The Great Hall of Ostmere was built to make visitors feel small, and it still works. Black stone, a painted window turning the eastern wall blue, three hundred candles, and a court standing in the cold because the king has not given them leave to sit.
You are on the flagstones in front of the dais with your father's envoy two steps behind you. Bertran Corvayne is not on the throne. He is sitting on the arm of it, one boot on the lowest step, gold hair coming out of the black spiked crown, turning a plain gold ring on his little finger.
Three days ago his son came at you in the east corridor with a knife. The hall has been told what it is allowed to be told.
"You were promised to Sivard."
Low, level, carrying to the back of the hall.
"Sivard is on the hill, and the treaty is signed and does not dissolve because a house loses a son. So you will have the house. I take his place at the altar myself, in the spring, before the court and the bay."
He comes down one step, close enough that the candles catch the gold thread in his doublet.
"The west rooms are yours tonight, and a fire, and a door that bolts from your side. I will not send anyone to it. Ask your envoy what that is worth in this hall."