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———
Everyone else in the hall looked up towards this raised platform, the clear center of power and attention for the night.
…
Below the raised platform where the royals and the Starks sat, the rest of the Great Hall was a sea of tables, each packed with people.
The seating wasn't random, not at first anyway. Closest to the high table, where they could easily see and be seen by the King and Lord Stark, sat the most important northern nobles.
Big, burly lords from powerful families like the Karstarks and the Umbers families who commanded respect and fielded strong armies got the prime spots. Their tables were laden with just as much food and drink as the head table.
Further down the hall, the tables held nobles with less land or smaller names, important knights, trusted household members, and other retainers.
The further you got from the high table, the less fancy the neighbours became.
Finally, crammed onto the benches at the very back of the hall, nearest the huge double doors that led outside, sat the lower-ranked soldiers.
Lannister guardsmen in their red cloaks mingled with Stark men in grey wool, all of them taking advantage of the free-flowing ale and mountains of food.
Anyone else who managed to squeeze in or get an invitation found a spot back there too.
Of course, all this careful order, this neat ranking by status, only lasted for so long at a feast like this. Especially with a king like Robert Baratheon.
By now, King Robert wasn't even at the high table anymore. He'd abandoned his seat of honor sometime after the third course.
Now, he was halfway down the hall, plopped down heavily on a bench amongst some lesser northern lords who looked both thrilled and terrified to have him there.
He was already very, very drunk. His face was flushed beet-red, his laughter boomed loud enough to rattle the rafters, and his big arm was slung possessively around the waist of a young serving girl.
She had bright red cheeks, partly from the king's attention and partly from the wine he kept pouring for her, and she giggled nervously at whatever crude joke he'd just bellowed in her ear. It was pretty clear to everyone watching what the King intended for later tonight.
Up on the dais, his wife, Queen Cersei, watched all this. Her beautiful face was tight, like carved marble. She wasn't jealous Tytan doubted his mother had felt jealousy over his father's affairs in years.
No, this was pure, cold anger mixed with deep embarrassment. Robert wasn't just being a drunken lout; he was doing it here, in public, in front of the proud, watchful northern lords and, maybe worse, right in front of Ned Stark and his wife.
It was a public snub, a blatant show of disrespect to her, his Queen, and she hated him for it.
Unlike her 'drunken fool of a husband,' Cersei remained perfectly composed in her seat at the high table. She sat beside Lady Catelyn Stark, the two women making polite conversation.
It looked stiff, though. Forced. Tytan watched them for a moment earlier they didn't seem to have much to talk about, the elegant southern Queen and the practical northern Lady.
But they were both doing their duty, keeping up appearances for the sake of politeness and politics.
Little smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes, careful questions about children or harvests, long pauses filled by the general noise of the feast.
Earlier in the evening, much to their annoyance, both Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen had been whisked away to their beds.
The moment King Robert had stumbled off from the high table to find more wine and willing women, Cersei had signaled for their maids.
No arguments were allowed. She wasn't about to let her younger, more innocent children witness the full extent of their 'father's' drunken behavior tonight. So off they went, looking grumpy and disappointed to be missing the rest of the party.
Prince Joffrey, however, was still very much present at the high table. He seemed to be having a grand time, actually.
He was leaning close to Sansa Stark, Robb's pretty older sister, and her friend, another dark-haired girl named Jeyne Poole.
A smug little smirk played on Joffrey's lips as he spoke, clearly telling them stories. Tytan could practically hear the boasting from halfway down the hall tales of dangerous hunts he'd supposedly been on, monsters slain, great feats accomplished.
Mostly lies, Tytan was willing bet. Complete rubbish. But the two young girls didn't seem to notice or care. They were gazing up at Joffrey with wide, starry eyes, hanging on his every word.
They looked completely charmed, probably overwhelmed that a real Prince even if he wasn't the Crown Prince was paying them so much attention. Joffrey soaked it up like a sponge.
Scattered around the edges of the Great Hall, standing like silent statues, were the Kingsguard. Most of them remained watchful, their faces unreadable behind their polished helmets or their stern expressions.
Clad in their gleaming golden plate armor, they kept an eye on the King's drunken antics, ready to intervene if he actually fell off the bench or started a brawl.
Two other white cloaks were likely back in the guest wing, guarding the doors of the younger Prince and Princess. And then there was Ser Jaime Lannister.
As usual, Uncle Jaime wasn't just scanning the room; his sharp green eyes kept flicking towards Tytan, keeping tabs on the heir.
Tytan himself wasn't at the high table either. He was currently sitting comfortably at one of the lower tables, about halfway down the hall, not far from where his father was causing a scene.
A heavy silver goblet of dark northern wine was held loosely in one hand. He'd shed the fancy golden chain his mother made him wear earlier, feeling much more comfortable without it.
He was deep in conversation with some of the younger northern men clustered around him, laughing easily at a joke one of them had just made.
"So, Prince Tytan!?" A new voice cut into the conversation, slightly louder than necessary, drawing attention. Tytan looked up. It was Theon Greyjoy, the ward of Ned Stark.
He was a lean boy, maybe a year or two older than Robb, with dark, curly hair that fell over slightly bulging, restless eyes. He had a pale complexion that looked out of place in the rugged North, and a cocky smirk was plastered on his face.
He leaned forward across the rough wooden table, deliberately looking away from his friend Robb Stark, who sat beside him, and fixing his gaze directly on Tytan. The smirk widened slightly.
——
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