Leif did not shrink from the weight of their eyes. His hand lingered on the open casket a moment longer, fingers brushing the frost-rimed edge of the blade. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but carried the edge of deliberate choice.
"You are right, Lord Harald. This sword could not have been made by Verdelund's smiths alone. Nor by any southern hand that clings too tightly to fire."
He let the silence stretch for a beat before continuing.
"The one who forged Frostvein is a son of the North—an exile of Vinterhall, long banished, yet unmatched in craft. Master Haakon Icebinder, once of your own forges, now bound in Verdelund's service by oath and by necessity."
The name landed like a stone dropped into still water. Several of Astrid's brothers stiffened, one muttering an oath under his breath. Even the Shieldguard exchanged sharp glances, though they held their silence.
Bryndis's brows rose, her interest sharpening. "Haakon," she murmured, almost to herself. "I thought him lost to the frost, or to his pride. A genius, but reckless." Her gaze shifted to the sword again, a merchant's mind already tallying the worth of such a craftsman dragged back into relevance.
Rurik folded his arms across his chest, eyes narrowing as he studied Leif. "So the South shelters one of our outcasts… and raises his exile's work as tribute to bind this Accord?" His tone remained measured, suspicion threaded with reluctant admiration. "Clever. Dangerous, perhaps—but clever."
Murmurs grew louder through the hall. Some spoke of insult: southern hands daring to claim what northern law had cast out. Others whispered of opportunity: a weapon unlike any before, born of two fires, two worlds.
Leif let the stirrings wash over him, then spoke again, steady and deliberate.
"Haakon's exile may have stripped him of a home, but not his skill. My father believed his work should not be buried in silence nor lost to frost. So he gave him tools, flame, and ore, and bade him temper southern craft with northern spirit. This blade is the result."
He lifted the weapon from its case. Frost-mist curled around his gloved hands as he turned the crystal-ice blade so the runes caught the torchlight.
"Frostvein is no insult, nor trick. It is proof that South and North together may forge what neither can alone."
The words hung in the cold air, sharp as the sword itself.
The murmurs swelled, pressing against the stone walls until it seemed the hall itself might groan beneath them. Egil's hand twitched once against the arm of his chair, as though to rise and reclaim the silence.
Before he could, another voice cut cleanly through the noise.
Astrid.
She did not raise her tone, nor strike the table as her brothers might have. She simply spoke, cool and steady, and the words carried—because in Vinterhall, when the heir chose to speak, people listened.
"So," she said, lilac eyes fixed on the gleaming frostblade in Leif's hands, "this is what I am to be bought with? Crystal and rune, fire and frost all knotted together, just to make me smile at a betrothal half this hall knows I have no interest in?"
The quiet that followed was absolute.
Her brothers shifted: some with pride flickering at her defiance, others stiff with unease at her bluntness. Bryndis's lips pressed together, but her eyes did not leave her daughter's face. Yrsa's head tilted almost imperceptibly, the faintest glimmer of amusement—or challenge—beneath her calm. Svala smirked in open pride, fingers idly caressing her sword's pommel.
Astrid rose, silvered fabric catching the torchlight in soft ripples. She did not move closer to Leif, only straightened her back and folded her hands before her as if the matter were nothing more than dull protocol.
"I will not deny the blade is fine," she went on, tone level, almost casual. "Finer than most southern trinkets we're sent to clutter our tables with. But if it is meant to charm me into believing this marriage is something more than politics, then you have wasted your smith's brilliance."
Her gaze flicked briefly toward her father, then back to Leif, sharp and unwavering.
"I will honor the Accord because my house requires it. But don't mistake obedience for affection, Prince. Vinterhall may trade its steel, its ships, even its daughters—but it does not trade their hearts."
The words fell into the hall like frost on flame, snuffing the last of the murmurs.
Astrid lowered herself back into her seat, composed, as if she had commented on nothing more than the weather.
All eyes turned to Leif.
Her words hung like ice in the air, their sharpness echoing longer than their sound.
For a heartbeat, silence held. Then one of Leif's guards stepped forward, his voice snapping against the stone.
"You dare speak so of Prince Leif?" he barked, his southern accent cutting through the stillness. "This gift is no trinket, but the finest blade forged by North and South together! You shame your father's hall with such—"
The second retainer moved as well, hand brushing the hilt of his sword. "If this is how Vinterhall receives its allies, then perhaps the Accord is not worth—"
The Shieldguard of Vinterhall shifted at once, halberds angling, boots grinding against the stone. The air thickened with the weight of violence held barely at bay. Astrid's brothers moved too, some grinning, others grim, ready to bare steel at the slightest excuse.
Then, calm.
Leif lifted his hand, fingers steady, palm outward. He did not raise his voice, but the effect was immediate. His guards froze, the words still sharp on their tongues but strangled into silence by their prince's command.
He lowered his hand slowly and stepped forward to the table again, setting Frostvein back into its casket with deliberate care.
When he looked up, his eyes found Astrid's across the hall. He did not speak.
No rebuke. No defense.
Only the faintest shift of his mouth—something between a smile and a promise—that told everyone watching he was not shaken, not insulted, and not finished.
The silence that followed was heavier than before, because it was his choice.
The tension snapped before it could ignite.
A deep, iron voice rolled across the chamber like thunder over the fjords.
"Enough."
Every head turned toward the end of the table, where Bjorn, old Jarl of Vinterhall, rose slowly to his feet. Age had carved its lines into his face, but had taken nothing from the breadth of his shoulders or the weight of his presence. His long white beard was braided with iron rings, and his eyes—hard, pale, merciless—glittered in the firelight.
The guards of Verdelund fell silent at once, jaws clenched. Astrid's brothers straightened instinctively. Even Egil, seated at the head, inclined his chin slightly to his father: a subtle acknowledgment that Bjorn's word still carried the weight of law in this hall.
Bjorn's gaze swept the chamber, slow and deliberate, pinning each man where he stood before finally settling on Leif.
"You," he said, his tone cold as glacier ice. "Prince of the South. Control your men. They will not raise their voices in my hall again."
Leif inclined his head once, sharp and measured. His guards bowed back immediately, retreating behind him with lowered eyes.
Bjorn turned his gaze upon Astrid next. His granddaughter met it without flinching, though the chill in it was harsher than the wind off the peaks.
"You speak boldly, girl," he said, voice cutting. "Too boldly. But hear this and remember: it was my hand that wrote this Accord, and my seal that bound it. Long before your father sat that chair, long before your mother's counsel, I carved this union into stone. It is older than your protests. Older than your defiance. And it will outlast both."
The hall sank even deeper into stillness, his words heavy as ice on every shoulder.
He leaned onto the table, one hand splayed against the stone. "You will take the blade. You will take the hand that comes with it. Not because you wish it, but because Vinterhall does not bend its oaths. Not to South. Not to North. Not even to its own blood."
The words landed with finality, leaving no room for argument.
Bjorn straightened, his cloak of direwolf fur settling heavy across his frame. "This Accord is not for your heart, Astrid. It is for your house. And a Vinterhall heir does not forget her duty."
The silence after his decree was suffocating, pressing over the hall like iron.
Astrid sat very still, lilac eyes fixed on her grandfather. For a long moment she neither flinched nor spoke. Then, slowly, she rose. The lavender silk of her gown caught the firelight as she drew herself up, tall and composed.
"I have said my part," she declared, her voice low but sharp enough to carry.
No more. No less.
She did not bow. She did not look at Leif, nor at her father. She turned on her heel, silver pins in her braids glinting faintly as she walked toward the doors.
Signe, silent and composed as always, fell into step behind her without hesitation. The click of the handmaiden's shoes echoed softly against the froststone, a measured counterpoint to Astrid's smooth stride.
The Shieldguard at the doors pulled them open at once, the runes in the wood glowing faintly as the heavy panels swung wide. A draft of cold mountain air swept into the hall, carrying the scent of snow and pine.
Astrid crossed the threshold without looking back.
Signe followed. The doors closed heavily behind them.
The echo of their slam still lingered when Bjorn broke the silence with a low, gravelly grunt.
"That girl…" he muttered, jaw tightening as he lowered himself back into his chair.
The sound that followed was not outrage, nor more silence.
It was chuckling.
Soft at first, then layered.
Yrsa of the Grey Veil allowed herself the faintest laugh, her crystal eyes glinting. "You were the one who agreed for her to be heir, Father," she reminded him smoothly.
Svala leaned back, her chuckle warmer but edged with pride. "We did discuss it, remember? Who would take the Jarl's seat after our husband retires. Most of us agreed little Astrid was the most suited."
Bryndis, calm and steady, simply nodded. "Made the most sense."
The brothers exchanged glances—some smirking, some still rigid. The southern guards shifted, clearly unused to such a family debate playing out in the middle of ceremony.
Egil released a grunt of his own, folding his arms across his chest. "She is the most talented Vinterhall of her generation," he admitted bluntly. "The girl can go head-to-head with Svala in their spars—and hold her ground."
Svala's lips curved upward, pride bright in her eyes.
Bjorn exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as his fur-lined cloak settled around his shoulders. "She was blessed by Freyja herself. Our family hasn't been touched by the gods in five generations. That is why she stands apart."
The words settled over the hall, heavy and certain.
Leif, still standing at the basalt table, said nothing. His guards glanced at him, uneasy, but he did not move. His hand rested steady on Frostvein's casket, his blue-fire eyes unreadable as they lingered on the space where Astrid had stood.
Bjorn leaned back, wolf-fur shifting. His pale gaze turned to the southern prince once more.
"The girl will have her storms," he said, tone flat, unbending. "But storms pass. The Accord remains. And you, Prince Leif, will remember why you are here—not for her favor, but for the bond between our houses."
The words carried finality, closing the matter. Around him, Egil's wives settled, their earlier amusement folding back into the composed silence of women who knew when business was done. Svala crossed her arms with a faint smirk; Yrsa's crystal eyes gleamed with some private calculation; Bryndis remained steady, her rings catching the firelight.
Egil, still at the head of the table, gave a slow nod. "The Fjord-Crown Accord stands," he said, his voice ringing like iron on stone. "Tonight, there will be feast. Tomorrow, we speak of the terms to follow. Until then, Prince Leif—rest beneath our roof, and measure the weight of Vinterhall with your own eyes."
Leif inclined his head, the faintest curve at his mouth betraying neither victory nor offense. His voice remained calm.
"As you command, Jarl Egil. And as you will, Lord Bjorn."
The words echoed with deliberate care—acknowledgment without submission.
Bjorn grunted again, low and satisfied. "Good."
The great doors boomed open once more at the Shieldguard's command. The gathering began to disperse: wives and sons stepping back, Shieldguard returning to their posts, the retainers of Verdelund bowing low before following their prince.
Leif lingered for a breath longer, his gaze on the doors through which Astrid had vanished, before finally turning and walking out of the Winter Hall.