You could use all the firsthand information you can get.
The gilded chariot is pulled up at the end of a long street where the looming buildings form a sort of natural amphitheater. Beyond, the streets open out into the patchwork alleys and stalls of the new market.
The crowd looks less celebratory than angry. Here and there you can see flashes of party finery, the traditional last gasp of the holidays before the sober end of Midwinter. But most people reek of alcohol and sweat, and scowl as if their Midwinter parties haven't put them in better moods. They stomp their feet and call out, "Come on! Speech! We want a speech!" in demanding tones.
A trumpet plays a fanfare, the sound oddly tinny in the chilly air. The murmur of the crowd doesn't quiet as it should. Instead, it grows, a rumble that makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle at the sound of restless dissatisfaction.
Slowly, with dignified steps, the Raven ascends the chariot. Behind him, Liathar climbs up to stand at the Raven's side. Falathar's absence isn't officially acknowledged, but from the mutters in the crowd, you know it's being remarked upon.
"A new day begins in the city," the Raven begins, his voice carrying strongly through the street. The wintry sun glints off his hair. "And we must put away our childish fears to face it with courage." Liathar frowns. "There must be no more talk of a curse, no more shrinking from shadows. The city is in my hands, as it has been for so many years, and it is foolish to invent reasons to fear."
The muttering of the crowd isn't a happy sound. The shadows of the buildings seem deeper than they should be, even in the dark of winter. Are clouds rolling across the sun? When you glance up, the sun is still in the sky, but it seems pale and cold, as if viewed through a pane of icy blue glass.