eye for martial matters had not aged a day.

Down at the yard, Galladon finally overextended himself enough for the knight to fully capitalize on it. Even then, Selwyn let himself smile. His chest swelled with pride. Which lord could say that his fifteen year old son held his own for almost three minutes against an experienced knight of the kingsguard?

Steffon hummed in approval. "A good showing by any measure, Selwyn. You've got yourself a champion in the making there to be sure." The Lord of Storm's End turned to him, one hand coming up to worry over the dark beard that covered his jaw. "But a great spar won't make much of a difference when your boy sits in front of him. Tywin doesn't much care for… well, for anything that doesn't concern his house."

"I understand, my lord." Unlike what he had told Galladon, Selwyn hadn't spoken to Lord Baratheon about his stunt as the mystery knight. There was no reason to explain anything beyond asking for the meeting.

"And you trust him enough to risk angering the Lannisters?" Steffon raised an eyebrow. "Tywin is a prickly man, and sending a boy in place of the house's lord will be taken as an insult. I never took you for a fool, my friend."

There it was. Selwyn chuckled. How could he explain to someone who didn't have a son like Galladon the wisdom of trusting your reputation to a fifteen year old boy?

"With respect, my lord, but fool is the father who raises an untrustworthy son." Selwyn smiled down at the sight of Galladon speaking amicably with Ser Gwayne. "If I must trust him with the future of my house, then I must trust him with this too."

xxx

On another balcony, a tall, broad-shouldered man watched as the son of an unimportant house spoke with a knight of the kingsguard. His sharp blue eyes flashed with interest. That had been the most impressive showing he'd seen in years, and he gathered the boy couldn't be older than sixteen.

Looking around, he realized very few of the lords and ladies in the balconies surrounding the yard had glimpsed the display of fighting proficiency. More's the pity. Then again, there was something to be said about getting in early in a promising investment. Or cutting it at the root, depending on how it seemed to be developing.

It was too early to act on it, of course. Many up-and-coming young men had shone too bright in their youth, only to end up burning out before making it into manhood. Few were the men whose talent truly flourished into primacy. But those that did, well... They became something special. Something more than regular men, their names spoken in whispered reverence all across the land.

No, nothing to do yet. For now, he would simply keep a close eye on this Tarth boy.