The court winced as one, a collective shudder rippling through the assembly as the steaming pile of hot offal flattened itself upon the pristine white marble.

The color drained from Lord Cregan’s face until he was as pale and hollow as the mist clinging to the tower walls. A sharp, collective gasp hissed through the room, and every eye turned toward the black-wood chair, waiting for the Prince of Yarzat to...set the mood.

Cregan began to stammer, his hands trembling like dry leaves as he looked from the steaming mess to his new liege, his tongue tripping over half-formed pleas and excuses.

Sparing him from further humiliation was a sudden, sharp sound, a laugh. It bubbled out as if held back by iron pinches before erupting into a thunderous, rib-shaking roar.

Lords and ladies turned in shock toward the source of the ruckus. From there like the tail of a lion, a helmet bearing a plume of white feathers bobbed frantically up and down as its bearer, grasped at his breastplate, and then doubled over in a fit of wheezing hysterics.

"The stallion would make a fine jester, it seems," Alpheo said, leaning back into his chair with a smirk that was more amused than offended. "And, of course, our dear Legate of the Fourth is always so quick to find the comedy in a crisis".

As if to prove the Prince right, Edric let out a long, pathetic wheeze. Alpheo waited with the weary patience of a man who had seen this performance many times before. It took a long minute for Edric to catch his breath, and even then, he spoke between heavy, ragged gulps of air.

"Something... something ought to be said," Edric gasped. "The beast has the right of it! This hall reeks too much of Oizen and old ghosts. We should be quick to introduce some new odors. When may we finally feast, Your Grace?".

Alpheo looked at his friend with a defeated expression, sighing as he stood from his seat.

"I apologize for the... happening, Your Grace," Cregan repeated, seizing the silence to bow low. "It was never my intention to insult your hall".

"I shall blame you when the tides fall under my command, Lord Cregan," Alpheo replied, waving a hand dismissively. "Until then, you have no more control over when a beast shits than I do over what my men find hilarious. You’ll find their humor most low I fear. Still, they have one thing right". He looked out over the assembly, his hazel eyes brightening. "This is a joyous occasion! Let us start the damn feast before we all piss ourselves"

He turned back to Cregan. "His lordship may swear his oath as we eat and drink, amidst the music and the wine. Get your bearings and loosen your nerves; you look as though you’ve walked from the Zauern on foot". He then addressed the rest of the room while rising from his seat. "That is all. You may all follow Lord Edric; he, no doubt, already knows the shortest path to the wine cellar. Many a time I found him sleeping there!"

The court erupted into laughter as the tension broke like a dry twig, officers of the White Army laughing louder that most , as if telling how true that was.

As the court adjourned, Cregan who had an elaborate speech to argue the case to preserve his land, and finally saw how meaningless it now was, too followed the herd, still unsure in his bearing.

Yet, as unorthodox as it was, the feeling of relief was immense. To swear an oath over a cup of wine was a far better fate than doing so over a pile of horse dung under a conqueror’s glare. A small, warm glow settled in the lord’s chest as he joined the crowd, who knew, perhaps that was why the prince had ordered it.

------------------------

The drums were pounding a frantic, bone-deep rhythm, flutes wailing like banshees over the silver trill of harps. Voices rose in a jumbled soup of drunken boasts and bawdy jests. Jesters pranced across the floor, spinning into handsprings and cartwheels; bells attached to their wrists, elbows, and the floppy peaks of their hats rang with every chaotic movement.

At one side of the long trestle table, two mummers engaged in a mock duel with wooden tourney swords, hacking at one another with theatrical fury. When one blade struck the other in the stomach, a tornado of red silk ribbons erupted from his tunic. He collapsed, clutching his "guts" while the lords, ladies, and officers of the White Army roared with delight.

The feast, though lean by royal standards, was a triumph of flavor over scarcity. It began with a thick, earthy lentil soup that Asag devoured between massive dips of crusty bread. Then came the roasted game, seasoned with onions and served alongside potatoes boiled with a sharp pinch of pepper. Platters of snails followed, some drowned in pungent garlic broth, others swimming in a rich tomato reduction.

But what they lacked in food, they over did with casket of wine, ales and cider.

Edric was most pleased by the setting that most, as he drank as if the world’s vineyards were about to be put to the torch, while Ser Ghalrim sweated so profusely all the wine he dranked that he looked as though he were back at the Bastion, still hacking through the Southern host trying to get a hold on the walls.

Nearby, the entertainment was more physical: Merelao was wrestling the Legate of the Primogenia. It was the fourth round; Jarza had won the first three with terrifying ease, but the Lord of Epietoli seemed to mind his streak of losses as little as Alpheo minded the drone of the man speaking at his ear.

The Kakunian slipped beneath Jarza’s guard, hooking a leg behind the giant’s calf and shoving with his entire weight. Jarza brushed him off like a persistent fly, catching the hem of Merelao’s fine silk tunic and pulling.

With a sharp rip that echoed across the hall, the fabric gave way, leaving Merelao to the back on the floor, while half of his chest bare, to the visible pleasure of the ladies and more than a few men.

"Another round, you giant!" Merelao shouted when he was once more on his feet, charging back in for his inevitable fourth defeat.

They were all having fun, Alpheo reasoned. He glimpsed Ratto mimicking the way he had braced his pike against the Southern knightly charge. Basil sat beside him, lingering on every word, sipping watered wine and nodding with wide-eyed curiosity. He looked so innocent, so untarnished by the "blackened plate" of rule, that Alpheo felt he would gladly drown half the men in the hall if it meant that boyish smile would never fade.

The only one in the entire feast being bored to death, however, was the Prince himself.

"And you see, Your Grace," Lord Cregan continued, oblivious to the revelry, "we were graciously granted these lands when my great-great-grandfather’s brother died in service to the late-late-late Prince of Oizen. He took an arrow meant for the sovereign during the siege of Vincusium. A tragic end, truly, but his brother, my great-grandfather, was granted possession of the lands surrounding Apulio. It is written here: ’Hereby granted possession, ownership, and right of law in perpetuity.’"

Cregan held up the ancient, yellowed parchment, pointing a trembling finger at a smudge of discolored debris. "And here is the wax that was pressed upon it. Unfortunately, only fragments remain. A heavy rain fell during a hearing three decades ago, and the moisture, well... it was quite a tragedy for the document."

Alpheo stared at the parchment, then back at Cregan. He took a slow sip of water his hazel eyes lost in the gray rings of exhaustion.

"In perpetuity," Alpheo repeated, his voice as flat as the floor. "A very long time, Lord Cregan. I see it indeed.".

"That is right, Your Grace! The law is the law, as the Father Protector says," Cregan chirped, his chest puffing out with the misplaced confidence of a pigeon in a hawk’s nest.

Alpheo’s eyes drifted to the right, landing on the lord’s son, Lothar, who was watching his father with the horrified fascination of a man witnessing a slow-motion shipwreck. At least the boy has the sense to be terrified, Alpheo reasoned, desperately scouring his mind for an exit strategy that didn’t involve a public execution for crimes against brevity.

Had he been too approachable? Had his "understanding liege" act been so convincing that this man now felt invited to talk until the sun burned out?

Gods should I had beheaded some prisoners to be less approachable?

"My lord, I praise you for the great argument you have given me," Alpheo said, his voice dripping with a politeness that felt as fake as half the interest he projected when Jasmine spoke of her day at court. "It has indeed given me a great deal to ponder. Please be assured that your rights shall be protected and will not be infringed upon."

It was the ultimate dismissal and yet Cregan heard only the trumpets of victory.

"Please be reassured, Your Grace, my house shall devote itself to your service as we did with Oizen!" Cregan exclaimed, leaning in so close Alpheo could smell the lentil soup on his breath. "You won’t find us wanting! Indeed, our house is one of sacrifice and quiet servitude. You won’t find a more dutiful servant in these lands than me, I swear it by my great-grandfather’s name! Which, have I mentioned, after gaining his lordship, he continued dutifully serving his prince by following behind his banner at the Battle of the Twin Fork?".

"No," Alpheo sighed, the gray circles under his eyes seeming to darken even more, "You hadn’t.".

"Well, isn’t that a great story then!" Cregan beamed, oblivious to the prince’s displeasure.

"You see," Cregan continued, gesturing wildly with a half-gnawed potato, "at Twin Fork, the mud was so thick, nearly as thick as the sauce on these snails, delicious by the way Your Grace! Anyway my grand-grandfather’s horse actually became a temporary island in all that mud!Stories my father passed down upon me said that he stood upon the saddle, waving the banner of his house, and shouted, ’I am the rock upon which the waves break!’ Or was it, ’I am the wave that breaks the rock?’ No, it was definitely the rock one. Anyway, the archers were quite confused with all of that...".

Alpheo glanced toward the wrestling match , envying Merelao for being repeatedly slammed into the floor. At least the floor didn’t have a family tree. He looked at the black-wood chair beneath him and wondered if he could simply slide off it and pretend to have fainted from the sheer majesty of the story.

Whatever the case it would be another half an hour, until he managed to politely and yet firmly get the lord off his fucking face at which point he could have finally started to enjoy himself.