The sun shines outside, rays of light shoot through the blinders of the balcony doors, flicker on the silvery-white armor of ser Harrold Westerling, illuminate the Council Table and glow in the hair of the King. Viserys's head seems even more white now, with the sun shining behind him, as if a halo sits there like a crown.

But upon a more closer look there is little royal in His Grace right now: no jewels of the crown to shine above his head, only beads of sweat glisten in this summer heat, the garb is unbuckled, exposing Viserys going just a bit plump the further in his reign he goes, and the King appears utterly done.

Again with the Triarchy.

'Stepstones this, Stepstones that, it's all I hear the past moon.' he thinks but does not speak.

Instead others speak: lord Corlys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, goes on about the pirates in that God-forsaken place, lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, rattles on the Crown's expenses and how the same pirates cost the coffers gold, Master of Laws lord Lyonel Strong as of yet keeps to himself, though clearly he wishes to say something. The Hand ser Otto Hightower, similar to Strong, still sits in silence, unlike him, however, the Hand's face betrays nothing.

'They speak and speak, do they ever not speak...?'

Gods, the heat of summer is abominable to deal with in meetings of the Council! Viserys can hardly think about anything except how hot he is right now.

But then, as His Grace's violet eyes dart from councilman to councilman, as if searching for distraction from both the heat and the respected lords of the table, he notices you.

'You don't speak as well...' the King notices. Huh. He can understand Strong and Hightower, but somehow your silence feels off to Viserys.

He raises his hand, immediately silencing the table, the King's ring shines, and his eyes remain on you.

"I..." Viserys wipes his forehead, sets his hand back down on the table, "would like to hear what others think too."