As promised, the second part of the prompt/short. In case you missed it, Part One is here.
“It’s not fair, Uncle Geirr, I don’t want to marry someone I don’t even know.” Sigrún sat on the crate, crossing her arms.
“That’s why you will come to the Feast, Sigga, to talk to the men there. Then you will know him, whoever he is.” Geirr rubbed his face, sighing. The girl had vexed him all of her life; he loved her dearly, of course, but it sometimes seemed as if the most difficult traits of his sisters–Gunnhildr’s cleverness and Guðlaug’s stubbornness–had been mixed together and poured into this girl when she was formed. But Gunnhildr he could reason with, and Guðlaug . . . he sighed again. He could usually find a way to placate his younger sister, as long as he treated her more like he’d treat a brother.
Sigrún had her own head, and was not quiet about expressing her displeasure. Her willfulness had pleased her father when he was alive, and it seemed harmless enough when she was a child, especially growing up among older boys as she had. Now, though, Geirr wished she was not so headstrong, for it made his already difficult task even more complicated.
“I understand your concerns. But you are at the age to negotiate a contract. A wedding won’t be for a year at least, maybe even two.” He sat next to his niece, draping his arm around her shoulders. “You know this is the way things are done, child.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Mother didn’t have a contract, and you didn’t, not all three times anyway, nor did Teitr, and Tryggvi still hasn’t ….”
“That’s enough, Sigrún.” He rubbed his face again, why did she have to bring the boy into this? That his son had refused to negotiate a marriage for three Festivals in a row annoyed him. That Sigrún now did the same was unacceptable. “You will be at the Feast tonight, you will sit and eat and have conversation with the men, and by the end of the night, you will have a contract. Do you understand?”
Sigrún glared at him. “I understand.”
“Good. Now go, put on your good dress, the orange one, and the beads. Now, girl. And comb your hair.”
She left the booth muttering. Geirr could only hope that his wife had brought enough drink, for he knew tonight he would need it.
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