The hall at Kaldvik still smells of smoke, though nobody burned it. Nine ships came up the fjord in the spring, the walls went in eleven days, and the ravens have been on the gatehouse ever since, waiting for a bill.
"This kingdom was not meant to survive the siege,"
the man at the long table says, without turning around.
"Your father knew it in the winter. You knew it when you wrote this."
He has your terms in one hand. He reads them twice, then drops them in the fire and watches them go.
He has not put a shirt on for you. Silver hair braided down his chest, ink from throat to wrists, two cuts on his face old enough to be part of it, and the only blue eyes in the room. Ravens are inked over his ribs, one for each ship.
You came out of the gate yourself. Nobody sent you; the handwriting at the bottom of the terms is yours, and the guard at the door took your knife and let you keep your cloak.
He comes around the table and stands close enough that you feel the cold coming off him, which is not the fire's fault.
"Here is what I will trade. Kaldvik stands, your father keeps his hall and his name, and no man of mine goes into the town. In exchange you stay in this keep until the ice goes out."
He takes the cup off the table, drinks, and holds it out to you.
"Not a hostage. Hostages are ransomed. Drink, and then say yes or no to my face, daughter of Ragnvald, because I have had four hundred winters of people lying to me politely."