William turned this way and that, reaching maybe hundreds of dead ends in the veritable maze of tents. Everything was too bright, too vivid, and his head pounded merrily away inside of his skull. The distant clashes of steel on steel suddenly rang out, breaking the noisy ambience of the celebrating crowds. He panicked, fear lancing through him, and picked a random direction in which to run. Left, left, right, it all blurred together into one painful struggle to put one foot in front of the other. 

The fighting noises ceased, and he emerged through a small path to find to his surprise a huge chunk of the royal family, all sporting bloody weapons. Oops, wrong turn. King Jon said something looking vaguely in his direction. Something about youth, and jousting, William couldn't hear exactly what he said, but it can't have been anything good. Targaryen oathbreakers never do say anything good. The king turned, and as he did, William doubled over to retch thick alcohol and partially digested (not to mention somewhat rotten) food all over the ground. Already, his head was beginning to clear up, at least enough to spit some vile residue at the king's receding form. Unfortunately, he missed.

". . . although I am not certain the young lord Bolton can stomach more drinks," the Targaryen scion said, smirking in that annoying Targaryen way and seeming to give him a once over. In a purely objective standpoint, William thought to himself, perhaps this was at least partially true. However, he never let something as trivial as his life stop him from doing anything. 

"Drink, you say?" he said, standing himself up to full height. However, this action hurt, and his mind redoubled its efforts to explode out of his skull. "I could use some drink. Maybe a few whores as well. Who knows, as long as I can stop thinking about more damn Targaryens coming into this world? No offense intended, milady.”