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x At sunset, Samwell entered Highgarden’s feast hall.
Thousands of scented candles burned along the walls and tables.
Thick Myrish carpets softened the floor.
Long tables had been laid with dark blue velvet, fresh roses, polished silver, and enough food to feed a small host.
A servant led Samwell to his seat and filled his cup with golden wine from the Arbor.
Lord Randyll and Dickon had arrived before him.
His father sat at another table and did not look his way.
Dickon gave him a quick wave, then glanced at Lord Randyll and obediently lowered his hand.
Samwell smiled to himself and took a sip of wine.
Lord Mace Tyrell appeared not long after.
The Lord of Highgarden was in his fifties, with the thick brown curls of House Tyrell already touched by gray.
His belly strained comfortably against his fine clothes, and he walked with the self-importance of a man used to having a hall rise when he entered.
Many called him Lord Oaf behind his back.
He did not look ill.
Samwell lowered his eyes.
So Lord Mace had not even bothered to pretend.
The banquet began with music and ceremony.
Lord Mace raised a cup, offered a few polite words about Ser Samwell Greenhand and the brave work of settling new lands, then moved on as if the matter deserved no more than a breath.
No one in the hall seemed surprised.
Most of the Reach knew what this was.
Lord Randyll had discarded an unsuitable heir and replaced him with a better son.
Lord Mace had given the castoff a charter because refusing the Lord of Horn Hill would have been inconvenient.
That did not mean anyone expected the new knight to succeed.
Samwell heard the whispers.
“A knight made by a woman.” “Greenhand?
Did he think a name would make him Garth reborn?” “Look at him.
He’ll faint before he reaches the marches.” He ignored them all and ate.
Salmon salad.
Roast haunch of venison.
Fried lamprey.
Creamed chestnut soup.
Honey cakes with pine nuts.
Fresh strawberries bright as drops of blood.
Then the servants brought out a platter of gold-tailed shrimp.
The shells gleamed faintly yellow beneath the candlelight, and the meat inside was sweet, rich, and tender.
Samwell took one bite.
His eyes sharpened.
Strength had risen by 0.01.
He finished the shrimp at once and took another.
Again, 0.01.
Samwell set down his cup.
This was not dinner anymore.
This was training.
He asked the servant for more.
The young man hesitated, glanced toward the high table, and brought him another serving.
A few nobles nearby began to laugh.
Samwell heard them and kept eating.
Gold-tailed shrimp were rare.
Outside a great lord’s hall, they would be difficult to find and painful to pay for.
His dignity in this room had been dead before he sat down.
There was no reason to let shame rob him of strength.
By the time he finished the third serving, Lord Mace had noticed.
“Ser Samwell,” the Lord of Highgarden called, his voice booming across the hall, “are my gold-tailed shrimp truly so fine?” The conversations around them quieted.
Samwell rose at once, cheeks reddening in a way that suited the part everyone expected him to play.
“Yes, my lord.
They are the finest thing I have ever eaten.
Forgive my poor manners.” Lord Mace laughed, round and loud.
“Careful, then.
If you eat much more, we shall need a cart to carry you south.
No horse in the Reach will thank us.” The hall burst into laughter.
Samwell bowed his head and smiled with them.
If they were going to laugh anyway, he might as well be fed for it.
“Thank you for your concern, my lord.
May I trouble your servants for one more?” The laughter faltered, then rose again.
Lord Mace waved a careless hand.
“Give the man his shrimp.” The steward approached a moment later and murmured, “Ser, there are no more in the kitchens.” Samwell nearly sighed.
Before he could answer, an old woman’s voice came from the high table.
“I never cared for shellfish.” Lady Olenna Tyrell sat small and sharp among silks and candles, her wrinkled face framed by white hair and a knowing smile.
“Let Ser Samwell have mine.” The hall quieted for a second time.
Samwell looked up in surprise.
The Queen of Thorns was watching him.
“A good knight needs a good appetite,” she said.
Margaery rose at her grandmother’s signal and carried the small dish down herself.
She wore white that evening, with green lace at the sleeves and a golden rose pinned near her heart.
Candlelight softened her face and caught in her brown curls, making every young knight in the hall remember at once that she was the finest flower Highgarden had to offer.
She set the dish before Samwell.
“For my knight.” The words were gentle.
The whole hall heard them.
Envy stirred around him.
Samwell forced himself to look flustered, grateful, harmless.
Inside, alarm bells rang.
Olenna Tyrell had not given him a plate of shrimp out of kindness.
He bowed deeply.
“My lady, you honor me.” “Then come and speak with me tomorrow,” Olenna said.
“I may have a suggestion for where a young chartered knight ought to build his future.” Samwell kept his face properly awed.
“I would be grateful for your guidance.” The old woman smiled.
Margaery returned to the high table.
Samwell sat, ate the last shrimp, and felt Strength rise once more.
The hall laughed, whispered, watched, judged.
He lowered his eyes to his plate and let them.
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheDevotedReader I hope you enjoyed this chapter.