[ I'm having some problems right now working profile of the character for the Hephaestus I don't know if I should start where he's a child or like somewhat of a young adult]
The Great Hall of Evenfall Hall had never seen such a feast.
Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, honeyed duck, spiced crab, and wheels of sharp white cheese. Casks of Arbor gold and Lysaro's own firemilk were tapped and flowing freely. The air shimmered with heat, laughter, and the scent of citrus and smoke.
At the center of it all sat Lysaro Waters, bruised and bandaged, but radiant in a fresh green tunic stitched with golden thread. His hair was damp from a perfumed rinse, his goblet never empty. And beside him, in a seat of honor, sat Ser Brienne of Tarth.
She wore a clean surcoat over her armor, her braid redone, her face scrubbed but still flushed from the day's battle. She looked uncomfortable in the spotlight, but she sat tall, her back straight, her eyes scanning the room like a sentry.
Lysaro leaned toward her, voice low and teasing. "You know, I've never been bested by someone who didn't smile once during the fight."
"I wasn't smiling because I was fighting," she said, not looking at him.
He grinned. "You should try it sometime. It's terribly disarming."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "You're lucky I didn't disarm you literally."
He laughed, raising his goblet. "To my favorite knight."
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.
At the far end of the hall, his performers took the stage the fire-dancer from Lys, now joined by a pair of acrobats from Tyrosh and a masked juggler who balanced daggers on his nose while reciting bawdy poetry. The crowd roared with delight. Even the more conservative lords found themselves clapping, if only to avoid looking like sour grapes.
But then, as the final torch was extinguished and the music faded, a hush fell over the hall.
Lord Selwyn Tarth had risen.
He stood at the high table, goblet in hand, his face unreadable. The firelight caught the silver in his beard, the lines around his eyes. He looked not like a lord, but like a father who had carried too many doubts for too long.
He cleared his throat.
"How do I explain my daughter?" he began, voice rough with age and wine. "I don't."
A ripple of laughter nervous, uncertain.
"She's the roughest and toughest daughter a man could ask for. Gods know she should've been born a son. Would've made things simpler."
Brienne stiffened.
"But," he continued, "I've come to learn that simpler isn't always better. And sometimes, the gods give you what you need, not what you expect."
He looked at her then really looked.
"She's done something I never thought I'd see. She broke a boundary I didn't even know was still there. She stood in front of the realm, and she didn't ask for permission. She took it."
He paused, his voice catching.
"And I'm sick of her," he said, smiling now. "Sick of her making me proud."
The hall erupted in laughter, warm and genuine.
He raised his goblet high.
"To Ser Brienne of Tarth. My daughter. My heir. My knight."
The hall rose as one, goblets lifted, voices raised.
"To Brienne!"
"To the Maiden Knight!"
"To the Shield of Tarth!"
And then, from the center of the table, Lysaro Waters stood, one foot on the bench, his goblet held aloft.
"To Brienne the Strong!" he shouted, voice ringing through the rafters.
The hall echoed with the name.
"Brienne the Strong!"
Brienne sat frozen, face flushed, eyes wide. She looked at her father, then at Lysaro, then at the crowd.
And for the first time that night perhaps the first time in years she smiled.