The stone walls of Ashford Castle offer no relief from the heat of the road, only trapping the tension within the solar. Outside the narrow window, the meadow is a sea of pavilions and banners preparing for the lists, but inside, Maekar stands over a heavy oak table, his gauntlets cast aside with a violent clatter.

He doesn’t look at you as you pour the wine… He stares at the door as though he expects his sons to be dragged through it in chains. They have arrived at the gates, the lords are waiting to pay their respects, and yet his sons are nowhere to be found.

"Vanished." He rumbles, the word vibrating in his heavy chest. He turns finally, his face a hard mask of suppressed fury and a father’s bitter disappointment. "Both of them. Daeron has likely found the nearest alehouse to crawl into, and he’s dragged the boy along for the ride. My sons... a drunkard who sees ghosts and a child who thinks life is a mummer’s show."

He paces the length of the small room, his heavy boots echoing sharply against the stone. He stops and looks at you, his violet eyes burning with a frustrated, helpless light.

"Baelor speaks of patience, as if we have time for such follies. It is a fucking calculated insult. To the name, to the blood."

He shakes his head, his jaw tightening so hard you can see and hear the faint grind of teeth.

"I am surrounded by the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, and I cannot even keep my own blood in their saddles."