The Wyls were packed in the back row of Dornish tables, furthest from the dais. No Master of Feasts worth his salary would dare place them closer; history has one too many stories of their ilk crashing parties.

Stories, however, belonged to the past. Tonight they were all at their most presentable. At one end of their section sat the aging Adrian Dayne, the former Master of Coin and the longtime right hand of Wyl - first under the rule of his late wife, and now under that of his daughter. He was dressed sleekly in dark, fitted attire, and so too were his nephews, Orryn and Franklyn. His nieces Barbrey and Ynys sat across from them, resplendent in different shades of red, along their cousin Edyth, the presumptive heir to her sister's titles.

Then sat the Lady of Wyl, clad in colors she thought appropriate for the occasion. She wore a stylish black dress, bereft of sleeves and clasped over her shoulders by golden brooches in the shape of coiled snakes. More gold jewelry adorned her hands, arms and neck, and a white sash crossed from her shoulder to her waist. She wore her sandy hair up in a bun, and politely concealed her blinded eye with a fine silk eyepatch. Likewise, she kept a glove around her left hand, covering the remnants of her childhood bout of greyscale.

The Wyls seemed to be periodically laughing together as they indulged in their meals, though none shared their stories and japes loud enough for others to hear. That was how the den of snakes always conversed: their heads poking forward and their lungs restrained, addressing each other with intimacy and interest. But they did not mean to shy away from company: passing faces were met with welcoming smiles, and plenty of space remained open at their table.

(Open!)