The grand hall of Ironspire Keep was alive with light and sound, its polished blackstone walls shimmering as if touched by starlight. Sconces lined the room, their golden flames dancing merrily, illuminating the silver veins that ran through the stone like rivers of moonlight. Tapestries depicting the glorious triumphs of House Taratheon swayed gently in the draft, their intricate embroidery catching the firelight and casting shifting shadows of valor and legacy.

Long tables groaned under the bounty of the feast—platters of golden-brown pheasant, tureens of rich stews spiced with rare herbs, and pyramids of sugared fruits that glittered like jewels.

Nobles and knights crowded the benches in exuberant fellowship, their laughter ringing out like the peal of bells. Silver goblets clinked in lively toasts, spilling drops of ruby-red wine that ran like rivulets across the oak, only to be mopped up by eager hands. The musicians on the raised dais played a spirited reel, their lutes, pipes, and drums weaving a tapestry of sound that set feet tapping and hearts alight. Servants darted between the revelers, their trays laden with delicacies and smiles undimmed by the weight of their duties.

At the head of it all sat King Garon Taratheon, a figure of regal ease and quiet joy. His high-backed chair of blackwood, inlaid with gold filigree, seemed less a throne of authority and more a seat of kinship tonight. Draped in a robe of deep sable trimmed with ermine, he looked every bit the sovereign, yet the warmth in his expression softened the weight of his station. His circlet of gold, dulled by years of wear, seemed to glow anew in the firelight, as if it, too, shared in the revelry.

As the feast continued, Garon’s gaze roved over the gathered faces, his heart swelling with quiet pride. These were his people—loyal, steadfast, and vibrant with life. The weight of the crown, so often a burden, felt lighter now, buoyed by the shared joy of his court. He spoke with those nearest him, gulping his wine along.