Lord Winterborn arrived, seeming not a bit bothered by his restless night. Surely his eyes may be slightly shadowed, but sharp nonetheless, and his posture is as rigid and sharp as ever.
"I still hold that Lord Aiden's behavior shows him to be at odds to the goals of this council. He put himself forward for Regent without any support, before or after the nomination. He shows contempt for his peers in full public and refused to show himself a true warrior on the field of battle. He showed himself a craven bastard instead, the very kind who would go skulkin' in the night and take the lives of his fellow nobles with a black-bladed knife."
Looking around at the others, he pounded the table with a large, long-fingered hand, hammering it with the flat of his palm and causing the heavy furnishing to shudder and jump with the force of his blows.
"Damn him, I denounce His Lordship again, and a thousand times till I see a wick'a proof that it isn't so! Take offense if you may," he said directly to his opponent, "and challenge me for my words. We'll see the color of your blood, red or yellow!"
He stood by his chair, then, shoulders heaving with his fury and one hand poised over the hilt of his sword, where it hung from his chair as it had done the day previous. His eyes were fixed on Aiden, and he looked quite frightfully mad at the moment, most likely the lack of sleep showing through at the last. After a moment, he shook himself, and there was an audible click as his sword slid a full inch back into the scabbard, but his eyes never left Aiden.