The next morning at dawn, Galon rolled over in his sleep—and tumbled straight off the bed.
He hit the floor with a thud and jolted awake, sitting upright at once, sweat beading on his forehead.
'A dream?'
He looked toward the cold, extinguished hearth, heart still racing wildly.
The dream had felt too real. For a moment he truly believed he was about to be torn apart by twin dragons of fire and ice.
Only after his heartbeat slowly calmed did he push himself to his feet.
'Dragons… roots… the Three-Eyed Raven… Was it just a nightmare? Or some kind of prophetic dream carrying a hidden message?'
The calmer he became, the more he tried to recall—but the more he tried, the faster it slipped away.
By the end, all that remained was a vague impression: dragons.
Everything else was gone.
'What in the world…'
He frowned, thinking of the raven's call to go beyond the Wall.
'Am I really supposed to go searching for the Three-Eyed Raven like Bran did?' The thought barely formed before he shook his head.
First, this was the critical moment in the story.
Robert would arrive soon, and a series of major events would follow one after another. Galon couldn't simply disappear beyond the Wall.
Second, the White Walkers had already begun to stir in the far north.
Even if the Three-Eyed Raven claimed he could help, Galon had no intention of stepping beyond the Wall without a perfect plan.
'Better to focus on what's in front of me. As for the raven—if he really needs me, he'll show himself again.'
With that decided, he finally had time to take in his surroundings.
The candles in the chamber had burned down to stubs. No fire warmed the hearth. Only a chill lingered.
He rubbed the back of his cold hand and shivered.
'Almost dawn already…
Forget it. Might as well get some exercise.'
With sleep nowhere in sight, Galon dressed, buckled his sword at his hip, and stepped out into the corridor.
The sky had only just begun to pale. Winterfell was quiet, its stones holding the night's cold.
Galon crossed the passage to the training yard. As expected, it was empty.
He took a deep breath of the morning air. The cold slid into his lungs like an icy serpent, coiling through his body.
He shuddered once and felt fully awake.
Following his Deepwood Motte routine, he began his warm-up.
Once sweat prickled along his skin, he drew his sword, ready to practice, when a familiar voice sounded behind him.
"Lord Galon, you're up early."
Galon turned to see Ser Rodrik approaching in his training clothes.
He sheathed his sword and smiled. "Good morning, Ser Rodrik."
After the knight returned the greeting, Galon explained, "I've kept this schedule at Deepwood Motte for some time. Every day I rise early to practice swordsmanship."
"With the sword… if I go a day without training, I regress. So I don't dare grow lazy."
Rodrik nodded with true approval. "Quite right."
Galon glanced over his gear and smiled.
"If you have time, Ser, would you honor me with a bout? I've heard Robb speak of your swordsmanship more than once."
Rodrik laughed heartily and stroked his white whiskers. "Gladly. I've been curious to see your skill for myself."
Since it was only practice, they both left their real swords aside and took wooden blades from the rack.
Galon spun his sword through a light flourish, and Rodrik's eyes brightened.
An amateur would have thought it mere show.
A veteran like Rodrik saw the control behind the movement.
Just one glimpse was enough for him to know Galon was no ordinary swordsman. How strong exactly, he could only discover by crossing blades.
They faced one another, swords ready. After a brief pause, Rodrik moved first.
Despite his stocky build and age, his attack was swift.
His wooden blade chopped toward Galon's arm, but Galon parried smoothly, turning defense into counterattack.
They traded blow for blow, pressing and withdrawing, for more than a dozen exchanges.
Rodrik noted how comfortably Galon handled each strike, and his curiosity only grew.
After another failed attempt to break through, he sprang back two steps and spoke gravely. "Lord Galon, I'll be using my full strength now. I hope you'll do the same."
Galon agreed with a smile, though inside he was quietly astonished.
From the very first clash, he had noticed something strange. His skill had always been high—but after last night, his reactions felt sharper.
Now, when Ser Rodrik moved, Galon could read the angle and force in an instant and respond near effortlessly.
It was like suddenly waking up with the heightened perception of a man with true battle sense.
'Could the greenseer blood be enhancing my body?'
He pondered this as he watched Rodrik's stance shift.
'Even if he asked for my best, I should hold back a little. If I break him, that will cause real trouble.'
'From that guard, he'll aim at my arm again…'
As Rodrik lunged, Galon let his thoughts fall away and focused.
In a flash, his sword snapped up without moving his feet, blocking the strike with perfect timing.
Rodrik felt the strength brimming behind that light block and stiffened.
Without daring to push against it, he shifted deftly, turning the chop into a glancing cut and then rolling the blade upward from below.
Galon's sword was faster.
He struck at precisely the point Rodrik needed to protect, tapping the knight's arm hard enough to numb it.
Rodrik's fingers spasmed and his wooden sword fell to the dirt.
"I yield," he said, gripping his arm but laughing freely.
He had known Galon was skilled. He had not expected to be dismantled in three moves.
"So that earlier bout… you were holding back."
He shook his head, everything suddenly clear.
His eyes shone with surprise as he said,
"With swordsmanship like that, there are few in the Seven Kingdoms who could match you.
Perhaps only Barristan the Bold himself."
"Lord Galon, if you went to King's Landing for the tourneys, you'd take the champion's laurel for certain."
His praise made Galon laugh aloud.
Behind them, Jon and Robb arrived just in time to hear the last sentence. Both stared, stunned.
"Ser Rodrik… lost?"
"Even he isn't Galon's match?"
Rodrik heard them and turned at once.
"Robb, Jon, and why are you only just out of bed?" he barked.
"Look at Lord Galon—young, gifted with the sword, and still up before dawn to practice every day."
"And you two? All you know is sleep.
At your age you should be ashamed to stay abed so late!"
The scolding rained down, leaving Robb and Jon speechless. They could only look at Galon with a kind of wounded resentment.
It was hard enough being compared to a genius.
Being compared to a genius who also worked harder than anyone else was unbearable.
Galon merely shrugged, fighting back a grin.
When Ser Rodrik finished, the three young men continued training together. As for the sparring they had mentioned the previous day—none of them brought it up again.
From that day forward, Galon's life in Winterfell settled into a steady rhythm.
In the mornings, he trained swordsmanship with Robb and Jon. In the afternoons, under Catelyn's ever-watchful eye, he still found time to teach Sansa Westerosi Chess.
At night, he experimented with the strange powers hidden in his Glover blood.
Three days passed in the same fashion.
With Galon's efforts, his relationship with Sansa progressed rapidly. She even secretly told him about her mother's plan to marry her into the royal family.
And it was in this shifting web of quiet schemes and growing feelings that the long-awaited day finally arrived—
The king came to Winterfell.
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