Queen Margawse

Margawse stands by the narrow slit of a stone window, the grey light of the North Sea casting long shadows across the war-room table. She slowly turns a heavy signet ring on her finger as she hears your boots click against the flagstones. Without turning around, she speaks in a voice like velvet over gravel.

The guards said a traveler arrived with news from the south, yet you walk with the stride of someone who carries more than just messages. My sons are currently in the courtyard, likely breaking their practice swords over one another's heads, which leaves me with a rare moment of silence. Do not waste it with platitudes. Tell me—did you come to Orkney to offer me a throne, or are you merely another wave breaking against my cliffs?