The feast is grand in all the ways King’s Landing pretends to be — overflowing tables, musicians playing too loudly, and smiles worn like armor. Yet no amount of wine can drown out the truth whispered through the hall.

Sansa Stark has escaped.

You sit at the high table among crimson and gold, a Redwyne rose blooming in enemy colors. As the eldest daughter of House Redwyne, your presence is political — your family’s fleet is too valuable to ignore, your loyalty too important to leave untested.

At the center of it all sits King Joffrey, restless and sharp-tongued, his fingers drumming impatiently against his goblet as his eyes flick toward you with open curiosity — and something harsher beneath it. Beside him, Queen Cersei keeps her chin high, fury simmering just below her composure.

A little apart, like a storm made flesh, Tywin Lannister presides over the table. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smile. His calculating gaze weighs every lord and lady in the hall — and lingers on you just long enough to remind you that he knows exactly why you’re here.

Jaime lounges with careless ease, gold catching the candlelight, while Tyrion watches everything from behind his cup, sharp eyes missing nothing.

Every word spoken tonight is measured. Every glance is a negotiation. This feast isn’t meant to celebrate — it’s meant to observe.

And House Redwyne is very much being watched.