"To all the esteemed lords—cheers!"
At the front of the grand hall, William raised his goblet and drained it in one smooth motion. The lords seated on the dais followed suit, some smiling with subtle, unreadable expressions as they set their cups down. Only Randyll Tarly remained unmoved, his face as still and impassive as stone.
By custom, the host and guests would first exchange names and share a drink. Then came a few casual pleasantries and another toast. Once that was done, the host's heir—or in this case, William—would officially be introduced to the nobles. If anyone wanted to make things difficult for him, this brief lull between the toasts would be the perfect window.
But William stood calmly, composed as ever. He even nodded politely and smiled at the servant refilling his cup, as if he truly belonged here. His thoughts were already aligned with his strategy: Lay low if you have to, retreat if you must—everything for the sake of Little Rose! As long as they don't drive me out in shame, I've already won!
The hall was still full of music and laughter, but a brief silence fell over the high table. Tension began to creep in.
Just as Randyll reached for his cup—perhaps ready to break the awkward moment—a soft cough interrupted him.
It came from Ser Alken Florent, seated to Randyll's right. As the heir to Brightwater Keep, the Florents were one of the most prominent families in the Reach. If the Harroways hadn't fallen from grace, William's station might have rivaled his. Alken was also Lady Melessa Florent Tarly's younger brother—Randyll's brother-in-law—so it wasn't surprising he would speak up on his sister's behalf.
Everyone turned toward him as his cough faded, and Alken said with deliberate calm, "Ser William!"
He put extra weight on the word Ser, drawing a couple of soft chuckles from the table.
William offered a courteous bow, accepting the title with effortless grace. He didn't bother clarifying his status as a former squire—he had nothing to be ashamed of. Over the past two years, he'd defeated dozens of knights. The only thing he lacked was the official ceremony.
And no one pursued the topic further. After all, who wanted to be challenged to a duel over a title? Judging from his performance in the tourney, only Garlan Tyrell among the knights present could possibly stand against him.
"Ah, the 'Magic Knight'—quite the flashy title," Alken went on with a faint smile.
Laughter rippled across the table. Only Randyll remained stone-faced.
"Tch. Laugh all you want—you lot don't understand real power."
William was ready for this line of attack. He chuckled along and said, "Maybe it's because I studied under Archmaester Marwyn. They call him the Mage, after all."
Marwyn still had considerable influence at the Citadel despite his controversial focus on the arcane. Using him as a shield was perfect for deflecting suspicion.
Alken swirled his wine and asked slowly, voice heavy with meaning, "So you actually believe in magic?"
It's not about belief anymore. The question is whether I can control it.
"Legends say magic is tied to dragons," William replied solemnly, shifting the argument. "If dragons are real, then maybe magic is too."
"But the dragons are all dead." Alken leaned in, his smile sharp. "Though Harrenhal still bears the scars of their fire. Heard the damage is quite... extensive. Planning to use magic to rebuild it?"
Another round of laughter erupted.
Seriously, what do you have against magic today, man?
William just shrugged and said breezily, "If magic could fix Harrenhal, I'd welcome it. The cost of restoring the place through normal means might be more than the Iron Throne can afford."
"Hah, fair enough," Alken said, then added slyly, "You've been with Archmaester Marwyn for a few years now, haven't you? Even hired a few… colorful individuals as consultants. So tell us, Ser William—how's the magic research coming along?"
William was sure the word Alken had swallowed was "charlatans." He was tempted to stab himself, then cast healing magic in front of everyone. That would've dropped jaws all around.
But in front of this many nobles? Not happening. My lady self-preservation says no.
Since he couldn't drop a bombshell, he chose to deflect with grace. "That's a question for Archmaester Marwyn. He's the foremost expert in all of Westeros when it comes to the arcane."
Alken leaned back in his chair, amusement dancing in his eyes as if he'd seen right through William's evasions. But before he could press further, his sister Lady Melessa gave a small shake of her head—a gentle rebuke, but for someone as kind as her, that was a clear sign of disapproval.
Alken glanced at Randyll, perhaps seeking support, but his brother-in-law remained silent. With no allies, he raised his goblet and took a sip, pretending thirst had been his only motivation all along.
A beat of silence passed.
Then Randyll finally spoke, his voice deep and commanding: "A knight should place his faith in his sword and his brothers-in-arms, not in empty fantasies."
He raised his goblet and fixed William with a long, searching gaze. "Once, I too turned to such things in desperate hope. The result? Nothing but humiliation. A shame I'll carry to the grave. You're a talented knight, Ser William. Don't follow that same crooked path."
Wait, that's it? Just letting me off the hook? Sam's mother really is a living saint! A goddess of mercy!
William kept his joy hidden behind a solemn face and bowed his head respectfully. "Thank you for the guidance, my lord. I'll remember your words."
Once the men had emptied their goblets, Lady Melessa rose with a graceful smile. "Well, gentlemen, you've had your share of conversation. Now it's our turn. We ladies have been dying to meet this dashing and brave young man."
William gave the lords one last bow before making his way to Lady Melessa. She had remained standing, waiting for him with a poised smile. They exchanged the proper courtesies before she began introducing him to the ladies, one by one, in seating order.
"Ser William, this is Lady Jeyne Tyrell Fossoway of New Barrel."
The plump lady closest to her smiled broadly.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Jeyne."
Her round face, framed by her fullness, didn't hide a certain sharpness in her gaze. She chuckled before speaking. "The pleasure is mine. Though I suspect you're much more eager to meet Margaery. You've been sneaking glances at her all night. You're not the only young man to do so, of course—but you clearly have more courage than the rest. I won't embarrass you further, but I do think you have promise, Ser William."
Lady, could you not say everything out loud? I might just kneel on the spot!
The nobles laughed again—especially the ladies, whose laughter came with a natural elegance that softened the teasing blow.
Margaery, the center of it all, didn't act flustered or offended. She simply laughed behind her hand, the picture of poise with just the faintest touch of shyness.
Lady Melessa sighed, clearly used to Jeyne's antics. As the Duke of Highgarden's sister, Jeyne had earned the right to say whatever she pleased—and people had no choice but to laugh along.
"And this," Melessa continued, "is Lady Margaery Tyrell, daughter of Duke Mace."
At last—the Margaery Tyrell. Hope had never felt closer.
William struggled to keep his excitement hidden. He took a steady breath and said in an even tone, "It's an honor to meet you, Lady Margaery."
He stepped just a little closer—only to better examine her aura, of course. Purely for magical assessment purposes.
Margaery remained unshaken. Her aunt's joke hadn't fazed her. Handsome men fawning over her? Nothing new. She'd seen countless faces like his—and none had truly mattered.
But she responded exactly as she'd practiced a thousand times. She sat up straight, wore a perfectly polite smile, and fixed him with a gaze that was warm enough to be courteous, but not enough to invite unwelcome thoughts—just the right hint of intrigue to keep them guessing.
Their eyes met.
This time, at closer range, William could feel it more clearly than ever before—the ripples of magical power in her gaze. It stirred something deep in his core. He focused all his mental strength into a burst of magic aimed at her, hoping it might stir something within her in return.
But just like every failed experiment before, his magic scattered the moment it left his body. No connection. No reaction. That was the root of his problem—his magic simply couldn't affect others.
Still smiling, Margaery replied, "A pleasure to meet you as well, Ser William." Calm. Controlled. Neither distant nor warm—just... perfect.
So, I have to touch her. If I can trigger magic through Valyrian steel, then maybe her magic will respond too. Should I just grab her hand right now...? No. Garlan would probably kill me. I'll wait for a better chance.
Lady Melessa continued the introductions: Lady Marga Lannister Peake of Starpike, wife of Lord Titus Peake—once one of the great houses of the Reach, now much diminished; and Lady Reyna Ryswell Leyvil of Mistvale, wife of Lord Otto Leyvil. William knew that Lord Otto's brother, Ser Aegon Leyvil, served as commander of the Highgarden guards.
William greeted both ladies with practiced ease, shared a few polite words, and concluded with a charming toast to their beauty before withdrawing gracefully.
Back at his seat, Sam lifted his goblet with a grin like he'd just watched a stage play. "To love!"
Laughter broke out around the table.
This kind of misunderstanding is perfect, William thought. Let them think I'm smitten—it hides my real intentions perfectly.
He raised his cup and laughed along. "To love!"