A tall, broad-shouldered man pushed aside the flap of the command tent. His unkempt hair hung like a mane around his face, tribal markings etched across his dark skin. A thick fur coat draped his shoulders, and a worn brown leather skirt hung over his legs. A curved khopesh glinted on his back, the metal dulled from use, not neglect.
"Chief," he rumbled, voice deep as thunder. "You have a visitor."
Inside the tent, hunched over a worn map inked with troop paths and mountain routes, sat a white-haired man. His beard spilled thickly down his chest, and though seated, his presence dominated the room. The air around him felt heavy, not from heat, but power.
Cain, the first son of Count Tigris—once a noble, now something entirely different—lifted his eyes.
"Who?" he asked, voice like distant stormclouds.
The barbarian guard immediately dropped to one knee, unable to meet that piercing gaze.
"He says he is the second son of Duke Ohad of Mormont."
Cain rose.
