"Your Grace," Lyara greeted with a polite nod. "Are you enjoying our Northern hospitality? By the sound of His Grace's laughter, he seems to be having a grand old time."
Cersei's mask of cool composure flickered at the thinly veiled jab. "My husband always finds his amusements. As for the feast," she said, letting her gaze drift around the raucous hall with faint disdain, "it is... livelier than I expected of the North."
Lyara chuckled, a low, warm sound that held no trace of offense. "Oh, we Northerners do two things well, and we make sure we do them properly: how to feast, and how to fight. Coincidentally, I find myself not too shabby in either department, as you'll find."
She leaned a hip casually against the table, crossing her arms. Her gray eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the room before settling back on Cersei. "What of you Southerners? Admittedly, my knowledge is limited. We don't spend much time thinking about the South here. You all seem so far removed from our concerns."
Cersei bit the inside of her cheek. She had expected the heir of Winterfell to be as straightforward and honorable as Lord Eddard. She had not anticipated a wolf in woman's skin, her words laced with a cunning that was both disarming and dangerous. "The South has its own charms, as I'm sure the North has its own," she managed, her reply brittle.
Lyara hummed, tapping a thoughtful finger against her forearm. "Not quite the answer I expected, but I suppose it's true." She glanced at Catelyn, a glint of purpose in her eyes. "After all, my own blood has ties to the South. My Tully grandsire, my Arryn cousin... perhaps I should make more of an effort to ensure those ties do not fray. Wouldn't you agree, Your Grace?"
