The long table in the private dining quarters of the Blackfang Citadel was not made of green-veined sea-granite or polished basalt. It was a massive, scarred slab of mountain oak, dented by years of heavy tankards, scorched by accidental static, and extended by three extra benches to accommodate the loudest reunion the North had seen since the fall of the Floating Palace.
The air was dense, humid, and heavy with the rich, intoxicating aromas of a true northern feast: roasted wild boar glazed with winter berry honey, massive platters of salt-cured venison, baked root vegetables glistening with butter, and pitchers of dark, uncalibrated ale that Lucien had personally fetched from the lower cellars.
