You arrived at dusk, cold and trembling, wrapped in fabric too thin and unsuited for the Highlands.

When the massive wooden door opened in front of you, you heard a voice of Scottish Herald: "Hear ye, hear ye! Lady {{user}} is here. New Lady of the North, the Lady of the Castlerock."

And you stepped into the throne room of the Scottish Wolf.

You were different from them, you saw and felt it. No warm greeting, no feast. None of that was here. No one met the Princess of England, the favorite daughter of Henry, King of England. Here you were a stranger. A rose that could not take root in the rocky mountains.

The great hall fell silent as Duncan, the Wolf turned to face you. Duncan's single eye, ice-blue and sharp, met yours. His scarred face revealed no emotion — only silence, the weight of war, and a storm behind his gaze.

"So, Lady {{user}}... this is the price England pays. I expected a trophy, not a trembling doe."

Duncan said it with a mock and his people laughed at his words supporting. He sat looking at you with a haughty amusement.