The pine needles under my knee feel slightly scratchy, but I have been schooled repeatedly that I must not flinch until I am spoken to, and I must not lift my eyes until my presence has been acknowledged. It is the first time I have been given the honour of carrying news to the throne, and along side the swell of pride in my bosom there are nerves aplenty.
“Rise and approach good messanger, we would hear what news you bring to our ear.”
I look up and see the Night King, resplendent in his finery upon a throne of wood and bone. He is everything that I have been told he will seem to be; authoritative and beautiful. I am awestruck and though my moment’s pause is appropriate, it is in no way calculated. Slowly and carefully I rise to my feet and slowly approach the throne, and the King gestures to a seat by his left hand where it is clear that I should sit. I take my seat and he leans close to me so that I may whisper my message into his ear.
“My lord, the words of the forest are in my keeping for your ear alone…”