Brynjar had his arms crossed over his chest. His fingers had been twitched for the sword at his hip and it was the only way to stifle the urge. He desperately wanted to draw his blade and fell as many of the Fjellborg people before he could take them down. He knew that if he wanted to succeed he couldn't give in to that temptation. As much as he wanted there blood now, he wanted to spill more than this meager offering who waited restlessly to watch the spectacle that would take place soon.
A sour grin came to his face. Truly this would be a show. Brynjar had not meat Ingrid until negotiations had taken place and he sprung this idea upon unsuspecting nations. He had heard plenty of her prowess upon the battle field with a weapon in her hand. He had heard that she was quick to resort to physical means to resolve her issues which was by far not at all what you'd expect from a princess of Byrdain.
His eyes darkened at the thought. He didn't doubt that she'd hold her own against him, but he was confident if they met in combat he would be the victor. The thought of running his blade down her skin and washing his hands were her blood brought a sick satisfaction to his ailing heart. He was so caught up in the image that he had missed Katinka approaching him with a disdainful look reflecting in her eyes until she spoke.
"Careful Katinka, you might be next in front of Patriarch Julius with your own berserker at your side." He sneered while the corner of his mouth remained sour. It sounded like a threat coming from him, and despite Brynjar making threats on a consistent basis to whomever he pleased, this one was empty.
Having Katinka married off and shipped to Fjellborg was not an idea that he liked to toy with. Katinka make be an insufferable flirt half the time, but Brynjar preferred her company the other half of the time. In fact, his feelings for Katinka were the closest he got to caring for anyone. It wasn't exactly care, but perhaps she was the one he held the least disdain for.
"Our people's blood runs over the land and my father insisted on entreating with these festering mongrels," he shook his head. "For peace." He spat the word as if it were poison from a viper. His eyes were hard as steel as one particular cluster of berserkers broke into rather raucous laugh despite the sanctity of the cathedral.