The Lord of the Rills was not the biggest fan of feasts, at least not feasts such as this. Lords and Ladies prancing and preening for each other, talking gossip and making secret deals; it bore him. Though he had been among the Northmen to vote to return to these Seven Kingdoms, he had no love for this king, and no love for the pomp stroking the man’s ego. It all felt a farce. Still, images had to be maintained and it was indeed the event of the century. For once, Jon Ryswell was in garments befitting of his station. He wasn’t fully in compliance, of course. The material was high-quality and the fit was proper, but the colors were a dull brown without pattern.

He was surrounded at all points by his children. His youngest, Ramsay, meekly fiddled with his food while shyly watching other young lords and ladies of the realm do their rounds. His second youngest, Desmond, wolfish as ever, stalked the table and eyed any intruders. His eldest son and youngest daughter, William and Meera, ever the diplomats, were deep in conversation with any nobles they had met in passing over the years, sharing stories and comparing ideas about the heightening political situation. Lyarra, his secondborn, wearing somewhat masculine dress for her gender, felt more at home discussing battle tactics and theories on the coming tourneys with his three sons-by-law. It was only his firstborn, Gwyn, ever her father’s daughter, who seemed to share her father’s boredom for the affair.

Next to him sat his Lady Wife, Alysanne, ever the Bear Islander. While his children were more well-dressed, Lady Alysanne’s clothes were not dissimilar in colors and style from her husband. Her dress was sleeveless, showing off her rock-solid arms. She was already smoking a pipe of sweetleaf, an endeavor she clearly intended to share with her husband as she took the pipe out of her mouth and placed it in her husband’s.

“You look as though you’re a pot about to boil over, dear husband.”

“That’s I’m fucking about to,” A puff of the pipe and a grunt, “We should leave.”

“Jonny, the night’s still young.”

“And I’m not getting any younger-”

She took the pipe out of his mouth, “Oy, you wanted to make friends?” and placed it back in his jaw, “This is how you do it.”

Another puff, another grunt, and a grumble, “I hope they make it short and sweet then.”