Chapter 26: Three against One
…
Third POV
Next morning
The sun hung high over Casterly Rock's training yard, casting sharp shadows across the dusty ground as knights and squires gathered for a sparring match that had everyone talking. Laughter and murmurs floated in the air, but beneath it all, there was an edge of excitement—a sense that something special was about to unfold.
The reason for this excitement? They were about to witness three seasoned fighters taking on a single young squire.
Galahad stood at one end of the yard, calm and focused, his green eyes locked on the trio ahead of him.
Opposite of Galahad, Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, spun his spear lazily in one hand, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he watched Galahad with the patience of a predator sizing up its prey.
To his right, Gerion Lannister, brimming with restless energy, shifted on his feet and swiped his sword around, eager for the fight to begin.
Flanking them was Tygett Lannister, stoic and broad-shouldered, his great sword catching the midday light. Together, they were a formidable sight—three men known for their skill and ferocity, now preparing to face a boy who was not yet a knight.
But Galahad was no ordinary squire.
At fifteen namedays, he already stood taller than most normal grown men, his height reaching six feet. His long golden hair, untamed and wild, framed a face as striking as any Lannister's, his piercing green eyes only adding to the resemblance.
Whispers had followed his rapid ascent in the ranks of Casterly Rock. Some called him a prodigy, others an enigma. Whatever the truth, he had become the subject of both fascination and speculation among the nobles and knights who watched him.
As the match was about to begin, a hush fell over the yard, the air thick with anticipation.
Galahad stood in the center of the ring, fastening his helmet with a smooth, practiced motion. His twin swords were buried in the ground before him, and with a steady grip, he pulled them free. Though blunted for the sparring match, they still held the weight and presence of real steel, they weighed like a feather.
The match began deliberately, the three opponents moving cautiously as they surrounded him. Galahad remained calm beneath his helmet, his breathing steady.
With a quiet focus, he stretched out his arms, extending the swords on either side of him, their tips aiming at his opponents. He was measuring their movements, calculating the distance, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and deflect.
Oberyn struck first, lunging with the tip of his spear aimed squarely at Galahad's chest. Galahad slid to the side, his right sword flicking up to deflect the spearhead, pushing it away without losing his footing.
He could feel Gerion approaching from the other side, his longsword slicing toward his ribs. Galahad spun, his left sword meeting Gerion's blade with a ringing clash.
Tygett advanced next, his stance wide and powerful, attempting to cut off Galahad's escape. The weight of Tygett's sword came crashing down toward Galahad's shoulder, but Galahad stepped back, narrowly avoiding the blow as the blade struck the ground with a dull thud.
Without missing a beat, Galahad countered with a quick jab of his right sword toward Tygett's midsection, forcing the larger man to retreat and reset his stance.
For a while, a dance of steel ensued. The way Galahad blocked, dodged, and struck was a sight to behold. Oberyn, Gerion, and Tygett gave it their all, their attacks relentless, but fatigue was setting in, their movements slowing with each passing moment.
The trio circled him again like in the beginning, they tried to regain their energy. After a while Gerion restarted the bout by stepping in, slashing high. Galahad responded by raising both of his swords to block, their blades sparking as they met.
Oberyn saw an opening and lunged from the side, but Galahad's footwork had him twisting away just in time, leaving Oberyn's spear to glance harmlessly off his armor.
The trio were working together, keeping up the pressure, forcing Galahad to stay defensive. Gerion pressed in close, his sword aiming for Galahad's legs. Galahad dodged and stepped forward, closing the distance, and parried with a sharp flick of his wrist.
The sudden movement sent Gerion's sword wide, and Galahad followed through with a short, controlled strike to Gerion's wrist. The blade's flat smacked against Gerion's gauntlet, sending his sword clattering to the ground.
Before Galahad could capitalize, Oberyn attacked again, his spear darting in from above. Galahad raised both swords to catch the shaft between them, twisting it out of Oberyn's grip in one smooth motion. With a growl, Oberyn stepped back, now weaponless, while Galahad kicked the spear out of reach.
Tygett surged forward, trying to catch Galahad off guard, his sword slashing in wide arcs. Galahad ducked under the first swing, his footwork tight and precise, using the momentum to sidestep the second.
He parried the third strike with his right blade, then brought his left sword down with a calculated strike to Tygett's wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon.
And just like that, it was over.
The knights and squire erupted in applause, a mix of disbelief and admiration rippling through them. They had just witnessed something unheard of—a fifteen-nameday-old squire defeating three men, each of whom had skills equal to the finest knights in Westeros.
Oberyn, Gerion, and Tygett stood there, chests heaving, sweat pouring down their faces. The fight had been relentless, fast-paced, a flurry of steel and footwork that had lasted a solid ten minutes. Yet the victor, standing at ease, looked as though he had barely exerted himself.
Galahad pulled off his helmet, shaking out his golden hair, a wide grin illuminating his face. "Haha, you see, even with the three of you working together, you still can't beat me!" His voice rang out with an effortless calm, a playful challenge reverberating through the air.
Remarkably, not a single drop of sweat clung to him—no trace of fatigue or strain, as if he hadn't just emerged from what would have been an exhausting battle for most.
"Gods, Galahadhow are you not tired?" Gerion gasped, struggling to catch his breath.
Galahad chuckled, giving him a sideways glance. "Well, the morning runs really help," he replied casually.
Every morning he would run as though his life depended on it, at first Gerion and the other knights had mocked him, calling it pointless.
Now, after seeing how much Galahad had improved, they'd made it mandatory for all the knights and squires.
Tygett, towering at 6'5" and broad as a bull, still looked shocked. "How are you so strong?" he muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
His size had always been an advantage, but even he couldn't overpower Galahad when their swords clashed.
"I eat a lot, lift a lot, and train a lot," Galahad responded, giving him a playful shrug. It was true—most of his mornings and afternoons were spent eating and training. Over the past few moons, he had honed his technique and built up his strength until it felt like every movement was instinct. His progress was undeniable.
But of course, none of them knew the real reason. The Wolverine template running through Galahad's veins, combined with his secondary evolution, made him practically unstoppable. He hadn't shared that little detail with anyone here—it was his secret, the key to why he could outlast and overpower even the best of them.
"It doesn't make sense," Oberyn cut in, his breath still labored. He was drenched in sweat, his agile, energy-consuming style having taken its toll. "I've studied the body at the Citadel. Even with training like yours, you should be sweating."
Galahad flashed him a smirk. "Maybe I'm just built differently," he said, with a cocky grin.
The three men exchanged glances, noting the confidence radiating from Galahad, even as they fought to catch their breath. Despite their exhaustion, a light-hearted mood lingered, the trio exchanging grins and jests as they recovered.
"Shall we have another bout?" Oberyn asked with a sly grin, twirling his spear once more.
With a nod from the others, they squared off again, ready to test Galahad's limits once more.
…
Tywin POV
I looked down from the barracks overlooking the training yard, where knights and squires clashed under the shadow of Casterly Rock. My eyes found Galahad, the young squire whose name had been on many lips as the tourney approached.
A faint smile tugged at my lips. Galahad wanted to prove himself, to be knighted, eager to stand alongside those he admired. He had come to me, to Kevan, asking for the honor, and even Gerion and Tygett had pleaded on his behalf. But I refused.
Not because he wasn't ready. No, Galahad was more than ready. His skill with the sword was undeniable. The finest warrior in Casterly Rock, perhaps the finest I had seen at such age. But timing, as always, was everything.
I wasn't going to knight him after a simple tourney victory, like Kevan would have. That would be a waste of potential. His knighting must be special, a moment that would be remembered, one that would make him grateful to me for the rest of his life.
Before the tourney commenced, at the feast where every noble eye would be watching, that's when I would do it. His name would be known throughout the realm after that, and he would have me to thank.
He would participate in the knights' melee, and I had no doubt he would bring prestige and honor to my house. Galahad's prowess in combat was undeniable; he had proven himself time and again in training.
Before, I had worried about Galahad's lineage, which hinted at a possible connection to my father and his origins which suggested him being a part of the Lionheart family.
His Lannister-like features fueled speculation—was he a bastard of our blood? Yet, despite my inquiries, I found no proof. As long as there was no solid evidence, he posed no danger to my family.
What mattered most was Galahad's unwavering loyalty to House Lannister. He served us faithfully, and that commitment outweighed any rumors surrounding his background.
The Lionheart family, meanwhile, continued to grow in prominence with each passing moon. I had forged a new deal with them, though the hooded man who managed their affairs remained elusive. Through Kevan, I maintained a line of communication with him.
Orphaned children from Lannisport carried our messages, forming part of a larger network I could only guess at. For now, the Lionheart family hadn't threatened House Lannister; instead, they had proven to be quite beneficial, bolstering our coffers and helping to quell violence and crime in the region.
Thanks to their efforts, Lannisport had become one of the safest cities in Westeros, a reputation that only served to enhance our standing in the realm.
Satisfied with my decision, I turned away, clasping my hands behind my back as I began the walk to see my wife, Joanna, and my son, Tyrion. After all the work I had put in, I felt I had earned a moment's peace.