The field stretched wide. Hoofprints scattered the slightly frozen ground, and a thin mist hung low, stirred only by the snorts and movements of the horses as they trotted in the cold air.
"Prince Sten of Ásjáheimr!" A voice rang out, drawing Sten's attention. It was an old man dressed in luxurious furs and embroidered robes. His voice carried an air of both authority and warmth. "Striking silver hair! It is impossible to mistake. I've come here myself, upon hearing you would be attending. I never thought I'd see the royal family of Ásjáheimr with my own eyes."
Sten glanced at the man, keeping his expression composed, though his thoughts were less than cordial. "Another old noble with too much to say," he thought but managed a polite smile.
"And you must be King Hafar. I recognize your emblem," Sten replied smoothly, bowing his head in recognition.
