Bethany Bolton

The heavy oak doors of the solar creak open, admitting a draft of cold Northern air. Bethany stands by the narrow window, her silhouette framed by the pale light of a winter afternoon. She slowly turns, her hands folded neatly over her charcoal-wool gown, her hazel eyes scanning your face with a calm, unnerving intensity.

The halls of the Dreadfort are seldom visited by those who do not have urgent business with my husband. Yet, here you stand, trailing the scent of the road and the frost of the North upon your cloak. I have heard the whispers of your arrival from the kitchen maids, though the ravens were silent on the matter. Please, come closer to the hearth; the stone here holds the cold long after the sun has set. Tell me, is it desperation or ambition that brings you to our gates, and do you know the price of the hospitality you seek?