The joyful atmosphere of the banquet pressed down upon Falia Flowers like a suffocating blanket, though none around her seemed to share her discomfort.
The musicians played their well-worn melodies with practiced precision—songs that praised the glorious history of the Shield Islands' valiant resistance against Ironborn raiders, others that extolled the virtues of the royal family and the honored guests from Highgarden.
"Shields Forged in Iron,"
"The Bloodied Oak Shield,"
"The Rains of Castamere,"
"Fire and Blood,"
"The Golden Rose"... each tune bleeding into the next until they formed a droning tapestry of sound that made her eyelids heavy with boredom.
The jesters and fools cavorted about the hall, their painted faces split by false grins as they attempted humor that fell flat more often than not. Their jests grew sharper when they turned their attention to mocking those present, seeking easy laughs at the expense of others' dignity.
Falia Flowers, naturally, provided a prime target for their barbed wit. The bastard daughter of an earl—what more suitable victim could they find? She possessed neither the power to retaliate nor the protection that legitimate birth might afford, making her fair game for any fool seeking to curry favor with the assembled nobles through her humiliation.
She could only focus her mind entirely upon her duties, pouring wine with mechanical precision and clearing plates with silent efficiency, hoping that dedication to service might shield her from greater embarrassment.
Fortunately, Lord Beric Dondarrion proved himself a gentleman of the truest sort. He neither subjected her to unwanted advances nor spoke a single frivolous word in her direction. His attention remained fixed upon conversations with other guests, discussions conducted in terms that sailed far above her understanding like ships beyond the horizon.
Falia found herself utterly bewildered by fragments of conversation that drifted to her ears.
What did it mean that "the First Fleet has been re-equipped and grown ten times more powerful than before"? How could iron and sail multiply their strength so dramatically?
Was "divine grace" truly more than a simple blessing from the Seven? The way these lords spoke of it suggested something far more substantial than prayer and holy oil.
What manner of arrangement was implied when they discussed "captains and liaison officers selected from each family's heirs"? Were they speaking of the Shield Islands Fleet? And if so, why would King Joffrey concern himself with such appointments?
The islands had sworn their allegiance—why did the crown still feel compelled to meddle in fleet command? Such interference seemed both unnecessary and insulting to lords who had proven their loyalty in battle countless times.
Falia Flowers had never heard tell of such unprecedented arrangements, yet these proud and traditionally independent earls offered virtually no resistance to what should have been seen as gross overreach.
What the king demanded was their most precious possession—the very fleet that had defended these islands for generations!
Strangest of all, the assembled nobles would often pause mid-sentence during their conversations, falling into brief but noticeable silences where their eyes seemed to focus on something invisible to her sight. Then, as if completing some unspoken communication, they would smile at one another with the satisfaction of those who had successfully concluded important business.
It resembled nothing so much as a fever dream, lacking all logic and reason that should govern the behavior of rational men.
Falia could only conclude that either her own wits had abandoned her entirely, or every person in the hall had succumbed to some form of collective madness. Since the latter seemed impossible, she was left to question her own sanity.
She felt completely alienated from these proceedings, as if she inhabited an entirely different world from the one these nobles shared. They dwelt in the heavens while she remained firmly planted upon the earth, unable to bridge the vast gulf between their stations.
What in the seven hells is happening?
The question tormented Falia Flowers throughout the interminable afternoon.
Only three days had passed since her father received the raven from Highgarden. The Shield Islands' warships had entered port just yesterday evening, while the king's party and the delegation from the Reach had arrived at the castle in the dark hours before dawn.
What could possibly have transpired in so brief a span to transform the entire political landscape of the islands?
Time crawled forward with agonizing slowness, each moment stretching like honey poured from a jar. Falia threw herself into her duties with desperate energy—refilling wine cups, clearing away empty platters, arranging and rearranging table settings—anything to keep her hands busy and her mind from dwelling on the growing confusion that threatened to overwhelm her completely.
Yet despite her efforts, the afternoon felt longer than entire seasons. By her estimation, whole years must have passed since the feast began, though the sun had barely reached its zenith in the sky above.
Her salvation came when her father finally grew weary of the increasingly boisterous revelry. Earl Hewett departed the hall in company with Garlan Tyrell, granting the remaining guests permission to rest and refresh themselves without the constraints of formal etiquette.
For the first time since dawn, Falia found herself assigned to accompany Lord Beric Dondarrion on a leisurely walk through the castle's grounds—a blessed relief from the stifling atmosphere of the great hall.
The small keep groaned under the weight of hosting so many distinguished visitors, with every chamber and corridor packed beyond its intended capacity. Yet even the crowded passages felt infinitely more comfortable than the feast, allowing Falia to breathe deeply of air that didn't reek of wine and forced merriment. For the first time in hours, her smile carried genuine warmth rather than the brittle politeness required of servants.
So long as she didn't allow her thoughts to dwell upon Garlan Tyrell and his cruel indifference.
Humph! Men! The entire sex proved themselves worthless when tested.
"Falia Flowers?"
Lord Beric's voice carried from ahead without his bothering to turn or slow his measured pace. The casual tone held an undertone of command that set her teeth on edge.
How condescending. She rolled her eyes at his back before responding. "You guessed correctly, my lord."
Beric Dondarrion, his attention focused upon the flower-lined path before them, chuckled softly—a sound that held more meaning than simple amusement.
His light screen provided capabilities far beyond what most suspected, including the ability to monitor those around him with remarkable precision.
"Falia, you possess considerable boldness when away from the feast. Why did you appear so timid in the hall?"
"Most interesting indeed."
Lord Beric turned to face her directly, his pale eyes holding a certainty that made her stomach clench with sudden apprehension. He looked upon her as if she had committed some transgression, though she could not fathom what crime he might suspect her of harboring.
"Falia Flowers," he said with the gravity of a maester delivering momentous news, "are you willing to pledge your loyalty to King Joffrey and serve the realm faithfully? Even if such service requires you to enforce justice against your own blood, to treat all persons with equal regard regardless of their birth, and to conceal nothing from those who command you?"
The unexpected question left Falia speechless, her mind racing to comprehend what he might be suggesting.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows of a nearby archway—a man wearing the distinctive six-pointed star cloak that marked him as one of the Kingsguard. His presence here, so far from the hall and the king's person, struck her as deeply ominous.
The knight advanced toward her with purposeful strides.
Falia instinctively retreated two steps, her voice trembling as she sought to invoke what little protection her birth might afford. "My lord, this is House Hewett's castle. You serve as His Grace's representative here—surely you would not commit any... rash actions."
Beric Dondarrion's smile held no comfort whatsoever. "Fear not, child. This is the king's gift to you—a medium through which truth and power may flow."
Falia glanced desperately around their surroundings, only now realizing that their walk had led them to a secluded corner of the castle where no other souls wandered. The isolation was perfect for whatever they intended.
Should she cry out for help? The thought crossed her mind only to be immediately dismissed. Her father cared nothing for her welfare beyond the minimal duty blood demanded. Her stepmother and legitimate half-sisters would likely celebrate if some misfortune befell the bastard who reminded everyone of Earl Hewett's wandering appetites. Even Garlan...
Who would care about a bastard daughter? None but those who sought excuse to rain down further scorn and contempt.
She closed her eyes tightly and ceased her futile resistance, surrendering to whatever fate these men had chosen for her.
Through her blurred senses, she felt the Kingsguard approach from behind. There came a sharp sound—tsch—like the whisper of a blade being drawn, followed by a brief, cold touch against the back of her neck...
When Beric Dondarrion returned to the great hall, the atmosphere had undergone a dramatic transformation.
The earl and his knights had reassembled, but all women and children had been dismissed, along with most of the dishes and serving staff. Only the most essential attendants remained, creating a space that felt far more serious and businesslike than the earlier celebration.
Falia Flowers realized with sudden clarity that the banquet had ended. What commenced now was the true meeting—the gathering where adult matters would be discussed and decided.
I should depart as well, she thought instinctively. This is no place for bastards and servants.
Yet the magnificent light screen that now displayed information directly within her field of vision commanded her to remain—not merely to stay, but to take an actual seat at the table among the assembled lords!
Her vicious stepmother possessed no such privilege, yet she—a baseborn girl who had spent her morning serving wine—was being granted a place among the decision-makers of the realm.
The realization sent tremors through her entire frame. The phantom pain at the back of her neck, which had troubled her since the Kingsguard's ministrations, vanished entirely before returning as something altogether different—no longer discomfort, but a strange pleasure that seemed to flow through her very bones.
I am the king's person now!
The lords and knights who had known her since childhood looked upon her with new eyes. Where once Falia had cowered under their attention, she now met their gazes with calm confidence, offering gentle smiles that spoke of newfound authority.
Dong dong~
Lord Beric rapped his knuckles against the table's surface, commanding attention. "His Grace has approved the appointment of Falia Flowers as liaison officer for the First Fleet of the Shield Islands. She shall convey orders from the king and the Naval Department while also reporting petitions and concerns from House Hewett to the appropriate authorities."
The assembled nobles exchanged meaningful glances. When considered properly, Falia did indeed carry Hewett blood, making the appointment seem reasonable despite its unprecedented nature. Moreover, the Kingsguard clearly controlled powers that made resistance both futile and dangerous. Highgarden had already made their accommodation with the new order—who were they to stand against the tide?
Earl Humphrey Hewett favored his bastard daughter with a smile that held genuine warmth—perhaps the first she had ever received from him. "Falia, serve His Grace faithfully and do not disappoint the trust he has placed in you."
Tears threatened to spill from her eyes without warning. She struggled to maintain composure, though her voice carried an unmistakable tremor when she replied, "Yes, Father."
Garlan "the Gallant" cleared his throat, drawing all attention to himself. "My lords, I regret to inform you that the cunning sea monster Euron Greyjoy sails toward the Shield Islands with more than a dozen warships! His fleet shall arrive this very afternoon!"
The hall erupted in shocked exclamations and urgent questions.
Every eye fixed upon Garlan Tyrell, demanding answers. How had he come by this intelligence? Why were they only learning of the threat now, when enemy ships already approached their shores?
"The kraken's forces are not worth our concern," Lord Beric interjected with reassuring calm. "The Royal Fleet has already departed from the Arbor and should arrive within a day or two. More than three hundred powerful warships sail to our aid—a force equal to our own Shield Fleet in strength and superior in equipment."
Garlan Tyrell sighed inwardly, knowing he must bear responsibility for delivering unwelcome news. "Unfortunately, Greyshield and Greenshield Islands may suffer some damage before relief arrives."
The nobles representing those islands could not conceal their dismay. Their territories lay closest to the northern sea routes that Euron would likely follow, and with the combined fleets gathered here at Oakenshield, their home defenses stood woefully unprepared for Ironborn raiders.
Damn sea monster! The curse echoed through multiple minds simultaneously.
Euron Greyjoy was supposed to be terrorizing merchants across the Narrow Sea, earning his reputation through piracy far from Westerosi shores. Why had he chosen this moment to return and assault the Shield Islands? The timing seemed impossibly unfortunate—or perfectly calculated.
Cunning sea monster indeed!
Several pairs of eyes turned toward Garlan with expressions that bordered on accusatory, as if his delivery of the news made him somehow responsible for the crisis itself.
But Garlan had learned of Euron's approach only moments before, when Beric Dondarrion shared the intelligence through means he dared not question. How could he defend against accusations when he possessed no good answers?
"His Grace has provided specific instructions for our response," Beric announced solemnly, his words carrying the weight of royal command.