The ninth day of the ninth month dawned clear and bright over the Shield Islands.
On Oakenshield, in the harbor town of Hewett, gentle breezes carried the salt scent of the sea through streets that should have been peaceful on such a fair morning. The sun climbed steadily in a sky unmarred by clouds, promising a day of calm beauty.
But only for those blessed with ignorance.
Those possessed of better information and sharper wits understood that this day held no peace at all. One needed only glance toward the harbor to grasp the truth of it.
Though Hewett Town nestled safely within the embrace of a deep bay, its waters calm as a millpond and welcoming to merchant vessels seeking respite from ocean storms, today the number of ships moored at its docks far exceeded any normal gathering. The harbor groaned under the weight of more hulls than it had ever been meant to hold.
More telling still were the banners that flew from countless masts—dignified standards bearing the arms of the greatest houses in Westeros.
The crowned stag of House Baratheon and the golden lion of Lannister snapped proudly in the breeze. Not one but two banners bore the golden rose of Tyrell, marking the presence of lords from the Reach. The purple lightning of House Blacktyde crackled ominously against its field, while the red six-pointed star of the Faith Militant proclaimed the new power rising within the realm. The red, green, and blue triple helix of House Massey completed the collection of rarely glimpsed noble heraldry.
The sight alone spoke to an astonishing truth: Highgarden and the Iron Throne had been reunited! The great war in the south was ended, and former enemies now sailed together beneath the same banners.
Familiar flags flew alongside these grander displays—the oak and iron of House Hewett of Oakenshield, the white rose on red of House Serry of Southshield, the green hand grasping a golden shield that marked House Chester of Greenshield, and the grey longship of House Grimm of Greyshield. All four great families of the Shield Islands had gathered in one place, a convergence that spoke of momentous events to come.
Highgarden and the Iron Throne had come to the Shield Islands together, but for what purpose?
The smallfolk could only gaze toward the castle that crowned the town's heart, but those ancient walls of grey stone revealed nothing of the secrets they contained.
Beyond the sight of common eyes, however, the small but sturdy keep buzzed with activity like a kicked anthill. The great hall had been prepared for feasting, long tables set with silver and crystal, while servants waited in perfect rows behind empty chairs that would soon host the powerful.
Among those servants stood Falia Flowers, bastard daughter of Earl Humphrey Hewett, positioned behind a seat like all the rest.
The other servants cast sly, mocking glances in her direction when they thought her attention elsewhere. Their contempt was a familiar burden—she had endured it for all eighteen years of her life.
The girl maintained a bright smile upon her face, but her heart churned with resentment and frustrated rage. In the end, nothing ever changed. She remained what she had always been: an unwanted reminder of her father's wandering appetites, neither acknowledged nor entirely cast aside.
The feast commenced with all the ceremony befitting such distinguished guests.
The Hewett family's steward positioned himself beside the great doors, his voice carrying clearly through the hall as he announced each arrival:
"Earl Humphrey Hewett of Oakenshield!"
As master of the castle, Earl Humphrey entered first—both courtesy and the unique privilege of the host demanded it. He strode into the hall wearing his finest doublet, his weathered face creased in what passed for a welcoming smile.
The assembled servants bowed as one, their voices joining in respectful greeting: "Good day, my lord!"
Falia Flowers moved her lips in the pretense of joining their chorus, though she spoke not a single word. Her vicious stepmother would punish her severely if the deception were discovered, but today she cared not. Let the woman try—there were more important matters at hand.
Fortunately or unfortunately, she received no attention whatsoever. Her indifferent father took his customary seat upon the high table, though he positioned himself to one side rather than claiming the very center—a telling gesture that spoke of deference to greater powers yet to arrive.
Her stepmother and legitimate half-siblings arranged themselves at the table with rare displays of modesty and proper courtesy. Lady Hewett even favored Falia with a smile and gracious nod, as if they were the most devoted of families.
But Falia Flowers would not be deceived by such transparent performance. It was this very stepmother and these "beloved" sisters who forced her to serve meals and pour wine, to scrub floors and empty chamber pots, to perform all the menial tasks befitting a servant while eating with the kitchen staff like the baseborn creature they considered her to be. They would not spare her such humiliation even on this most important of days.
The steward's voice rang out once more: "Earl Osbert Serry of Southshield!"
Falia found herself much more willing to offer proper respect this time. When she raised her eyes, she beheld the gentle, almost fragile features of Earl Osbert Serry—a man whose kindness was legendary throughout the islands. But her gaze quickly shifted to focus upon the figure following in his wake: Ser Talbert Serry, the earl's son and heir.
One day, the brave and powerful Talbert would replace his overly gentle father upon the seat of Southshield. He possessed all the strength and determination that Earl Osbert lacked, tempered with enough wisdom to avoid unnecessary cruelty.
Unfortunately, he had already taken a wife.
The thought caused Falia's eyes to narrow as she glared with undisguised hatred at her "dear sister" seated at the high table. Talbert settled himself beside the legitimate Hewett daughter, the two of them smiling at each other with such nauseating sweetness that Falia felt bile rise in her throat. Whatever affection she might once have harbored for the man died in that instant, poisoned by jealousy and bitter recognition of her own powerlessness.
Following the Serrys came the delegation from Greenshield—the Chester family in all their green and gold finery—and finally the contingent from Greyshield, where the Grimms ruled their grey island with quiet competence.
But these were merely the preliminaries. Like everyone else present, Falia found her attention drawn irresistibly toward the great doors, waiting with barely contained anticipation for the truly distinguished guests who would soon make their entrance.
"Friar Thoros of the Faith Militant!"
A rotund monk garbed in robes of brilliant red waddled into the hall, his round face split by a genial smile that seemed genuinely warm despite the circumstances. Seven-pointed stars decorated his vestments, marking him as one of the faith's new militant order.
Falia offered the required bow while her mind puzzled over his unusual title. The Faith Militant was indeed the church's new designation, but what manner of rank was "Friar"? Something between a septon and a Most Devout, perhaps? The religious hierarchy had grown more complex since King Joffrey's reforms.
"Ser Justin Massey, Master-at-Arms of the Shield Islands Fleet under the Royal Fleet, and Liaison Officer to the Kingsguard!"
A tall man stepped onto the hall's distinctive blue and white checkered carpet. His pale blue eyes and flaxen hair caught the torchlight, while his composed expression and pink cheeks gave him an almost boyish appearance despite his obvious competence.
Falia struggled to keep her shock from showing as she lowered her head in deference. The Shield Islands Fleet had been incorporated into the Royal Fleet? When had such a momentous change occurred? And why had her father and the other earls shown no surprise or resistance?
The implications sent her mind reeling, but she dared not reveal her confusion lest it draw unwanted attention.
"Ser Garlan Tyrell, Castellan of Brightwater Keep, Shield Islands Fleet!"
Garlan!
Falia's heart leaped as she heard the name she had been longing to hear spoken. Her gaze became fervent, passionate, as she rudely raised her head to stare directly at the approaching knight, silently pleading for the slightest acknowledgment of their shared past.
"The Gallant" Garlan noticed her attention, their eyes meeting for the briefest of moments.
But how could he spare thought for flirtation with a bastard girl when matters of such gravity demanded his focus? The game being played in this hall would determine the fate of thousands, and personal desires had no place in such calculations.
Garlan Tyrell looked straight ahead without further acknowledgment, striding purposefully to the high table where he took his place beside Earl Hewett. He offered polite greetings to all present, his manner courteous but distant.
The light in Falia's eyes dimmed like a candle guttering in the wind. Did those sweet words spoken months ago mean nothing now? This was meant to be a reunion blessed by the gods themselves—why did he treat her with such cold indifference?
Garlan, do you not remember? How perfectly we moved together during that dance? Am I no longer your "lovely lady," your "pearl of the Shield Islands"?
"Lord Beric Dondarrion, Castellan of Blackhaven, Temporary Commander of the Ninth Regiment of the Royal Guard!"
Falia bowed mechanically, her thoughts still churning with hurt and confusion.
The legendary Lightning Lord took his seat directly before her position, his distinctive golden-red hair catching the firelight like burnished copper. The man bore scars that spoke of countless battles, yet there was something otherworldly about him—stories claimed he had died and been brought back to life more than once.
She heard Lord Beric's voice, clear and carrying despite its measured tone: "In the name of King Joffrey, Earl Hewett and all present may be assured that your loyal service shall not be forgotten. Today we gather to uphold justice and unite the realm. The Shield Islands shall emerge from these trials more prosperous and stable than ever before."
"Long live King Joffrey!" The assembled guests responded with a single voice, their words echoing off ancient stone.
Her father finally spoke, rising from his chair with ceremonial dignity: "My lords and ladies, let us celebrate this peace, the rebirth of the Shield Islands, and the grace of His Grace! Let the feast begin!"
"Long live the Shield Islands! Long live His Grace!" came the thunderous response.
The banquet commenced in earnest, though for Falia it marked only the beginning of another evening's servitude.
A servant roughly thrust a heavy wine pitcher into her hands—Arbor gold, she noted by its rich color and heady scent—and she found herself assigned to serve Lord Beric Dondarrion throughout the meal. No one cared for her comfort or dignity; she was merely another piece of the castle's furniture, useful but ultimately disposable.
Laughter filled the great hall like music, growing louder as the wine flowed freely. The feast laid before the assembled lords would have fed a village for a week—roasted beef and mutton, whole chickens and ducks, fresh catches from the island waters prepared in a dozen different ways, each dish more elaborate than the last.
The ladies present wore their finest woolens and silk velvets, necks and wrists adorned with precious stones that caught the firelight like captured stars. They whispered and giggled among themselves, sharing gossip and secrets in the eternal dance of noble society.
The men cut more dramatic figures in their family colors, some wearing ceremonial armor polished to mirror brightness, others displaying doublets embroidered with ancestral heraldry. Most shouted boisterous toasts, delivered generous speeches filled with flowery language, and eagerly renewed old friendships while forging new alliances through wine-loosened tongues.
Yet Falia noticed that "the Gallant" Garlan responded to the festivities with courtesy but notable restraint. His laughter came rarely and seemed forced when it came at all. Something weighed heavily upon his mind, she realized—some burden that even fine wine could not lift.
Lord Beric before her maintained an outward appearance of calm composure, though she caught glimpses of tension in the set of his shoulders and the way his fingers drummed silently against the table's edge.
Not Lord Beric anymore, she corrected herself. Castellan Beric now.
But beneath his carefully maintained facade, Beric Dondarrion knew well the true significance of this day. September ninth held meaning beyond mere celebration—it marked a convergence of events that would reshape the political landscape of Westeros.
The kraken Euron Greyjoy was preparing to strike, his longships cutting through dark waters toward their target. The Royal Fleet would arrive perhaps half a day too late to prevent what was coming.
Today would indeed be a reunion of old friends—but also a reckoning that would test every alliance and loyalty in the room.
The feast continued around them, oblivious to the storm gathering beyond the horizon.