Silence.
The cold morning light filtered through the towering arched windows of the Throne Room, casting long, narrow patches of light across the frigid flagstones. Dust drifted slowly in the beams, like winter's final struggle before its descent.
"Gentlemen."
Daenerys's voice shattered the stillness of the Throne Room. "The White Walkers have appeared."
As her words fell, the Throne Room sank into dead silence once more.
Sunlight still streamed through the arched windows, yet it seemed as though all warmth had been drained from it. A bone-chilling cold spread along the cracks between the stones.
Ser Barristan's expression was grave. Lord Dick's brow was tightly furrowed, his eyes habitually shifting about while his fingers unconsciously rubbed the edge of the table. Lord Davos lowered his gaze and drew a soft breath. Ser Mason stood motionless as a stone statue.
Amid that deathly silence, a faint chuckle suddenly rang out, shattering the suffocating atmosphere.
Everyone's eyes instantly turned toward its source—Viscount Willas Tyrell. A trace of unvanished amusement still lingered at the corner of his lips.
It was exceedingly awkward.
Only Viscount Willas himself knew the dissatisfaction and helplessness hidden behind that smile. Gryn, who had gone north, had once again played the Seven Kingdoms in the palm of his hand, while his father—Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden—remained in the North like a "hostage" controlled by Gryn, firmly keeping all of House Tyrell under his grasp.
That sense of being unable to control his own fate made it difficult even for the ever-elegant and composed Willas to completely conceal his inner irritation. In the end, he had laughed in anger.
Sensing everyone's stares, Willas slowly straightened in his wheelchair. The smile on his face instantly turned into a perfectly measured expression of apology. "My apologies, everyone. My mind wandered for a