If there's a question Cendre Dalens had to regularly ask himself, it was how these people were able to tolerate the conditions of the far north. He had asked it upon crossing the first frostbitten pass, and he asked it still as he stood with numb fingers curled beneath his cloak. You could go down south and you'd find tundras that had greens and a source of water that didn't freeze your tongue the moment you dared to drink it. Here, even the air felt sharpened, as though each breath meant to carve his lungs from within.
They all prided themselves in 'being tough enough for the cold,' but he suspected that because of these things that blood wasn't flowing properly in their veins. Perhaps it moved slower, thicker, like syrup left too long in winter. He had seen men laugh bareheaded in the snow, their beards crusted with ice, their hands red and raw, as if the cold were some companion rather than an adversary. It made him question whether they felt the same sting he did, or whether they had long ago traded warmth for stubborn pride.
Honestly, if he were to be asked properly, without fear of his head being chopped from his shoulders, what he truly thought of the North, then he'd say it was bloody cold and that the founder of the Northern Lands and its banner deserved to be popsicles. He imagined some ancient hero standing upon a glacier, declaring this wasteland fit for dominion, and Cendre could not help but think the man should have been buried in the very snow he so admired.
Granted that not all of the North was white hellscape. There were some areas like an oasis in the snow where green and red grasses grew stubbornly through frost, where ships could dock properly without some iceberg sinking them before cargo was even unloaded. He had passed through one such harbor, watching the dark hulls sway against waters that had not yet surrendered to ice. Smoke rose from chimneys, and there had been the scent of roasted meat and spiced ale thick enough to almost make him forget the endless white beyond.
One had to admit that at least the food was great and the women rather sturdy. The stews were thick, heavy with meat and root vegetables that clung to the ribs, and the ale burned pleasantly down the throat. The women carried barrels as easily as some men carried swords, their laughter unrestrained, their shoulders broad, waist strangely thin, beneath fur-lined cloaks. The view also was beautiful in the night, especially with the distant ice caps beneath the background of stars dotted unto the black canvas of the sky. The auroras would sometimes shimmer faintly, like ghostly banners unfurling across the heavens, and even Cendre, for all his complaints, found himself staring longer than he intended.
But truthfully he'd rather not be in this place. He was more of a man who preferred the mild temperatures of the West-Center lands, where the breeze was gentle and the rivers did not threaten to harden into stone. He preferred vineyards stretching across golden hills, preferred the hum of insects in summer and the warmth of sun upon his shoulders without layers of fur weighing him down.
If not for his duties that he owed to the Dalens, for granting him his knighthood and name beyond that of a mere son, no one would find him here, freezing his balls off, waiting for all the Lords of the Northern Lands to arrive. He shifted his weight as another gust of wind cut across the courtyard of Icy's End, tugging at the sigil stitched upon his cloak. The emblem of House Dalens felt heavier here, as though even cloth absorbed the North's severity.
Most of the Northfolk were the kind who worshiped old pagan Gods and bore the sigils of furry animals that thrived in the cold like wolves, bears, white stags with antlers like frozen branches. He had seen their carved idols set upon stone altars dusted with snow, offerings left to spirits older than the kingdoms of the south. Their prayers were muttered in low tones, half swallowed by wind, and though he did not share their devotion, he could not deny the weight of tradition that hung over these lands.
The Blancs were the 'Ruler' of this land. West-Center folks called them the Wardens, keeping anything prehistoric from crossing the natural mountain walls that were 'caved' by the Argent, the ancestors of the Blancs. The mountains themselves loomed like jagged teeth along the horizon, ancient and immovable. Stories claimed beasts slumbered beyond them, things with scales and claws that once roamed freely before being driven back. Whether those tales were truth or merely another Northern boast, Cendre did not know, but he knew the Blancs carried themselves with the confidence of those who believed such legends.
The rest of the families of the Northerlands varied. He believed there were about six houses and clans that supported the Blancs, and from what he'd learned, they could raise an army of sixty-thousand if needed to be. Sixty-thousand men marching beneath banners stitched with fur and frost, descending from the mountains like an avalanche. It was a number that commanded respect, even from those who privately mocked the cold.
That was the thing about the Northerlands. They had a big army despite the cold, and enough resources and reputation for everyone they considered 'allies' to heed their call out of respect rather than fear alone. Timber, iron, salted meats, whale oil, and the quiet promise that the Wardens would stand firm should anything monstrous attempt to breach the passes. Strength bred alliances, and alliances bred influence, even in lands where the soil refused to soften.
Originally, he had wanted to remain in the Middled. Bathing under the sun, observing the vineyard, and dining using the fish he caught from calm rivers that did not threaten to freeze solid overnight. He had imagined an easy season. Unfortunately, however, duty had called, and with the Lord of the Northerlands dead, the new ruler would rise. Politics did not wait for comfort, nor did power tolerate absence.
It was only after he had arrived in the North that he had confirmed that the Lord of Icy's End was Eira Blanc, heiress to the Northern Throne, and an abnormal woman who had been blessed by the Gods to be as strong as a man. He had heard tales long before setting foot here of her wielding a blade larger than most could lift, of her standing unflinching against raiders, of her voice carrying across a battlefield like cracking ice. She already had fame before, and with her rise as the new Duchess of the Northerlands, then only a fool would ignore her invitations.
Personally, he did not care who sat upon the frozen seat, so long as trade continued and borders remained stable. But the Dalens had asked him to witness this ascension, to observe and to remember, so he could only grit his teeth and come to this place, bearing the sigil of the Dalens on his cloak. And so he stood in the courtyard of Icy's End, breath misting before him, watching banners snap in the merciless wind, waiting for the Lords of the Northern Lands to gather beneath a sky as cold and unyielding as the realm they claimed.