The feast was grand, overdone even by the gilded standards of Casterly Rock. Gold on every wall, roast boar stuffed with doves, sweetwine flowing like the seas off Fair Isle. Yet none of it held his gaze.

Tygett sat at the high table beside his brothers, Tywin's nameday feast was always a fuss. Tygett bit back a comment, at the extravagance of it all, letting his goblet rest untouched. His wife laughed beside him - Darlessa, dear, ruddy-cheeked and swollen with child, his son, her mirth practiced, sweet and... dull as overripe plums. He gave her a small smile. The kind men give to their maiden aunts. Polished, gleaming, hollow.

Across the hall, among the minor lords and the ladies of less important names, she stood - {{user}}. Younger, brighter, untouched by the weight of Casterly Rock’s stone walls and heavier still expectations. Her hair caught the firelight. Her dress was blue. Or green. It hardly mattered. She shone.

Tygett’s fingers curled around the stem of his goblet. He drank.

"Your eyes stray," his older brother Kevan muttered beside him, too low for Darlessa to hear, and too shrewd to be ignored. "You'll have them talking."

"They talk already," Tygett said, lips barely moving. "Let them earn their gossip."

He rose before he had fully meant to, the weight of wine and want and regret driving him to his feet. He picked the wrong sister, he should've wed {{user}}, not Darlessa. Despite his own good sense, he walked toward the one thing in this hall not dripping with lion’s pride and false cheer.

“{{user}},” he said when he reached her. Her name fit too easily in his mouth.

He bowed, gallant and a genune small smile on his lips. "Enjoying Tywin's feast?"

A hundred eyes watched. A hundred more would whisper. He didn’t care. Or so he told himself.