Looking at the faint green glow of the Maiden of Justice, and the thin line of light along its edge that resembled the sky at dawn, Garon's heartbeat quickened.
Cutting stone felt like slicing through rotten wood.
If that was the case, then steel armor and swords would be no different.
If he ever stepped onto a battlefield, the result would be terrifying.
Lord Selwyn had also finally come back to his senses. His eyes were fixed on the sword in Garon's hand, his breathing uneven.
"Garon… is this truly the Maiden of Justice?"
His voice trembled, hoarse with disbelief.
His heart pounded so violently that it felt as if it might burst from his chest.
He had named his eldest son Garon of Tarth with a simple hope: that the name of the legendary Morning Light Garon would bring his child good fortune.
But he had never imagined that his son would truly uncover the holy sword lost for thousands of years.
A weapon bestowed by the Seven Gods themselves.
What did it mean for someone named Garon to wield the Maiden of Justice?
Lord Selwyn could not even begin to imagine it.
The question left his mouth as if he were speaking in a dream.
Hearing his father's voice, Garon turned and nodded seriously.
"Yes, Father. I found it in the cave and pulled it out."
Garon knew the truth.
If he had not transmigrated, the original Garon would have died.
In the original story, Brienne once mentioned that when she was four years old, her brother, four years older than her, drowned at sea.
Perhaps the original Garon had also found the sword.
Perhaps he had even pulled it free.
But he had never resurfaced, and the holy sword had remained buried beneath the waves.
Now everything had changed.
Garon had survived.
And the holy sword had returned to the world.
House Tarth would no longer rest on the shoulders of a single girl.
"Let me see it," Lord Selwyn said suddenly.
His hand trembled as he reached for the sword.
But the moment his fingers brushed the blade, he recoiled violently.
A sharp hiss escaped his lips.
A red burn appeared on his fingertips, thin smoke rising from the wound. The pain was immediate and intense.
Lord Selwyn stared at his hand, then at the sword, realization slowly dawning in his eyes.
"My lord," Claude said softly, unable to hide his excitement. "The holy sword has chosen its master."
Lord Selwyn showed no anger at all.
Instead, his joy only deepened.
"Claude, you try."
"Yes, my lord."
Claude stepped forward and reached out.
The instant he touched the sword, he pulled his hand back with a sharp gasp.
A burn mark spread across his skin, painful but clean, without blistering.
"My lord… it truly is the holy sword," Claude said, his voice trembling with excitement.
Any remaining doubt vanished.
This was the Maiden of Justice, the sacred blade bestowed by the Pure Maid of the Seven.
Even Garon felt a trace of surprise. He had not expected the sword to reject everyone but himself.
Artifacts worthy of legend were indeed extraordinary.
He glanced at the knights and guards kneeling around him, their faces filled with fervor, and drove the sword into the gravel at his feet.
With almost no effort, a third of the blade sank into the stone, producing a crisp sound.
"You try as well," Garon said calmly.
The knights and guards exchanged glances, swallowing nervously.
They wanted nothing more than to touch the legendary sword, yet fear held them back.
"Did you not hear the young master?" Lord Selwyn said sharply. "Step forward."
"Yes!"
One by one, the knights and guards approached.
Some brushed the hilt with a finger. Others tried to grasp it fully.
Without exception, the moment they touched it, pain flared like lightning and molten metal. Cries rang out as they withdrew their hands.
Yet none of them showed anger or disappointment.
Only awe.
When every man bore a burn upon his hand, the way they looked at Garon had completely changed.
Garon pulled the sword free once more.
From this moment on, no one on Tarth would ever doubt its authenticity.
"Back to the castle," Lord Selwyn said.
There was no trace of fear left on his face, only undisguised joy.
"Yes!"
The guards responded loudly, their voices carried by the sea breeze.
They all understood that this would be the most unforgettable moment of their lives.
The burn marks on their hands would be honors they carried forever.
A leather sheath was found, and Garon carefully wrapped the sword.
Lord Selwyn lifted him onto his horse and rode back toward the castle.
Claude followed behind, carrying Brienne in his arms.
Evenfall Hall rose atop a hill along the western coast of Tarth, facing the Gulf of Tarth and the calm, sapphire sea beyond.
Across the water stood Storm's End, the ancient stronghold of House Baratheon.
The castle was built of gray stone, its walls worn by centuries of sea wind. The Dusk Star Tower rose like a silent sentinel, and at its peak rested the family sigil: two golden suns on red, two silver moons on blue, mottled with green rust from the passage of time.
Maester Ronnel was already waiting in the courtyard.
When he saw Lord Selwyn carrying Garon, he let out a long breath of relief.
"My lord, the fires are lit and hot soup has been prepared."
He had no idea what had happened by the shore.
Yet he sensed something strange in the atmosphere. The knights and guards looked eager rather than solemn, their eyes bright.
Inside the hall, Garon's wet clothes were removed. He was wrapped in thick wool and seated by the fire.
The soup was warm and rich, restoring strength to his body.
Brienne, small and earnest, kept adding firewood to the hearth, convinced it would help her brother recover faster.
Garon pulled her close, holding her gently.
She curled up against him beneath the blanket, her head resting against his chest.
Lord Selwyn watched quietly.
His gaze drifted to the Maiden of Justice resting nearby.
This time, he touched only the sheath.
The weight surprised him.
It felt far heavier than any normal sword, requiring both hands to hold.
Yet earlier, Garon had wielded it effortlessly.
Lord Selwyn examined the inscription on the hilt.
Just Maid.
He exhaled slowly and looked up at the family sigil above the hearth.
For centuries, the great houses had risen and fallen.
The Starks.The Baratheons.The Lannisters.The Tyrells.
And House Tarth?
Its glory had long faded into obscurity.
Once, their ancestor had been called the Evening Star.
Now almost no one remembered the name.
"Dusk ends, and dawn approaches."
The words of House Tarth echoed in his mind.
Perhaps Garon was that dawn.