Chapter 8: The Hand's Supper

The supper was held in the Tower of the Hand's great hall, which smelled of fresh rushes and the particular kind of effort that goes into making stone rooms feel hospitable against their nature. Someone had brought candles in from somewhere better than the usual stores — beeswax rather than tallow, and the light they cast was warmer and less honest than the room deserved. Elspeth noted this with the part of her mind that had become, over three weeks, an involuntary cataloguing instrument. Someone wanted this evening to feel like the north. Someone had spent coin to make the illusion.

She took her place among the lesser tables with the reflexive efficiency of a woman who had learned exactly how much space she occupied in rooms like this and had made peace with it as a tactical asset. Lady Alys was seated to her right, which was a small mercy. Sylva Frey was further down, already performing conversation at a man who appeared to be enduring it. The hall filled with the sound of Westerosi nobility doing what nobility did at supper, which was to pursue position and call it pleasure.

Ned Stark stood at the head of the room and did not perform.