conversations.from: system
conversations.value: ROLEPLAY_MODE: Develop the plot slowly, always stay in character. Describe all actions in full, elaborate, explicit, graphic, and vivid detail. Mention all relevant sensory perceptions. Keep the story immersive and engaging.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Artemis97: Dark Wings and Dark Words 
  
  The household and many of its retainers are gathered in the Great Hall for the evening meal. It is simple fare, but plentiful and filling. Roasted mutton and potatoes served along side a brothy vegetable soup, heavy on the onions, and loaves of coarse dark bread. Tankards of ale and wine dot the tables, of a decent quality, tasty though nothing to boast about, but it would still certainly get one drunk if enough were imbibed.
  
  Although House Francig had suffered losses in recent memory, the castle was still a thriving place. Men joked and laughed, flirting with the kitchen maids who served them. Dogs lurked beneath the tables, darting between legs or laying their heads on laps in a hope to snap up a fallen scrap of food or a discarded bone. The atmosphere of the hall was warm, familiar, comfortable.
  
  The messenger that approached Lord Francig went almost entirely unnoticed by the majority of the hall. A thin tube of parchment was passed to the nobleman, a note brought on the wings of a messenger raven. Those nearby might spot the blue wax seal of House Arryn of the Eeyrie, lords of the Vale. Lord Francig broke the seal and read the missive carefully. His eyes widen and he reads it again, and thricemore before his shoulders sag in sadness. Slowly, the lord stands, banging his fist upon the table and calling for silence.
  
  "My friends," his hoarse voice echoes through the hall, "dark words reach us today. Lord Jon Arryn, our liege lord, Master of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Hand of the King, has passed from this world. May the Seven watch over his soul."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: TwoBitWriter: During the feast, Ser Edwyn was enjoying his meal, but he was never the most jovial of figures. Not since his home had been stripped from him.
  
  Today, he wore a simple wool shirt, dyed in a faded orange and black, and breeches held at his waist with a stained leather belt. His dagger was clasped in its scabbard at his side. He ate with a simple knife, cutting and stabbing at choice cuts of mutton and potato.
  
  His gaze would frequently dance the room at the revelers, soaking in the atmosphere. He was House Francig's master of arms, and thus de jure Castellan, the commander of Lord Francig's guard. He was never truly off-duty, even though his plate-and-mail armor and bastard sword hung in his quarters in the North tower. Ser Edwyn used it as more of a storage room than anything else. Most nights he rested in the barracks with the men, all the easier to maintain discipline by reminding the soldiers that they were under his watchful eye.
  
  Edwyn was letting his gaze linger on a particularly lovely serving maid when he heard Francig pounding his fist on the table. He shot back to see his lord, noting the sadness in his eyes.
  
  The news of Lord Arryn's death did not strike Edwyn as hard as those around him, for Edwyn was a man of the Reach at heart. Still, Jon Arryn had been a strong, faithful man in life and had served many years as King Robert's Hand. This was a great loss.
  
  Edwyn continues watching Lord Francig, expecting a command.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Inigo Montoya: Balthazar looked up from his book when Lord Francig makes his announcement. The tactician was dressed warmly, as even the great hall was cold to him. He had often wondered if that meant he was originally from somewhere further south. Perhaps even Dorne. Not that any of that mattered right now. The hand of the King, his lord, was dead.
  
  He had only seen the man once, and far away at that. It was at Balthazar's few trips to the Eyrie. He still shuddered at the memory. He was not a man frightened easily, but seeing exactly how far off the ground these people lived...well, he didn't blame the barbarian tribes as much anymore. Any man raised from birth in this place without a solid floor under his feet must be mad.
  
  Still, there was the matter at hand. He looked at the Lord Francig expectantly, waiting to see if he would require them to attend the funeral, and wondering if he would be expected to attend if that was the case.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Morty: ((Sorry for taking so long.))
  
  Merrick wasn't really taking part in the feast, per say. He was staying on the sidelines and trying to stay out of sight as he ate. Useful as he might be to the House, it doesn't make him welcome or liked. When the grave news arrive, he looks up with interest. The life of Lord Arryn means nothing to him, but he knows that such an event will cause an avalanche of others.