The silver table knife in Valion Roote's hand fell onto his solid silver plate with a harsh clatter.
The sound was not loud, but it made the air around him still for a moment, as though the lively revelry had been paused.
The entire hall.
In that instant, it plunged from boiling water straight to the freezing point of deep winter.
All the clamor, all the laughter, all the gestures of drinking and toasting.
Came to an abrupt halt.
The lords stood rooted to the spot, each frozen in place as though words had turned them to stone.
Before their smiles had fully faded, they froze into masks of shock, absurdity, and fear.
Several lords even sprang from their seats in astonishment, their chairs scraping against the floor with sharp screeches.
The air seemed to have solidified.
Only the sound of breathing remained, along with the barely audible crackle of firewood burning in the hearth.
The color drained visibly from William Mooton's fat face, flushed red with drink and excitement, leaving it as white as paper in an instant.
His little eyes bulged, and his mouth opened unconsciously.
Like a fat fish out of water, it opened and closed desperately, yet not the slightest sound emerged.
Relocation of their holdings?
Leave the Riverlands?
The lords of the Riverlands had lived and multiplied upon this land for generations.
The bloodlines of many houses had flowed through this land for thousands of years.
Their castles had been built by their ancestors with blood and stone, and their lands were steeped in their houses' honor and history.
Their people were bound to them by blood, the foundation of their power.
If they left the Riverlands for the unfamiliar Crownlands, would they not have to start everything anew?
However fertile the land there, however