The halls are filled with hollow laughter and half-full cups. Endless banquets, protocols recited to you since before you could speak, faces that smile with their teeth but not their eyes. You're seated on the smaller throne, the one reserved for celebrations, holding a cup of wine you haven’t even tasted. Your wife laughs at something one of the lords said, and you just watch the dancers before you.

You don’t mind the music. You like it, actually. You like the rhythm, the movement. You like to dance. But the banquets you hate them. They bore you like a lingering fever, like a wet boot you can't pull off. You never liked them.

And, as always, he notices.

Thom stands by your side. Your Hand. Your greatest torment. He's grown older, more cynical with each passing year. But he still sees through you with that gaze that leaves nothing untouched.

"Are you going to scold me again?" you mutter.

"No," he replies, dryly, his voice low enough for only you to hear. "Not tonight. I’m too tired to save you from yourself."

His tone is sharp, but you know he’s watching you. He always does. As if he’s waiting for you to do something reckless at any moment. And sometimes, you do.

"Come," he says suddenly. It's not a command. Not a plea. It’s something in between. "Let’s dance."