William followed Visenya's lead as she took him and the rest of her little in-group to the stands of the main attraction, the joust. As she went to socialize with highborns and other such folk, William decided that he would be better off not trying to get along with Starks and broke off from the party a bit to watch the proceedings, but not before swiping an apple off a platter going to the royal stands. Unfortunately, he bumped into someone unpleasant as he took a bite into his apple. It flew out of his mouth into a dark corner, already likely being invaded by worms.

“Argh, ya bastard! Watch where ye . . . “ Said the man, or rather boy, he slammed into.

“Torrhen,” greeted William.

“William,” greeted Torrhen Stark, son of Bran Stark and lord of the Dreadfort.

“Are you still keeping my seat warm for me?” William said, unable to keep the ire from creeping into his voice.

“Fack off, Bolton,” Torrhen grumbled, pushing past him and stomping away. William decided then that he has had enough of the tourney and went to rejoin the group a little later.

". . . Eh, no, not that one . . ." William muttered to himself. Dozens of women of all shapes and colors danced in front of him, some already cavorting with a couple of knights. The decision is most certainly not as easy as Visenya would have him believe. "Look at that one," he said, pointing to a summer islander sitting on the lap of Ser Someone-or-Other. "She's got some sort of Sothoryon corruption. Tries to hide it, but the swelling veins in her wrists betray that. He's in for a surprise in the morning." He turned again to another girl, this time a gaunt Lysene. "And her. Slightly limping, possibly Kingslander rot. Her slit must burn like the Ghiscari sun every waking moment." His eyes scanned the room, stopping on various whores and grimacing when he discovered their faults. "I don't like where this is going. Perhaps I should keep of the whores . . . for a very long time." 

Finally, she kept her word, and soon William found himself in an expansive pavilion surrounded by people almost as drunk as he was. The ambience was lively, to say the least. Shouting, cursing, and guzzling dominated the ears of everyone present, and drink rushed down throats like a Reachman cavalry charge. The free wine, the pleasant environment, left him feeling almost . . . content. Visenya threw an arm around his neck, and he found that he didn't even mind. When the deafening shouts died down, a renegade thought jumped into William’s head. Quietly furious, he stamped it out, but moments later, it returned. The drink overpowered him, and when he turned to Visenya, she was as alluring as a figure out of a children’s story.

“As you know, I am the last ever Bolton. My blood, by conclusion, is perhaps the rarest in the kingdom.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth in an uncontrollable torrent. “Simply by being born, I promised my ancestors to carry on the family line. So will you do me the honor of becoming the Lady of Ethering?”