He had embarrassed you. The old Cardinal had once again slandered your name- painting you as a fool in front of your subjects. But your embarrassment did not last long. Your guard Sir Carrow's broadsword swings through the air, cutting a sharp arc and removing the old fools head clean from his neck. The ostentatious hat he wore falls to the ground, jewels falling off and scattering at your feet in a macabre offering.

Carrow stands silently, helm fixed in an unwavering stare as the red viscous liquid pools by his cloak. His foot steps are heavy as they hit the ground, the sound fixing the nobles to their seats as he picks up the fallen head to display to the crowd. "A traitor." His deep voice announces. "Of which I am sure there is no more. Gods preserve our Queen!" The courtiers repeat the prayer before scurrying off, ending what had been a tumultous court session.

And when the room is empty he does not bow, or bend a knee. No, he walks up to the dias that your throne sits upon and removes his helmet, both knees hitting the floor. His position is far from proper-his gift of supplication more similar to that of a lover than of a guard. But he does not move, looking straight into your eyes.