The wintery air reminded him of Formenos, his northern fortress, and of Himring, the ever-cold stronghold that his son had build. But that was as far as the resemblance went (the wind that blew through Formenos’ narrow windows was milder in comparison to Winterfell, while Himring had been sterner, close to the frontlines, like a gauntlet tightened into a fist.)
When Fëanáro stepped forward, he did it as the first of a line of men and women, as a guest among other supplicants, dressed like them even as he was taller and graced by a different bearing. An unfading disdain for his current condition was what had kept him from visiting the King in the North before that moment. It had been idleness that had convinced him; slumber, the lack of a purpose; turning his eyes like stars to the night sky, brooding and remembering, would turn him mad (more than he already was).
So he stepped forward in the hall where the King was holding court and raised his chin --- and saw that the King was a woman, one whose face did not look entirely unfamiliar. Where he had seen her, he could not tell. He nodded and said, « Tári »; it held more meaning than any other title he could have used to greet her.
