"Yesh, we wouln' wanta dishpleash Shansha, would we?" William drawled, still not retaining full control of his own lips. Before letting himself get half-dragged to the queen's box, he turned and did a bit of a clumsy bow towards Visenya. "Our pathsh will crosh agenn, methinks," he said, gesturing to the guardsman on his left. With that, they left for the royal stands.

The path twisted and turned, and the many tents set up around the castle and its surrounding fields created a nigh impenetrable maze. The walk to the royal stands was very slow, and made even slower by William's insistence to stop every few hundred yards and throw up red, white, and gold. When they came within sight of the Stark pavilion, he excused himself, being clear headed enough at least to stumble about on his own, and went to the back of the tent to relieve himself.

Eventually, the little group was standing outside the queen's box. Sighing and gritting his teeth, a guard entered.

"Presenting: ugh, Lord of Castle Ethering, William of House Bolton," he said, looking a bit sick himself as he did so. William ducked in after him, a wide grin on his face. His eyes betrayed his attempt at a friendly demeanor. Looking across the room, he could see a small gathering of paramounts and royalty, none of which looked happy to see him.

"Fine day," he started, seeing no reaction from the group. "Milords . . . miladies . . . midget." He could feel more wine slowly advancing up his throat. A servant entered, carrying a rather large platter of fresh fruits, and William snatched it out of her hands and retched up more wine directly into it. "Ahh," he sighed. "Erm . . . fancy a pear? No?" and with that, he tossed the platter on the ground. Fruits bounced out of the plate and around the room, all covered in a layer of vomit. "A shame," he said. "That was a good year."

"My lords, my ladies, if you would excuse me," said Sansa Stark, standing up. "My former ward and I have . . . a few matters to discuss. Don't feel the need to hold up the party because of me." She grabbed William's hand and pulled him out of the room. "Why are you here!?" she demanded, the moment they were outside.

"Visenya sent me here. Those are her men," William responded, pointing to the guards who are now trying their damnedest to look invisible.

"Gods, why does Visenya always send her drunken friends to the queen's box," Sansa muttered.

"If you think about it," William started. "All of this is your fault. If you had done the right thing and ended your line instead of fucking the Imp, I wouldn-" Sansa's hand leapt from its place at her side and smacked him across the face with a resounding crack.

"The Gods are good, for they offer me the patience to deal with fool boys playing at manhood," Sansa said.

"Fuck the Gods. If any of them were any good, I woul-" another slap stopped William in the middle of his sentence, this time on the other cheek.

"Listen, William," Sansa said through gritted teeth. "You shouldn't be here. Visenya shouldn't have sent you here. Could you please be courteous for one minute of your miserable life and leave us to our own devices?"

"Alright, I'd rather not stick around when your pompous orgies begin. Are you going to be on top of Lord Tyrell or on the bot-" a third slap. The two of them just stood in silence for a few seconds, glaring daggers at each other.

"So . . . it's been good catching up with you, Milady," William said.

"You as well, William," Sansa responded.

"Will you send my request for the Dreadfort to Bran again? Torrhen raised another damn tax levy on Ethering, probably buying up every wooden cock in the kingdom."

"If he didn't approve it the first time, he won't approve it the fiftieth. Now if you'll excuse me, I do have a party to get back to," Sansa said, concluding the talk. She strode back into the room, and William could hear her apologizing for him inside. He grimaced, but nothing could stop it from turning into something of a smile. Finally, he was having a bit of fun at this nightmare of a ceremony.