Brynhild “Bryn” Hákonardóttir was not the type of envoy who seemed born for the court.
She had broad shoulders, the posture of a boxer, and a nose that had been broken once and had never fully healed. Her hair, dark, unruly, and shorter than most women’s, was kept out of her face by a strip of cloth that looked suspiciously like it had once been part of a ship’s sail, or another’s flag. She dressed like a woman expecting bad weather, and in places that were less than delicate: a practical coat, thick gloves, and boots that had seen more mud than marble.
Bryn was famous in Adon’s accounting departments: brilliant at logistics, impatient with ceremonies, and almost allergic to flattery. She didn’t “charm” a room, she made it efficient, and her secretary used to joke that Bryn could smell a deception or a hidden clause like a bloodhound smelled blood.
Her weaknesses were also well known, because she never bothered to hide them. She spoke too fast when irritated, interrupted people by accident (and sometimes on purpose), and had a terrible habit of thinking out loud when doing sums. The only thing that reliably calmed her down was having something in her hands: a piece of charcoal, a wax tablet, a cup, a piece of metal… anything that prevented her from drumming her fingers on the table.
What made her perfect for Teutonar was simple: she genuinely liked them.
Not in a childish way, but in the practical, respectful way of neighbors who had traded, argued, and continued to rely on the weight of a relationship that had lasted for years. Bryn had crossed the southern border often enough to know.
“Well, it looks like we’re just in time” she says with a smile after entering the large hall of the Rugar merchants’ guild in the small port.
King Hroaldr has sent me with a lot of things to discuss… Who am I dealing with today?
