Katula In Chains (closed for Armphid)

The sun had begun to throw its light against the pale blue morning sky, yet despite the breaking of the dawn, a deeper chill than a simple morning cold pervaded the air. In the distance, the white-capped peaks of an immense mountain range provided a clue to this riddle. Cold or not, however, the ramshackle township of Elinhir began to bustle to life with the morning light. Its citizens went about their lives as they had always been want to do, living, laughing, loving, and squabbling as they had for generations. However, the undercurrent of uncertainty was new, as were the grim-faced patrols who swept the streets incessantly.

One such patrol swept by a low ramshackle building, in front of which was a raised platform that was in better condition and decor than the building itself. This was unsurprising for it was the local slave block and auction, and even now, a small gathering had already formed before the platform. Conversation was all business interspersed with some salacious speculations as to a new acquisition by the slave master.

Inside, that very slave master cracked open some slats, observing the general trend without and was otherwise pleased with what he observed. A stout, hairy man of average height and swarthy complexion, he was nonetheless powerfully muscled despite the excess flab and the handle of his whip at his side was worn from use. Ordering his hands to prepare the stage, he went to the back of the building where two stolid handlers stood flanking a solid wooden door. Acknowledging their presence with the barest of grunts, the slave master produced a key from his belt and opened the door with it.

Inside, lining the walls and benches, was a large group of men and women all chained together, and those chains set in iron hoops in the walls and in the floor. Some twenty individuals all told, there was little favour in the gaze the slave master bent on them, finding them to be a sorry lot, with one exception, and to that exception he now turned an approving eye toward. Were circumstances different, he would have been pleased to keep this particular piece of merchandise to himself, but he could ill-afford the price the sellers had asked him to procure; so he retrieved the bull-hide whip and cracked it loudly.

"To your feet wench, it’s time you made your way to the block," he growled as he stood over her. He was ill-pleased to see that the woman yet had scraps of clothing; he stepped forward and ruthlessly tore them away, the better to display her charms to the public and entice buyers to be generous with their coin – her vendor had demanded one hundred gold crowns for her and it would require all his skill to coax that exorbitant amount from the crowd. "No tricks today my pretty flower, or I’ll stripe you within an inch of your miserable life in front of the crowd."

Rebellious slaves were always bad for business.

Having so warned her, he jerked at the black chains which bound the cold metal shackles on her wrists and ankles to the iron collar on her neck. The two local guards offered no sympathy in their myopic eyes as she was pulled by, having long grown cold to this brutal and sordid line of work; even the sight of a woman being pulled in chains by an Imperial roused no appreciable sentiment. The door to the block was thrust open, and before the roaring crowd, the master of slaves ushered his best sale.

The rush of cold air greeted them as they came onto the block, where the crowd had gathered around the stage and was growing by the moment. There were Imperials from Empire of Orhman, turbaned nomads of the Gismain wastes, guileful Taradanians, taciturn and grim Hyperboreans, proud Lathonians, and even a small contingent of Nords in the rear watched the spectacle.

The slave master clapped and heaved, exhorting the audience to greater efforts as they shouted and whistled, leering and jeering as they watched the naked woman in chains brought forth. The majority were men – some for business and others simply to watch the spectacle with perverse delight – yet there were even some women who came to belittle, taking out the frustration of their mean lives on the only type of person who was socially below them.

Regis Callius, General of the 4th Imperial Legion glowered as he read the latest report, "Crows, this can't be! These are primitives! Led by a woman!" He stood under the command pavilion of his main camp; armed and armored in his gilded breastplate and with the crimson cape of his office on his back. "We should have been able to take this damn place already!"

The land around his camp was thickly forested; the air hot and humid. The trees were immense; towering up and out of sight, the canopy hundreds of feet overhead blotting out much of the sun to make the land below a permanent twilight. "So much for the reputation of Scipio and his Third Cohort; bogged down against these barbarians." He snorted, "Where are the other reports?"

His subordinates looked at one another nervously. "General Callius, there...are no other reports."

The older Imperial man, lean and strong despite his graying hair, speared the speaker with a sharp look, "What's that, Tribune?"

The younger man coughed, "We've had no word from the other Cohorts, Sir. 2nd, 4th, and 5th haven't sent anything today. We have sent scouts out to their positions and they...have yet to return."

"They won't," said a new voice from somewhere above them. As soon as it spoke there were shouts and cries from all over camp; steel rang out as did startled oaths and screams cut short. The General looked out from the pavilion and saw armed savages, women all, seeming to rain down from above onto the camp.

"Crows!" The General turned, "Call to order, now, assemb-" There was the sound of tearing cloth from overhead and a tall, slender, buxom woman dropped down through a freshly rent hole in the canopy. The thick bladed sword she wielded flashed out and the general toppled, his head flying from his body. She lunged forward and laid into the remaining gathered officers, cutting the head off of the legion. They tried to fight and pull their weapons but she was among them too fast and soon they lay dead or dying, their blood staining the maps and papers.

The lone survivor was the official scribe; a thin, pretty young man who trembled as the woman turned to face him. "H-how, th-that's-"

"You Imperials." Katula Sunhair, The Foeslayer, Shark-Eyed Hunter gave him an emotionless look. "You always expect everyone to fight by your rules. On an open field, fighting openly, your legions are powerful. But you fight and think in two dimensions, we live in three."

He gulped, "The trees. You climbed up and came down on top of our camps. That's...brilliant."

"Respect from an Imperial? Hm." Katula looked him over. "You will live. Those who survive will go back to your Empire with you. Tell them not to come here again. We do not want to trade and we will not pay homage. The Emperor's reach ends here."

"My Queen." A shorter, slighter figure slipped into the pavilion. Her resemblance to Katula was clear. "It is all but over. What shall we do with the wounded and the survivors?" She then noticed the scribe and her mouth curved in a leonine smile, "He's pretty."

"Enjoy him for the night then," Katula shrugged. "As far as the wounded, any who cannot be moved or who are too far gone, throw them into the river; the sharks and the crocodiles will see to them for us. The rest should be gathered and will leave tomorrow. Tell the women they may have their pleasure with the ones they like but none get kept."

"As you say, sister, it will be done."

The air was cold even in the shack and with little to cover them, the slaves felt it biting. Some whimpered or moaned, most were silent. She raised her head, having drifted off into a doze, her mind playing over what had once been. She did so often; to remember, to try and hold on to herself, to her pride, but with that came the memories of her defeat, her use.

Katula fell to the floor weakly, trying desperately to stir rebellious limbs. "What...what is this? Kireeki?"

"Queen Kireeki, sister," the younger, more delicate woman sneered as she walked forward. Behind her came the man, the scribe she had allowed to live after the destruction of the legion a season ago. "It's an excellent drug, isn't it? You can barely move, all your might useless. And to think it was made from plants I've seen all my life!"

The scribe slid up and put an arm around her waist, "Our alchemists can make many wonders from the greenery here, my love, ah, Your Majesty. The benefits to you and your people will be boundless."

"You were such a fool to tum the Imperials away, Katula," Kireeki shook her head. "They can give us so much, and all they wants is plants, wood, and fish."

"That is how it starts but not where it ends. You stupid, selfish bitch! They come in to trade, then they build trading posts, then they post soldiers to guard them, then they build forts to "protect their interests" and they take your land from within!" Katula tried to rise but only succeeded in arching her back, "You've opened us to conquest, you cu-" The wind was blown out of her by a kick from her sister.

"You shouldn't speak to your queen that way, slave." Kireeki grinned. "The Emperor himself asked you to be brought in bondage to his city and paid me handsomely in gold, and in rulership." She tilted her head, "It would be sad if this was the last memory I had of you..." The younger woman walked to the wooden throne and sat down. From the shadows emerged a few more Imperial men with chains and rope, "Honored guests, would you like to give her a try before taking her on the road?"

The crack of the slave master's whip brought her to slowly open her eyes; the cool orbs a shocking blue green color that called to mind the tropical seas of the far land she once called home. At his words, she rose, looming over him. She showed no fear as he tore what little clothing she had away, turning her face away from him.

Time for the block; to be on display. Another in the series of shows her life had become.

The crowd's roar was greater than that of the ocean waves against the rocks as she brought her weapon down in a brilliant arc. The scaly skin of the lizard man split under the hard edge, as did the cold flesh beneath, her for howling as he fell to the packed dirt of the arena floor, nearly cut in two. The heavy, thick bladed chopping sword wasn't quite what she had wielded back home to defend her lands but she had become accustomed to it.

She raised the bloody blade and the crowd cheered louder than ever. Katula tipped her head back, pretending the adulation made her free. She knew that night would remind her of the truth; her master was booking her even now. Would she wake bound in her cell to be taken by those who paid his fee? Placed into chains and stocks at another fancy party to be used by the guests? Not for the first time, nor the last, did she hope these damned games would kill her.

The jerk caused the cold iron to bite into her skin but she did not wince or cry out. She took a few stumbling steps forward before she began to stride forth as though this was her idea and the pig of a man pulling her forward was some petty retainer.

But this wasn't her idea, nor her plan. It was that of another.

The hut was dim but warm and fire light played over her skin as she lay naked in the near dark. The other woman leaned over her, running her hands that were shrouded in green-white light above her prone form. "That should do it. No scars on you now, my prize. All ready for sale. You'll catch his eye, I have seen it. And through you, I will finally have my grasp on this hold."

Katula, queen no longer, gladiator no longer, just a slave in chains, stepped up into the bitterly cold air of the northern morning. Her breath steamed in the cold and her nipples stiffened immediately. She was tall; taller than many men at 6' in height and her body was toned and strong. She did not bulge with muscle but her arms, legs, and stomach showed definition and power. Her skin was dark; a deep acorn nut shade that was a stark contrast to those standing and watching. Despite her dark skin, her hair was a brilliant sunny blond; short and spiky but with a pair of long tails on either side of her head that split further in two part way down and fell down past her waist. Her eyes were a vibrant aquamarine and they were cool and distant. Her face was beautiful; shapely and well formed with a sharpness to her jawline and chin. Her dark skin was smooth and silken, no flaws to be seen. She stood proudly on the block and looked out at the crowd with a silent challenge in her expression. Her nude body was lush, ripe and ample beyond what any there had seen. Her supple, well formed legs were long and strong, her hips a perfect gripping swell, her ass plush without being overripe or cumbersome. Her stomach was taut and flat but a shadow was cast over it by her breasts; they were huge, mammoth jugs bigger than a man's head that jutted out into the wintery air with no hint of sag or fall. Proud, high, pert and massive, they rose and fell with her breath.

She tried not to shiver; from the cold or the thought of being bought again. It was a dreadful thing to her pride, such as she still had. Her eyes swept the assembly. Her new master or mistress was here...who would it be?

There were no familiar sights to be seen amidst the crowd who cheered, hollered, and banged their hands on the floor boards with urgent invitations that she should approach within reach of their outstretched hands. The slave master laughed, but pushed them off. “No sampling of the wares until you pay for it!” he admonished with mock seriousness. “If you want this fine piece of meat, show me your coin!”

“Ten silver marks!” shouted a lanky, one-eyed weasel of a man.

“Bids start at thirty gold crowns, you cheap cur!” laughed the slave master and the crowd made a general sound of disappointment. “Do you think I’m selling a common whores? I have it on good authority that she is royal whore of high breeding, I swear on my balls!” The crowd roared back with disbelief, and the slaver cracked his whip, seeming to gently caress her flesh in the passing, but it left a dark red welt upon her flank; “Cease your timidity you yellow-haired hussy; stand straight and show the crowd some of your charms! Look you dogs! See this figure? The clarity of her eyes? Fhazim, you old reprobate! I’ll bet you fifty marks that one night with her in your bed will cure you of your impotence and have your withered old stalk standing to attention in no time!”

The crowd laughed mockingly as the old rogue the slave master had singled out swore vehemently at the attack on his manhood. And the bidding began in earnest.

The marketplace continued its business as usual, paying little or no attention to the revelry at the slave block. Those who might have sympathised with the plight of the woman on stand were careful to avoid looking at her, knowing that all they could offer was pity. Not every person before the stand was a lecherous scoundrel; some men were of a colder, business-like disposition, with practiced eyes that appraised and judged what they saw. One such man of advanced years, near the back of the crowd, now looked up as a rider reigned in beside him. This newcomer had pale aquiline features framed by lustrous dark hair; he presented a different image from the other Nords who surrounded him, who much heavier of body by contrast and whose coarse locks were typically light brown or straw-coloured, though he was just as well built as they. He sat straight-backed upon the horse, handling the animal with ease, tugging at the reigns with strong hands. Garbed from neck to toe in earthy browns and dark greens with gold embroidered patterns, a heavy furred cloak was set upon his broad shoulders as he took in the scene.

“Still at it?” inquired this newcomer carelessly without dismounting. “This is quickly turning into a wearying affair, Skjorn. How long have we been here already? A week? Two? I think it was past time we were leaving.”

“As soon as we finish with the inventory Lord Raen; not all the slaves survived the winter and they need to be replaced – we’ll have to wait a moment longer until they can rid themselves of the pretty harlot – undoubtedly someone will leave the market a happy man.”

Valdis Raen looked up, watching as the slave master cracked his whip and put on his airs. The bid had reached nearly sixty crowns and men were pushing the price up only slowly. Rolling his eyes, he tugged at the reigns of the horse with growing irritation. When at last, his store of patience ran out, and he spurred the horse forward to the annoyance of those who were forced aside. Skjorn looked on inquiringly. “How unusual of you to take interest in–”

“One thousand crowns for the woman,” called Valdis, his stentorian voice, and the shock of the announcement, cutting imperiously through the din of the crowd. Silence fell; all jostling and revelry cut short as the crowd looked incredulously at him, but Valdis gave no impression that he had made a joke, his expression impassive and daring those nearby to outbid him. The price on the bronzed, yellow-haired slave had been set to so exorbitant an amount that it was doubtful if there would be any further bids. A fat wheezing man of rich bearing looked between the young Nord and the auctioned slave, licking his lips nervously as though he would dare a raise, but the merchant in him decided that it was foolery to offer more for so little payoff, even if he did deeply desire to press his sweating bulk atop her. Skjorn stood aghast, eyes starting from his head.

“Sold!” called the slave master at last, sensing the trend of things, the muscles in his anus twitching as he mentally counted the coins at though they were already in his hand. Katula had just become the most valuable commodity in all of the north.

As the whip stung her, Katula grimaced but did not gasp or wince. Her eyes flashed and fell upon the slave master; she could break his neck using the chains binding her before the guards reached her...but they would reach her and she was cold, muscles stiff, under nourished, she could not defeat them. And she was here to be sold; even if she did get loose, she could not escape her mistress nor her commands.

At his exhortation to show her charms, she squared her shoulders and stood straight and tall. Her legs slid apart to a wider stance to display her womanhood; the darkness of her flesh and a hint of pink beneath, a tuft of yellow at the apex of her mound but bare otherwise. Her lips curved in something that was not a smile but approached it, though her eyes stayed coldly furious. She lifted her manacled hands and hefted her breasts, mashing them together and then jerking her hands away to let them bounce and jiggle.

The bidding had picked up but was beginning to slow again. She could feel the slave master's frustration and a little bit of concern. If he didn't get the promised value for her; he would have quite the reckoning from her mistress. Her eyes fell on the older, fat merchant man leading in the bidding. Her mistress had clouded her mind with her magic to leave much of her reason here lost to her until it came time to know it...but she knew that somehow this was not the man who was to buy her.

Then came a clear voice that spoke with authority and every head, hers included, whipped to face it. Her face showed emotion for the first time; open shock and a jolt of recognition. A thousand crowns! And it was him! There was a sort of click in her mind as soon as she saw him; this was the man she was here for.

The crowd was astir; such a price for any slave was unheard of! And to jump right to it like that was against the practice and traditions of the auction. Though some grumbled, they did so quietly. Better not to test the young Jarl, few knew how he could react to any who disliked his actions. And if he wished to spend his money so foolishly, let him.

Katula studied the man on the horse for a few long seconds. He was strong build but not quite as broad as the northmen usually were and his hair was dark. He was handsome and richly dressed; that fur cloak alone was worth as much as had almost been paid for her. One of the nobles here and not a minor one, one of their ruling class. That was fitting for her, at least, if she must submit to anyone.

The jerk of the chains pulled her out of her reverie and down off the block. She followed the stout slave master down the steps where she would be greeted by her new master.

Valdis nodded in satisfaction that the sale was done, but otherwise gave no sign of acknowledgement. Turning his horse from the crowd, he went back up to Skjorn, whose expression was too blank to be anything except disapproval for this extravagant spending of money on a single slave. "I'll leave the details to you Skjorn. Settle things and let us be on our way."

The master slaver was quick to usher Katula away and designate some other subordinate to handle the remaining slaves to be sold, eager to close the purchase by himself. The day had been successful beyond his wildest dreams and his impatient manner showed it. The man called Skjorn was already waiting for him with two Nord guards behind the slave pens where transactions took place. Tall and hale, despite possibly being in his later years with a balding pate and greying hair, the man had piercing eyes and a whiplash manner that brooked no insolence – his gaze had little love for the slaver and almost no sign of trust for Katula or even the slightest signs of desire or lust – it was possible that his libido had long since dried up with age or he was truly professional about his duties. The slave master tugged her forward for his inspection, licking his lips at the anticipation of relieving the man of his gold.

For his part, Skjorn merely looked distastefully at the woman who had set his household back by such a large sum. "Is she healthy?" he asked pointedly and the master slaver assured him she was in the peak condition of health, though neglecting to mention that she had been underfed.

"That remains to be seen," snapped Skjorn. "I take it she is at least house broken? This creature doesn't look the sort to be found in some common household, and the last thing I’m about to tolerate is an unruly slave."

Despite his words, he did not wait for the other's assurance. With practiced hands, he seized her face and pushed aside her lips to look at her teeth. Satisfied, he went on to look over her body and silvered hair for signs of wasting or disease, her wrists and ankles for fetter scars that betrayed an unruly slave that had remained unsold for a lengthy space, her breasts for fullness or deformity, and her sex – with hard fingers, he thrust a pair into her, feeling around before snorting. "Not even a virgin and you were starting the bid at thirty crowns? Also, I dare say this wench hasn't been fed - see those ribs, her face – when was the last time she ate?"

There was more, as the two discussed matters as though discussing the sale of a farm animal, ignoring her as they went. After much discourse, Skjorn at last reluctantly handed over a weighty pouch of coins. It was a testament to his skill as a negotiator that he shaved two hundred crowns from the miserly slaver. "Come along you," he motioned, once he had collected the deed of ownership and his guards gathered her chains, leading her to the caged wagons where all the other slaves he painstakingly negotiated over the past week were being held. Without clothing her, the two Nords ushered her into the wagon with nearly two dozen other slaves, securing her chains to the iron hoop in the floorboards. Some looked at her blankly, but most were only engrossed in gloomy speculations about their futures to really pay attention to a newcomer

Her master rode off on his horse and she noted it. He had at least one person he trusted with his business; confident or naive? Like she had been. The thought of Kireeki made her hands clench into fists. By the time they reached the older man and his guards, she had relaxed again. All but her eyes.

These men were different from the slave master and his guards. The larger Nords were powerfully built and moved with none of the swagger of the hired swords the slaver used:/; these were men who had training and discipline. Dangerous men but she was dangerous too. The older man wad clearly in charge and pissy at the amount of money spent for her.

His inspection was humiliating as she expected but more thorough. She resisted the urge to bite his fingers when he pulled her lips back but she tensed and her eyes flashed. The guards started looking at her more closely and she made herself relax again. Her cheeks flushed slightly as he handled her breasts; not from shame but arousal. When his fingers plunged into her pussy, she let out a soft gasp and clenched down on them. Katula was far, far from a virgin but her sex was strong and surprisingly tight. And she knew how to use it.

That the wagons were caged at least meant there was some cover against the wind but the metal would be bitterly cold to touch. She made no attempt to struggle or resist but let them secure her and took the seat they indicated. Katula sat still and silent as they shut and locked the door. There were almost two dozen others here, mostly younger, all in good condition. The noble's buyer knew his business. As the wagons began to move, she raised her head. "Move closer."

The slaves near her blinked and looked at her. Katula gestured to them "Move closer. The trip will be cold but if we are close together, our shared heat will warm us." They looked at her uncertainly. "Move closer. Now." Despite her chains, the authority in her voice snapped out clearly, every bit as much as the nobleman who'd bought her earlier. Chains clinked as people moved and soon the slaves in the wagon had all nestled together into two groups. Katula sat in the middle of one, warm despite her nudity, her lush flesh pressed against a trio of younger girls. Wherever they were going, this group slaves would arrive without frostbite or illness from the brutal cold.

The heavy iron cage was closed and heavier chains bound it shut. Even as the two guards made their rounds to ensure that all was in order, Valdis came riding up, pulling the stallion to hold as soon as he was within earshot of Skjorn. "Are we ready to depart?" he asked wearily, to which Skjorn glowered darkly.

"No thanks to your extravagant spending my Prince, I would say that we are quite ready to depart," exasperated the major-domo. "Why! Let us make it a habit of spending three thousand crowns on every slave we buy in the future!"

One of the Nord guards, who was on the other side of the cage and out of earshot, whistled lowly and gave Katula a second look. "Do you think she’s worth it?" he asked his partner with a chuckle. "Certainly she'd go some way to warm up the cold nights, but then again, why wait for the night? The days in north can also be rather chilly."

"Get your head out of the clouds," scolded the other. "Who ever heard of Valdis buying a woman to satisfy lust? Look at her closely – does she look like some collared city slut? This one is a fighter, or I’m a harpy's uncle. Don’t be surprised if she ends up guard captain in the future."

"Hells, that will be the day! I doubt Valdis would be soft enough to put a mere slave in such a position! You say she’s a fighter? Look at that body you fool! Those curves! Maybe the Prince has an eye for dark meat; certainly I wouldn't mind a–"

"Enough nonsense you two," snarled Skjorn, having finished his discourse with Valdis and wondering why the two guards were not making their rounds. "Finish securing the wagon, then we leave." The two men snapped to attention, saluted against their will and rushed off. Skjorn gave the nearby Katula a dark glare, though he looked at her proud bearing a second time over, revaluating her a touch more favourably, but still without real favour.

A short while later, the call to move forward came, and the wagons lurched forward where before them, the grey, ice capped mountains that separated the south from north loomed in the distance. It was not until shortly after midday that Valdis decided to finally come down from the front to see the sorry lot that Skjorn had selected. Handling his horse easily, he pulled beside the caged slave wagon, where he looked over those within impersonally. At least until he came to the bronzed Katula. Though his expression did not much change, he called for Skjorn.

"Really, Skjorn?" he challenged, disappointment evident in his tone. "Do you intend for her to freeze to death on her first night? How about affording her a little dignity at least, or are you just trying to please your old eyes?"

"My apologies Lord Valdis," replied the other with bowed head and false obeisance. "Had I not been so flustered by your outrageous spending this morn I would have remembered. Gods, Valdis! What possessed you? One thousand crowns for a slave? Such a price is the ransom of royalty, and even then, only after careful consideration of all options; not on some whim! Well, we are far from town – some rags will have to suffice until–"

With his knees, Valdis urged his horse forward whilst his hands went to clasp of his cloak to undo it. Skjorn’s face was too blank to be anything but outrage as his lord whirled the cloak from his shoulders, bundled it and pushed it through the bars at the blonde woman. "Here," he grunted brusquely; "the fault is mine for not checking up early. It will never do for clothes, but at least it will keep the chill of the mountains and the night at bay."

Katula listened as the guards and the seneschal spoke. She had long known that one should listen more than one spoke but that lesson had been brutally reinforced during her time in bondage. Valdis was the name of her new owner. A prince? Did they have princes here? There was another word for the high noblemen of the north....Carl? No, those were warriors in service; huscarls. The men guarding them may be huscarls...or just simple guards. She vaguely understood that not every warrior in a lord's employ was a huscarl. When the old man, Skjorn was the name she'd heard, glared at her, she didn't look away. Instead she looked back steadily, her unblinking eyes wary and respectful but unafraid.

The wagons got underway and trundled on. They had been on the move for perhaps two hours, leaving Elinhir behind. They were traveling towards the mountains...south?

Then her owner ride back to inspect the slaves. As she felt his eyes on her, she rise to her feet. Her face betrayed no emotion as the noble and his underling spoke but then shock registered as he pulled off the fur cloak and then pushed it into the cage. The other slaves melted out of the way.

Katula looked past the offered fur at him. Was this a test? He seemed genuine. Only one way to know. "You protect your investment, very wise, My Prince." Her voice was a smoky alto that seemed to purr even when speaking normally. "And kind, I thank you." Her breasts rose, fell, and jiggled as she swung the garment over her shoulders. She felt the difference immediately and sighed at the feeling of warmth. She pulled it around herself, though it could not close around her huge tits and they jutted out from it into the cold air. "I will keep it clean so it may be returned to you, Prince Valdis." She tilted her head, "Is that the right title? I recall the northern lords are called something else. Am I wrong?"