Of lions and dragons Who: Tyronne, Aeny, possibly whomever else stumbles in? When: During the Starks' small feast Where: Lannister suites, wherever that is Rating: PG Status: Open
He'd received an invitation to a small feast in the Queen's Ballroom of Maegor's Holdfast. The Lord of Winterfell and King of Westeros had seen fit to summon his close family to a private meal before the day of the Great Feast itself. It was a fine invitation, to be sure. The calligraphy was precise and clean, written in a shining silver, and a fine pattern decorated the edges of the white parchment drawn in by only the finest of scribes. William Stark's own hand signed it in a neat flourish at the bottom, and it had been stamped with his direwolf seal. The invitation was received and read, and then discarded into the fire with a terse but scrupulously polite apology delivered in return.
He'd sent out an invitation to a private dinner in his own apartments in the Red Keep. In the wake of the kingdom's troubled times, Tyronne Lannister would be honored to have the company of Princess Aenyris Targaryen at his table tonight. The handwriting on the invitation matched that of the thin arches and curves in the signature. Though well-written at first glance, a practiced eye could pick out the uneven spacing between the letters and a slight wavering of the hand between the words. An embossed three-headed dragon graced the upper corner of the paper in the red and gold of the Lannisters. The response to the invitation was currently in the hand of one of the servants as she set the table for two.
Tyronne reclined on a sedan chair and wondered what the crowned Stark would think of his absence at tonight's small feast. He'd begged illness and a want for sleep, of course, but any pair of eyes would notice that he was still taking guests and conducting business as usual despite whatever ailed him. They could consider it a personal slight, but only a personal one. His lord father and the rest of his family had the good manners and courtesy to attend, and that ought to be a good enough show of honor and fealty for the house itself. Or he hoped it'd be.
A polite rap on the door caused Tyronne to spring up and straighten his clothing until he was as impeccable as ever. The serving girls made haste in laying out the forks just so, and the steward politely disappeared off to wherever he disappeared off to all the time. His squire answered the door.