In Westeros, trial by combat was an ancient tradition — a way to resolve disputes when words no longer mattered.
Both sides chose a champion, and they fought to the death.
The survivor proved their innocence before gods and men.
But the moment Galon proposed a trial by combat, Joffrey's expression twisted into sheer terror. Arrogant he might be, but even he understood the stakes.
Lose… and he would surely die.
His voice trembled beneath forced bravado. "You? A nobody from Deepwood Motte? You dare challenge me to a trial by combat?"
Cersei, who had been watching with a smug smile from the high dais, abruptly rose to her feet, ice in her tone.
"A mere provincial lordling dares demand combat against a prince?"
She turned sharply to Ned. "Is this how the North treats honored royal guests, Lord Stark? Well? Shouldn't you refuse at once?"
She didn't appeal to Robert.
She knew her husband too well — saying anything would only make him agree even faster. Robert adored knights gambling their lives for honor.
Ned had been stunned speechless until Cersei barked at him.
He looked to Galon — the boy had gone this far to defend House Glover's honor.
How could Ned deny him now?
Galon had expected Joffrey and Cersei's panic.
What mattered were Robert and Ned — and they would never turn down a lawful trial. The queen and the prince? Their wishes were irrelevant.
Galon bowed.
"Your Grace. Lord Stark. Considering His Highness is still young, he may appoint a champion to fight in his stead."
Joffrey's panic instantly melted away, replaced by a cruel gleam of delight.
Cersei blinked in confusion. Was he insane? Or… was this his excuse to gracefully break the betrothal?
She studied Galon, suspicion tightening her eyes.
From the shadows, Jaime — no longer lounging idly — straightened, sharp gaze trained on Galon as if trying to uncover something hidden beneath the boy's calm.
The hall filled with murmurs of disbelief and confusion.
All except Ser Rodrik, Robb, and those who had witnessed Galon's swordsmanship over the past days.
They alone felt no fear — only confidence.
Robert slammed his wine cup down with a heavy thud that echoed through the hall. Silence fell instantly.
"You are certain?" he asked, eyes piercing. "Joffrey may choose any knight as his champion?"
Galon nodded without hesitation.
"Good!"
Robert's eyes gleamed with approval. He turned to the prince. "Well, boy? Whom do you choose to fight for you?"
The hall exploded into action.
Knights of both Baratheon and Lannister banners surged forward, eager to be chosen — eager for glory.
But Joffrey had no interest in mediocrity.
Grinning wickedly, he glanced back at Galon.
"So I may choose anyone?"
Galon stood proud, his humility gone, his presence sharp as steel. "Anyone. Lannister knight or Kingsguard — I welcome them all."
His unwavering confidence made Joffrey hesitate. He had been considering Sandor Clegane…
But now doubt crept in.
Then his eyes slid to the rust-bearded Kingsguard knight standing nearby.
"I choose Ser Meryn Trant!"
Meryn, who had been watching with amusement, blinked in surprise — he had not expected to be chosen. Still, the prince had spoken.
And he already hated the smug northern boy's attitude.
He stepped forward.
"For Prince Joffrey, I gladly serve."
Robert rose to officiate the coming bloodshed himself.
"By the name of Robert of House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—
I hereby recognize the trial by combat demanded by Galon Glover of Deepwood Motte!"
His voice thundered.
"The victor shall wed Sansa Stark, daughter of the Warden of the North!"
The hall erupted.
Tables scraped as they were dragged aside, plates and feasts clattering to the floor, forgotten. Within moments, space cleared for a battle arena.
Robert, Ned, and the lords took their seats above.
Robb and Sansa stood below the dais, anxiety etched across their faces as they stared at Galon.
The commotion drew Tyrion back from outside. He pushed through the crowd to Jaime's side.
"I leave for a short walk and return to find a damned duel? What did I miss?"
Jaime did not answer.
He stared intently at Galon. There was danger in this boy — a deadly aura that flared the moment Galon wrapped his fingers around a sword.
Meryn sneered as Rodrik hurriedly brought Galon a sword and a basic leather jerkin.
"Need time to fetch proper armor, boy?" he mocked.
Galon smiled faintly.
"To fight you? I don't need armor."
He handed the jerkin back to Ser Rodrik and stepped forward with only his sword.
It infuriated Ser Meryn.
"You little wretch. Arrogance will be your doom!"
Galon unsheathed his blade, tossing the empty scabbard aside. "So the Kingsguard only know how to bark? Draw, Ser Meryn... Or are you afraid?"
Joffrey yelled from the side, voice cracking with rage, "Ser Meryn! Kill him! Kill him now!"
Steel rang.
Ser Meryn charged, sword raised high, murder in his eyes.
Galon did not flinch.
He did not even brace.
Joffrey grinned — convinced the northern boy had frozen in fear — excitement burning in his gaze.
Then—
Clang!
Galon's blade flashed up at the last instant, casually catching Meryn's strike. A twist of his wrist, and force surged like a giant's shove.
Meryn stumbled backward, boots skidding across the floor.
Three heavy steps before he regained balance — hands trembling, shock and fear swallowing his arrogance.
Joffrey shrieked from behind, "What are you doing, Ser Meryn?! Kill him!"
But Meryn no longer heard the prince. Every ounce of his focus was locked on Galon. Gods… how was the boy this strong?
If he didn't fight seriously… he would die here.
Galon tilted his head, sword resting easily at his side.
"Why so distant, Ser Meryn?
If you intend to win, you must get closer. Or are you afraid your sword is too slow to stop mine?"
He stepped forward, calm and predatory.
"Distance only matters when both sides are equals. But between you and I…"
Galon tightened his grip—
And vanished forward.
A single step.
A single strike.
Steel slapped aside Meryn's parry — and the point of Galon's blade drove straight through the knight's throat.
Sshhh-lik!
A wet, tearing sound. Blood sprayed.
Galon yanked his sword free, flicking crimson droplets from its edge.
"…distance means nothing."
Ser Meryn clutched at the gaping wound, choking on blood — then collapsed lifelessly at Galon's feet.
The hall went dead silent.
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