The doorkeepers opened the heavy oak doors of the feast hall. The clamor of voices, the scent of roasted meats, and alcohol sipped into the corridor.
Theron stepped through first. Torches flickered along the stone walls, casting long shadows that danced across banners bearing the sigils of the Protectorate. Korrin walked at his side, her posture straight and her fingers locked in his arms in a silent reminder of the role they played tonight.
Behind them, Theron's men carried the heavy chests, their boots thudding in measured rhythm against the stone floor.
Lord Commander Vrys, Protector Of The Seven Kingdoms, sat enthroned on the high podium at the far end of the hall, his antler crown catching the firelight like some primal relic. His broad shoulders filled the carved seat, and when his gaze landed on Theron and Korrin, his weathered face split into a grin.
