"To our brother's return!"

King Henrik gulped the entire content of his glass before Charles could join him. It took one half-hearted imitation of a toast, and already His Majesty had displayed enough politeness for the day. Dark clothes, meant to hide his growing belly, paired with the fur-trimmed cape that rested on shoulders, made him look like a tamed bear. A carefully maintained harmless exterior, but a deceiving one. Only his face was decidedly human: reddened and bloated, with blue eyes sparkling above a beard already usurped by white threads. He was only four years older than Charles himself, so it was not his age that it betrayed.

On the other side of the table, not moving his glass as he frowned into it, his younger brother Mathias looked like he was recovering from a prolonged illness. Ringed eyes were hidden into a bushy face, surrounded by a mane of unkempt dark hair. The resemblance to their father was so frightening that Charles was still getting used to this strangely familiar man instead of the sixteen years old boy that he used to know. The army had managed to make him even more somber.

Charles was unimpressed by both his brothers. He had always wanted a more presentable family portrait to show. One that matched him better, with his symmetrical features and wavy blond hair, fashionably cut at the exact line where the neck meets the shoulders. And, of course, properly shaved and with a modicum of table manners.

Trapped inside a painting and guarded by a wooden frame, King Henrik XII watched over his three sons, uncharacteristically silent. His fatherly gaze was a result of the Court's painter's hard work and inspiration, as Charles had never in his life been warmed by one of such gleeful kindness. It was one of the few decorations of the otherwise stark Roune Royal Castle, and its installation was the first order his son gave after being crowned. His moniker was proudly carved underneath it: "Henrik XII, The Angry".

Charles turned to the brother most likely to accept the role of a captivated audience.

"Finally, an appropriate reason to be drunk at noon! Not that Henrik needed one," he added in a lower voice.

Mathias acknowledged his words with a knowing look, his eyes moving to watch the performance Henrik was putting on.

The King started his meal by slumping three distinct courses into one enormous plate in front of him. He then left his fork untouched as he started peeling off slices of meat using one of his hands, soaking the fur of his sleeve into the side stew. The other hand was always occupied with a coarse red cup, his favorite because it was indestructible. The table's sturdiness did not prevent it from bending under the weight of all the food and the drinks they had before them. It was a feast, even by the King's standards.

Charles was unimpressed. "Henrik, as a distraction, and only for tonight, let our prodigal brother speak instead of making him listen to your gobbling noises. Perhaps he has some war stories to tell."

"War is not to be mentioned," Henrik said, waving his hand dismissively between the drops of spit and food scraps he was launching every time he opened his mouth to speak. "This and the whore, you will not bring at this table! I cannot have you crying or shouting angry epithets. Not today. I can tolerate the pouting, but your hurt feelings are none of my concern. Or of our brother's."

As much as he tried to hide it behind his bored tone, the King was getting angry, Charles could tell. He decided to strike while the iron was hot.