Robert turned toward the voice.
A tall, broad-shouldered youth stood there—handsome, composed, and unflinching beneath the weight of every eye—bowing with calm respect.
'A fine northern lad,' Robert thought with honest admiration, though his tongue was thick with wine.
"So you're Galon?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Grace. Galon Glover of Deepwood Motte, standing ready for your command."
Galon spoke firmly, without the slightest tremor. At the same time, his sharp gaze swept the hall to judge every reaction.
Ned looked stricken with concern.
Across two long tables, Sansa first brightened with hope—then froze, anxious.
Catelyn's smile sharpened, certain that victory was already hers. Theon practically radiated smug triumph, ignoring Robb's dark glare beside him.
Joffrey stared down his nose with a sneer, lips curling in contempt.
But on the high dais, Cersei paused—interest flickering in her eyes at the sight of this poised young lord.
Jaime noticed. A pinch of jealous irritation ran through him.
"I thought Deepwood Motte belonged to your father," Robert grumbled. "Gerbert, wasn't it? How is it you?"
Galon's gaze flicked briefly toward the doors—Roger was gone, just as planned. Only then did he answer.
"My father answered your call nine years ago and marched to crush the Greyjoy rebellion at Pyke."
He let his eyes rest a heartbeat on Theon—now stiffening in his seat.
"He was wounded breaking the gates for Your Grace. The injuries plagued him for years. Six months past, he returned to the old gods."
Memories washed through the hall—of axes on iron shields, fire and blood, dead friends dragged from the surf.
Even Robert's brow creased. His cup lowered slowly.
"I remember your father," he murmured. "Bravery carved in iron. If he hadn't held back Maron's counterattack, Pyke would've drowned us all. A shame. A damned shame."
Respect rippled through the gathered northern lords. The tension in the hall eased—if only a little.
Galon bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"It was our duty to serve king and Warden of the North," he said. "On his deathbed, my father feared leaving me unwed.
He begged Lord Stark to consider a match. Three days ago, I was invited here so our families could settle the matter with your blessing."
His voice carried clearly and reasonably. He laid out the facts without raising his tone, and Ned nodded to confirm every word.
Galon had acted with honor.
But honor did not solve the king's dilemma.
Robert rubbed his temples. If he backed down now—after declaring before all the North—his authority would be mocked from White Harbor to Sunspear.
Jaime chose that moment to strike.
"So you admit the marriage was never sealed," he drawled. "And yet you expect a king to yield to you? Bold indeed."
Joffrey snapped like a dog off its leash.
"You hiding in the woods like a frightened animal and daring to challenge a king? Hound! Grab him!"
Sandor Clegane shouldered through the crowd, ready to seize Galon—until Ned's guard stepped in to block him.
Theon sensed the tide turning and rushed to prove his loyalty to the crown.
"He speaks truth! There is no official betrothal," he shouted. "Sansa remains free, and Prince Joffrey is a most worthy match. The gods would surely bless—"
"Enough," Joffrey snarled. "Who told you you could speak, squid?!"
The hall snickered. Robb rose sharply.
"Theon, sit down," he hissed, eyes icy with warning.
Catelyn shot Theon a furious look. Even she hadn't planned to let him flap his tongue this wildly.
Galon nearly laughed aloud.
Fool. He tried to curry favor and only made himself hated. But his blunder gave Galon exactly the opening he needed.
Galon stepped forward into the open aisle. Silence fell to hear him.
"Ser Jaime speaks true," he said, steady as iron. "What right does a Glover have to force a king into retreat?"
Jaime blinked—had he just conceded?
"So you yield?" he asked sharply.
Sansa's heart sank.
But Galon shook his head.
"I do not yield." His voice rang like steel drawn from the scabbard.
"Deepwood Motte would be shamed forever if I surrendered my word. And Lord Stark's honor would be mocked beside it."
Across the hall, eyes widened—some in approval, some in alarm.
"Then what do you propose?" Jaime demanded.
Galon's lips curved—not a smile, but the confidence of a man who has already seen victory.
"If both I and Prince Joffrey seek Lady Sansa's hand… If the king and the Warden disagree…
Then let the gods decide."
His crimson-tinted eyes burned like embers. "In a trial by combat!"
The Great Hall exploded.
People gasped. Men shouted over one another. A few even stood, instinctively stepping back.
A trial by combat—at a royal feast.
Galon stood at the center of the storm, unshaken. And for the first time that night… Everyone knew:
This young wolf-lord had teeth.
__________
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