"Zi—"
A sharp slicing sound echoed through the godswood.
One-third of the massive wooden stake slid off diagonally and crashed to the ground.
Ser Goodwin's eyes narrowed.
He stepped forward and examined the cut surface.
It was smooth as a mirror.
No splinters.
No resistance marks.
He was stunned.
Under normal circumstances, even a grown knight using a two-handed sword would struggle to cut deep into such an old, thick stump. The blade would usually bite only a few inches before getting stuck.
But Galladon—an eight-year-old boy—had cleaved off a third of it effortlessly.
Galladon himself was surprised.
It felt like slicing cardboard. A brief touch of resistance—then smooth passage.
"Let me try again."
He raised the Just Maid and struck once more.
Another large section fell.
Goodwin inhaled sharply.
Without speaking, he removed his plate armor vest and fastened it onto the wooden training dummy.
"If you wish to test it properly," he said, "use this."
Plate armor was costly—worth at least two gold dragons. A fisherman might earn only one or two silver stags a year.
"Are you sure?" Galladon asked lightly.
Goodwin shrugged. "I believe Lord Selwyn will reimburse me."
Galladon adjusted his stance.
Both hands on the hilt.
Force from waist, abdomen, and arms.
He struck.
"Clang!"
Sparks flew.
This time he felt genuine resistance.
But the blade bit deep—three-quarters of the breastplate cleaved open diagonally before stopping.
The wooden dummy beneath bore a deep wound.
Had this been a real man, he would have been split open instantly.
Goodwin was shaken.
Galladon was only eight.
What would this blade accomplish when he was eighteen? When he charged on horseback?
Goodwin imagined him galloping across a battlefield, blade flashing, armor splitting like paper.
His breathing quickened.
"This sword deserves its name."
Galladon nodded.
The ancient scripture claimed it could cut any ordinary iron and never break.
Clearly not an exaggeration.
Yet legend also stated that the original Morning Light Galladon drew the blade only three times in his life—each against overwhelming evil.
There must be more power hidden within it.
Galladon glanced at his panel in his mind.
Magic: 0
Did the blade require magic to unlock its true ability?
The Age of Heroes had been full of sorcery and monsters.
Surely the sword was more than sharp steel.
"Galladon," Goodwin said seriously, "do not rely too much on the weapon."
"A knight's strength is not determined by his sword. Arthur Dayne without Dawn would still be formidable. A peasant holding this blade could not defeat a knight."
"I understand."
Weapons were enhancements.
Personal strength was fundamental.
They switched to wooden swords.
Goodwin's teaching method was simple but effective.
For two years, he had drilled the basics—grip, force, footwork.
Now he emphasized precision.
He would call out body parts—heart, throat, wrist, head—and Galladon had to strike the exact spot instantly.
After two months, Galladon could hit the designated area within a second.
Then came dynamic training.
Goodwin tossed sour green apples toward him at high speed.
Galladon had to cut them mid-air.
At first, he failed repeatedly.
Now, he could strike roughly one out of every three throws.
When he achieved full accuracy, Goodwin promised to replace apples with green dates—much smaller targets.
Swordsmanship, at its core, was speed, accuracy, ruthlessness.
As sunset approached, Goodwin halted training.
"Do not return yet. Lord Selwyn ordered me to bring you to witness an execution."
"Execution?"
"Yes. Two rapists."
Galladon nodded calmly.
On Tarth, rape was punishable by death.
Like Ned Stark of Winterfell, Selwyn personally carried out executions.
It was both justice and authority.
Galladon had already witnessed two beheadings before.
He would one day inherit Evenfall Hall.
He must grow accustomed.
Sapphire Meadow
They rode to the grassy field outside Sapphire Town.
Dozens had gathered—guards, knights, townsfolk.
When Galladon arrived with the Just Maid on his back, murmurs spread.
Rumors had already spread across the island: he bore the legendary blade of Morning Light Galladon.
Many believed him reincarnated.
Reverence filled their eyes.
At the center stood Lord Selwyn, hands resting on his greatsword.
Two prisoners knelt before him.
One thin, yellow-haired.
One bald, scarred, burly.
"Brath, son of Kyrian," Selwyn said to the first. "Do you speak in your defense?"
The man shook his head.
"In the name of Aerys II of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men… I, Selwyn of House Tarth, sentence you to death."
The blade fell.
The head rolled.
Blood stained the grass.
Galladon's heart skipped—but his face remained steady.
Selwyn nodded faintly in approval.
He turned to the second man.
"Sageri, son of Mudin. Speak."
The scarred man laughed harshly.
"Yes, I did it. And what of it? You think being a lord gives you the right? One day House Tarth will fall. The women in your castle—"
A knight struck him and gagged him.
Selwyn raised his sword again.
"In the name of—"
"Wait."
Galladon stepped forward.
All eyes turned.
"Father… may I?"
Without hesitation, he drew the Just Maid.
The green glow shimmered in the fading light.
He had remembered something.
His panel required Judgment Points.
Judgment.
Was this not judgment?
(End of Chapter 8)
A/N:
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