A Drunk Rhys, Is a Cocky Rhys.
"When I was your age. I can survive on nothing but tofu, gingko leaves, and sweat buns."
Rhys turned his head in the club, seeing two of the old Fae male. "What did you say?"
"A High Lord should have better restraint," said the blurry judgy dark eyes.
Rhys looked at the stranger at the bar that had struck up this conversation, his incredibly long white beard was a bit intimidating, the pointed hat a bit odd in the bright life and lights of the Velaris Club, and that he stroked it while he is judging Rhys, as if High Lords couldn't get drunk, and it was no accident that he had caught him in this less than pleasant state of being.
Rhys frowned, missing his high. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to do better."
"What?"
"Be better," said the old man with the long beard, and too any wrinkles for a Fae. "At least be better than your Father." He dared to turn his back and judge some other hapless drunk.
"Burned!"
"Shut up Cassian," Rhys muttered feeling guilty for some reason.
Perhaps he wasn't meant to be High Lord, perhaps he really wasn't cut out to protect Velaris and his people.
He chuckled at the thought, "yeah, right." He glanced at Cassian that was inching towards a couple of dolled up Fae girls, "I am the best fucken High Lord there ever was."