[center]"[i]By my right as the King of Ardelan, by the power granted to me by the throne, and the by the will of the Gods, I summon thee to serve as Count of Gavony! Rise to your station, Galt Harrowmark, and be recognized![/i]"[/center]

It was a surreal experience, being annointed by the Sword of Galaden on this day, the day of Galt's coronation. He felt the weight of the sheathed blade in his hands, realizing to his surprise that it was not a broken heirloom, but a well forged sword that happened to be used for ceremony. He would be able to admire it later, but right now he was far more focused on the bloody King of the country, who loomed over him with his scepter, granted to him by the Bishop of the Holy Sepulcher. Galt tried to take deep breaths, but he was feeling a bit overwhelmed, almost dizzy. 

No, you are not going to faint in front of all these lords and ladies, he scolded himself. 

After a few, long seconds, he realized the meaning of the king's words, and he stood up abruptly. It was a bit too hasty, and he nearly shook from nervousness. Galt wasn't what you would consider a brave man, though he would bet a mint coin that he had been in more scrapes and near-misses than most of the dandies in the room. He tried to think of that when he gazed across at the masses now gathered, all eyes on he and the King.

Among the Grand Hall of the King's Palace, row upon row and balcony upon balcony were filled with aristocrats and commoners, merchants and laborers, locals and foreigners. The chamber was hallowed, built with whitestone and furnished with tapestries of green and gold, and a red carpet that lined its vast entirety. As the music reached its crescendo, Galt was filled with a trepidation that rose in his breast. Perhaps he had truly earned this, even if he felt unworthy or out of his element. The golden light of the sun that pierced the stained glass windows shimmered on the silks of those that watched him, and he bowed before the congregation of citizens, truly humbled by this magnificent honor. 

The applause wasn't deafening, but it was a wave of noise that sounded like a roar to Galt. No one had ever clapped for him before, actually. He lost himself in the pomp and ceremony going forward, blinking and leaving the raised platform he had shared with the King as swiftly but as stiffly as he could. He made his way out through the postern gate that led into the dining hall, the thousands of tons of stacked stone around him had a surprising amount of cold to it. No wonder the hearth was so huge, and all the lords and ladies were swathed at all times of the day. 

The walls were lined with footman, wearing steel breastplates and conical helms with plumes atop them. In their hands were spears, nine feet from base to steel tip, and small, crested shields at their sides. As Galt entered the hall, servants hustled to and fro, placing plates and silverware down, bringing it casks of ale and bottles of wine. The smell from the kitchen was intoxicating, Galt tugging his collar a bit, his hunger agitating him. To the left, out of another corridor stepped a man with an impressive mustache and a resplendent red cloak over a vest. He gave a small gesture of relief with a wave of his hands and stalked toward Galt, smiling. 

"There you are! I was just looking for you." He said breathily. 

"Who are you, again?" Galt asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow. The courtier looked aghast and offended for a moment, but they pushed it down. Galt guessed servants, even highly valued ones, had to swallow their pride a lot, which was likely why he had seen a few kick people below them as well. 

"I am Vedrick Frankhardt, one of the royal aides. You are to be the guest of honor when the ceremony concludes, which will be any moment now. Follow me and I'll show you how to stand properly and give a greeting they would expect." He explained, beckoning Galt to follow. Galt sighed, loathe to leave the smell of the food, but he did so without complaint. The guards around him kept his tongue behind his teeth. He might outrank Verdrick and any of the guards, but this was the first time in his life a footman wasn't trying to cut his head off. It would take some getting used to.