Amongst the most notable High Lords, were also the lords of the Westguard.
                He could see Lord Allin Aldrid of Lifra’s Sky, hooked nose and large lips surrounding a bushy, light brown moustache as if he were a bird with a rat in its beak. He was a tall man with a thick chest, his clothing bore the green spire with the dual hawks encircling it, and the sleeves of his wear fell deep, as if he were trying to grow wings. Watching him eat was like staring at a vulture, he had that same malevolent glint in his eyes too, as if he were too good for his table. Nearby was Lord Josef Rosenfield of Rosenfield with the bed of roses silhouetted against the red field. His silver blonde hair seemed to glisten like the sun on the edge of the sea, his eyes such a strong hazel colour they almost seemed golden. He was well shaven, his pointed face looking as shrewd as ever. Them, or their champions depending on who signed on to the lists, were the both of them somewhat formidable opponents in the upcoming tournament, like to give his Astor a challenge, he considered.
                Amongst those were a dozen more Westguard Lords, the Deltans of Lilydell, the Signots of Goldcrown, the Weylends of Redwood, the Decelles of Sunsthrone, the Hales of Gardevale
                And beside himself sat Lord Dale Courts of the Province of Hiacanth with his well trimmed, white-grey hair oiled back from his dull grey eyes, and Lord Lyle Hallerby of the province of Gerbara with his tanned skin, dark blonde hair surrounding thin lips and framing his light brown eyes. His was a famous seat, at Safia’s Fall, the most tragic place in Louenna.
                All of the Lords of the Westguard, which he belonged to, he knew and most he had met.
                He was not entirely delighted by his company however, amongst the respectable folks such as Lord Courts, brother to Damyen’s wife and the Lord of his neighbouring province Hiacanth, as well as Lord Rosenfield of the Golden Sword; there were some less than savoury characters whose very presence he deemed an insult. Weston Dray being one, Carleton Bier of Kegging for another. He was happy however that they had acknowledged their superiors and sat at the opposite end of the table, around a vacant seat.
                The hall was decked everywhere with the sigil of the King’s house, the silver owl on a black field. Damyen had made sure to wear his own colours of a white and red rose on a blue field.
                “Come, come Lord Drayvon, how fairs my sister?” Old man Courts insisted.
                “As well as ever, what ought else can I say?” Damyen grunted, he could not tolerate his incessant nagging much longer.
                “You might drink to her health, praise her prowess in child bearing.” Damyen coughed into his cup.
                “How crude!” He remarked and looked around him to the glint of watching eyes and smiles.
                It was at that moment that the Dray boy appeared. Devlin? Yes that is his name, he remembered. Devlin sat at the far end with his cousin bearing the Dray House’s sigil, the thorny, headless stem of a rose on a purple field.

The End

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