You hesitate in front of hand-carved mahogany doors.
A glance downwards reminds you of how ill-fitted you are for such a conference. Mud and mead stains your tunic and the gold trimming frays. Remnants of another mighty fine weekend. Troubadours sung, liquor flowed, and at some point you found yourself wrestling Cat in the mud. You could swear your right ear was still clogged.
A mighty fine weekend indeed.
Until you were hauled up by one of your father's soldiers and tossed in a carriage back to the castle. Summoned like a child. You detest it. But you are more wary of what scolding awaits behind these doors.
