With a heavy sigh, the High Practitioner plopped into the leather chair beside his fallen King. His ravings had stopped, if only for a moment, and found the peace of slumber. That was surely the moondream, though. Like as not he would be up again before midday, drenched in sweat, groping his blankets and calling to half-forgotten memories.
I hope your reveries are more joyous than the present time. We have a bloody winter ahead of us, my King.
With a heave and a grunt the old man shakily reclaimed his feet and left his King to the ghosts of past.