77AC
Moat Cailin
Okay, here's that scene with Lord Sköll's words and Alyssaene's response:
The air grew noticeably cooler as our party finally crossed the Neck. A palpable shift settled over the landscape, the marshy greens and browns giving way to a sterner, grayer hue. And then, rising starkly against the horizon, I saw it: Moat Cailin.
Twenty formidable towers stood sentinel over the narrow passage. They were ancient, yes, but strong and imposing, guarding the gateway to a forgotten kingdom. A shiver, not entirely from the cold, traced its way down my spine. This was the North. This was Stark territory. And the air itself felt different, heavier with history and a certain untamed wildness. But I am a dragon, I reminded myself, steeling my resolve. They may be wolves, but I am fire made flesh.
Suddenly, a deafening roar shattered the stillness. It was a sound that vibrated deep within my bones, a sound that spoke of power and majesty. I looked up, my breath catching in my throat. Circling high above, her scales gleaming like molten silver in the pale Northern sun, was Silverwing. My dragon.
After what seemed like an age, our party finally arrived at the gates of Moat Cailin. Drawn up before the ancient stone, a company of Northern soldiers stood at attention. At the head of the assembled group was a tall, stern-faced man in grey and white, Lord Jonnos Sköll, Lord of Moat Cailin, with his family and retinue. His face was like carved ice, utterly devoid of expression.
As I began descending from the carriage, they all knelt before me. A sea of grey and white, bowing low in the Northern tradition. I inclined my head, a regal gesture I had practiced countless times. "Rise, my lord," I commanded, my voice clear and strong, addressing Lord Sköll directly.
The Northerners rose, their faces a mixture of respect and wary curiosity. Lord Sköll stepped forward, his gaze direct and unwavering, his expression still unreadable. "Your Grace," he said, his voice deep and resonant, "allow me to introduce my family. This is my wife, Lena Sköll." A woman with a stern but kind face, she offered a curtsey.
"And this is my heir, Torrhen Sköll, and his wife, Ellara Sköll, née Flint." Torrhen, a younger version of his father, nodded, and Ellara, a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes, dipped her head. "And their children, my grandchildren: Arnolf Sköll," a boy with a serious demeanor, bowed; "Ethan Sköll," a younger, more restless lad, fidgeted slightly; "and Meera Sköll," a girl with a shy smile, offered a small curtsey.
Lord Sköll continued, his icy gaze never leaving mine, "My other son, Alaric Sköll, and his wife, Serena Sköll, née Locke." Alaric, with a more easygoing expression, bowed slightly, and Serena, a woman with a composed air, inclined her head. "And their sons, my grandsons: Barthogan Sköll," a sturdy boy, gave a formal nod; "and Benjen Sköll," a younger child, peered at me with wide, curious eyes.
Once the introductions were complete, Lord Sköll's gaze finally met mine fully. His icy expression did not thaw. "Moat Cailin is yours, Your Grace," he stated, his voice flat and devoid of any discernible emotion.
"Thank you, my lord," I replied, keeping my own tone measured and regal. I would not be intimidated by his cold demeanor.
As the last words left my lips, a young woman, a maid with a respectful demeanor, approached. She carried a silver tray upon which rested a loaf of freshly baked bread and a small dish of salt. The ancient symbols of guest right. I took a piece of the bread and dipped it into the salt, a gesture mirrored by my own people. With the ancient rite observed, we entered Moat Cailin, passing through the formidable gates and into the heart of the Northern stronghold.
As I walked through the main hall, my gaze swept over the thick stone walls, the narrow arrow slits, and the sheer, unyielding strength of the fortifications. No one could breach the North by land if Moat Cailin were fully manned, I thought, a sudden, chilling clarity washing over me. Now I understand why the Andals failed to conquer this land.
A flicker of pride, a familiar warmth, stirred within me. But we are dragons, I reminded myself, my gaze lifting. Stone and steel may deter men, but they are nothing against fire and wing. There was a power in that thought, a reassurance that settled the unease the formidable fortress had stirred.
Lord Sköll, his expression still impassive, addressed me. "Your Grace," he said, his voice formal, "my wife, Lena, will show you to your quarters. A feast has been prepared for you and your retinue this evening."
Lady Lena, her face composed and her movements efficient, then led me and my ladies to the chambers prepared for us. The room was spacious, if somewhat austere, with thick stone walls and heavy, dark wood furniture.
Once the heavy oak door closed behind Lady Lena, a silence descended upon the chamber, broken only by the soft rustle of our gowns. I turned to my ladies-in-waiting, Darlla Mallister and Rosmund Redwyne, their expressions thoughtful. "Well?" I began, my voice low, "What do you make of our welcome? Of the hospitality of Moat Cailin?"
Darlla, ever observant, spoke first. "It is... formal, Your Grace. Impeccably so. Every detail attended to, the chambers are clean and well-appointed, the food offered was fresh. Yet, there is a certain coolness to it, a lack of warmth that one might expect even in a Northern stronghold. Lord Sköll himself... his face was like a winter storm, unyielding and cold."
Rosmund nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on the thick stone walls. "Indeed. There is a sense of... guardedness. As though they are fulfilling their duty with precision, but holding something back. I noticed the soldiers at the gate, their eyes were respectful, but also watchful. It is as if we are honored guests, yet also closely scrutinized."
I paced slowly across the stone floor, my fingers tracing the intricate carvings on a heavy wooden chest. "The bread and salt were offered, the ancient rite observed. That speaks of respect for tradition, for the laws of hospitality. But the air... it is thick with unspoken words, with a tension I can almost taste. Lord Sköll's introductions of his family were precise, almost recited. There was little of the familial warmth I have witnessed in other lords' welcomes."
Darlla ventured, "Perhaps it is simply the Northern way, Your Grace. They are known for their stoicism, their reserved nature. The harshness of their land may have forged a people less inclined towards outward displays of emotion."
"That may be so," I conceded, pausing by the window, my gaze drawn to the imposing towers outside. "But even in the Riverlands, where the winters are milder, there is a certain openness in greeting a royal guest. Here... it feels different. Deliberate, almost. As though every gesture, every word, has been carefully weighed."
Rosmund added, "And the fortress itself... it is formidable beyond measure. I understand now the tales of its impregnability. To assault such a stronghold would be madness. It speaks volumes of the North's ability to defend itself, their self-reliance. Perhaps their guardedness stems from a deep-seated independence, a knowledge of their own strength."
I turned back to my ladies, a thoughtful expression on my face. "It is a stark contrast to the almost theatrical displays of fealty in the Reach. The North is a different beast entirely. And Lord Sköll... he embodies that difference. He is a man of duty, it seems, but what lies beneath that icy exterior? What does he truly think of our presence here?"
"Tonight's feast may offer some insight, Your Grace," Darlla suggested. "In breaking bread together, perhaps some of these walls will come down. We may glean a better understanding of their feelings, their intentions."
I nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it will be another carefully orchestrated performance. Either way, we must remain vigilant. Observe everything, listen intently. We are in the heart of the wolf's den now, and we must tread carefully."
"Then we should prepare for the feast," I said, my voice firming with a renewed sense of purpose. And with that, we began our preparations.
As we finished our preparations and were among ourselves, a knock sounded on the door. "Come in," I called out.
The door opened, and Rosmund Redwyne entered the chamber. "Your Grace," she announced, her tone respectful, "the feast is ready, prepared to honor you."
We exchanged a final, assessing glance, each of us adjusting our gowns and smoothing our hair one last time. Darlla adjusted the delicate silver chain at my neck, ensuring the Targaryen ruby sat perfectly centered. Rosmund offered a reassuring smile, her eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.
"Let us go, then," I said, my voice steady and regal. "We shall see what this Northern hospitality truly entails."
We made our way through the dimly lit corridors of Moat Cailin, the stone walls echoing softly with the sound of our footsteps. The air was thick with the mingled scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and woodsmoke, a tantalizing promise of the feast to come. As we approached the Great Hall, the sounds of voices and laughter grew louder, a boisterous contrast to the austere silence of the fortress's passages.
The Great Hall of Moat Cailin was a sight to behold, even for one accustomed to the grandeur of the Red Keep. Long tables laden with food stretched across the vast space, their surfaces groaning under the weight of roasted meats, steaming platters of vegetables, and intricately decorated pies. Torches blazed in iron sconces along the walls, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn stone and illuminating the faces of the assembled Northerners.
Lord Sköll stood at the head of the hall, his expression still largely unreadable, though there was a hint of something akin to satisfaction in his eyes as he gestured for us to join him. His family was arrayed around him, a formidable gathering of stern faces and watchful gazes.
As we entered, a hush fell over the room, all eyes turning towards us. I swept my gaze across the assembled lords and ladies, offering a gracious smile and a nod of my head. "Lord Sköll," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the hall, "the feast is magnificent. You do your house proud."
Lord Sköll inclined his head, his voice still formal. "Your Grace honors us with your presence. We have prepared what we hope is a fitting welcome to the North."
The feast proceeded with a measured formality. The food was hearty and plentiful, showcasing the bounty of the Northern lands: roasted boar, venison pie, salmon from the icy rivers, and a variety of root vegetables and dark, crusty bread. The wine flowed freely, a rich, ruby-red vintage that warmed the blood against the chill of the evening.
Conversation was polite, but carefully restrained. Lord Sköll and the other Northern lords asked about the journey, about King's Landing, about the health of my family. I answered with grace and diplomacy, offering carefully worded responses that revealed little of my true thoughts.
As the night wore on, however, and the wine loosened tongues, the atmosphere began to relax somewhat. Lord Sköll's sons, Torrhen and Alaric, proved to be more forthcoming than their father. Torrhen, the heir, spoke with a quiet pride of Moat Cailin's history and its strategic importance, his gaze occasionally drifting towards his wife, Ellara, who listened with rapt attention.
Alaric, on the other hand, possessed a more easygoing demeanor. He regaled us with tales of hunting in the frozen forests and fishing in the icy seas, his voice filled with a genuine love for his harsh but beautiful land. His wife, Serena, a woman with a sharp wit and a ready smile, added her own humorous observations to his stories, eliciting chuckles from those around them.
Even Lord Sköll himself seemed to thaw slightly as the evening progressed. He spoke of the North's traditions, of the Old Gods and the ways of his ancestors, his voice taking on a somber, almost reverent tone.
"It has been a long journey, and the hour grows late," I said, rising from my seat. "I thank you, Lord Sköll, for your hospitality. The feast was... memorable."
Lord Sköll rose as well, his expression still guarded but his voice courteous. "It has been our honor to host you, Your Grace. May you find rest and comfort within our walls."
With a final nod to our hosts, my ladies and I retired to our chambers, leaving the Great Hall to the Northerners. As I lay down to sleep, the images of the feast replayed in my mind: the stern faces of the Northern lords, the formidable strength of Moat Cailin, and the lingering question of what lay beneath the carefully constructed facade of Northern hospitality.